A Peace with the Storm

photo by Mike olbinski

After hearing the news, Judah broke down in tears.

I had been outside, talking with my future employer and finally hearing, after eight months of resumes and applications and searching and searching for something that could provide a paycheck for my family, that the struggle was finally over. That come fall, I was going to be a teacher, and I was ecstatic.

"Can I hug you?" I asked the lady who just offered me a job.  She smiled, "Sure," and I gave her one of those side hugs that future employees share with their future employers - you know the kind - then, I headed back inside, eager to share the good news and celebrate with my family. 

When I entered the house, I couldn't suppress the smile and my arms instintively raised in triumph, "I got it!" 

Zion slowly walked over, head slightly turned down, almost as if the weight of the situation was on her shoulders, and buried her face in my legs, "I'm so happy you got a job, Daddy."

"You got it!" Josey said through her beautiful smile, and Eden clapped. After a minute of brief explanation, that some phone cable was cut outside of town and no phones or credit cards were working and that was why she needed to come to the house and share the news, I noticed Judah. He was staring at the floor, absent from our joy and not really listening to what was being said. His eyes were glazed; his chest slightly heaving.

"Judah," I said, "what's wrong?"  

"This means we're not going back to China." Tears overwhelmed him and he buried his head in his arms. The pain finally getting the better of him.

Transition is hard, at any age, and the tears Judah was honest enough to shed, we're all of ours. Not because we weren't excited or relieved or because we didn't have so many things to look forward to and be thankful for, but rather, because this whole process is hard. Really hard. Even though, as adults, we've learned to hold a stiff upper lip and to see the bright side of life, sometimes, in the midst of the beauty and joy of adventure, there are storms. 

And storms can be pretty friggen scary. 

Mike Olbinski is a storm chaser and photographer. He filmed the above from March 28th to June 29th and covered "27 total days of actual chasing and many more for traveling." He drove across 10 states and covered over 28,000 miles. In the end, he "snapped over 90,000 time-lapse frames."

Then, he wrote this blog (I've edited some of it and highlighted my favorite parts. You can read the full, untouched version here.)

On June 12th,  I broke down into tears. Minutes earlier, I had been outside my truck, leaning against it, head buried in my arms, frustration and failure washing over me. I wanted to quit. I got back in the car and as I drove, the pain got the better of me and the tears came.

This past spring was a tough one. Supercell structure and beautiful tornadoes had been very hard to come by. In fact, the tornado in the opening of this film was the only good one I saw this entire year. I had been on the road longer than ever before. Driven more miles. I was away from my family for 12 straight days at one point, and when I got home, I had to tell them I was going back out 24 hours later for June 12th.  It was just too good to pass up. It promised to be a day that I could get everything I had been hoping for this spring and I had no choice. My wife understood, even though I knew she wished I stayed home. And I wished it too.

I knew right where I wanted to be that day. But this year I struggled with confidence in trusting my instincts. Maybe it was because the lack of good storms this spring made me question my skills, or maybe it was something else inside of me. Whatever the case, I let myself get twisted and unsure, and found myself 80 miles away from where I had wanted to be when the tornadoes started to drop and the best structure of the year materialized in the sky. The photos from Twitter and Facebook started to roll in and I knew I had missed everything.

It may not be easy to understand why, but when you work as hard as I did this spring, a moment like that can break you.  I felt like I let my wife down. But mostly I let myself down. I forgot who I was and that’s not me. Or it shouldn’t have been me. I failed myself.  And it seemed like the easy choice to just give up and head for home.

But I didn’t. I’m not sure why, but the pain slowly began to subside. I realized it was only 4pm and the storms were still ongoing. Maybe if I could get in front of them the day could be saved. Ninety minutes later, I got out ahead and saw some of the best structure I’d seen all spring and a lightning show that was so incredible it’s one of the very last clips of this film.

And that’s why this film is called “Pursuit.” Because you can’t give up. Keep chasing, keep pursuing. Whatever it is . . . 

Then, the other day, Josey posted this:

photo by @storyanthology

It's life on the road right now and home is the passenger seat. Our family thrives in all the simplicity, along with the deep immersion of nature. It's rich family time. Even with spats in the back about room and pillows and sharing, and if Adele is better than Whitney? . . . {Transition} does come with the constant struggle to stay organized in small spaces, hellos and goodbyes too close together, but with the inevitable returning lesson that we can do without most things, just not each other.

I'm not sure what I expected from my family, or of myself, after finally capturing the elusive job, but I certainly didn't expect tears and sadness and fear of the unknown being known. Now though, I think maybe that was the best and most appropriate type of response. Because storms are never simple. 

Judah broke down not because he was anticipating or hoping we would move back to China - he knew we weren't - he broke down because my new job opened new doors, which meant, it closed old ones. His friends and school and room - his knowns - we're truly gone, and he would never know them the same way again.

"There is nothing quite like strong inflow winds, the smell of rain and the crack of thunder" Olbinski writes, and I would have to disagree. Moving across the world, or working through major transitions, is unsettling - scary even - like the harsh crack of expected thunder.

But, transition, like a good storm, can also be soothing and peaceful.

Growing up, my grandparents lived about a block away from Lake Michigan, and some of my favorite memories of that house was when my grandmother would take me to the bench that sat atop the tall dunes and overlooked the lake. The best of those times was when we could watch a storm gather and collect itself across the lake. For hours, we would sit and watch as the temperature began to drop and the tall grass started dancing and bobing to the whims of the wind. Lightening would flash in the distance and a deep thunder would gently role over the waves and sand, then us.

And I felt perfectly safe, even when the clouds reached the shores and soon after started to dot our clothes, because I was siting next to my grandmother, and she was stronger than the storm. 

A few weeks ago, as clouds gathered and lighting flashed in the not-too-far distance, Eden climbed into my lap, under a blanket, and watched the storm. Minutes earlier, in bed, she was terrified because, to a seven-year old little artist, deep clouds and dark strokes of thunder are terrifying. But only when alone. With Dad, it's peaceful.

Because Dad is stronger than the storm. 

Stories have long recognized the power and purpose of storms, often using rain to mark transitions.

Whether in dramatic lightening-filled fashion or in a slow, methodical coming, storms wash away the old and usher in the new; they mark a changing of the seasons, and they bring us closer to those we love, those we trust.

I took Judah out for coffee the other day and asked him to write about us moving to America and Dad getting a job.  

"I miss my friends, and the school," he wrote, "I miss Chinese and our places like our house, our complex, and our city. For a goodbye trip, we went and stayed the night on the Great Wall of China! Then, we came home and reunited with family and friends. Then, when Dad got a job, I started crying because I wanted to go back to China. I learned that it's always scary to move, but you always have a chance for a new life." He showed it to me and I said, "What does 'new life' mean? Give me an example. 

He thought for a minute. "Like when you have some favorite shoes," he wrote, "like a pair of green Pumas and they get too small but they don't sell them anymore. Your going to have to get used to a different pair of shoes! Which means to get new friends, look around and find something unique about them." 

These lessons of life, to look around and find the uniqueness of life, seem to return again and again, reminding us, that amidst the lightening strikes and rolling thunder, there is a peace within the storm. 

Especially when cuddled together, under a blanket. Because there is nothing quite like the smell of rain, the crack of thunder, and the beautiful unknown of new beginnings.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :   On Parenting  :  Thoughts on Transition  :  Olbinski Storm Photography

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Father/Daugher Beatbox Battle

This is friggin awesome.

I especially love how when the father is beatboxing, his daughter is sitting there, flipping her hair, looking all casual and cool. Almost as if she's rolling her eyes and saying, "Come on dad."

Then, when she takes off, her dad laughs, claps, and cannot contain his joy, like he's about to jump up and yell, "That's my girl!"

I love it.

A few years ago, I was speaking with one of my female students about some of the trips I had planned for Judah and I. I had just read the book, Raising A Modern-Day Knight and couldn't wait to start his training. She thought my ideas were great, but she also challenged me, "Don't forget about your daughters. Take them on trips too."

And she was right. 

I don't know who started this battle, but I love that they do it together. And that she's better. And that he loves that she's better. 

And I love the end, when they battle together, as father and daughter. 

This guy is inspiring. 

You can watch Battle Part 2 here.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Lessons on Fatherhood  :  On Raising Girls :  The best beatboxer ever

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Grit : What our kids need to succeed

I've always struggled with the concept of success because it seems to carry the idea of money and fame. I've argued, on more than one occasion, that being successful doesn't necessarily mean money, but rather, the accomplishment of something. Yet, in a recent conversation with my little sister I found myself saying, and believing, that I haven't found success in a few of my endeavors because no one is willing to pay for them, because I'm doing them on my own time, for free. Success, apparently, is marked by the dollar sign, because, whether I like it or not, we put our money where our mouth is.

Like many of my friends I've talked with over the years, the idea of obtaining this kind of success, the kind that reaches beyond personal gratification and lives in the land of compensation, seems to dependent upon skills and talents, time and resources, and the many other factors that we don't seem to have. Which is why we haven't found success, and perhaps never will. 

Recently, though, I've been encouraged by a different notion, that talents and time and resources can aid in the acquisition of success, but they are not the greatest determiner. More than any of these, passion and perseverance (earnestness even) and the relentless pursuit of one's commitments is what determines success. 

Angela Duckworth calls this "grit."

Angela Duckworth is smarter than me, and for sure much more successful, but I'm not quit sure I believe her conclusion of "we don't know," because I think we do know, and I think it has to deal with the very idea she is presenting - grit. We teach our kids grit. 

As a child, I remember - often - working with my dad on tasks and projects I didn't really care to be a part of. Things like, chopping wood all Saturday, shoveling the the long driveway, raking leaves, and various other tasks. When I complained or argued, my father made me do them anyway. Before playing with friends or watching t.v.. I remember being so frustrated and angry because all I wanted to do was be with my friends, not working. I also remember, even though I would never admit it to him and only barely admitted to myself, that when the job was completed, I would look at what I had done and feel a sense of accomplishment and be proud of what I had done. 

Looking back, it was during these times that the seeds to success were being planted.

As parents, as educators, we can teach our kids grit by providing opportunities for them to struggle, sweat, and endure through difficult tasks. Tasks like overcoming difficult hikes, persevering through piano or guitar lessons, and even pulling nails from old pallets. They might complain, but if the task has purpose, if they can see that there is a reason for all their hard work, when it is over, when the bench and drawer are built, whether they admit it or not, there will be a sense of accomplishment, because they gritted through.

Duckworth ends her talk without much conclusion, but rather, a charge - to be "gritty about getting our kids grittier." I think we can do this by being purposeful about getting our kids engaged in tasks that demand hardship and difficulty and, most importantly, longevity, but that are also full of purpose. 

For more talks and ideas of Success, you can listen to this TED Radio Hour appropriately entitled, Success. It's a great listen and worth the 50 minutes.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  TED Talks  :  Growth Mindset  :  Creativity in Education

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Raising Girls : Brave, Courageous, Adventurous

Gutsy girls skateboard, climb trees, clamber around, fall down, scrape their knees, get right back up — and grow up to be brave women (via).

This really challenged me. With two girls, both with very different personalities, these . . . truths, are appropriate.

Eden is extremely timid by nature, shy, and sensitive. She holds hurts longer than the other two kids and needs longer to work through her frustrations. Her spirit is gentle. She also loves adventures, camping, and exploring, just like her Mom. My challenge for her, then, is to encourage the pushing of the boundaries, to build her confidence, and to provide opportunities where she can succeed (and fail) outside her comfort zone. Because she will need the push.

Zion will need the leash. She has little fear, runs without worry, and jumps without asking. She is often covered in mud and scrapes, with little twigs stuck in her head of curls, and I don't want to squash this fearlessness. For her, my task is to help guide, to provide avenues where she can pursue it with limited danger (the risk assessment Caroline mentioned), so as to encourage it and grow it. Her concept of girl has no limitations, and I want to keep it that way. I want her to be #likeagirl.

Brave, courageous, adventurous. These are what I want my girls to be. But also honest, sincere, kind, and loyal. I want them to be women of character. Women of humility and integrity. 

Woman worthy of the title. 

Caroline Paul is an American writer of fiction and non-fiction. She was raised in Connecticut, and educated in journalism and documentary film at Stanford University (via).

Caroline has published four books:

The Gutsy Girl: Escapades for Your Life of Epic Adventure

East, Wind, Rain: A Novel

Fighting Fire

Lost Cat: A Trust Story of Love, Desperation, and GPS Technology

For more on . . .

Raising Daughters  :  TED Talks  :  On Parenting

Superheroes hold umbrellas and cut hair

Ivy a few months post surgery with Avery and Melanie (photo from The Moth)

The Moth has recently published two powerful stories of kindness and love. Of the kind that boost our spirits and remind us of the beauty of humanity - even in the midst of darkness.

(Click on the links to listen to their stories.)

In Tim Manley's roughly eight minute story, A Super Hero Gets Sick, he tells of when, as a boy, he become deeply sick. He was terrified of needles and didn't quiet understand all that was happening, as most young kids don't. But what he does know keeps him calm: his mother is at his side because she is his faithful sidekick - as any good superhero must have. 

Told several years after the event, Tim provides a beautiful picture of parents and the storms they shielded from their children, while we play with the raindrops that fall gently from the rings of their umbrellas, completely unaware of their fears, their pain, and their tears. 

A picture of Tim in his superhero outfit, hanging in his mother’s house. Photo courtesy Tim Manley.

The second story is from Melanie Kostrzewa. Told from a parents perspective, Melanie shares of the time her young daughter must undergo a craniotomy, the frustration of not being able to do anything, and the unexpected kindness of a doctor who did more than just save her daughter's life, he saved her hair.

Ivy a few months post surgery with Avery (photo from The Moth)

Ivy post surgery at home a few days later (photo from The Moth)

Like little Leo

photo by Meg Loeks

It was when they all left the room, just after handing us bags full of personal hygiene items like toothpaste, deodorant, dry shampoo, socks, and other comfort gifts they give parents who find out their child has cancer, that we both broke down.

Meg Loeks, a photographer based in rural West Michigan, didn’t think much about the aches and pains her first-born son Leo was experiencing because they were so inconsistent- on one day, then off the next. She and her husband assumed they were growing pains. But the cycle seemed to linger, not abate. Meg reached out to a friend, who was also a nurse, and was told to bring little Leo in immediately.  They did. But after the nurse ran some blood tests, she sent them home thinking it might just be arthritis. It seemed like no big deal - Leo went to daycare and Dad went back to work. They carried on with the day as usual.

“The next morning around 10am” Meg recalls, “I received a phone call from our pediatrician saying we needed to pack our bags and head to our local children’s hospital immediately.” The blood results had come back. Leo didn’t have arthritis; he needed to be tested for leukemia.  “I don’t remember much else from the conversation. I called my husband, cried, and he left work to pick up Leo and come home so we could all go together.”

In the days that followed, before their first appointment with the oncologist, Meg and her family enjoyed the quiet days of summer – winter tucked away in boxes. “I remember the few days leading up to the first appointment because they were incredible. We didn’t do much at all. We just stayed home and played together. We played in our sprinkler and grilled out on our porch.”

By early June, they were meeting with Leo’s oncologist to discuss the results of his bone marrow test.

“I remember pacing in his hospital room,” Meg recalls, “Then a couple social workers walked in with toys for Leo to play with. My husband and I we were led to a conference room. I knew then that he had leukemia.”

“We sat down, and I remember the boxes of tissues in the middle of the conference table. There were no windows in the room. I looked over at my husband and asked, ‘So, is this good or bad news?’ He just shrugged, but we both knew. It wasn’t good.”

Leo’s oncologist didn’t waste any time. He told them Leo had leukemia. “All I remember was how grim he sounded. I know now he was just being sympathetic but at the time I thought that maybe Leo’s chances of survival were not very good. {The oncologist} had so many papers to give us and so much information. He told us we probably wouldn’t remember most of it and he was right. We don’t. Even though he was very kind I remember that I just wanted him to stop talking.”

photo by Meg Loeks

Looking back, what stands out the most about those first days?

“I remember feeling like I was suffocating. I remember thinking that there was a good possibility that my child might die. The one that made me a mother first. The one I had cloth diapered, made baby food for, and sent to the most expensive Montessori prep daycare since he was a baby. I remember trying to keep my composure and being surprised at myself that I didn’t really cry in front of the doctor. There were some tears but both my husband and I remained calm.

It was when they all left the room, just after handing us bags full of personal hygiene items like toothpaste, deodorant, dry shampoo, socks, and other comfort gifts they give parents who find out their child has cancer, that we both broke down. I honestly don’t think it was because they left the room that we both cried. It was those bags they gave us that made it seem real; that we had officially joined the parents we saw wandering the halls outside the conference room with their children who were fighting cancer.”

In the midst of this deep conflict, what truth(s) were revealed? About life?  About yourself? 

“Over the summer we stayed home a lot because the hospital visits exhausted all of us, and because Leo often didn't feel well. I think the greatest truth during this time was realizing the importance of childhood and the art of play. This is something that has always been a priority for my husband and I while raising our children. I know my parents influenced a lot of this because they always made time to play with my brother and I growing up. But it wasn't until a lot of that was taken away from my son that I realized how important it was. I realized that the best moments are often the ones created at home when we were doing absolutely nothing but being present and with each other. We didn't have to go off on some great adventure or hike to have a great time. The best memories from that summer involved us laying together in our hammock and playing with the boy’s bubble machine in our front yard.”

What role did your photography play in this process?  Was it a distraction from the worry?  A medium to explain the pain?  Or an aid in the healing? 

“I think photography was a little bit of all of that for me during the first few days. It was so easy to lose track of time in the hospital, and I constantly craved fresh air and to be outside. Whenever my husband and I would trade spots at the hospital, one of the first things I would do once I arrived home was head outside with my camera.”

“While at the hospital, I felt the need to document this moment in time for Leo. I wanted him to be able to look back and see all that he had accomplished. It was interesting for me too because I'm not a documentary photographer, but photographing my son at the hospital forced me to be one. I captured everything... the IV tower he was constantly hooked up to, the walks around the hospital he had daily, the train set he loved to play with in the playroom on his floor. I think it was therapeutic for me to capture these moments but then again photography always has been.”

Too often we try and protect ourselves from heartache and pain, and all too often, we fail, because heartache and pain and suffering are a part of life; they’re unavoidable. But they’re also essential. When life suddenly shifts, when it's giant cracks violently rip open, forcing us to our knees, we reach out and cling to what is important, what is true, and to what matters most. Like simple moments with family on a summer evening. And community.

According to Joseph Campbell, ancient civilizations used to hold tribe rites every year to prepare the community to endure the season of terrible cold that was to come. They did not try to keep it at bay but instead prepared to endure it – together.

Just days after Leo's diagnosis, Meg Loeks and her family were not alone. "I logged onto my social media accounts and saw several images of children dressed in superhero gear," Meg recalls. Click-in Moms, a community of photographers of which Meg is a member of, began to capture superhero-related images  to help the Loeks family endure the terrible season that was to come. They were tagged #strengthforleo, and they were, for Leo, his family, and the community. Because communities endure - together.

Tribulation, great and small, reminds us of what is truly valuable, that we are not alone, and that there is hope. Hope that we will be refined, that through the strength of community we can endure, and that, in the midst of the pain, there is purpose.

Like little Leo.

After months of uncertainty, of treatments and visits to the hospital, Leo is doing incredible. He's in remission and currently in the last phase of his leukemia treatment which will continue till August of 2019. He now receives monthly chemotherapy instead of weekly, and his hair is starting to grow back. He's attending school full time.

Meg and her husband have daily reminders of how they could have lost their first born and how their life could be very different. But they also have the memory of a kind oncologist who gave them hope, and it is something Meg will never forget. “He told us statistics show that children who have fought cancer often grow to be successful leaders later on in life. I remember being moved by this because he was being thoughtful and humanistic... something I think many doctors appear to lack. His kindness gave us hope that everything was going to be ok.”

Hope, like love, is strengthened when tested by deep adversity, and can only be fully realized when shared. Thank you, Meg Loeks (and family), for being vulnerable, for sharing your story, and reminding us of the importance of seeing the beauty in the everyday moments. Thank you for reminding us of hope.

See more of Meg Loeks's inspiring work at Megloeks.com or on Instagram @meg_nlo. 

If you have a story you'd like to share, please, let me know.

Click, for more on . . .

Photography  :  Real People  :  Humanity