Growing up in Oklahoma, I know a bit about severe weather. I knew the geography of the state not because I’d studied it in a class but because I’d hear county names on the evening weather, which we watched religiously, as meteorologists listed those areas most likely to be impacted by a line of storms. We lived in Payne, so when we heard references to Noble, Logan and Kingfisher counties (which were to our west), we knew it would be a high-alert night. 

An avid weather worrier, Dad kept fresh batteries in the portable AM radio and flashlight, and it was not uncommon for him to pile us into the Oldsmobile Cutlass and head to campus during a Tornado Watch. His office building at OSU, Ag Hall, had a large basement. We’d sit on the floor in the hallway, outside of professors’ office doors, listening to the staticy radio updates for hours until it was clear any threat of tornadic activity had moved on to the east. 

Side note: the era of Oldsmobiles and AM radio was an era long before the internet and iPads. Consider the kid-friendly entertainment options at the time, and let that sink in. Condolences accepted. 

Despite my parents’ zealous fear of them, storms excite me. The palpable energy in the air, the eerily calm skies which often preceed strong storms quicken my heart rate. Anticipation that something big is coming. I know the possible damage can be deadly and catastrophic, and I’ve experienced the shock and devastation first hand of driving through the aftermath of a storm ravaged neighborhood. I have empathy, heartbreak, and concern for those impacted, but I still can’t peel myself away from watching the before, during, and after as storms roll across our buckle of the Bible Belt.  

When I grew up, left home, and began to manage my own weather readiness, I took a markedly different approach. When my trusted meteorologists gave level 3, 4, or 5 threat levels, I’ve been known to clear my calendar, grab takeout, and park in front of the tv to watch the show. Watching storm chasing in my living room is the scientific equivalent of a Saturday afternoon during football season as we toggle between stations catching games. We know which networks have the most animated weather guys, which Doppler radars have the most granular views, and which stations are most likely to be first to broadcast live from the side of a two lane road west of town with ominous clouds looming behind the reporter. 

Don’t tell my mom this part, but we’ve even been known to go outside and watch the swirling clouds above. Any wall clouds in sight? Is the sky more orange or green? Did you see that wicked lightning? Oh, God, it looks scary up north. I hope those people are in their safe rooms. 

On Monday, January 20th, the 47th president of the United States will be sworn in. Donald. J. Trump. 

Words can’t adequately describe the significance and my emotions surrounding this event, and plenty of ink has been spilled by better authors trying. The award for most overused word this year already goes to “unprecedented”, and the most googled phrase in 2025 is likely to be “What is an oligarchy?”

The bold experiment of America is still in its infancy within the timeline of world history, and the next few months will be one of its biggest tests to date. 

In a conversation last night as I shared my interest in watching at least a little of Monday’s ceremony, I received a shocked reaction. “Given your feelings about Trump, why would you watch that? Why do that to yourself?” The only analogy that I could find was that it was akin to walking into the backyard and acting as an amateur tornado spotter. 

It’s dangerous, unwise, and also terrifyingly captivating. It’s like I will have to actually see the event with my own eyes in order to believe that this convicted felon and man found liable for sexual abuse and defamation was chosen by millions of Americans to lead and represent our country. That we have become so inoculated by disinformation that this choice makes sense to so many people. 

Leaving this writing here as a formal marker on the “before” side of the 47th. I don’t know the particulars of what will come. I hope with my whole heart that my concerns are unfounded. And I pray for those on the margins for whom the skies look much more ominous than those above my head. 

God bless America. 

Here we are. 10 days post-election. No shortage of rhetoric across the political spectrum. Human reactions ranging from gleeful celebration to gutted devastation. It’s a challenging time to be an American. Reactions from around the world have been interesting as well. Messages from friends across ponds saying all variations of “WTAF, America?”

This post won’t tackle the above sentiments in detail. It’s intended mainly as a placeholder. The “I hope I’m wrong.” placeholder. 

Readers of my blog, my socials, or my facial expressions won’t be surprised to learn that I’m on the gutted devastation end of the equation. The past week has included lots of shock and awe in various forms, and has also included a few relatively-civil tussles with those on the gleeful celebration side of things. 

One such tussle was with an old friend from child raising years whose post wove the narrative around Christianity and the victory, blah, blah. I’ll spare you the details. I’ve scrolled on past a few of these, but at this moment of weakness a little 🤢 emoji accidentally slipped out. It struck a nerve with her, she called me out, and we ended up having a relatively civil exchange via text. The gist is that she has two kids in the armed forces, and her politics are rooted in her belief that she thinks her kids will be safer in Trump’s America. I’m no military scholar, but I have a hard time seeing how this is possible. We agreed to disagree and wished each other well. 

I hope I’m wrong. 

Another such tussle was with a person with more history degrees and more experience with politics than I. They expressed certainty that “It’ll be fine. I wouldn’t worry.” They proceeded to explain why gay people shouldn’t worry, the ACA being gutted will just involve some growing pains, the US Dept of Education is so dysfunctional that we’ll be better off without it, and that “illegals” should have known the risk of deportation when they committed the crime of coming here. Oh, and if a woman has complications related to a medical issue related to abortion, it’s not the fault of the President. 

I hope I’m wrong. 

I sincerely do. And I’m trying really hard not to close myself off from dialog related to the issues. Sometimes I can be the bigger person. Sometimes I cannot. No one’s mind will be changed through disrespect, and we have now seen that some people’s minds cannot be changed through facts and experts who’ve spent their lives in careers studying and working on these issues. 

So here we have it. Place held. 

I hope I’m wrong. 

In my house, I have a wall of tree photos. Trees across my life that have personal significance – a backyard tree that calmed and inspired me during years raising young children and completing grad school, a newly planted live oak in the house we just bought, the gorgeous rings seen in the stump of a massive old oak that finally needed to be cut down from the front yard of my daughter’s sorority house. The wall is sentimental, like a scrapbook of important places I’ve been, literally and metaphorically, but that also were put there as a reminder. 

Trees have very deep roots. Invisible to us. Keeping them upright during raging storms. Rings forming over years and years, signs of resilience. Showing how they survived seasons of drought, floods, all of life’s challenges across decades we can no longer see or remember. 

That’s why I love trees. They are monuments to the passing of time. They show me that even through shitty seasons, terrifying storms, and devastating droughts, their roots help them survive. Keep them upright. Connected invisibly to other nearby trees to share strength when they’re weakened. 

Unaesthetic as it may be, I especially love to see new sprigs growing around the edges of a tree that’s been cut down. It’s like the tree is giving a middle finger to the universe.  “You thought you could get rid of me? Watch this!” And the sprouts emerge. Disfigured and scrappy, yes. But undeterred by convention and determined to survive. 

Today, this wall feels especially important. Last night was a storm. Today is the aftermath. Many of us are walking around dazed. Terrified. Unsure of what’s next. 

But we have deep roots. Remember that. Just like a 300 year old oak with branches reaching to the sky, we can, we must weather this storm. Not sure how. But when our grandchildren look back at the majesty of our trunks, they’ll know. 

“We are not okay.” In January of 2023, Brené Brown spoke these words over our group of exhausted public educators during her keynote at the TASA Midwinter gathering of Texas school leaders.

In an immediate sense, she was referring to the rocky reentry into “normal” life, post pandemic. More broadly, she spoke of our culture at large – the hate, disrespect, armor, and pace that characterize today’s society. And how harmful this is to the human souls hunkering down and trying to make it through the days.

As she acknowledged our lack of okayness, there was an almost audible exhale by the thousands of people in the room.

It’s been rough.

It’s still rough.

As I crawled into bed last night and read of yet one more tragic act of school violence a few miles away, another piece of my heart broke. And then it broke again when a friend texted and told me about their child’s traumatic experiences at school because they do not conform to gender norms. Throughout my life, I’ve been a zealot for hope. Obsessively trying to find the silver lining in daily clouds. Certain that around the next corner, we’ll be able to look back and life will be better as a result of the lessons learned or the hard events of today. Certain that in the universe there is always hope.

I’ve turned a few corners in my years, but damn, this is a doozy.

As a 19 year old, I found myself in a violent dating relationship. Ill equipped to navigate it, I spent the better part of a year experiencing the rage, fear, and incredibly hard-to-break cycle of emotional oppression. By the grace of God, an insightful nurse in the ER, and a strength that came from somewhere deep within, I broke free. And the life lessons and things I learned about myself in that season make me almost glad I endured it. After all, I married that guy’s roommate.

As a young family, a job change moved us to the west coast, 1500 miles away from all I’d ever known.  On our first day in town, I met another mom with her kids on the playground who befriended me, gave me her phone number, and after about 10 mins packed up to leave.  That evening, home alone because my husband was traveling, I put the girls to bed.  By the next morning, I discovered my car had been towed from the apartment parking lot and also that a sex offender was registered next door. I called the mom who had befriended me – the one I’d talked to for a total of 10 minutes.  She picked us up, supported me through school registration, helped me find a different apartment, and renewed my hope that somehow this was all going to be ok. 

During what I’ll disguise as an un-timestamped season in my professional career, I had a terrible boss. A classic example of big hat, no cattle. Lots of big expectations and grand demands, zero follow through or support for the dailyness of getting the work done. The joy I’d known in my career drained, I cried often, and dreams of being a Trader Joe’s check-out clerk nearly became a reality. In a moment of fate, I received a call from a colleague in a different district, and away I went to a role that was custom suited for my goals, values, and the community of integrity I craved.

Fifteen months ago, while working in my first private sector role, a mysterious calendar invite appeared on Monday morning’s schedule. I soon learned that my entire division was being laid off and we had to shut down our public school support projects and send in all of our equipment by the end of the week. After a career in public ed where layoffs were mostly foreign, this reality was jolting and disappointing. As unemployment became a reality, an opportunity arose to join a team with a corporate mission more closely aligned to my own. Much growth and opportunity were part of this new role, and I’d have more autonomy over the way I shaped my focus. Once again, hope prevailed and the universe did its thing.

Often, the things you don’t know you need are right on the other side of a really painful season. And the universe shows you that your hope wasn’t wasted.

This is why I still have a few strands of hope in my tired, cramping hand.

America is in a painful season. Our racist roots have surfaced, our vulnerability to be manipulated by propaganda is now well documented, and we have the choice between two candidates that couldn’t be more of a contrast if this had been screened by a Hollywood producer.

We have a middle aged, poised, educated, experienced, inclusive, effective communicator who also happens to be a woman, a woman of color.

And we have an elderly, meandering, name calling, twice-impeached, disability-mocking, race baiting, vindictive, inconsiderate, narcissistic, convicted felon who happens to be a deeply spray tanned white male.

And the race is close.

In this entire essay, it’s these 5 words that most shock and disturb me. AND THE RACE IS CLOSE. They shock me because of what they mean about how nearly half of the country feels – either openly through their behavior or privately by how they vote at the polls while no one is watching. Both are equally concerning.

They are illustrative of how media companies – some professing to be “fair and balanced” – have manipulated Americans to believe untruths. To trust them as “news” sources over the actual words coming out of the candidates’ mouths. To redefine truth and to create a narrative in which fact checking is somehow seen as partisan. They’ve lured people in through the guise of patriotism or a nationalized version of religion and convinced masses that ‘others’ are our enemy. Ironically, othering the same people my faith taught me to love the most.

The 5 words also demonstrate a wholesale failure of the public education system to which I’ve devoted my career. They reveal a lack of historical understanding and the inability of the public to think critically and demonstrate media literacy.

But here we are. Days away from our nation’s fate. Will our democracy continue to flourish? Will we be a country for all people? Or will we be governed by the tyrannical rich? Will we maintain decades old international alliances? Or will we metaphorically (or literally) build a wall around our country – detaching from the world and the humanity God gave us to embrace and support? Will we embrace freedom of and from religion? Or will we lapse into an ironic reinterpretation of our country’s founding by demanding that we are an exclusively Christian nation?

I cannot yet know the outcome. But I do know that these next 7 days (plus potentially weeks of uncertainty that follow) will be filled with moments of fear, stress, uncertainty, depression, calls to therapists, extra melatonin, and other justifiable reactions in the face of current circumstances. I’m going to try and remember that hope wins. Love wins. The universe will come through – somehow turning this crisis into an exemplar of the power of our humanity.

It’s really, really hard, and as Brené says, “we are not [currently] okay”. Things might get better next week, next year, or several years in the future, but given how impossible I’m finding it to live in this uncertainty, I’m forcing myself for now to zealously hope.

For those who enjoyed last month’s edition of my cat sitting adventures in Michigan, (see Cooler Temps; Warmer Humanity), you’re in luck! This month’s duties took me to Denver for 10 days at the home of Miso and Kobe. Their parents have a nice condo in Cherry Creek close to several parks, a Trader Joe’s, coffee shops, and all kinds of other places to explore.

Much like I described last month, one of my favorite, unexpected takeaways from this new hobby/travel hack is getting a peek into another family’s life. I’ve learned about new cool litter box contraptions (did you know they make a Cat Litter Genie – kind of like my old Diaper Genie from 2002?!), ways people organize their fridge, and have seen perhaps the world’s largest shot glass collection displayed in custom wall-mounted frames!

This month’s stint in Denver didn’t disappoint. Cooler temperatures, plenty of day trips that were easy to manage from home base, and a few friends to catch up with during my stay helped keep my solitary time from feeling lonely. Here are a few of the ways I spent my time on this trip and things I’d recommend if you are around these parts (with or without feline roommates):

Boulder’s Pearl Street – This lovely area had many blocks of traffic-free outdoor shopping, dining, and entertainment. Perk: Got to see CU Boulder for the first time (but no sightings of Primetime!). Bonus points to the city for being kind and only giving me a parking ticket warning when I “accidentally” missed the fact that I was in a metered area for the better part of the day!

Red Rocks Amphitheatre – TBH, this was the original impetus for my trip. I’ve always wanted to attend a Red Rocks concert, so when I discovered Brandi Carlile on the lineup for this summer, I booked it immediately. The logistics all came together with a cheap flight and a cat sitting gig, and the experience under the stars in the 70 degree weather couldn’t have been better if it’d tried. Bucket list – check.

The town of Golden’s Golden Mill Restaurant – The Coors Brewery wasn’t doing tours on the day I was in town, but the trip to Golden Mill was honestly worth the trip by itself. They have dozens and dozens of self-serve taps (you get a special card to use when you enter the restuarnat and it conveniently tallies everything for you and tabs you out automatically), walk-up stations where you can order BBQ, Mexican, Sushi, Ice Cream, and pretty much anything else you want to eat, roof top dining, fire pits, and a view of the mountains. Yes, please.

Layoff comaradarie – One of the silver linings from the recent round of IT layoffs is that even though I don’t get to keep the job, I do get to keep the friends and colleagues I made! Danielle lives in Denver and we got to do a little unemployment therapy as we hiked, enjoyed her beautiful dogs, and lunched together.

Estes Park – The closest I got to being hot during this trip was on a hike at Lumpy Ridge just outside of town. It was a toasty 81 degrees, and as I huffed and puffed up the steep inclines, I was often passed by 80ish year old looking runners who acted like they were strolling along a flat street in Dallas. I’m going to blame my pace on the altitude and stick to indoors Pilates workouts back home.

Totally 80’s Pizza in Fort Collins – If we are friends on Facebook, you’ve seen the entire camera roll, but trust me, it completely justifies the trip north to this darling college town. While CSU doesn’t get quite as much press as CU does (see above, Primetime), their campus and down town area are equally charming.

Church visiting – While a bit out of my comfort zone, it’s proving to be one of my favorite parts of visiting new places. In Denver, I visited the scrappy, quirky church founded by one of my favorite bloggers/pastors, Nadia Bolz-Weber, called House for All Sinners and Saints. Arriving on time to find that (of course 🤦🏼‍♀️) they were exchanging a potluck for their normal service on this particular day, I started inching toward the door. As I turned to leave, another shocked looking visitor caught my eye. We realized we were both awkward-feeling first timers and that together we could enter and be brave. We did, and I’m so glad. We met new, very authentic people, bagged rice and beans for a food bank, and left feeling buoyed by both human and Divine spirits.

Aspen’s Maroon Bells – I needed a solid day of off-gridness, and this did the trick. The drive to Aspen from Denver wasn’t quick (and I won’t again take the route that leads me through Independence Pass – knuckles are still whiteish), but the day spent in a cool, light rain hiking for many miles with enough people nearby to not freak me out as a solo traveler was completely worth it. I ate and did a little wandering Aspen’s downtown area and I now understand all the hype about this spot.

Highway 70 between Glenwood Springs and Denver – Yes, I’m including an interstate highway drive on the list of highlights. There is lots to be said for scenery that leaves you feeling small, young, humbled, and generally in awe. That’s how I felt after driving back to the city through the mountains. Every mile seemed to have a new surprise, and as I drove through clouds, tunnels, and areas noted for their wildlife habitat, considering the tiny, temporary space that I take up on this earth gave me a good dose of perspective.

Denver Biscuit Company – Miles, the girls, and I ate here 5ish years ago on a trip, and it still ranks as one of our favorite restaurant encounters. Saved it to my final morning, and it did not disappoint. Do a Google search for it and look at the long list of biscuit-geared creations, and book the next flight to Denver. You’re welcome.

Dinner with young adults who you watched grow up from babyhood – My oldest and dearest friend in the world is Marla. We had our children around the same time; she still lives/works in our hometown; and her son is a grown man now and has married the most lovely young woman. Due to life, I haven’t had a conversation with this sweet young man since he was approximately 10 years old. They live in Denver, so I got over my shy, introverted self for a minute and we met for dinner. So darn lovely. Seeing them starting their young married lives together took me back to Miles and me at that age – how much we’ve grown/how much we’ve stayed exactly the same.

Denver’s Botanical Gardens – Compared to the skill and determination it takes to be a gardener in Dallas, Denver plant people have it pretty easy. That said, this venue was still pretty impressive. I loved the many themed areas in the park, enjoyed watching the couples, families, and solo visitors wander around looking peaceful, and felt reassured that nature is still chugging along healthily as I watched countless bees doing their dances with flowers.

Pajama days – No, this is not a tourist attraction. It was a conscious choice I made in order to relax, read, write, daydream, nap, and generally reconnect with myself in a way that the pace of my life for most of the last 30 years hasn’t allowed. Highly, highly recommend. 5/5 stars.

This is the last cat sitting gig I have on the calendar (for now). The nasty Texas summer has (mostly) come to an end, and the prospect of flying home tomorrow has me excited. I’ve missed my people, my own bed, my own cats, and my life. I love being in a season which affords me the freedom to explore. I really love that I’m learning how to be alone without being lonely. I’m secretly grateful for the forced time off and space to catch my breath brought by the recent layoff. And I really love my husband and family for being supportive of a person who has grown to thrive with healthy doses of solitude.

In stillness lives wisdom. In quiet you’ll find peace. In solitude you’ll remember yourself. ~Robin Sharma

If you’re interested in using the Trusted Housesitter app to do what I’ve been doing, use my referral code and get a 25% discount!

I’m not sure if it’s my childhood as an only, my innate introversion, my visceral dislike of Texas summers, the peace I find when near water, my kinship with felines, my remote work situation, or some combination of the above, but halfway through last month, I decided I needed a change. I love my husband, my own two cats, my Texas family/friends, and the routine of my life, yet gauging my mood by the number on my thermostat and racing between indoor destinations to avoid parking lots and driveways was turning me into a human I didn’t like.

Last spring, a colleague introduced me to the “Trusted Housesitter” app, and since that day, I’ve been obsessively voyeristic about potential pet sitting jobs around the globe. The premise is simple: download the app, pay a nominal fee to join, build a profile (including background check), and apply to sit for someone’s pet/s. No money changes hands; pet owners get free sitters; pet lovers get free lodging. Yes, the entire transaction takes place between total strangers.

Maybe it’s just me, but I’ve had my share of moments in the past few years, where I was pretty convinced that roughly 6 out of 10 people in the world were a**holes. There’s no shortage of evidence to support this notion when skimming the socials or watching the news. I can understand why some might have viewed this app and the societal leap it required as a bridge too far.

But – see paragraph #1. Texas summer (hottest in ages), introvert, cat lover, fan of cheap travel, etc… On a particularly steamy day in July, I decided the risk was worth it. God bless my husband for his acceptance that he married a half-crazy woman and that resistance would be futile.

Searching the app for basically any location north of the Mason-Dixon, I found felines “Shula” and “Jazzy” along the western Michigan coastline in a little beach town that looked small (but not exactly rural). Their mom’s profile was nice, and after a brief correspondence and FaceTime date, the gig was booked. My flight and rental car were my only expenses, and I arrived at the kitties’ home after their mom had departed. I found detailed notes, a clean apartment, and two skeptical cats.

For 11 days, I enjoyed walks to the beach (wearing sweatshirts!!!), read 5 books, talked with friendly, elderly locals who walked daily on the boardwalk, made friends with waitresses who’d grown up in the town, drove to more nearby beaches, small towns, and state parks than I can count, went to see Barbie at the local theatre run by volunteers (seriously!), made a day trip up north to see my Indiana family on their last day of summer vacation, and I napped. Lots of naps.

(Side note: Unexpectedly during these 11 days my company laid me off- leading to more books and napping than planned- but that story is for another blog.)

For 4 additional days, one of my daughters joined me and worked remotely by day and let me be her tour guide by night. By this point I was (almost) a local!

Today, we said goodbye to Shula and Jazzy (who had eventually decided I was a suitable substitute), cleaned up the apartment, left their mom a thank you gift, and drove in our refreshed state back to the airport.

I’m not yet ready to say our world is completely a**hole-free. There are still signs (and flags) that serve as evidence of souls in need of softening. However, this month I’m returning to my “normal” life with a rested soul, a full heart, sandy flip flops in my suitcase, new friends in Michigan, and a bit more warmth toward humanity. Also an eagerness for Friday night lights and the weather that accompanies it.

Nearly 20 years ago as I navigated parenting two small children and a move halfway across the country, I began experiencing breathlessness. One day I was doing dishes on a routine day at home with my girls and I experienced this shortness of breath. Pausing, I took a moment to regain normal breathing by trying hard to fill my lungs, unsuccessfully. Over the next few days, this experience became more frequent until one afternoon while driving, I came close to a panic attack – my lungs simply wouldn’t accept more than shallow breath.

Assuming that my death was imminent, I sought references for a new family doctor and got myself to his office as quickly as possible. After a brief check of vitals, he began asking questions about my recent move to the area. How far was I from home? How has my family been acclimating? Changes to work or other routines? Details about my husband and our relationship. I interrupted him. “Thank you for caring, but I really need the most help with my breathing. Don’t you want to do some sort of lung x-ray or heart testing?”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’m nearly certain that you’re hyperventalating because of the stress in your life.”

I wanted to politely thank him for sharing and tell him he was nuts. Didn’t he understand that I’d been wanting to be a stay at home mom for years and now that I was doing that, I couldn’t possibly be more stressed than I’d been a few months ago while working crazy hours and living close to the familiar surroundings of home.

He suggested I try some medication to help ease me back into a routine, a routine that included the ability to breathe, and to check back in a few weeks.

As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. I learned that I had been experiencing anxiety, and that my body’s way of reacting was through hyperventalation. I’d been aware that there were mighty changes in our lives and that I was probably bearing more of a burden than normal, but I had no idea how much stress I’d been supressing in order to function.

I’ve since learned that my body is typically much more attuned to the reality of my world than my conscious brain is willing to acknowledge.

Today is my birthday. I am adopted. I’m having a hard time breathing.

This isn’t really all that surprising. If you read my inaugural blog, you got a peek into the way I experienced pre-reunion birthdays. All the questions; all the emotions. What strikes me as odd now is that even though I’ve been reunited with my biological siblings (my birth parents had both passed, within months of when I discovered their identity), the birthday emotions lurk.

Pretty much a regular ol’ Wednesday, filled with Zoom calls, projects, and deadlines, this afternoon I found myself gasping for breath, a sensation I hadn’t experienced quite so intensely in years. My body knew.

As my adoption self-healing has progressed through the years, several books have taught me about the trauma of separation from a birth parent, the “primal wound”, and the unique journey adoptees are on as they navigate unique (and often invisible) sets of circumstances. I’m in a good place today with deepening, loving relationships with my siblings and their families. There has been full acceptance and joy resulting from the unification for which I am profoundly grateful. And yet, my body knows. It knows things inside that my brain can’t comprehend about the toll adoption took on me.

As I consider if or how to write the longer, deeper story of my journey, I can’t help but wonder what will emerge. Is the story for me? Is it for my birth parents whose eyes won’t be on earth to read it? Is it for others who have walked similar roads (or not) for the purpose of developing empathy and broadened perspectives? Is it merely a processing excercise to help my brain catch up with my body?

Each year I cope a little differently. Some years, I wrap myself in busy-ness to numb the day. Some years, I avoid reality by choosing a long nap and a stiff drink. And there are even some years I allow myself to bask in the love and care from those within my sphere and those unseen. Predicting the emotions of February 1st is impossible.

So, today, I stare out at the frozen landscape. Snuggled inside, stuck alone in a hotel because of the storm, with a keyboard and some billowing feelings. And I try to breathe.

A few weeks ago, I got to participate in the Dallas Marathon. And by participate, I mean I stood still and watched and cheered.

We love the location of our new (old) home in Dallas, but we discovered on the day of the race that our street was inside the marathon loop, and we’d be hemmed in for the duration. In an effort to make it to a workout class located 3 blocks outside of the route (requiring a Frogger-esque roadway crossing), I walked in the direction of the route and began hearing shouting and cowbells akin to the hometown bleachers of a football game.

For those with more marathon experience than I, please forgive my naivete. The coolest sight unfolded. Crowds lined both sides of the block holding signs, sitting in soccer chairs, shaking noisemakers, and generally doing everything possible to encourage the runners as they topped the hill and descended down the path. It was clear that a few folks were looking for a specific runner to cheer. But more strikingly to me was the fact that many cheerers had seemingly no personal connection to the athletes. Looking more closely down the block, I saw several yards with full-on tail gate gatherings with tables of food, speaker systems, and pom poms. All convened to celebrate and encourage total strangers.

Let’s think about that.

Running 26.2 miles is ridiculously hard. Running 13.1 is still unattainable for most. And as fellow humans, we gathered to cheer, celebrate, and encourage others doing hard things.

How great would it be if we took this “we cheer for total strangers who do hard things” mindset into the rest of our lives?

A person who lost their job

A person who just had to bury a loved one

Someone whose family has shut them out

An exhausted single parent

A person who has to choose between buying groceries or paying their electric bill

A person who feels alone

A person who lives with someone they’re afraid of

A person who recently made a big mistake in life

A person cloaked in anger striving to hide their inner insecurities and fear

Everyday, people facing hard (and often invisible) things cross our paths. Maybe the person facing hard things is us. How can we create a world in which it’s routine to look up from our races and find… encouragement, kindnesss, patience, empathy, grace, cowbells, pom poms.

In this season of gratitude, reflection, and resolution, I’m going to try harder to cheer for those doing (perhaps invisibly) hard things. Inevitably, some days I’ll need a cheerleader of my own.

As we near month 24 of the Covid Sh*t Show, the only absolute truth is that we are all in this mess together. That doesn’t mean we agree on HOW to be in it – far from it – but at least all of humanity shares one common element at the moment – we are all living through the first global pandemic of our lifetimes.

During a recent post-work “therapy session” with colleagues, one described the series of impossible mishaps related to coordinating services between our public school district and the local university. The institutions have markedly different rules to play by and yet must be in sync with regard to coordinating programs. I (airheadedly) said, “Does anyone have a precedent for how these lines should be drawn?” To which my colleague pithily replied, “Oh, let me just call up my great, great, great grandfather who lived through the Spanish flu to see how they handled this.” We all got a hearty, pathetic, frazzled chuckle and continued to imbibe.

Friends have lost too many loved ones. Children have lost cherished rites of childhood. Parents have lost jobs, apartments, relationships, and on it goes. The naive hope that I held in the summer of 2020 that this would soon end once we all got a vaccine (even that part is now funny, not funny), is twice dashed thanks to two Greek words – Delta and Omicron.

Back in the glorious PC days (Pre-Covid)- February, 2020, my family booked our first ever trip to Europe. It was to be a beautiful thing- 2 weeks, 5 countries, planes, trains, and tour guides. The plan was to leave in May as a celebration of both my youngest’s high school graduation and her 18th birthday (on which day she was slated to arrive in Paris)! Dreamy, right?

Unless you’ve been living under a rock the size of Mt. Everest, you know how this turned out. No trip. No normal end of high school. No exploration of Europe. No croissants.

We made the best of it. Got a fancy fondant cat-shaped cake for the birthday girl. Sent her to college – albeit to remote classes. Got refunds for most of the trip. Saved the refund dollars; invested them in Amazon stocks (cha-ching). And waited.

On a hopeful day this past September, as Delta was waning, an airfare alert hit my inbox – Austin to Paris, round trip on American/British Airlines for less than the cost of a flight to New Orleans! I checked with the Mr., promptly booked 2 tix for January, and boxed up a Paris travel guide for Avery to surprise her with the whole shebang for Christmas.

And here we are, on the eve of the month when we booked that dream vacation.

Avery and I landed in Paris this morning. It’s only the two of us because life is pesky and responsible for Miles and Mallory. We are only visiting one country instead of five. We are here for 5 days not 14. We are wearing masks, sanitizing relentlessly, have had to take an insane number of Covid tests, made our way straight to a pharmacy to get an EU Health Pass to allow us to go about our business as proof of vaccines and boosters, but dammit WE ARE HERE.

It’s risky. We could get stuck here pending the necessary Covid tests required to leave. I have work waiting for me back home, and she starts the spring semester of her sophomore year the day after we return. Some venues are closed. Lines at the airport were long. And there are Covid testing tents adorning every corner in town (interesting approach, eh?).

A reasonable, responsible, PC (again, Pre-Covid) person might have understandably decided to cancel when Omicron took the stage. Nope. If Covid has taught us anything, it’s that life is short, we have no idea what’s around the corner, and the world is still a big, amazing place that needs to be experienced.

So, this week, it’s time to live.

Il est temps de vivre.

The centerpiece of the Christian faith. Because He died and rose from the grave, this Jesus is set apart from the other deified heroes across the years. This day has always felt more special to me than all others in the year because it represents not just the birth of a savior, but a deliberate act of love, sacrifice, and an undebatable miracle.

This year is different. Not only because of the obvious. Yes, this one calendar year feels like 12 of them. But for the first time in my life as a Christian I feel a sense of conspicuousness in my celebration and honoring of Easter. So much has changed. During the past year, I’ve had to stop referring to myself as a Christian. The term, high jacked by political terrorists, has become a divisive, weaponized tool of Satan. Maybe that was needed. Maybe I’m late to the party about what the term has represented to many for years.

But for the first time, I understand what it feels like to be an outsider of the club of Christianity. The social media posts of friends celebrating in traditional ways are making me uncomfortable. The theatrical announcements of church flyers feel manipulative. The traditions feel like they’re in need of some rewriting.

For the first time, I don’t want to count myself as part of the club. Not if it means being associated with a golden idol being rolled through a hotel lobby. Or if it means being associated with a denomination that was slow to denounce slavery. Or if it means placing a man-made litmus tests about who we can love and what choices we have over our bodies on our qualifications as a follower of Jesus.

No. The Jesus I know wouldn’t have any of this. He loved the margins. He fought the powerful. He loved the ones others had cast out. He would likely be shunned by those who today, ironically, label themselves under the banner of His name.

I don’t want that kind of Easter anymore. I want, simply, Jesus.

I love Him. I love the enormity of His Easter. And this morning I’m recommitting my life, not to the work of the church as I thought I should for so long. But to the work of emulating Him.

Because He lives.