Parenting a "difficult child" is hard. And lonely. As a principal, I need to do better.

Being the “difficult child” is hard. Being the parent of the difficult child is even harder. Especially, I think, for moms.

Growing up, I was the difficult child. I had a temper, was rambunctious, and rough. My grandfather used to say that when I walked into a room, things would explode. My siblings simply named me “the animal.”

Yet, most of the time, I was unaware of my difficulty. I would notice that I wasn’t invited to certain events or not allowed in people’s homes or backyards, but it didn’t really bother me because, well, there were forts to build, bb-guns to shoot, and ponds to play in. I got busy. And, in the end, I turned out alright . . . I think.

My second son is much the same way. He too is rough, has “big emotions” as we say, and has difficulty filtering his thoughts and ideas. He isn’t quiet, controlled, or easy. He is all boy, all the time. And just like me, this means he isn’t invited to certain events or allowed to play with particular toys.

Most of the time he doesn’t seem to be bothered by it largely because he isn’t aware of it. Mom, however, is. And it is breaking her heart.

Not only is she the one who has to field the many-times-asked question, “Is something wrong with your son?”, she also has to endure the knowledge that he wasn’t invited to this birthday party, that swimming lesson, or that overnight party because “he’s just too hard.” She has to protect him, from the hurt that surrounds him and from the unfair - or at least incomplete - perception of those who know him, including family.

More than anyone, she is his defender.

After the most recent event, where my wife called me crying in frustration, fear, and hurt - for my son and for herself - a few things crystalized, and I thought I’d share them here, with you.

1. As an educator, whenever I call a parent into my office or classroom to discuss their “difficult child,” I must remember that whatever it is I have to say is not new information to them. They, more than anyone, understand the difficulty of their child - they live with them, after all. So although I need to talk with them about the situation at hand or the plan moving forward, spending a great deal of time talking about their child’s strengths, their gifts, and their talents is imperative! Moms of difficult children hear often why their child is difficult. Rarely do they hear why they are loved. And it is my job to not only see that, but to celebrate it, loudly and sincerely. For the child’s sake, and for mom’s
   

2. I can confidently say that by and large, difficult children have defensive mothers. At times, and perhaps more often than I would like to admit, as an educator, this has irritated me (“Can’t they see I’m here to help!"). And if I’m really honest, on more than one occasion, it has even caused me to think, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Which is terrible.
   Recently, however, I have been reminded that the parents of a “difficult child” are not difficult, they are protectors. They have seen their child picked on, overlooked, and stigmatized - even by his or her surrounding family! And they are tired of it. Exhausted from it. And at times, they are ready to fight back.

   And I need to let them.
   “If I don’t defend him,” I have heard my wife say on more than one occasion, “If I don’t protect and support him - if I don’t love the hell out of him - who will?”
   No one will. At least not like Mom can.
   So instead of getting defensive, of being in any way judgmental toward a parent who comes into my office guns blazing in defense of their “difficult child,” I want to be patient and understanding. I want to relieve them of their burden and of their need to defend and fire back, not give them another reason to reload.

   Yes, their child is causing disruption in the school and classroom, but they are still loved, safe, and wanted. That is what I want my parents of “difficult children” to hear from me. Because I can almost guarantee they won’t hear it anywhere else.

3. “There is something worse out there than being sad,” Tedd Lasso said to his team, “and that is being alone and being sad.” Parents of “difficult children” are not only sad, they are also alone. They too are no longer invited to events or welcome for quick stop-ins. They are often excluded because of their “difficult child,” leaving them to struggle, suffer, and cry alone.
   Even when they are invited to an event or playdate, instead of engaging in conversation or enjoying a few drinks on the patio, they spend their time watching their child, fearful they will say or do something embarrassing or hurtful - something that will affirm the stigma. So Mom will sit, eyes and ears half attentive to the conversation at hand, and listen, worry, and anticipate the “difficult child” that is sure to come.
   And when those moments come, moms of “difficult children” feel, very accurately, the judgment and criticism. They know their child is causing a disruption, and they know it is their job to help them grow and learn and change. Which only makes Mom feel more sad and more alone. Because they don’t know what to do, and they blame themselves.

Empathy often springs from experience. When we experience pain, sorrow, hurt, and loss, we grow in our ability to understand it in others. We build empathy.

Sadly, it took me having to become a parent of a “difficult child” to better understand those parents who have entered my classroom or cried in my office. For although I practiced the words of empathy I did not carry the heart of it. And I can only assume that they felt that void, that distance, that affirmation of aloneness.

Not anymore. And strangely, I am thankful for that.

To all those parents who have been tasked with guiding and loving the heart and mind of a “difficult child,” my heart aches for you. And it understands you, if only just a little bit more.

Which is why, in case you need it, here is your affirmation and charge to go out and defend the hell out of your child! Love them, protect them, and cry for them. Be their parent, in all the best ways that you know how, and be confident that you - YOU - were given this beautiful task of raising them. Be confident in that, and in them.

But also, give grace to those of us who don’t fully understand you, or your child. Us educators, we truly do love and want what is best for you and your child, it’s just that we can be a bit hard-headed and narrow-minded in our experiences and thus our empathy, at times. But we can learn. We can grow. And because we love you and your child, we are more than willing to do so.

I have often said that being a better educator does not make me a better father., but being a better father does make me a better educator.

I believe that now, more than ever.

#doGREATthings!

Give. Relate. Explore. Analyze. Try.

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Blog : Monthly Favorites

The Dichotomy of Realities: Why We Love and How we Hate

Sometimes, life is ironic. Sometimes it’s comical. Sometimes it’s ironically comical, like when the founder of AA asked for a shot of whisky on his death bed only to be denied by the nurse. Or the fact that “the only losing basketball coach in University of Kansas history is James Naismith—the man who invented basketball in 1891” and that A Charlie Brown Christmas is a movie about over commercializing Christmas, yet, every year, is trimmed down by ABC in order to make room for more commercials (via).

Sometimes, though, life’s irony isn’t all that funny. Sometimes it’s hard, frustrating, and more than a little exhausting. Like now, after the long Thanksgiving break - a weekend set aside to rest, be with family, and acknowledge the many blessings we have - I feel more exhausted and more frustrated than before.

Maybe you can relate? Of trying hard to maintain a good and positive and productive spirit, of trying to be diligent with your attitude and conversations with family and friends, of trying day in and day out to be purposeful in who you are and what you’ve been given only to be knocked down by a carelessly spoken word, a moment of deep disappointment, or the constant burden of a nagging worry.

Or perhaps you feel more like the student who wrote me about an “inner panic,” that’s “hard to express” but makes them “feel holed up and small.”

I know I feel that way sometimes. And I hate it. Largely because I can’t necessarily pinpoint why I feel it or explain where it came from. And because I can’t explain it, I can’t name it. And because I can’t name it I’m not entirely sure how to deal with it.

Recently, though, I’ve begun to try. I’ve named it DOR, short for “the Dichotomy of Realities.”

Let me explain.

Although there are some very real, very immediate changes to my life since the outbreak of COVID-19, everything else seems relatively normal. I still have a job, my kids still go to school in an actual school building, and bills are still being paid. Life isn’t all that different. Yet, when I turn on the news, listen to podcasts, or hear stories of people both near and far, I see and hear a reality that is harsh and hard and often very scary, and I just can’t make sense of it. How can what I see and hear be in such contrast to what I experience? How can both realities be true?

But then I think, maybe the difficulty isn’t in the ability to accept that various people are living radically different realities at the same time because that’s fairly normal. National Geographic has been exploiting that dichotomy for decades. The Dichotomy of Reality in a single person, however, is not normal. Or at least it shouldn’t be. And that, I believe, is where I’m truly struggling. How can two radically apposing realities actively exist - in the same moment and at the same time - in one person? How can we be both absolutely right and absolutely wrong simultaneously?

Like the woman in a video posted by @aaronjfaulkner who chewed out some teenage boys who were sitting in their car. “You’re ass is grass,” she barks through the slightly open driver-side window, “You’re supposed to be sheltering in place.” Then, when she notices the phone, she ends with, “Go ahead, put me on social media. You’re a little punk!” Her eyes are furrowed and her hand keeps hitting the glass. How can she not see the irony in her actions? How can she be so concerned about humanity yet so unkind to humans in the exact same moment?

Or what about the story that broke recently of the senior pastor at Flowing Streams Church in Florida who encouraged the Trump administration to “‘start shooting” democrats and members of the media in firing squads if it turns out they conspired to rig the presidential election.” How is that possible? How can a man read the scriptures of grace and mercy and forgiveness while also conjuring up ideas of a mass killing spree?

In his TED Talk, How One Tweet Can Ruin Your Life, Jon Ronson also wrestled with this dichotomy. If you don’t remember the name Justin Sacco you probably remember her story. She’s the one that sent a sarcastic (albeit insensitive) Tweet right before boarding a plane to Africa. Jon Ronson explains it this way:

{Justine Sacco} was a PR woman from New York with 170 Twitter followers, and she'd Tweet little acerbic jokes to them, like this one on a plane from New York to London: [Weird German Dude: You're in first class. It's 2014. Get some deodorant." -Inner monologue as I inhale BO. Thank god for pharmaceuticals.] So Justine chuckled to herself, and pressed send, and got no replies, and felt that sad feeling that we all feel when the Internet doesn't congratulate us for being funny . . . And then she got to Heathrow, and she had a little time to spare before her final leg, so she thought up another funny little acerbic joke: 

[Going to Africa. Hope I don't get AIDS. Just kidding. I'm white!] 

And she chuckled to herself, pressed send, got on the plane, got no replies, turned off her phone, fell asleep, woke up 11 hours later, turned on her phone while the plane was taxiing on the runway, and straightaway there was a message from somebody that she hadn't spoken to since high school, that said, "I am so sorry to see what's happening to you." And then another message from a best friend, "You need to call me right now. You are the worldwide number one trending topic on Twitter."

Within hours, and at the hands of thousands of strangers, Justine had lost her job, her life, and her humanity. She sent a terrible message (albeit, misinterpreted) and was publicly maimed and destroyed for it. Yet, those who responded with deliberate cruelty, with horrific words and ideas that could in no way be misinterpreted as anything other than hateful not only “got a free pass” from all in attendance, they received affirmation and applause.

Comments such as, “I'm actually kinda hoping Justine Sacco gets aids? lol” was liked and retweeted. Another person tweeted, "Somebody HIV-positive should rape this bitch and then we'll find out if her skin color protects her from AIDS” and nothing happened. Nobody venomously responded to or retweeted their cruelty or contacted that person’s employer or found where they were traveling to and met them as they arrived.

Why?

How can there be such an accepted duality of reality? How can we acknowledge such wrong and hate and insensitivity in one instance yet ignore it completely in a slightly different other instance? How can we be so aware yet so blind?

How can I?

I may never say such vulgar things as those tweeted at Justine Sacco, but I know I am guilty of living in this dual reality. Like the times I get frustrated - and I mean the blood pumping, I’m-about-to-lose-my-shit kind of frustrated - and bark at my kids to “STOP YELLING AT YOUR SIBLINGS!!!” Or when I gossip about people who I think are gossipers

How can I do that? How can I, in the exact same instance, hate something bad yet embrace it with both arms? In those moments I instantly know I’m a fraud, that I’m living and expecting two different realities, but does that cause me to pause the next time he speaks unkindly? Sometimes. Other times not. Which is itself another frustration: why can I not stop doing what I hate doing?

The other night, while wrestling with the DOR, a quote came to mind: “So much death. What can man do against such reckless hate?” because in those moments, either when I see it happening on Facebook, the News, or anywhere else humans exist, I often feel the same way. That the fight is hopeless.

But then the rest of the quote came to mind, and as Lord of the Rings often does, it inspired me.

Movies that play on the Good vs Evil are always the same. The bad guy (or gal) are always bigger, stronger, more advanced, and for sure have many more followers. Yet, the good guys (or gal) always win in the end! But only after someone offers a bit of encouragement. Then, with a renewed vision, the hero is once again confident and ready to fight, to inspire those present, and lead them into their final battle against Evil. Soon after, the story ends and Good is victorious once again..

Aragon offers similar inspiration, “Ride with me. Ride out and meet them.” Or rather, “Don’t give up. Keep going.”

Recently that simple truth, although elementary in stature, has been a bedrock for my day to day. I’ve tried to be positive, to remain artistic and active, to be a man of integrity. Yet, more often then not, I’ve felt dull, accosted, and discouraged. Inconsequential even. In those moments I know full well I’m being unfair to myself and to life in general, but that doesn’t mean the frustration isn’t there, that I don’t want to throw my arms up in exhaustion and, in some way, give up. Just like King Theoden.

Its easy for us to focus on the negativity of the world around, largely because it’s the sauce that makes the evening news, TikTok videos, and Facebook posts. Yet, in the midst of the destruction and ugliness, I am also constantly reminded to “ride out and meet them” by those who continually refuse to give in or give up.

Like these people who, in the early onsets of the Global Shutdown, found ways to stay positive, stay creative, and keep each other laughing.

“Always find ways to cheer yourself up,” the young journalist, Violet Wang says. Or better yet, always find ways to cheers up others for that is what sustains us, encourages us, and inspires us to be better people. Not criticism and backbiting.

I doubt any of those people above maintained such great attitudes all throughout their quarantine. I’m sure, like me, they had their rough days, weeks, perhaps even months. But I’m also just as confident that they found encouragement from someone who inspired them to get out of bed or of their own discouraged mind and do something fun, something creative, and something worthwhile.

Because that too is part of our dichotomous reality, that we are kind and good and able to do great things even when we don’t feel like it. Even when we’re at war.

We are rarely allowed to have a choice in the event we are asked to live, but we are always provided a choice in how we choose to respond to those events. We can either destroy a life, or save it. We heal each other, Zahed says, when we catch another’s hand from darkness and move them into light.

We know this and want this, which is why stories such as My Enemy, My Brother stir our hearts to tears. Because we know it to be true and want, so desperately, to live lives of such moral aptitude.

Yet, when the moment presents itself, when we have an opportunity to do what we want to do, we do not. Instead, we do the very thing we hate to do: we destroy. We live out our Dichotomy of Reality. We live out our humanity.

“Human beings,” states Bryan Stevenson - founder and executive director of the Equal Justice Initiative, “are biologically programmed to do what is comfortable, to do what is convenient” and not necessarily what is right. “To do something uncomfortable,” he continues, what is scary, what is dangerous, what is not fun, requires us to make a conscious choice - a decision - to do the very thing we do not want to do. To be kind, to love despite the hate, and to save a life rather than destroy it.

“An absence of compassion can corrupt the decency of a community, a state, a nation. Fear and anger can make us vindictive and abusive, unjust and unfair, until we all suffer from the absence of mercy. We condemn ourselves as much as we victimize others” (via). In short, we all lose.

So now what?

Now that I have named it and found a way to explain it, how do I deal with it? The answer, for me at least, is quite simple: keep fighting. Be it against the war of pain and destruction around me, or the war for pain and destruction within me. Keep Fighting.

To paraphrase Jon Gordon:

When they say unkind things about you, keep fighting.

When they falsely accuse you, keep fighting.

When no one notices, keep fighting.

When everyone notices, keep fighting.

Fight with passion.

Fight the good fight. For history never remembers the critics, only those who signed up for the battle. Because they’re the ones that become the heroes, who become brothers. They’re the one’s who change the world.

They’re the ones who ride out and meet them.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Living

Our worth, and why it matters.

Every so often, my children struggle with the “I am’s” of who they are. The “I am” of who they are currently, the “I am” of who others see in them, the “I am” of who they were, and the “I am” of who they want to be.

A few nights ago was one of those times.

So I had them draw a picture of themselves and then asked them, “When you look at yourself, what are five things you want people to say about you?” The clicking an clacking of crayons scribing little words and simple phrases instantly filled the dining room. I sat and watched. I listened. And I worked on my own.

My plan was to discuss the power of our actions because my kids, like many others, don’t want to be perceived as bossy, unkind, selfish, and so on. At times, however, their actions suggest otherwise, and I wanted them to understand that just because they think something about themselves doesn’t mean that is how they are perceived. Our actions define who we are, not our words.

As is often the case, however - at least in my family - the conversation took a turn and headed in another direction.

“I’m cool,” and “fun” Zion wrote, asking how to spell every word.

“Try sounding them on your own,” I said. And she did, adding, “Tuf, butiful,” and “nis.”

“Artistic,” Eden wrote in pink, then, switching to purple, “beautiful, athletic, nice.” She struggled a bit for her fifth. After a few minutes of thought, she witched back to pink and wrote, “funny.”

Judah’s were written in gray, “not ugly, nice, humorous, somewhat athletic, kinda smart.” With a black crayon, I crossed out “not ugly” and wrote “handsome,” but he didn’t like that. I also crossed out “somewhat” and “kinda,” and that really frustrated him, “You asked my for my opinion, and this is what I want!”

“Why though?” I asked, knowing he was struggling a bit in school with identity and feeling a bit on the outs, “Why do you only want to be kinda smart or somewhat athletic?” I pointed to my black markings, “Why don’t you want to be handsome?”

“Because I don’t want to stand out,” he said, tears beginning to swell in the corners of his eyes, “I don’t want everyone to notice me.”

My initial plan of discussion began to change course. Eden and Zion stopped coloring and looked at their older brother.

“What’s so wrong about being noticed?” I asked.

“I just don’t like it,” he said, and my father-heart broke.

“Comer here,” I said, grabbing the crayons and placing them back into the bucket. “Come sit with me for a minute.” We walked to the living room. He sat on the oversized chair and I sat on the floor, arms across his lap. Eden snuggled in next to me, as she has come to do in recent months, just to listen. Zion kept coloring for a while, then headed off to play dog with her younger brother.

“You’re a Miller,” I said to Judah, “And that means when we do something, whatever is, be it sport, school work, yard work, coloring, whatever, we do our very best.”

“But why can’t I do my best and not be the best?” he asked, tears still on the brink.

“Why can’t you be the best?” I asked, feeling a bit of frustration welling in my stomach, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Because I don’t want to be arrogant. I don’t want to think I’m better than everybody else.” A tear lunged down his cheek.

“Why does being good mean you have to think you’re better than everybody else?” I asked, somewhat knowing the answer.

He shrugged his shoulders, “It just always seems that way.” Faces of kids Judah has grown up with flashed through my head. Kids who were talented in various areas but also selfish and unkind to most everyone who wasn’t up to their standards.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I said, “You can be both great and nice?”

“Why does it matter?” Judah asked, “Why can’t I just be good? Why do I have to be great?”

Eden held her knees, Judah shifted in his seat, and I felt a heat flash through my neck and up through my face, This isn’t working I thought to myself, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.

Quotes from inspirational books clogged themselves in my throat. They tasted like acid. I swallowed them down.

“Because,” I said, stalling, thinking, and feeling completely lost. What am I doing? What am I saying? I held Judah’s hand, stared at the scar on his arm, and sat quietly. Eden leaned against my arm, Judah looked out the window, and my mind wondered quickly through the past few years. Suddenly, hundreds of thoughts and memories and moments began to flood my head, of Judah and Eden struggling with identity and confidence, of them believing most everything they do isn’t good enough, that their gifts and talents and thoughts have little worth; that they’re “different.” An answer began to form.

It’s funny how our brains work, how they can take milliseconds to work through years of images and emotions, how it can tie them together in a single linear story with crisp and sudden clarity, and then suddenly produce an intelligent (or, at the very least, coherent) thought.

“Judah,” I said, the thought beginning to take shape, “I don’t want you to be great for your sake, so that you can get the glory and praise. I want you to be great for other people’s sake.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. Eden lifted her head from my shoulder.

“Let’s say you had a hundred dollars in your wallet, but because you hadn’t looked for a long time, you only thought you had twenty.”

He looked at me skeptically, with a look that said, “I would never forget that I had one-hundred dollars.”

“I know,” I said, “But just pretend, okay?”

He nodded. Eden began to chew her nails.

“So you have a hundred but only think you have twenty, and I come home from work, stressed and terrified because I had miscalculated our budget and now we were a hundred dollars short and our heating bill is due in a few hours. You hear Mom and I talking, and as you press your ear to the door to hear more clearly, you catch me saying, ‘If I don’t pay it soon, they’re going to shut off the power and we won’t be able to heat the house.’”

Judah’s eyes widen slightly because with almost two months of below freezing temperatures, he knows what that means.

“So you run over,” I continue, “and say, ‘Dad, I have twenty dollars you can have,’ and you hand it to me with joy in your heart, knowing you can help.” His eyes stay with me and I know he’s tracking along. “And I take it, grateful and joyful that my son is so willing to give and to love our family, but I know it isn’t enough. That although the gesture is sweet and beautiful, it doesn’t really matter because we’re still far from paying the bill and soon, everyone will be freezing cold.” Judah nods and Eden, still against my arm, stares.

“But if you had known that you had one-hundred dollars instead of twenty,” I continue, “you could have helped fully and completely. You could have paid the bill for us and everyone would have been nice and warm, right?” And he nods again.

And that’s just where I need him to be.

“We don’t pursue greatness so we can bring honor and praise to ourselves,” I tell him, holding his thigh and looking into his eyes, “we pursue greatness because it allows us more and greater opportunities to help more people. If you have one-hundred dollars but only think you have twenty, you can only provide twenty dollars worth of help. But if you have a hundred, if you can look in the mirror and say, ‘I’ve worked really hard and now I have a hundred dollars to give away,’ think of how much more you can bless others?” He nods again.

“But Judah,” I say, holding his hand and wrapping the other around Eden, “and Eden, you both have some amazing gifts. They need to be worked on and refined for sure, but you have amazing gifts. You’re healthy, your smart, your athletic, your artistic, and a million other things - you are truly gifted and talented kids. But right now, you believe you only have twenty dollars in your wallet, which means you are losing chances to truly help and bless others.”

They both nod.

“And that’s why I want and care about you being great,” I say, “Not because I want you to be popular or praised, but because I want you to serve and help as many people as possible. I want you to make a huge difference. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Eden says. Judah nods, as he tends to do when he truly gets something.

“Good,” I say, now go give your mom some hugs and then brush your teeth.” They scamper off, racing and pushing and arguing, like they do every. single. night. Then, they come to me, wrap their arms around my waste, say, “I love you,” and turn for their bedrooms. “Judah, Eden,” I say. They turn in unison, “You’re worth one-hundred thousand dollars, not just a hundred.” They smile and turn and race to bed.

That’s why we become great. So that we can help others. So that we can make a difference. And that is what so many kids - so many people - are missing. In service of others, that’s where we find our worth, our purpose, and our hope within this mess of life. Not in spending more time loving ourselves.

We each have a great a mighty worth. What a blessing it is to discover unique and exciting and sometimes simple ways to give it away.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Living

2020 : Welcome to Existence

I’ve mentioned before that the first post of every new year is difficult because it seems to set the tone for the year. Last year, after posting a comic strip from Calvin and Hobbs that highlighted the hope of coming adventure, the year was exactly that! Full of road trips, camping, Spartan races, and many large and small adventures. It was great! And I for sure don’t want that part of our family identity to flounder. But I also want them - and other aspects of life - to improve.

Take, for example, our recent vaunt through the streets of downtown Pittsburgh. Our train from Philly to Montana had a four hour layover so we tried to find a Starbucks to pass the time . . . in the middle of the night . . . with our umpteen bags of luggage dangling from our arms and faces. It was terrible. But it was also a great memory that we’ll share forever! It could also be so, so much better. If only I were better at being intentional (I know, kind of an easy/overly used word, but so what! It works).

I still don’t want to be boring or wasteful with my time and life. I do, however, want to be a bit more purposeful with the day to day that defines them. Recently, the specifics of what that could look like has manifested itself in three brilliant videos.

Birds on The Wires : Enjoy the Music

This is how I want to intentionally view my day to day. As music.

When something is off or frustrating its okay because the song isn’t over.

When something is beautiful and sweet, enjoy and relax. Smile.

Or, when something is, “meh,” look for the birds, see the melody. Enjoy the music.

Where this gets most difficult is that this has to be a choice, a day in and day out intentionally to see beyond the fuss and muck, the boring and mundane. And that, at times, can be difficult. But also worth it. Because the ending product is music, sweet music, and not the ugly cawing of murdering crows.

Engagement Proposal : EPIC MOMENT!!!

First off. I’m not crying, you are.

Second, there are a few easy takeaways from this. One, to make my wife feel more special. It’s easy to get trapped in the normalcy of life, to expect what was once new and thrilling or sweet, and no longer hearing the music of her life. I know I’m often guilty of doing so. This video reminded me to make the time, the effort, and the fun to love my wife and show her just how special she is. Because she’s worth it.

The second is this. A proposal is (I’m guessing) always special and a moment worth remembering, even the ones that required very little planning. The great ones, however, the kind of ones that make grown men cry are the ones that embrace planning and details and make sure it isn’t just an experience. They are intentional!! Which allows for one helluva an EPIC MOMENT!!! I have found that throughout my short adult life, I have had many experiences and therefore great stories to tell. But I also have very few EPIC MOMENTS!!! because I don’t plan. I just do.

This year and in the ones to come, I need to be intentional about creating at least one EPIC MOMENT each and every year. And with my oldest turning 13 this year, I think this year is covered.

Rambo Day :

There is a lot here, and for me to unpack it completely would probably result in a full and lengthy blog all its own. And ain’t nobody got time for that.

Instead, I’ll focus on a few things:

1. How one person inspired so many to do something so great. The montage at the end, when the narrator is describing why they did this, is truly inspiring. I love how he didn’t categorize his friendships throughout his life (high school friends, college friends, etc.), but merged them. And, how all of them, from all over the country, felt that something “a bit over the top” was a “fitting tribute to the friend who has always been the first to step up and make something happen for the rest of us.” I want to be this kind of friend.

2. Life and relationships. Again, from the narrator: “Even though this may seem a bit ridiculous, I would argue that it is a rare thing, to be able to celebrate a friendship by bringing together everyone’s creative energy and hard earned cash, to pull off a series of events that we will talk about for the rest of our lives. We’ve been doing it for each other since we’ve met. Different personalities, different strengths and weaknesses. Giving and taking, pushing and pulling, to get the best out of one another. I think that’s what life is all about. Joining an army of sorts, and fighting for the right reasons. Having each other’s back, and making sure we all enjoy life as much as possible.” Not a bad way to sum it all up.

3. Be Rambo. “In the face of danger, or heartache and pain, or lack of confidence, he’s always been there to provide laughter and a positive perspective. To lift us up. Inspire us. And show us how to be a bad ass in all aspects of life.” I want to be this kind of friend, husband, father, principal. I want to be Rambo.

In short, my takeaway from this film and carry with me through 2020 is to intentionally “stay positive. Stay creative. And keep each other laughing.”

(Side note. The last scene from Rambo for a Day, the “God didn’t make Rambo, I did” scene. That part really got me. Because it’s true. I would venture to say that the bulk of who Dana is was created by his dad. And the fact that his friends knew his father needed to be there - that he would WANT to be there - speaks a whole lot of feelings to me, as a son and a father. Damn.)

My word for 2020 is intentionality and these videos helped me flesh that out a bit.

Good luck to you and your new year’s ambitions!!! It’s gonna go fast:)

They Make Us Better

Today, Thursday, was a bit rough.

With so many kids out for the Divisional Volleyball , I had great plans to get a LOT done. I even told myself on my walk to work, "It's going to be a quiet day!!!" Ten minutes after the morning bell, I had four kids in my office and I found myself barking at and getting extremely frustrated with the four often-times-offending culprits. What is so hard about following directions? I thought to myself, “How hard is it to be kind? Polite?” I said out loud and a bit louder than I intended.

Then, the volleyball team lost their third game to Augusta - a team they should have beaten handedly in three - and I was reminded of when I was a coach and how much I dreaded "easy" games because I knew, in many ways, those were the ones we could very easily lose because we just assumed we would win. I also dreaded those games because, as a team, we rarely got better. Often we got worse, and the ease with which we would score or steal the ball or rebound would enforce a false belief of how good we were. Difficult games, however, hard fought matches or underdog wins would do the complete opposite. They would force us to play harder, to fine-tune and fix the smallest of mistakes, to overcome our mental and physical exhaustion, and to work hard. Those games made us better. Better athletes, better coaches, and an overall better team.

I think the same could be said for teaching, principaling, and living in general.

Whenever something is easy (be it a class, a kid, or a goal), I can get lazy, complacent, or downright unmotivated because really all I have to do is show up and things will pretty much take care of themselves. (Maybe you can relate to this?) But when the obstacle or goal is tough, when the class is rowdy, the students are difficult, or the opponent extremely talented, I try my best. I get up earlier, plan for a few extra hours if not days in advance, and create a detailed plan of attack. In short, I rise to the occasion. I get better. (Maybe you can relate to this?)

You may have a particular grade or class that is hard, you probably have several students who grate on you and make each day difficult, and I can almost guarantee that with each looming break (Christmas and summer), kids get extra squirrelly, our patience a bit thin, and classes a bit more chaotic.

I also know it's all about perspective.

At the very least, these kids have the potential to make us better.They will require us to bring our best game, to consider new schemes and teaching practices, and they will force us to continually learn how to love and like people - to do what is best for people - even when we don't feel like it. In other words, they will make us better teachers, better leaders, and better people. Which, in turn, will allow us to teach and lead and inspire more people.

These are the victories that stay with use for years to come. Not the easy ones, the expected ones. It’s the hardest ones. Just like our volleyball girls who, yet again, took their rivals - the defending divisional and state champions to a five-game match and won!

These are the games that we remember. These are the games that make us better. Just like those difficult classes, those difficult students, and those difficult weeks. When we rise to the occasion, when we look on them as opportunities to improve and get better, we do! Then and only then, do we find ourselves at the end of the day, week, year holding on to memories that last a lifetime. Victories of changed and inspired lives. Victories that remind us of the very reason we became educators in the first place.

And that is an encouraging thought.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  Friday Thoughts

Some are less and some are more : An update, of sorts.

It seems about once a year or so I go through a phase of questioning my writing and the purpose of this blog. This past phase was a bit longer than normal, but also a bit more clarifying. That is, once I was asked to clarify why I was backing off, “Because I’m trying to be more healthy.”

“That’s pretty ambiguous,” my friend said, shaking his head, “explain.”

So I did. It went something like this:

Two maybe, but never three:

For the past several years, I’ve been working hard on writing more consistently. “One post a day,” I promised myself. Even if it was simple and short, I had to write/publish something on my blog or work on a chapter for my book.

Then we moved (again), I started Grad classes, kids entered sports, and then, and then, and then. Somewhere in there was my marriage, social life, and gaining a few extra unneeded pounds. My life was busy and certainly productive, but it was not healthy.

So I gave up writing for a while.

“But that was really good for you,” my friend reminded me. And he was right, it is. Writing is not only therapeutic, it’s clarifying and inspiring and something I truly love. But so is my marriage, my kids, and the many other things that take up time and demand thought.

Then, my wife posted this:

Do you know the good years when you’re right in them, or do you only recognize them after your future is the past, and it’s all come and gone? 
I took a small break like I always do this time of year because it is work, heart-life-work, this bittersweet pursuit to hold on to time just so. If I get too distracted, if there is just too many things and I hold it too loosely, life slips through my fingers and falls to regret. But if there is a desperate clenched grip, it squeezes through anyways. Grip too tight? Not tight enough? These are the days, the good days. 
It is finally Spring, which means lamb kisses in barns and sports are over. It also means road trip camping season has nearly begun. 

I’m terrified. Terrified of wasting time, of missing out on opportunities, and of one day looking back with regret. But more than anything, I’m terrified my kids will grow up without great memories of their father. If they one day, many years from now, described me as hard working, loyal, and a man of character, I would be happy. But also a bit disappointed because, as much as those qualities mean to me, I also want my kids to one day look back at the life their dad lived and say, “He inspired me to live.”

Which is why, recently, I ran The Spartan Race with my son.

If you follow me on social media, you’re probably tired of this photo. But I’m not. This photo, to me, is a reminder to get out more, to try new things, to push boundaries, and to endure. It’s a reminder to prove I’m alive, to myself for sure but even more so for my kids who are watching, day in and day out. “Prove you’re alive!”, I tell them, but they don’t always listen. Because they’re kids. But when I live it, when I put the phone down, the computer away, and the books back on the shelf, when I take a weekend (with the support of my loving wife) and break out of the norm and and run a race with my oldest son, they see it, they experience it, and they want to live it too.

“Can I do it next year?” my two daughters asked.

“You bet,” I said, “And I’ll do it again with you.”

“Me too,” Judah yelled from the backseat, “And next year, I’m gonna beat my time.”

Me too.

I may not be writing as much lately, which, if I’m honest, is frustrating and sad. But because I’m writing less lately, I have more time for other things, for life things, and for the moments that are fleeting quickly. And I don’t think I’ll ever regret that.

So that’s one reason why I haven’t been writing as much lately. It’s also why I haven’t listened to or posted about podcasts either.

Because . . .

Podcasts are cool and all, but sometimes . . .

I listen to a lot of podcasts. Most of the time it’s because I enjoy them and often find inspiration from them. Sometimes, though, it’s because I like being the guy who listens to a lot of podcasts. So when the other day, while heading out for a morning run, my podcasts wouldn’t play, I was super annoyed. I even considered not running at all because, how boring would that be, running in silence? But the Spartan run was nearing and I knew I needed the training, so I headed out anyway. Soon after, I started thinking.

The night before, I didn’t sleep well because I had this thing with one of my students earlier in the day and it was bothering me. A lot. We’d been going around this misunderstanding for some time and that morning it had came to a head. We argued, yelled even, and refused to see the situation from each other’s perspectives. By the end of the conversation, he walked off and I threatened suspension. It wasn’t great and I wasn’t proud, but I was pissed. At him, myself, and the situation. It felt like all my work with him and his fellow classmates was suddenly lost because I handled the situation poorly and because I didn’t know how to fix it.

“Hard choices are often hard because they impact other people’s lives in meaningful ways,” Steven Johnson writes in Farsighted: How We Make the Decisions that Matter Most, “and so our ability to imagine that impact - to think through the emotional and material consequences from someone else’s perspective - turns out to be an essential talent” (pg 122). But because I was constantly distracted by work and kids and podcasts, I was unable to think or consider my student’s side of the story. Only mine. Until I ran without a podcast. Then and only then, I had time to think.

“When we are left to our own mental devices,” Johnson continues, “the mind drifts into a state where it swirls together memories and projections, mulls problems, and concocts strategies for the future” (pg 79). It solves problems. But only when it has time to do so. Listening to podcasts every chance I had never allowed my mind to sit and rest, to mull problems, or concoct strategies. It was always busy.

Just like my students.

Recently, after watching and talking and listening to staff and students around my school, we’ve made a few changes for next year: no cell phones during class time and block scheduling. When asked by a few students, parents, and board members, “What is the genesis of these changes?” I answered with, “Because life for our students is too busy, too distracted. We want them to slow down, to dig deeper into their classes and content, and to be more cognizant of their thoughts, emotions, and surroundings.” (Okay, I didn’t say it exactly like that, but more or less the message was the same). The morning my podcast didn’t work and I had to run in silence, I was convicted of this for myself as well because, for me at least, I can get a bit snooty about kids (and adults) playing video games or wasting time watching television. “They’re a waste of time, a distraction,” I find myself thinking and often times saying.

Yet, how often do I allow myself - my brain - to sit in silence and think, consider, and drift? How often do I play with memories and projections, mull problems, and concoct strategies for the future?

In the same way I want my students to slow down, to rid themselves of distractions and to wrestle with the intricacies and complexities of life, I must be willing and able to do the same. Podcasts, although better then gaming, can still be a distraction that quickly pulls me across the surface of thoughts and ideas, preventing me the opportunity to stop, sink, and struggle.

So that’s why, along with writing, I haven’t listened to as many podcasts lately.

But also, I don’t have time. Or perhaps energy is a better way to say it because of course I have time - we all do, if we really want something. We just need to make time for it. But energy? Yeah, I’m pretty low on that.

Here’s why.

For the Eulogy, not my Resume:

I’ve written a few times about the difference between eulogy virtues and resume virtues. It comes from David Brooks and his book, Road to Character, and it is something I think about quite often.

Resume virtues, Brooks explains, “are the {virtues} you list on your resume, the skills you bring to the job market and that contribute to external success.” Eulogy virtues, on the other hand, are the virtues that people talk about at your funeral, “the ones that exist at the core of your being - whether you are kind, brave, honest or faithful; what kind of relationships you formed.” They describe how you used your resume.

Recently, this concept has challenged me more so than ever because, for various reasons, I have been presented with the possibility of pursuing a doctorate, and for many reasons my answer would have been and very easily could have been “no.” But then my wife got involved in the decision making process and her simple reasoning stuck, “because it will open doors”, which, on the surface is pretty common and not all that groundbreaking. Because that’s what resumes do. They open doors. But my wife didn’t end there.

“Because it will open doors, which will potentially allow you greater opportunities to serve.” And she’s right! Not only will furthering my education (ideally) allow me to better serve my here-and-now local community, it will provide me the opportunity to help others too, if the moment or opportunity should arise.

Or, as Chef José Ramón Andrés Puerta would say, “an opportunity” to help.

José Ramón Andrés Puerta is “a Spanish-American chef often credited with bringing the small plates dining concept to America. He owns restaurants in Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, Las Vegas, South Beach, Florida; Frisco, Texas; Mexico City, and Dorado, Puerto Rico” (via). He is also credited with dreaming up and creating World Central Kitchen which travels the world and serving 150,000 meals daily to those in need.

Every time you have a disaster, you bring the different experts into different areas for the reconstruction, for the relief process. So you need to understand that if you have to rebuild homes that you'll bring architects. If you need to take care of people in the hospitals, you bring more help with doctors. If you have to feed people, it's only very normal and logical to me that you will bring cooks. And that's what we do. Kitchens, restaurants are chaos. And chefs, restaurant people - we manage chaos very well. After a hurricane, it's a lot of chaos. And people go hungry, and people go thirsty. And what we are very good at is understanding the problem and adapting. And so a problem becomes an opportunity. That's why I think chefs more and more - you're going to be seeing more of us in these situations. We're practical. We're efficient. We can do it quicker, faster and better than anybody (via)

Because of his resume and his intense training, Chef José Ramón Andrés Puerta not only gains access to kitchens around the world, he gains access to people in need around the world. He uses his resume as a foundation to live his eulogy virtues.

And that has been continually convicting to me.

I want to learn and grow and develop my resume as much as possible so I can be as helpful as possible, here in my current job, but also anywhere at any time. When there is a crisis or a need, I want to be ready and available and not stuck behind some bureaucratic red tape. I want access, a seat at the table, so I may best be able to serve and remember the poor.

That is why I’m writing less, listening to podcasts less, and working more on my resume.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Parenting

Scales of Justice : When Pigs Were held Accountable

In January 1457, a domestic sow and her six pigs were charged with murdering and partly devouring an infant. “The sow was found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging”, but her offspring were pardoned, “partly because of their youth . . . and the fact that their mother had set them a bad example,” (via).

The mother, for her part, was “hanged and strangled on a gibbet of wood, near the gallows” (via), as an example to the other pigs and livestock on how they were expected to behave.

Because in the mid 1400’s, animals were running amuck, and they needed to be held accountable.

In his 1906 book, The Criminal Prosecution and Capital Punishment of Animals, historian E.P. Evans recounts dozens upon dozens of instances where animals were put on trial and convicted for their crime: sparrows were prosecuted for chattering in Church, a cock burnt at the stake for laying an egg, and sheep, according to Criminal, “a true podcast that understands crime,” were being tried, sentenced, and executed “for seducing men into more than friendly relationships” (via).

It was a very scary time young sheep in America.

At any given time, a man could see a sheep, misinterpret it’s bleating and body language for sexual advances, and be unable to control himself. He would have to have that sheep.

And the sheep - not the man - would be held accountable.

“Eventually,” the podcast continues “people decided that criminal intent wasn’t something you could ascribe to animals” and a sort of paradise was restored. For the sheep, at least.

According to RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network), an American is sexually assaulted every 98 seconds. “Every 8 minutes, that victim is a child,” with” only six out of every 1,000 perpetrators” ending up in prison.

Six out of 1,000! That number is abhorring. So too is the fact that “{n}o more than 20 percent of rapes are reported to the police” (via), a number that many find unbelievable. “If it was as bad as you say,” the argument goes, “if he was doing something you didn’t want, why didn’t they scream or fight back? Why didn’t they fight for their life?”

And the answer, unfathomable to many, is that by staying silent and allowing it to happen is exactly what they were doing, fighting for their lives.

“One of the things that is difficult for most of us {to understand} about a rape,” Dr. Lisak states, “is that there doesn’t have to be a gun to the head, there doesn’t have to be a knife present, there doesn’t have to be a verbalized threat for the act itself to be enormously terrifying and threatening.

There is a difference between sexual violence and other forms of assault. Sexual violence is so intimate.” When your body is penetrated by another person against your will. It often induces a uniquely powerful kind of terror. According to many peer-reviewed studies, a large percentage of the victims of non-stranger rapes “actually feared they were going to be killed,” even when “there was no weapon and no overt violence.”

Staying silent means staying alive, so too is remaining silent. “Around 90% of rapes are committed by known men, and often by someone who the survivor has previously trusted or even loved. People are raped in their homes, their workplaces and other settings where they have previously felt safe” (via). Rapists can be friends, colleagues, clients, neighbors, family members, partners or exes”, not some stranger hiding in the bushes. It’s someone they see consistently, that they know by name, and that will probably see in their house, at work, or at the next family reunion.

Which makes the allegations all the more difficult, because the victim will be asking family and friends to face each other rather than stand united. And that, according to Judith Lewis Herman in Trauma and Recovery, is extremely difficult. “It is morally impossible,” she writes, “to remain neutral in {cases of sexual assault}”, because “{t}he bystander is forced to take sides.”

It is very tempting to take the side of the perpetrator. All the perpetrator asks is that the bystander do nothing. He appeals to the universal desire to see, hear, and speak no evil. The victim, on the contrary, asks the bystander to share the burden of pain. The victim demands action, engagement, and remembering . . .

Victims of sexual assault demand empathy. Sadly, however, what they often receive is apathy. “Boys will be boys,” they hear echoing from police officers, school administrators, lawyers, friends, and the many others who are meant to serve and protect them. “You shouldn’t have been drinking,” victims are told, or “Look at what you’re wearing” and “why did you put yourself in that position?”

Instead of empathy, victims are often attacked and maligned for speaking out. Instead, they are held accountable for the perpetrators actions, or mocked on live television.

“Drunk guys,” Krakauer writes in his terrifying book, Missoula: Rape and the Justice System in a College Town, “who may have ‘made mistakes’ nearly always get the benefit of the doubt. Drunk girls, however, do not” (via).

Why is that?

The answer - or problem, rather - seems to be that we, as a country, lack empathy. At least for those unlike ourselves.

In the classic novel, “To Kill a Mockingbird,” Atticus finds himself defending Tom Robinson, a black man, before a white jury. Tom Robinson has been accused of raping a white woman, but the evidence against the claim is as clear and as simple as “black and white.” Atticus, the judge, and every person in the courtroom knows Tom Robinson is innocent, but because black men were considered little more than cattle, it wasn’t shocking to expect a black man to pay the price for a white man’s (or woman’s) sins.

Atticus understood this. He understood that in order to win and save Tom Robinson, he needed the jury to empathize with the victim; he needed them to see and understand Tom Robinson like they saw and understood themselves - as human. A task as murky and complicated as black and white.

“You know the truth,” Atticus states, “and the truth is this: some Negroes lie, some Negroes are immoral, some Negro men are not to be trusted around women - black and white.” And you can almost see the jury, nodding their heads in approval, perhaps even whispering, “them Negros” under their breath or quietly in their minds. But then, Atticus asks them to reach towards empathy.

But this is a truth that applies to the human race and to no particular race of men. There is not a person in this courtroom who has never told a lie, who has never done an immoral thing, and there is no man living who has never looked upon a woman without desire.”

Atticus paused and took out his handkerchief. Then he took off his glasses and wiped them” (pg 205).

It is here, perhaps, that Atticus lost the jury, and the point were Tom Robinson was sentenced to death for a crime he didn’t commit. In order for the jury to acquit Tom Robinson, they would have to empathize with him. And in order to empathize with him, they would have to admit that they, white men, were similar to a black man. And if they were similar to a black man, that would mean black men weren’t property or cattle, they were human. And if they were human, then the white population would have a lot of explaining and reconciling to do.

Instead, they convicted him of a crime he didn’t commit, as an example of how they were expected to behave.

It was also an example and reminder to themselves and their fellow white Americans, because if they sided with Tom Robinson, if they took his word over the white man’s - if they empathized with him - they would reduce the gap of power. And if they lost the gap of power, they might lose control. If they lost control, the African American community would have a voice and the ability to defend themselves against the white power. They could also accuse it. And that would be extremely dangerous for the young white men of the coming generation.

So they chose to avoid empathy and embrace power. They decided to keep things as they were: divided, and imbalanced.

It is often said that history is written by those who win, by those who have the power. But so too is the present.

Those in power decide what is real and what is fake. They determine who is right and who is wrong, and perhaps most importantly, they decide who is responsible. Be it sheep, black America, or woman.

But the thing is, “Women don’t get raped because they were drinking or took drugs,” writes Jessica Valenti, a Guardian US columnist, “Women do not get raped because they weren’t careful enough. Women get raped because someone raped them” (via).

Sure, woman can become better educated on how to defend themselves, where they should or shouldn’t go, on how much is too much to drink, and on how to recognize the warning signs of a possible sexual assault.

Or, men can just stop sexually assaulting women.

It is a scary time for young men. It is a scary because if they are consistently allowed to behave like animals, if they are not be held accountable for their actions, and if we as a country do not collectively begin to expect more from them, it is indeed scary to think of the men they will become.

And the offices they will hold.

Rewind Forward : When today becomes the past

I often return to the moment before the accident. One moment, I see a young beautiful lady laughing into the camera . . . CUT . . . three months later, she woke up from her coma. When I saw her for the first time, I asked my father, "Who is this woman?"

This video truly shook me a bit, and not just because of the death of so many family members (actual and relational), but I'll admit, the thoughts and memories of older days, when we were camping and living and struggling together, came rushing in. I easily resonated with,  

Do you miss him sometimes?

Not just sometimes . . . always!  Always!

And I don't think I'll ever stop. But also, 

I'm ready - to stop looking back, and to look forward. For a long time, I dreamed of standing here together again. But life took another turn.

Some of my family have said the brokenness we're experiencing is "God's will" and until He decides it's time for us to reconcile all we can do is pray. I think that's bullshit. I think we are a product of the decisions we've made, of the truths we hold so dear. Life didn't take the turn, we did. And now, we're miles and miles apart, still heading in opposite directions, waiting for and dreaming of the days when someone else will turn around. 

As I write, my family (wife and kiddos) are traveling the country. We're nearing the end of our fifth week on the road (from Wyoming to Pennsylvania with stops in Virginia, New Jersey, Michigan, Indiana, Wisconsin, and North Dakota). On our way to Virginia, I wrote in my journal,

We’re nearing 4 weeks of road tripping, and some days, I just want to be home, sitting on a couch, doing very little. Because traveling is expensive, because traveling breaks habits and somehow convinces kids it’s okay to push and break rules, and because one-year olds don’t sleep well on the road. And we are tired. 
But then we stand and look over the valley and I get to see the country with my son, my wife, my kids - my family -and then, through the perspective of young eyes, the miles and millions of cups of coffee are worth it. Because someday, I’m going to wish they all fit in the van again.

I don't know what sort of turns life has down the road, I just know that for now, we're all in the van together. I also know that however I travel now, the way I love my kids, the conversations we have or don't have, the stories we share the memories we create will most definitely and directly impact how we, a family, travers the road ahead. 

You can't outrun the past. With that I agree. But I can choose to sit in the present, to live and love and pursue with the tenacious truth that I'm not guaranteed tomorrow, and that someday memories might be all that I have left. 

Although hopes and dreams will forever be before me, I do have a say in how this thing plays out. These days are about these days and right now. The ripples will take care of themselves. 

On the eve of turning 35 . . . What's next?

There's a scene in one of my favorite movies, Liberal Arts, where a retiring professor is lamenting with an old student (Josh Radnor) about transition and getting old. At one point he tells Josh, "Ask me how old I am." When he does, the professor (played by Richard Jenkins), responds with, "None of your god damned business," and they both smirk. "Now," the professor continues, "ask me how old I feel." 

"How old do you feel," Radnor asks.

"Nineteen. And I've never not felt like I'm nineteen."

I don't think 35 is all that old, but it does seem to be a sort of wrapping up and moving on. For the past thirty-four years, I've been able to get away with many mistakes and shortcomings because I was either young and dumb, a newly-wed man, a young father, or new to my profession. I was allowed to make immature mistakes. But thirty-five, with four kids, and a recently hired principal? That man is no longer young, no longer new, and no longer has an excuse. He's also half way done with life and should know better by now. He is now fully and completely an adult. 

That is, if he doesn't keep putting it off.

In his TED talk, Inside the Mind of a Master Procrastinator, Tim Urban brilliantly and comically describes the mind of anyone struggling with, or fully embracing, a life of procrastination. And for most of his talk, he's cute and funny, because his content is light and simple, and because what he has to say is relatively harmless. It's just the funny quirks of life. 

Then, in his concluding thoughts, Urban reaches beyond the college essays and weekly schedules and simple deadlines that direct so much of our daily lives - the contained kind of procrastinations - and talks about the second kind, the deeper kind. The kind that don't have deadlines, the kind that matter most. These are the ones that, at the end of our lives, we're most proud of, most excited about, and the ones people talk about when we've past on.

They're the entrepreneur kind, the outside the career kind, the working on relationships or growing as a person kind. And because they have no weekly or monthly deadlines there's never a sense of urgency to get them done. We can always put them off until tomorrow, until life is a bit less busy, or until this current contained deadline is finished (which they never are because there is always another one right behind). So they are continually placed on the shelf, waiting for future days, and hardly ever getting the attention they deserve. 

So in order to create a sense of urgency, in order for these goals and ideas and ambitions to be brought down and polished off, Urban shows this graph. And it really got to me.

Waitbutwhy.com

At first, it looks like a LOT of squares with plenty of time to do many things like traveling, writing that great American novel, and getting to know my kids and wife and extended family. 

But then I saw this one, and I got a bit more anxious. 

This morning, while waiting in the hallway between classes, several teachers passed by on their way to wherever they were going. "Morning," I would say, or, "How are you?" and their responses were fairly common. "Happy Friday" and "TGIF!" I would nod my head in agreement because, even though I love being a teacher, I too love the weekends. And when Monday comes along, I look forward to the next one. 

Then the next one.

Then the next.

And the next.

Until I saw them all, neatly piled in rows and lines, advertising the entirety of my (possible) life, and it terrified me a bit. So I printed off a sheet and started filling in the boxes. 

The first grouping was nothing all that extraordinary, just my days growing up in Indiana, making friends, playing sports, graduating high school, and generally wasting a whole lot of time. A lot of time. And a lot of boxes. So instead of going line by line, box by box, I started making little patterns, dividing up the space into little chunks, and finding a sort of rhythm in the process, which made the time go by faster and with a little more flair - with a little more excitement.

Days in Indiana

Then, suddenly, I found the whole process a bit discomforting. I was filling in boxes, weeks of my life, with such simplicity and absentmindedness that I even forgot what I was doing: shading in the days and months and years of life that I will never get back.

I started considering how fast I filled in those boxes, how quickly they turned into years, and how many I might have left.

When I was finished, I added in a few key dates: the day I finally graduated from University, when Josey and I married on a small mountain top in Montana, the day I turned thirty. 

I placed my kids on the chart (not when they were born, but how many squares they have lived).

Then I found the day (roughly) Judah will graduate high school and the square my grandfather last filled before he died. Suddenly, the time allotted seemed a little bit smaller.

Indiana
Out of house, before marriage
Marriage but before China
China
Still married, post China

I may feel like I'm nineteen, and hopefully always will, but my squares are quickly filling. Sometimes with great fanfare, other times not, but always they are. And on the eve of my 35th birthday, I'm feeling that reality more then I ever have before. 

If I live to be as old as Grandpa was, I'm already halfway there. The empty boxes until my first-born son leaves are fading. And with each passing year, I get further and further away from the immortal age of nineteen.

I don't think working through all this means I'm in a midlife crises. In fact, I think this could and should be a good place to be (at least I hope it is) because this might be exactly what prevents the crises, some years from now, when the panic of a deadline is realized and there isn't enough time to cram in the good and important stuff, leaving a large and empty space of regret. 

I know I'm not the first, the only, or the last person to turn 35, to wrestle with mortality, or to look back on life and gasp at how quickly it has past. Nor am I the first to look at the future and hope and dream of what could be yet cringe at all of the things that actually could be.

"Everyone," Urban says at the end of his talk, "is procrastinating on something in life . . . and because there's not that many boxes up there . . . we need to start working on it today."

Here are few things I've been procrastinating on:

1. Pursuing my family
2. Writing an actual book, not just blogs
3. Teaching my son how to cook
4. Taking my wife on a vacation . . . without kids
5. Saving for colleges
6. Writing more letters
7. Getting back into shape
8. Forgiving family
9. Giving
10. Shaving.

And I don't want to procrastinate another day, I will tackle two right off the bat: writing more letters and giving.

If you've read this far, write a short favorite memory (either here or on Facebook) of you and me and on the evening of Sunday, April 30th, Judah will pull a name from a hat.

That lucky person will get a FREE BOOK and handwritten note!!!

As always, thanks for reading.

Enjoy the weekend!

Why we argue, and how we heal.

We got into a fight Saturday morning, a good one, but not really a real one. It started off simply, over something that could have easily been batted away, like that pestering fly that lands on your knee. But instead, I chose to pounce, to dig in, and then to not let it go. More than once Josey tried to calm things over, to move on, but I refused. 

So we argued about the dumb shit that doesn't really mean anything but in the moment, for whatever reason, means everything. 

Later that morning, I found myself sitting on the edge of our bed, alone, and thinking, "What the hell am I doing? Why am I choosing this fight?"

It didn't take long for the answer to surface, but because I'm bullheaded it did take a decent amount of time for me to head down the stairs and seek forgiveness. 

A few hours later, the van was packed and we were headed to the Badlands.

I don't know if other couples argue and find themselves divided over the dumbest things couples can bicker about, I just know we do. Sometimes it's because the stress and excitement of finally spending Thanksgiving with family suddenly crashes, minutes before takeoff. Other times its because there's been some miscommunication and I was supposed to be home by 5:15, not 6:30. 

I also know that, for us, sitting in a van with fresh coffee wafting from cupped hands, an atlas on the dash, kids in the back, and hours and hours of road ahead, we heal.

We talk about the past few weeks, then sit in silence and watch the miles blur by. We talk about our hopes and dreams, or fears of failure, and of future trips. We talk about what's been on our hearts and eating our minds. Then Josey sits in the back with the girls and they laugh and whisper and sleep. Judah sits up front and talks like a young man and scours the atlas for shortcuts and upcoming cities. He quizzes me on capitals and I tell him of the time my family drove west and my dad lost his wallet on the camper. 

Soon Josey returns and we discuss and sit and be some more. Because the laundry's at home, because lesson plans can be done later Sunday night, and because our cellphones are down and we're just there, together. 

And I love that.

My grandfather, and the tools he left behind

Press play before reading.

"Was your grandpa good at making things?" Judah asks.

"Extremely," I say, stopping to look at a picture of my grandpa, dad, and me. It used to be in my grandparent's little dining nook. Now, it sits on my workbench, amid screws and tape measures and other tools my grandfather gave me. 

Tools I've just recently gotten back because they've been in storage for the past five years. 

"What's wrong?" Judah asks.

"Nothing" I say, "I'm okay."

"But you're crying," he says.

"I just miss 'em is all," and Judah wraps his arms around my neck.

“Thanks,” I say, patting his back, “I’m okay.” Then, we get to work, measuring and cutting and creating. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we talk, but most of the time we just work, side by side in the sawdust and under the dangling yellow lights. Working with my grandfather's tools.

Then, somewhere in the night, the song Tupelo Honey by Van Morrison comes on and I stop to text my dad because it's his favorite song, and whenever I hear it, no matter where I am, I think of him and me working and singing and laughing. A lot. Because if there's one thing my dad and my grandfather have in common its that they love to work hard and laugh even harder.

I look at the photo again and can almost feel my grandfather's arms around my shoulder and I think of my dad. I can't even imagine how he must feel, how much he must miss his dad, and how hard it must have been when his father's tools were stolen from his garage in the middle of the night. 

But then Judah asks if I could cut some wood for him, if I could hold this piece while he screws his plane together, and if I could tell him a few stories of Grandpa, since he doesn't really remember him anymore. 

"Sure," I say, and I tell him of how fishing with Grandpa on Lake Michigan was my favorite, especially when we didn't catch any fish, because he could tell the greatest stories and we'd just be there together, sometimes in silence but always together. I tell him about the time we went on a trip to Canada and Grandpa could't keep any minos in his hand because they kept escaping through the hole where his finger was cut off. I tell of how he drove down from Michigan just to watch me play a Friday Night game and how much it meant to me, because he'd never seen me play before. Then, I tell him about my grandfather's laugh, how he would squint one eye and sort of cackle out the greatest of all laughs. The kind that, even if the joke isn't funny, you laugh anyway.

Judah listens, asks a few clarifying questions, then reaches over and grabs my grandfather's tape measure. And he does so without thinking, because he doesn't know my grandfather used that same tape measure to build decks for people in his community, that my grandfather made furniture for each of his grandkids, even when he was months away from never picking up another tool again. That my grandfather was a master craftsman. 

But I do. I also know that he was a man of intense and extreme character, that he loved and supported his kids beyond measure, and that, when he died, his kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids flew and drove from all over the country to be there - no matter the cost.

Because he was our grandpa. 

And our grandpa was great at making things. The tools just happened to be there.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Parenting

Because they call me Dad : A Fireside Sunday

     Photo by @storyanthology

I could have taken a nap. I could have read a few more pages of In Cold Blood or got busy with any of the other millions of things I can get busy doing. I could have spent a large chunk of the day writing. But I didn't. Because my wife thought we should make a fire.

And as often happens, she was right. 

Snow fell from the trees and landed in our laps and dinner and our kids laughed those long and deep laughs that warm the soul. 

We sat together as a family.

Elias spit raspberries. 

I can't help but constantly feel guilty for not writing more often, for not "pursuing the craft" because I know full well, if this is ever going to happen, it won't just fall in my lap (I already said enough about that).

But then we have a day like today and I'm reminded there isn't room. Nor do I want any. Because Eden "loves the mornings" and Zion asks if she can cuddle and help make breakfast. And I get to be there. 

Because they call me Dad.

And because my wife asked me to build a fire.

So we did.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Parenting

On top, but alone : a sabbatical from writing

As 2016 drew to a close, like many people around the world, I planned for new beginnings, new hopes, and set a strong resolution: to write a blog every single day. I knew it was low hanging fruit and that it wouldn't bestow upon me the ever elusive title of "author," but I was okay with that, because it would ensure that I intentionally wrote a polished piece of work every single day. Up to that point, writing in my journal was erratic, sloppy, and unchallenged - it was a place I could live and write without consequence for my grammatical errors or faulty ideas.  It was a place of little growth.

So, for almost the entire year, I published something daily. Sometimes I struck gold, other times a septic line, but always I learned and grew - even if only slightly. Because people now had access to my thoughts.

Friends revealed my terrible grammar.

My wife refined my insensitive rants.

Readers encouraged my process, thoughts, and style. They commented, liked, and shared my writings which inspired me to stay up and write, well beyond my bedtime, because I had to write, I had to publish, and I had to maintain the number of views I was becoming accustomed to. 

Writing, suddenly, was no longer about writing. It was about getting Mother Mary up the mountain. And I couldn't figure out how to stop.

About halfway through the year, after writing about a variety of topics, posting videos, songs, movie trailers, and whatever else caught my interest, Mother Mary was still far from her summit, and I could feel my strength, my desire, and my purpose, slipping. When school started and life began to fill up, she lingered on the cliff. 

So I sent two dear friends an email entitled, "A Crisis of Sorts."

Here's an excerpt from that email:

For the past several weeks I've been working hard at my blog (god that sounds stupid). I've stayed up late, sacrificed lunches, and spent many many hours thinking on what to write, how to write, and to whom I might be writing for. And whenever I publish something I think, "Yes. That's good. I like that." But whenever I go back and reread various works and thoughts, I think, "NO! That's shitty. I hate that," and I get fully discouraged and lose hope {of} ever doing anything with writing because what is my blog going to do? How is this getting me anywhere closer to being a writer? Where is this going to get me?

I've started writing a bit more on personal matters, believing it might be encouraging to others because we're all tired of the surface bullshit we post on Facebook and Instagram and whatever. Some of the best and well-known writers and thinkers I've come to love are those who write and think honestly, and I want to emulate them. But as I work on a second piece about the struggles of a broken family, I keep questioning myself, "What's the point?" Outside of myself, who truly cares about this?" I know writers are supposed to "write for themselves," and I get that, I do. But it's also bullshit. We, as humans, as writers or artists or whatever we call ourselves, want to inspire, to help, and, as selfish as it sounds, be validated in what we do and the time we spend doing it. And this is EXACTLY where I'm struggling.

What am I doing wrong? Am I completely deluded in thinking that what I'm doing, the time I'm spending, and the way I'm writing is doing anything other than wasting time? 

Their responses, as I knew they would be, were golden. 

One writes, "Has the blog become too consuming? Does it interfere with other priorities? Are there any unhealthy byproducts that come from writing this blog? . . . Consider your motivations for writing the blog . . . maybe taking a “sabbatical” from the blog would be the healthiest option."

The other, "Have you heard the phrase, "Kill your darlings"? . . . I'm not saying your blog needs to be scrapped completely. I think if it's a momentary stumbling block that will be fine in the long run, keep going. But if it's a race of hurdles where you just trip over hurdle after hurdle, maybe it does?"

In short, why am I trying to place Mother Mary on top of a treacherous mountain? 

Because it's the good and right and noble choice? Because it serves the smaller and greater community?

Or because I want to take a selfie on top the world? 

Are there any unhealthy byproducts that come from writing this blog?

Maybe. Maybe not. But the real problem was that I never asked, that I never allowed myself to consider the possibility that there were unhealthy byproducts. How could I? To kill my darlings would be to kill myself. 

Why am I dragging Mary up the mountain? 

Kevin Ashton, in How to Fly a Horse, tells of the gruesome story of a time when "doctors did not scrub in or out of the operating room, and were so proud of the blood on their gowns that they let it build up throughout their careers." And because it was a teaching hospital, it was common practice for doctors to deliver babies after dissecting corpses. 

The hospitals mortality rate was so terrible mothers would often rather give birth in the streets, on their own, rather than in the hospital. Because their survival rate was higher. 

Yet, none of the doctors asked why or assumed they played a role in any of the deaths. When asked to simply wash their hands, almost immediately, the mortality rate went from 18% to zero. 

However, "This was not enough to overcome the skepticism. Charles Delucena Meigs, an American obstetrician, typified the outrage. He told his students that a doctor's hands could not possibly carry disease because doctors are gentlemen and 'gentlemen's hands are clean' (via).

Charles Delucena Meigs, the American obstetrician, was doing great things - saving lives and advancing our understanding of the human body. Why would he ever need to question his actions when his motives were so good? 

Because people we're dying. And at that point, it shouldn't have mattered his perspective, his convictions on the cleanliness of a man's hands because, people were dying. 

And people are always more important than convictions.

I want to be a writer. Bad. But more than that, I want to be a better person. Writing has helped me be that, I think, but not always. Sometimes not. 

Because sometimes, instead of helping and loving and living a life worth writing about, I drag Mother Mary up the mountain. 

And the selfie just isn't worth it.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  The DR Who Championed Hand-washing  :  How to Fly a Horse :  Open Thoughts

A space for home

This transition process is taking longer than we expected. We still don't have lampshades, we have to borrow my in-laws vacuum almost weekly, and our dining room still doesn't have a working table and chairs - we have to crowed around a small countertop island to eat as a family.

But those are simple things that can easily change in the near future. It's the other stuff that's taking time, the human stuff, the kids crying themselves to sleep because they're thinking and dreaming and missing China stuff. The missing home stuff. And I didn't know what to do. 

We can talk about China and their friends, revisite old photographs and some of our favorite memories, and we can talk about all the blessings we've been able to experience since arriving back in the states. But that doesn't seem to help. Not much anyway. So resort to words like, "It will be okay, I promise. You just need time," or, "by this time next year, you'll be feeling much better, I promise." But they're empty. Because really, I have no idea if it will be okay, if things will get better. If they will ever stop missing home.

My optimism, in the end, amounts to nothing.

But then, this morning, my wife sent me a text that convicted and challenged my heart. She was writing to share the news that she'd been featured on a forum that receives close to a million submissions, and she was one of seven people chosen. "It's not a big deal," she wrote, "but it is just a little encouraging. She continued:

It's funny how I am feeling so sad about loss and constantly worried I'll shrivel, but there are spaces of delight here. Just comparing apples and oranges. But getting this photo featured means more than just that. It means there is hope for a Home again. Even if it's hard to believe now.

I loved the way she said that, "there is hope for a Home again. Even if it's hard to believe now" because it reminded me that hope is active.

It is her taking pictures every day, even when she doesn't feel like it because its her and her passion and the best way she knows how way capture life, because soon enough these times will be gone.

It's her working on a home, daily, even when there isn't any more money left or much to do so she rearranges the few pieces of furniture for a second, third, and forth time because that's how she builds a home, little by little, and over time. 

It's how she moves towards hope.

Hope is active, optimism passive. Optimism believes things will get better and turn out okay while hope gets off the couch and ensures that they do - even when it's hard to believe that it will.

"There are spaces of delight here", and with hope, those spaces will expand and grow and fill up with memories, laughter, and Life. 

Until this space becomes our Home.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Living  :  Josey Miller Photography

Open Thoughts : A Family of Home, not perfection

“The hardest thing in the world is to simplify your life. It’s easy to make it complex.”

The moving in process has been slow and sometimes painful, but it’s also been beautiful. Not because our house is full or the walls are covered with decorations, but because they aren’t, because it is taking us longer than we thought, and because our house is finally starting to become a home filled with imperfections.

Just as it should be.

Last week, our fake wood-burning stove arrived in the mail, and when we set it up and turned it on, it was just about perfect. Our kids gathered around, touching the glass and awing at flames that flickered and wood that glowed – looking just like a real fire - and when we turned the lights off to the rest of the house and cuddled beneath blankets for the evening reading, it felt fully perfect.

Somehow though, after the kids were in bed and Josey and I were sitting in the quite of the night, we both missed our even more fake fireplace in China.

Then suddenly, strangely, we were homesick. And we couldn’t quite figure out why. Because that fireplace, the one in China that was made from an old chest with one side cut out, with Christmas lights behind embossed glass for fire, and an old pipe for a makeshift chimney, wasn’t nearly as nice as this one. Not even close.

“But it was full of stories,” Josey said. And that was it. That was what we missed. Because that fireplace, the one with the Christmas tree lights for a fire had embossed glass that was found in a nearby trash pile in one of Josey’s favorite back alley streets, and it was just what she’d been looking for, for months. And that chimney, the one that looked like an old industrial pipe was the third old industrial pipe I’d brought home because the other two didn’t work. I found this one discarded beneath our old school, and when I picked it up, three baby kittens scattered across the dusty boxes, bricks, and piles of old carpet. And they scared the shit out of me.

That fireplace took months to build. It required difficult negotiations in a second language, hauling material up seven flights of stairs, and rebuilding, remodeling, and reworking over and over again until we got it right. But, when it all came together, when we finally assembled the last few pieces and hung and stuffed our Christmas stockings, our little monster of a creation became the centerpiece of the living room.

And our kids loved it.

When we sold it, Josey cried.

Our new Amazon fireplace, however, is perfect looking, but it doesn’t come with stories. Just Styrofoam and cardboard boxes.

But then Uncle Trauger comes over and helps us make the shiplap backing from old barn wood Judah and I pulled and denailed from a distant farm on a cold and misty Saturday afternoon. And suddenly, there’s life.

And then the end tables Josey bought at a local thrift store are painted by my daughters which means they’re full of paint blobs, running lines, and imperfections. And they aren’t even hard to miss. But whenever I see them, whenever I set my coffee down in the predawn morning, I hear Zion’s giddy voice telling me how she painted all day with Mom and how, “Mom broke two paint brushes, and I didn’t break any.” I see Eden, with paint in her hair and dotted along her arms and legs and toes, trying to fix her imperfections with entirely too much paint on the brush, only exacerbating the problem.

And I fall in love with those tables and their stories and the home they begin to build.

Because that’s the outdoor fire pit Aunt Lu bought us when she came to visit in October and those are the shutters we had a friend carry from China and drop of with my brother in Montana and have waited over three months to unwrap and that’s the chair we bought for $12.50 at a Thrift store in Laramie when visiting our little sister at university and stayed in a cabin and bought our first pumpkins at a beautiful farm where Eden and Zion rode horses and Judah finished a maze in 48.3 seconds. 

I love stories. And I love that I think of them almost every single day.

And the thing is, even if we wanted to fill our house quickly we couldn’t because we’ve chosen a single income teacher salary lifestyle and even though there are several days that it’s hard and frustrating because I just wish we could get a little bit further ahead and not have to work so hard, most other days, I love it. Because it forces us to wait, to learn and to be reminded that we can do without, and it allows – unwillingly at times – for us to find and capture beautiful stories.

Stories of creating rather than buying.

Stories of building rather than pulling from shelves.

Stories of human imperfections rather industrialized perfection.

Stories of thrift stores and garage sales and sometimes even trash piles. Of making things work out of imagination and re and re and redecoration.

The kind of stories that make a home, not a house.

And the kind of stories that carry with us long after the furniture is sold or tossed or lost over the years.

And those are exactly the kind of stories I want to tell and retell and hear my children share to their friends and family and future children. Because those are stories of the family.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Living

BE SURE TO SCROLL DOWN AND SUBSCRIBE - THANKS FOR READING!

Things I mean to know

This morning, instead of hopping in the car and driving, I walked. It was brilliant. Brilliantly cold, and brilliantly convicting, like the heat of an afternoon sun after a freezing and wind scourged morning, because before the day even began, I was asked to consider everything I know, and how I know it. And I didn't have any answers.

What do we know, fully, and with confidence, but without knowing why? Without knowing the evidence, the facts, or even just simply the other side?

For me it's a lot of things. But when I first listened to this podcast, I wasn't considering me and what I did or did not know, I was considering others and what they don't know. Because from my perspective, they don't know a lot. And they don't even know it. 

The Episode is entitled, Things I Mean to Know by This American Life. 

This little soundbite is from the Prologue:

"I started looking into it and it was too hard." So, she, "jumped back into the ocean with the rest of us dummies." Because it was easier. Because getting to the bottom of things is a lot of work, especially when those things don't have easy or definable answers - when they deal with all that human being stuff.

When I heard these lines, I was about three blocks down from my house, kicking a small rock out of my path, and thinking of all those who could benefit from hearing these simple words. 

Then I turned the corner and headed down 6th street. The rock lost in someone's yard and the chill of the morning beginning to seep in. I pulled my hat down further then jammed my hands a bit further into my pockets. 

A thought was beginning to fester, and by the time I reached the my classroom and chair and Coleman thermos coffee, it was a wild and living thing.

Maybe I'm the one who's wrong?

In recent months I've been questioning myself, my faith, and my life more than I ever have before. Yet, somewhere in all that, I've found plenty of time and arguments for why others have been wrong, why things or ideas have been the source of my befuddlement, and why if everyone could just be as open-minded or loving or accepting as me, things would be pretty damn good.

Then I walked to work and kicked a rock and listened to stories of people talking about what they thought they knew. 

On the walk home, Megan Phelps-Roper describe her time as a member of the Westboro Baptist Church, "Most of the time, I would walk away from those conversations feeling like I had won. I never set out to have my mind changed."

Once I saw that we were not the ultimate arbiters of divine truth but flawed human beings, I couldn't justify our actions. . . That period was full of turmoil. But one part I return to often is a surprising realization I had during that time - that it was a relief and a privilege to let go of the harsh judgments that instinctively ran through my mind about nearly every person I saw. I realized that now I needed to learn. I needed to listen.

And so do I. Holy shit so do I.

I need to listen to those who frustrate me, who hurt me, who think incomplete and false thoughts about me. Because they might be right. 

Holy shit they might be right. At least in part.

Because,

You're not letting go of your truth but understanding someone else's. You need that if you're going to build a bridge and get across and get through.

But to be honest, this is really hard because even through I want to get through, I also want to win - at least in part - because even though I want to understand, I also want to be understood. And even though I want to build bridges and find a way to let go of the harsh judgements that instinctively ran through my mind, I also want to be validated and affirmed in what and who I am.  

Which makes the conversation difficult, I think, because - out of self preservation - I talk more than I listen, I defend more than hear, and I explain more than I try to understand.

And that might be the first times I've really understood that. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  Other Inspiring Podcasts

BE SURE TO SCROLL DOWN AND SUBSCRIBE - THANKS FOR READING!

Hands rake leaves; faith opens refrigerators

(Photo by @storyanthology)

I know there’s nothing there, because I just looked five minutes ago. But there's that something that keeps drawing me to the fridge, looking for something to eat, to snack on, or to keep me distracted. So I go once more, open the fridge once more, and am not surprised but somehow disappointed to find that it’s just like it was before.

I’m not hungry, and I’m not there because I’m hungry, I’m there because I’m restless, because I don’t want to do whatever it is I need to do, like lesson plan or grade essays or wrestle through some difficult thought for a blog post.

Or call my parents.

So I head back to the fridge, even though I know it won’t help, because it’s easier, because I’d rather hope for a miracle than deal with reality, and because it’s safe. Just like faith.

And I’m pretty tired of wasting my time with both.

This past Saturday, Judah should have been outside raking while Josey and I sat in the living room, talking. Instead though, he kept coming inside to get a drink of water, to get a snack, and then to get another drink of water – while the leaves continued to cover the ground – and I got frustrated, “Get outside and work,” I said. So he did. With a sulk and a huff, he shoved his shoes back on and shuffled out the door to the yard, the leaves, and the task of learning how to rake all on his own.

Judah’s never raked a yard before.

But I sent him out anyway, because I believe, deeply, that yard work can help build a young boy’s character, that it can instill in him a strong work ethic, grit, and the deep satisfaction of a job well done. And I was confident I was doing the right thing, that him being outside was better than watching movies or playing videogames, and that someday, even if many years from now, he would thank me for these days.

So I refilled my coffee and headed back to the living room. From the window, I could see him pushing leaves around, kicking small sticks, and generally accomplishing very little. And it was then that I realized just how fragile, just how weak and useless faith can be, if left to simple devices.

Judah doesn’t know how to rake, how to stuff leaves in the garbage can, or what it means to put in a hard days work. Because he is ten. And no matter how many times I send him out or how much faith I have that we’re doing the right thing, he won’t learn it on his own. I can hope for it, pray incessantly about it, even find empowering quotes that encourage leaving him in the front yard, by himself, to wrestle and struggle through this obstacle – because only when we don’t know what to do can we grow.

Or, I can put on my shoes and teach him how to rake in rows and how to stomp the leaves in the garbage can. I can tell stories of “when I was your age” and how I used to hate raking our giant yard but sometimes wish I were there again, smelling the fire, and fighting with my brothers and sisters and how, just like he’s experiencing now, those hours and days working outside formed blisters and built character.

Instead of believing that raking leaves will teach and mold Judah, I can chase him around the yard, stuff leaves down his pants, and show him what it means to be a family and struggle and work and live together.

Or, I can head to the fridge, to prayer, and wait for my son to finish.

I can call my parents.

Faith, like running to refrigerators, can be a destructive distraction from doing what truly needs to be done, leaving us frustrated and empty and staring at a fridge full of food and asking, “Why is there nothing to eat?”

Because what we’re craving isn’t in the fridge. It’s in us - our hands, our feet - and in the simple moments of choosing to live by faith. Not wait on it. 

Open Thoughts : This is where I am

For the past few days, even weeks, I've been in a sort of rut with my writing and general creativity. Specifically, I've been wrestling with two larger thoughts - one on family and the other on guns, and after several hours spent on both, I got nothing. Every time I look at whatever I wrote the night before, I hate it, delete it, and start all over.

And this is more than just a bit discouraging. 

How is this so hard? Why am I unable to think or articulate simple thoughts? Why does it all seem so flimsy and shallow?

I don't know, but over the past several days, I've begun to wonder if I should just give up on writing and blogging and pursuing this crazy idea that I might some day be considered a legitimate author. Because what's the point?

Good writers should be able to write, daily, and produce material worth reading. Good writers shouldn't misspell or misuse words and they shouldn't struggle so damn much to call simple ideas  to a page, it should just happen, with the ease of routine, because they're good writers and that's what good writers do. 

I'm not sure when this slippery beast of doubt crept in, but like a silverback gorilla who's bathed in butter and just slipped through an open attic window, this sucker is rather difficult to get a hold of and shove out the door. 

So instead of writing, I watched this:

Grit is passion and perseverance for very long-term goals. Grit is having stamina. Grit is sticking with your future day in and day out. Not just for the week, not just for the month, but for years, and working really hard to make that future a reality.

I'm not sure about you, but I found this short talk somewhat encouraging but also fantastically terrifying because what she doesn't acknowledge is the absolute true possibility that although I'm working hard, I'm doing it all wrong. 

Because even though I believe that "the ability to learn is not fixed, that it can change with {my} effort" that doesn't mean all and every piece of work and drop of sweat is growing and leading me in the right direction. And my deepest fear, I guess, is this: what if it's not?

I don't know.

I'm sure there are little anecdotes of "just try your best and it will all work out," or "it's okay to fail because that's where you learn and grow" and all that other bullshit we say to ourselves to make us feel better and to keep our spirits high, but I'm kinda tired of such empty talk and hollow promises. Because they're exactly that, hollow promises. 

So what now?

I don't know.

Therefore, like Angela Duckworth, that's where I'm going to end my thoughts because that's where I'm at. And I'm not okay with that. 

Here's to tomorrow.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Creativity

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A Forever Foreigner

This post was started in the final days of living in China, but in the midst of all the leaving and packing and thinking on other things, I forgot all about it. And I’m glad I did.

Reading it now, in my very American classroom on a dark and chilly Tuesday morning, has challenged my head and heart and daily life, because, months later, the words seem forced and empty. Fake even. I know they’re not, but since being back, what I’m discovering is that, several months ago, they were much easier to write than they are to live.

: Original Post :

“Have a good day!”

    “Zài jiàn!”

    The coffee is passed between us and I rush out the door and back to work.

    My “teaching” day is over. Now all that is left is a few hours of quiet lesson planning and a hot cup of mediocre coffee.  

But I can’t get that small interaction out of my head.

    “Have a good day!”

    “Zài jiàn!”

    They’re so simple, so basic, and absolutely so common, but in that simple moment, they broke through barriers, travelled over thousands of miles of differences, and connected two strangers, a short petite Chinese woman and a six-foot four American.

    “Have a good day!”

    “Zài jiàn!”

    Spoken kindly, that small interaction brought a strange welcoming to my heart.  

In a land where very little reminds me of “home,” where ordering large bottles of water requires assistance from someone who knows how to speak numbers one, six, and nine in mandarin, this small interaction allowed me to feel a small notion of acceptance, of not feeling so much like an outsider, and that I just might make it.

“Have a nice day!’ the lady behind the counter said with an accent that runs all the words together, putting the wrong emphAses on the wrong syllAble.

“Zài jiàn!” I responded without confidence and probably using all the wrong tones, but she smiled anyway and went back to work. So did I.

“Have a good day!”

    “Zài jiàn!”

    I crossed the street with my coffee in hand and a new spark of hope in my heart.  No matter how many miles we are away from home, no matter how different life, the food, the language is, one thing will remain the same.  People surround us, and if nothing else, that is enough to make anyone feel at least a small sense of Home.

I wrote that story within my first few months of living in China, and in a few short days, I’ll be on a plane back to America, with friends and memories of a land I may never see again, and I can only wonder what now? What does my time in China mean for the future? What truths can I hold fast to, in the coming days and months and years?

Because, what I loved most about the above short story is the excitement of a new adventure, the wonder of a new land. It’s something I want tuck deep into my suitcase and carry across the deep and endless ocean. I want to be a Forever Foreigner.

:  A Forever Foreigner :

A Forever Foreigner is someone who, no matter where they live, is endlessly curious, even when the land and the people are no longer knew. Even when they begin to call the place they live, “home.”

After living and working  in China for two years, we were ready for the mountains of Montana, big blue skies, American beef, and family. We were ready for our six-week summer break. What we got though, was a bit different. When we arrived, when we talked with friends and drove through towns, we realized we were suddenly visitors, outsiders, and no longer locals – life had moved on without us, and we had grown and changed without them. Suddenly, we didn’t understand, fully, our home, and home didn’t understand us, and it was the strangest of feelings.

Then our six weeks ended and we came back to China. On one of our first outings to restock the fridge and cupboards, Josey (my wife) said, “It feels good to be back. It feels like home.”

And it was.

The guards to our complex waved us in with smiles, the local shop lady laughed and ran their fingers through our girls’ blonde curls, and we walked the streets with confidence and familiarity. We were no longer in awe of the carts full of vegetables and piles of cardboard boxes. The street dancers were normal and the street food familiar– they were part of our daily routine. We navigated the busy and crowded streets with ease, on our way to our favorite market. We engaged in simple conversations with strangers. China was no longer a foreign land. It was home – at least it felt like it was.

Then, a little girl with straight black hair and big beautiful eyes pointed and yelled, “Weiguaren!” Foreigner. Because we were.. Even though it felt like home, we were foreigners, we are guests.

At first, this yelled proclamation was frustrating, because I wanted that little girl to know I wasn’t a tourist, I lived there – China was my home!  Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder if being labeled a foreigner is okay, great even, because a foreigner lives with excitement, with anticipation, and with the passion to explore new lands, new people, and new ideas.

In order to survive, foreigners must ask a lot of questions because they own very few answers. And I like that, because it’s humbling, and because often, the answers received are not what we expected. And so we learn.

Forever Foreigners want to be curious. Always. No matter where they live. They love simple stories, battle the mundane, and they love displaying their collected knick-knacks on shelves and walls for others to see and ask, “What’s the story behind that?”

: Knick Knacks, not Ikea :

Our first few weeks in China were hard because, like many new foreigners have experienced, our house was empty, and loud. The only furniture we had were the basics provided by our company– beds, dressers, a dining table, and a couch and loveseat complete with a few tables, but the walls were bare. So were the shelves and tables. So were the cabinets and cupboards. And so, like many foreigners before us, we went to Ikea, and for good reason. In one location, over the span of a few months, we were able to acquire pots and pans, rugs, a stand for our TV, lamps, towels, drill bits and screws, picture frames, a few plants, silverware, towels, school supplies, and several pillows of various sizes. Then suddenly, our house was full. And it was great.

But by the end of our first two-year contract, hardly any of that Ikea furniture (minus the plates and picture frames) existed. The personal had, overtimes, replaced the commercial.

On our trips to the surrounding villages, we brought back baskets and small stools. The small markets that sporadically tucked themselves throughout the city offered wall hangings, accent pieces, and kitchenware. The knick-knacks from travels filled our shelves and walls and decorated our kitchen. Some of our most treasured pieces came from nearby trash piles and antique markets where my wife had to engage in long negotiations for the product and its delivery. Suddenly, when anyone asked us where we got this or acquired that, the answer was no longer simple. It required a story.

And stories, meaningful stories, require time.

When meeting a Tibetan, for example, the differences of dress, food, lifestyle, and religion are easily noticed and can just as quickly be collected and stored in a box. They’re what tourist foreigners collect – stories of differences. Finding similarities, though, is much more difficult. It takes time to find and effort to collect because they demand patience; they take intentionality and a conscious effort to see another as equal – not different. It’s being relational, not stereotypical. It’s the difference between Ikea furniture and small market, handmade furniture.

Ikea can help fill a house quickly, but the knick-knacks of the people and the land that hold experiences and journeys and stories make the house a home, a blended home, and a home full of memories and humanity and laughter.

Forever Foreigners seek knick-knack stories, not Ikea stories, no matter where they live. And when they bring them home, they cherish them, protect and display them with care, and allow them to blend in with and compliment their cluttered home that is full of stories worth telling, over and over again.

: Be Laughed at :

No one likes to be the brunt of a joke, especially when we don’t know why. Anyone who’s ever lived in a foreign country knows this better than most, because they know how embarrassing  and intimidating it can be to try and speak with a national in their native tongue. If they’re kind, they’ll smirk ever so slightly and probably correct pronunciation or choice of words; if they’re not so kind, they’ll outright laugh and maybe even tell a few nearby friends. But confortable with these early and continual failures is crucial to discovering a new land, learning a new language, and living beyond survival.

It’s also essential to the mind of a Forever Foreigner.

Forever Foreigners are not nearly as concerned about ego as they are about learning and discovery. Open and continual failure reminds Forever Foreigners that failure isn’t as scary as it seems, and it reminds us to get over ourselves and explore because there are worse things than being laughed at. Like staying safe.

When we’re willing to be laughed at, we’re willing to be wrong. And when we’re willing to be wrong, suddenly, the landscape of discovery opens and stretches out beyond what our limited eyes of understanding can see. If we’re willing to be wrong, we ask questions, seek help, and open ourselves to strangers and hidden blessings. Instead of being stuck in the rain, huddled beneath trees and waiting for the clouds to break, we find ourselves sitting with monks, drinking green tea, and communicating through smiles, puffs of smoke, and silly hand gestures. And we laugh, because sometimes there’s no better way to say it.

Forever Foreigners laugh because of differences, not at them. And it makes all the difference in the world.

: Then the Plane Lands :

In just four short months, the optimism and idealism of these words have been challenged and even ignored. Suddenly, being a Forever Foreigner seems like a foreign idea, and right now, I don’t really feel like I have the time for it.

“In truth,” Tim Cope writes in his memoir, “Ruslan’s news that he could guide me for just two more day was a mutually convenient way of parting with our rapport in-tact. I was already tired of trying to understand the world as it was filtered through his eyes, and I was looking forward to a new chapter” (pg 110).

Coming back to America, in many ways, was like returning to an old and difficult chapter that I’ve never really understood and have always kinda been excited to leave.

Because in America, there are Ugly Plates, racist assholes, and thousands of people who look just like me. Adventure seems lost; living as a Forever Foreigner impossible.

So what now?

One of the deepest memories I have of China was a day, about midway through our first year, when Josey and I both were desperately missing America. It was an early December weekend and we were aching for Pumpkin Spice Lattes, family stockings hung by chimneys, and the laughter of old friends. We even looked online and considered flying home. When that failed, we invited over two single girls who had moved to China just a few months prior. Like us, they were young foreigners and were missing home.

That night, we ordered “Burning Logs” from Netflix, sat around space heaters, and developed some of the sweetest friendships China could offer. Over the next several years, Aunty Beck and Aunt Sarah would watch our kids blow out candles, travel with us through several countries, and share Chinafied Thanksgiving meals. We would fight, walk out on movies, and spend Christmas morning sipping coffee, eating tea-rings, and opening simple gifts.

We would stay up way too late (or at least Josey would) and share stories of struggle, victory, and life. We would turn a foreign land into a sweet home. Because that’s what Forever Foreigners do. Even when they don't feel like, they pop popcorn, make a phone call, and patiently collect new knick-knacks. 

Then suddenly, several Christmases later, they sing carols with some of their favorite people in the world. 

And it is beautiful.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Living  :  Open Thoughts

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That Sunday Evening Feeling

It descends quick, normally between the hours of 5 and 7.30pm, being especially felt when the weather is turning and the last of the daylight has burnished the sky a shade of crimson pink before plunging into a sea of concluding darkness.

Even since I was a child, I understood this feeling but could never articulate it. As an adult, not much has changed; Sunday evenings are still my least favorite time of the week.

Recently, I came across an essay which argued that "The Sunday evening feeling is ordinarily associated with work, and the idea of going back to an office after a pleasant break." Therefore, the uneasiness or weight we feel is our conscious telling us that "we are going back to the wrong sort of work" (via). But that didn't really resonate with me because I don't work in an office or job I hate. I love and believe in my job and will, consciously, stay in it for the rest of my life

So why do I still feel the weight of a typical Sunday evening?

Because life still isn't enough.

The article continues:

We normally manage to keep the insistent calls of the true working self at bay during the week. We are too busy and too driven by an immediate need for money. But it reliably comes to trouble us on Sunday evenings. Like a ghost suspended between two worlds, it has not been allowed to live or to die, and so bangs at the door of consciousness, requiring resolution. We are sad, or panicked, because a part of us recognises that time is running out and that we are not presently doing what we should with what remains of our lives. The anguish of Sunday evening is our conscience trying to stir us inarticulately into making more of ourselves.

I don't quite agree with everything said, but I do think there is something there. Like the idea of our consciousness banging on a door, reminding us that time is running out, and fast.

Suddenly, spending most of Saturday morning skimming Facebook updates seems like a waste of precious time and that hour at the mountain lake should have been all about teaching Eden how to skip a rock, not taking pictures of my kids searching for them. Instead of watching football, I should have played it, with my son, as the snow fell from trees.

What if that Sunday evening feeling is a little nudge, a jab even, reminding us that time is running out. That even if we live well into our 70's and 80's or well into our 90's, the end will come faster than we expect and when it does, it will be too late, there will be no more weekends to try again.

What will we have to show for it? What will we have made of ourselves? Of our families? Of the world around us?

I like the way the essay concludes:

We should not keep our Sunday evening feelings simply for Sunday evenings. We should place these feelings at the center of our lives and let them be the catalysts for a sustained exploration that continues throughout the week, over months and probably years, and that generates conversations with ourselves, with friends, mentors and with professionals. Something very serious is going on when sadness and anxiety descend for a few hours on Sunday evenings . . .

And we would be wise to consider it. Before it's too late.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Living  :  Resume VS Eulogy Virtues

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