2020: The Year that Shaped Us

What will you remember about 2020?

I mean, yes, I can pretty well guess what most of you are thinking as you read this. Of course you’ll remember the pandemic and all that came with it--virtual learning, homeschooling, working from home, the toilet paper shortage, lockdowns, masks, missing friends, missing your favorite restaurants, reconfigured holiday gatherings, Zoom, Zoom, and more Zoom.  Our country’s racial reckoning and the 2020 national election top our memories no doubt, too.

Perhaps you’ll also remember getting creative with {safely} seeing your neighbors, backyard sprinkler runs, fireside chats, socially distanced parking lot meet ups, getting a new pet. Or perhaps you’d rather forget 2020 and pretend it never happened. [Though even in our wildest dreams, of course, even if we completely forget 2020, our lives forever after will be profoundly different.]

As we mark this final December day off the calendar, our hearts might flutter a bit at getting closer to trashing the entire calendar of 2020, ready to put 2021 up on the wall, full of a hopeful moxie that everything will turn around, that it can’t possibly be a year as disastrous as the one we are currently in. While some of us may have leaned into some of the softer sides of 2020--living at a slower pace, choosing activities with intentionality, feeling less rushed to get everyone to their respective art class or sports practice, spending more time with loved ones because they are just a video call away--even with those softer sides, it’s clear that the majority of us have been looking for a way out of this year before it dares plunge us any deeper into the upside down.

I love the new year. New Year’s Eve has become an evening I look forward to with a sense of renewal, reflection, and promise. NYE is cozy in our world--nothing glittery or showy for it. Snacks and movies, watching our favorite episode of a beloved TV show, choosing a countdown to watch, Christmas lights shining in the background. Sometimes I am still awake at midnight, other times not. No matter how we ring it in, it remains that constant, that time of reflecting on what was and what will be. 

It would be easy to look at 2020 as a weird sort of mistake; as a year not worth celebrating as it comes to an end. The year when many of us felt completely sunk in the gender gap.  The year when parenting, teaching, and working all collided making us feel completely inadequate in every sector. Many of us have simply turned to surviving this year; we can’t even think about thriving.

But what if we didn’t discount 2020?  What if our New Year’s Eve celebrations and reflections still held space for this year as a year to be documented and remembered and one that has no doubt shaped the world we are making for our children?  What if we didn’t see this as the terrible, no good, very bad year that was but instead saw it as a year worth learning from? I am not asking you to lean into toxic positivity or dismiss the raw feelings that have simmered over the past nine months. I am asking that even in the midst of the overwhelm and the great uncovering of our unsustainable obsession with productivity here in the Western world, that you take these last few weeks of the year to pause. To reflect. To lean into the joys and the learnings and the moments of 2020 that simply took your breath away.

Here are some reflections stems to get you started. Maybe jot them down or simply pull one or two out to think about. Write your responses in a Google doc or journal. Read through them together as a family on New Year’s Eve. Or simply reflect. Whatever works best for you.

In 2020…

1. What are you most proud of?

2. What did you learn about your children?

3. What did you learn about yourself?

4. What memory makes you belly laugh?

5. What memory makes you hopeful for the new year?

6. [Scroll through the pictures on your phone]: Choose a photo from this year and tell your family and friends a story about what that photo represents to you about 2020.

7. In what specific ways did you succeed?

8. In what specific ways did you persevere?

9. What have your children taught you?

10. What new foods did you discover?

11. What new talents did you discover?

12. What new games did you start playing?

13. What new traditions began?

14. What will you miss?

15. What will you celebrate?

16. What project did you complete?

17. What project did you start?

18. When did you get creative with turning disappointment into joy?

19. When did you want to give up….but didn’t?

20. When did you give yourself a break?

So I ask again, what will you remember about 2020?

Let it be said of us that even in the midst of the tumult of our time that we were able to stretch without breaking; and for those of us that feel broken, that even in our brokenness that we can find purpose and light. No, this year was not easy. No, 2021 will not be a magic fix. But perhaps we can lean into the lessons of a difficult year and capture some of the moments that kept it from completely shattering.

A Walk through the Wilderness: Reflections on Lent and Covid-19

As I write this, a cup of coffee sits to my left. I gave up coffee for Lent. Lent: a time of fasting {of giving something up} in the Christian tradition. Lent: a period of 40 days, a season of reflection and preparation before the celebration of Easter. Lent: the time in which we remember Jesus' own fasting and withdrawal into the desert for 40 days and 40 nights.

I gave up coffee for Lent.

....and then the world flung upside down.

The coronavirus entered our news feeds and our psyches. As we read and watched and wondered, it entered our country and our cities and our local communities. As it continues to wreak its havoc on the health and safety of everyone around the globe, we watch and we wait and we wonder and we pray. And we wash our hands and we stay home. We listen to what we should be doing {or not doing} to somehow slow the spread of this awful, deadly illness.

And I honestly don't know what else to do.

There's something about the quarantining and the social distancing happening over Lent that is somehow oddly holy in the midst of all that feels incredibly unjust right now; and I am trying to figure out what to do with that.

And after multiple fitful nights of sleep and early morning wake ups just to get some headway through the work of the day before the house wakes up, I went back on my Lenten vow and brewed the coffee.

And it was good.

And as I sit here with the coffee to my left and this tension in my heart about the practices of Lent and the holiness of this time and the unjust world that keeps revealing its brokenness, my heart is heavy. My spirit is tired. I need to turn off the news but I crave information. I crave preparedness. It's at the core of my being.

I need to unplug from social media but that's where I am feeling most connected these days. It's also where my anxiety increases as I read the news articles and step into the lives of others who are making the most of their days with kitchen organizations, homemade science experiments, and hands-on learning activities while I can barely get it together to put real pants on.

And I don't know where to find the balance.

And I imagine what Jesus felt going away for 40 days where he was tempted and tested. And I think about how we are all being tested right now. How our country, how our society, how our communities and our families are being tested. And right now Lent {for me} is not about giving up that one thing or continuing to give up that one thing.   Right now, everything about where we are is completely unknown and unchartered.

We are in the wilderness.

And we won't be out of the wilderness by Easter. April 12th may be a "beautiful time" on the Christian calendar, but it will not be a healthy time for us to celebrate en masse. We are going to have to continue our walk through the wilderness even in our celebrations, even as we find beauty in the ashes, even as we know that a more joyous time of gathering is indeed coming. And, yes, I do believe that beautiful and celebratory time is coming.

This walk through the wildnerness is not what I had planned in my Lenten practice this year. I imagined these 40 days as a time of reflection, of {minor} sacrifice, of going through the daily and weekly routines of life remembering Jesus' sacrifice and His gift of magnificent grace.  I imagined a holy celebration with people I love on Easter Sunday morning, of a family photo at the foot of the cross in our sanctuary, of a backyard egg hunt, and a table full of comfort food and the faces of loved ones.

But even through this walk, through the uncertainty and the unknown, I do know that life continues. The paths may meander and enter periods of darkness, but sunlight and growth and water still find their way through the trees. We are all walking these meandering paths together--perhaps in different step--but indeed together.

Every wildnerness has a path out. We will find the path out. And when we do, we will turn our faces towards the sun.

And we will embrace one another.
And we will shake each others hands.
And we will dance in the streets.
And we will shout with joy that the resurrection has come.

Our world will be different. We will be different. Our time will be marked by what was before and what comes after.

Perhaps that is the hope that gets us through one more day.

Alleluia. He is coming.

adventure

The forecast looked dreary for the weekend. The first rainy one in a couple of weeks.

I wasn't looking forward to it. I was a bit down on Friday--no real reason I could state. Just a bit blue. the short work week had felt long. The rainy weekend awaiting seemed to stretch before me...a rainy weekend with kids at home. I was worried we'd all feel a bit trapped. Bored. Antsy. Missing the sunshine we've grown accustomed to.

But then Saturday dawned. And the biggest one wanted to bake muffins.

And the littlest one wanted to walk in the rain.

And so we did.

We made muffins and watched them rise. We put on rain jackets and boots and grabbed an umbrella and headed outside.

Little A led the way. We found puddles for splashing and took a turn on the neighborhood rope swing.

We went on a bear hunt.

She laughed. I laughed. I was cold. I was wet. But I was having fun.

And then she saw it. A chasm of a puddle. Filled to the brim with the brownest, muckiest water we had seen yet. And she headed towards it.

No. I said.

Why? she asked.

I thought.

Why not?

And so I gave the yes and watched her run with excitement and splash with joy plastered on her face and rising from her giddy voice.

That seems like such a small, silly moment, but for a momma who loves cleanliness and order--it felt huge. It felt like adventure.

On our walk home, amidst the drizzle and the mud and the gray and the cold, I started thinking about adventure. How this morning, this moment, this moment of yes instead of no was adventure to me. How I was stepping out of my comfort of the dry warmth inside on a day like that day. How I was letting myself ENJOY the gray and the cool and the rain. How I was letting my child DANCE and splash her way through the morning rather than insisting we stay cooped up inside.

And as it tends to do, my mind continued its ambling towards thoughts of adventure in my 37th year. I don't consider myself adventurous. I never have. In the age of social media, my life looks incredibly mundane.

But on Saturday, I felt adventurous. My spirit did (even if no Facebook or Instagram post could have captured it). And this is what I know to be true: Adventure looks and feels differently for everyone. For some it's adrenaline-filled excursions, hot air balloon rides, or riding massive rapids. For others, it's saying yes to what seems impossible or just a tiny bit scary. 

And still for others, it's packing up a tiny Corolla and heading 600 miles from home knowing no one, but trusting that something really good lies ahead.

And all that good was jumping and splashing and singing right before me. And all that good was waiting for us when we got home, the smell of freshly baked muffins still lingering in the air.

And all that good is still unfolding, quite plainly some days, and quite extravagantly on others.

It's important to remember those shiny, extravagant days in the midst of the rather plain ordinary ones. There's extravagance in those days, too...even if it's harder to see.

On Saturday it rained.

and we laughed.

goodbye kindergarten, hello first grade!

And on this day, May 31st, 2018, our 6 year old (wasn't he just born yesterday??) stepped confidently onto the bus for his last pick up as a kindergartner.

At 2:46 pm today, he'll step off the bus as a first grader.

Where has the year gone?

He's gone from wanting to be a chef when he grows up to being an NBA star.

He's deepened his love for math and numbers.

He's jumped reading levels and discovered new authors and new characters.

He's made new friends and learned new dances and new phrases and new games.

He's continued to ask insightful questions and challenged our thinking and parenting in new ways.

It's amazing what a year holds--and how fast it can quickly go by. I know I'll never be able to slow time down, but I sure hope I can learn to slow down and be more present in these moments.

These moments where he walks around with a notepad in hand making lists--lists of basketball teams; and all the Why questions he can think of; and activities for his friends to do when they come to his house.

These moments when he wants to dribble and play catch and hit balls while waiting in the driveway for the bus to come.

These moments when he wants to snuggle right into my belly as we watch the Emoji movie for the 100th time.

These moments when he asks for one more slice of watermelon, and another, and another.

These moments when he runs into the house, kicks off his shoes, and heads straight to his room to sort more baseball cards.

These moments when a hose and a nozzle may as well be a water park in Atlantis.

These moments. These moments that are fleeting. By this time next year he'll be an entirely different boy (deep down every bit the same but with different interests, some deepened versions of the present, others brand new) with his heart and his mind occupied in different ways.

I don't know how to capture it all. I know I am already forgetting a bit of the boy we put on the bus last August.  I don't want to spend our lives behind a camera. I know no amount of written documentation will replace being in the moment with our boy.

I'll physically document what I can. Otherwise, my mind and my heart will have to do the documenting as I breathe deeply, take in the moments while we are living them, and remain as absolutely present as I can.

Because if this isn't living in the moment, I sure don't know what is!

this is three

Addy-Girl
Addy-Love
Addy-Cakes
Love bug
Sissy
Baby girl

Addison Lane

We call you many names because no one name seems to define you well enough. You are equal parts innocent,
spirited,
impish,
kind,
quiet,
loud,
funny,
caring,
imaginative,
wise,
impulsive,
questioning,
accepting,
loving,
soft,
edgy.

And today, little one, you're 3.

3!

You love Minnie Mouse and Daniel Tiger and carrying around purses full of treasures, of trinkets, much like Ariel (or your Granny :)). You sing songs. All. The. Time. Songs you know. Songs you've made up. Songs that float in and out of your head. I feel like you live your life in a sing-songy way. You seem to only find joy in the world around you. Pure joy.

I think that's why you find it impossible to fall asleep at night or sleep past 6 am on any given day. The days are just too good in your mind. Why miss a single minute?

I must confess that those nights you fight sleep, you want one more rock, one more drink, one more trip to the potty, oh, darling I grow frustrated. But I know in my heart that this is just you, love. No matter what those sleep "experts" say--you just exude joy and want to soak up every bit of it. I know that this is you. And I want to soak it up, too.

Because you are 3 today and as I sit and write this note to you, I am aware that the days of you needing me the way you do, wanting to curl up into my belly as I rock you to sleep, wanting me to "hold hold" you as we walk up the stairs, or needing me to painstakingly cut up your grapes for snack time, all of that is slowly, slowly (yet quickly, quickly) coming to an end. In another year, that list will look different. It will be shorter or perhaps transformed into an entirely new list, with this day, these days, these particular wants and needs buried in our memories.

You're 3 today, baby girl!

You're funny. You're feisty. You're fierce.

I want to hold on to every part of what makes you this incredible you. I hope you hold on to the best parts about you, too. Don't let the world tell you you are ever too much. Just persist. Let your voice be heard. You love to roar like a dinosaur with your friend Pearl. I hope you hold on to that roar, that confidence, that playfulness, that fierceness with all that you are.

Here's to another trip around the sun. To more moments and memories to come. I sure can't wait to see where this next year takes you.

Happy 3rd birthday, Addison Lane. You delight us in so many ways!

March 5, 2018 (you slept in your big girl bed for the first night last night!)

Ages: 0-2 (golly, that went fast!)

now what?

Now what?

So here we are, standing in this tragic gap. The gap, as Parker Palmer states, "between the hard realities around us and what we know is possible." 

So now what?

We act.

We speak.

We write.

As a friend and colleague so beautifully wrote in her own reflective piece as a teacher recently talking with her students about this "tragic gap"--we don't wait for the bridge across that gap to be built. We build it.

These kids. They are building that bridge. No. They aren't actors. They are bridge builders.

Let's be bridge builders. Let's act in the face of injustice and cruelty. 

Have you had #enough?  

Want to make a statement about ending mass shootings and easy access to assault rifles? Participate in the National School Walkout from wherever you are on March 14th or the March for our Lives on March 24th.

Where else is your heart crying out for change and transformation in our world today?  Where can you be a bridge builder for that change?

Make your voice heard. You can march, yes, but make sure you let your elected officials know how you feel. Even if you're nervous or think you may not say the right thing. Even if those action steps feel like baby steps.

Find a cause. Reflect on that cause. And then take action.

March.
Write.
Speak.
Tweet.
Donate.
Act.
Reflect.
Repeat.

the tragic gap

In Healing the Heart of Democracy, Parker Palmer writes of standing in the “tragic gap” between the world as it is and the world we know could be. A space that doesn’t feel just or fair. A space that can feel cavernous and hopeless. A space that can spur us to action or paralyze us with fear.

It’s a term I was asked to reflect on multiple times this past week during a week of conferences and workshops around the work and purpose of higher education institutions in community and civic engagement. It’s my professional field that brings me into these spaces. It’s my personal sense of agency (as a mother, a wife, a daughter, a teacher, a justice-seeker) that compels me to engage and listen and wrestle with the tragic gap that exists between a world of “wicked problems” and unjust systems and a world of peace and abundant quality of life for all.

I was first asked to think about how I’m standing in this tragic gap as a higher education community engagement professional. 

What I didn’t know at the time was that I was being asked to consider this while children were being gunned down and murdered in their school.

While 17 people died.

The tragic gap felt more tragic and urgent this week. 

When I began to read the news, my work in the “ivory tower” of academia felt inauthentic and futile. 

My work (our work), the work of this entire field was (not for the first time) called into question for me.

What is higher education really about these days? What is our role in reducing and eliminating this tragic gap? Are we doing enough to live into our public purpose? Or are we simply adding to the problem? When does research and scholarship leave us complacent?  When does our market-driven motivations and students as customers approach (necessary to “keep the lights on” as they say), run antithetical to being about educating the next generation of leaders and changemakers? 

As I wrestled with these questions in the company of others wrestling right along side me, I recognized that the tragic gap isn’t just about mass school shootings (no doubt what was heaviest on our minds).  It’s about why we have social justice movements like #blacklivesmatter, #metoo, and #bringbackourgirls in the first place. It’s about a world in which way too many people live at the margins.  A world where people feel unsafe or “less than” simply by being their authentic selves. 

The gap is tragically wide.

And it’s even wider for the marginalized.

If you’ve made it this far through this post, I invite you to consider the following:

• Where are you standing in “the tragic gap”?

• What are you doing to bring the worlds on either side of that gap together?

There is far more to write and far more to say.  There are actions to take. I will write more on those in another post.  For now, I will pause and leave you with this photo and verse. I had the pleasure of visiting and learning from colleagues at a college campus with a 100+ year old working farm this past week.  On a walk during my time there, just one day after Parkland, I saw this picture and captured it, with the following verse resonating in my head: 

“...and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.” Isaiah 2:4

As we live in this tragic gap, let’s be about the work of beating our swords (our guns, our anger, our fear, our power) into garden tools, tools for pruning and planting, growing and watering, creating and nurturing life giving beauty for all.