Apples

I have committed my life to helping others, as an educator and as a volunteer. In my volunteer work, I have spent several years working with the homeless population to provide educational services for children, safety for women and children victims of abuse, temporary housing while people look for work, and serving food in community kitchens for people living on the street or in shelters. This is not my occupation for compensation but it’s a key piece of my commitment and life’s work.

I share with you this extensive background to provide context for this story: 

Recently I was attending a professional conference in a large city on the west coast of the US. Our lunches were generously provided as part of the conference in the form of boxed meals. They were quite large and most people were not able to eat all of it. Many people left uneaten portions on the tables for someone else to help themselves - whole apples, unopened bags of chips, wrapped cookies - you get the idea.

Several hours later, much of the leftover food was still there. It’s hard for me to see perfectly good food go to waste when there are so many people in need. I was headed out to dinner so I decided I could gather up this food in my purse and give it to people that needed it as we walked along. I gathered about 6 apples, 4 granola bars, 2 suckers, and a bag of chips. It was heavy but I knew the load would lighten gradually but also quickly. 

No amount of good intention could have changed how this went. First, unless someone is holding a sign, it’s actually pretty tricky to pick out someone who is homeless and hungry. Attire is a terrible indicator of someone’s housing and hunger status. Most of my prior experience with homeless people who are hungry occurred in situations in which they were coming to me to provide a service. In this instance, I was attempting to seek them out. No biggie, I just narrowed my plan to people holding signs stating that they were hungry. 

The first man I saw with a sign asking for food, I walked over to him, smiled, and handed him an apple. He didn’t take the apple. Instead he laughed at me. For a moment, I was dumbfounded. He’s hungry. I’m offering food. What’s the problem? He made eye contact with me, offered a closed-lip smile, then gradually let his lips part to reveal that he had no teeth. Then he said with a laugh, “that’s not gonna work lady, I ain’t got no teeth. What’choo got in that bag I can suck on?” I was mortified but quickly offered him choices from the rest of what I had and he took a sucker and the chips. He smiled and said thanks and walked off. 

I put the apple back in my bag and walked back to my colleagues with a cloak of shame. I felt so proud to be the type of person who does kind things for other people but I missed the mark. I was approaching generosity through my lens, my idea of what someone needed, not adjusting my focus to pay attention to what the other person actually needed. My colleagues reassured me that anyone could make that mistake and I was simply trying to do something nice. This was especially startling for me given my background working with homeless people and specifically in the community kitchens, I know that people request special meals due to the condition of their teeth. I didn’t apply my experience, I didn’t pay attention to the need. 

I carried the apples around for hours. At one point, my friend suggested that I leave them somewhere clean and someone who wanted them would take them. And I did. Eventually. But first I need to carry them around for a bit. I need to feel the weight of my mistake, just for a few hours to help me reflect on what happened but also where this happens in other parts of my life - in what ways do I try I be helpful but fail to apply my prior knowledge or truly pay attention to what someone’s need is? 

I think about his experience often. It should’ve been obvious. But it wasn’t. I should’ve known better. But I didn’t. It was an excellent opportunity to learn about the way I see the world, the way I engage, and the tremendous room for growth I have. I’m grateful for this man for laughing and helping me understand. I get it; if I truly want to be helpful, I need to see through the lens of others, not my own. This applies to how we love others, how we teach children, how we approach issues of equity. We need to shift our focus and respond accordingly. Their lens. Not ours. 

Right or left?

Yet another school shooting in 2018....

This is not a right or left issue: NO ONE wants their child to go to school and never come home. No one wants to get the call that their child has been shot. No one wants to find out their child spent 4 hours crouched under his desk, afraid for his life.  

No one wants this, it’s not right or left. But your response, your action might fall right or left. How does your political stance contribute to or fight these violent occurrences? What solutions lie within your political views? What vote are you casting to protect your child? 

But there’s more, our political response isn’t enough. We need to closely examine our value systems and how we care for each other as humans. Our interactions with people are our preventative measures. Where can you lend your kindness? How are you taking care of your loved ones so they know how to cope when things get dark? 29 people so far, 45 days into this year, saw no other way out than to shoot innocent people. What are you doing to make sure the people in your life have a way out? It’s not just about preventing future shootings, it’s about love. Today. Because no one should have to go thru this, right or left. 

Honor what you have

“When you honor what you have, you’re honoring what I’ve lost.”

~Brené Brown, Daring Greatly

In the past 16 months I have lost 3 grandparents, my sister-in-law, my dog, and suffered a miscarriage. It would be impossible to experience this and not feel heavy and somber at times. It’s hard not to dwell on the loss and the noticeable voids in my life. And if I’m honest, sometimes it’s even harder not to envy what others have that I don’t. 

I’m endlessly grateful for your kind words, genuine hugs, thoughtful cards, and prayers during this difficult stretch. They have been so comforting and soothing. Some days, I’m nearly dependent on them to keep sight of the good when things seem so dark. 

If you can do all this for me, can you do one more thing? Honor what you have. And in doing so you can honor what I’ve lost. 

In the middle of the night when your baby cries for the 17th time and you just want to sleep, honor the opportunity to hold your baby as I would’ve liked to hold mine. When your dog chews something up or begs to go outside or needs to squeeze into the smallest space on the couch to be with you, honor that companionship and know how much I miss it. When your grandparent tells the same story for the 8th time, honor that history and know that I no longer have that reach into the past through my family tree. When you don’t see eye-to-eye with someone, when you don’t know how to help someone who needs it, when you don’t know how to forgive someone’s mistakes, honor that difficulty and know that in one relationship, I no longer have the chance to try. 

I know as you’re reading this, you’re thinking of your own loss. And I know you’re thinking of how much I still have. Some of which you don’t anymore. I’m right there with you. I know how much you have lost. I know how much your heart has broken in the last year, 2 years, 5 years. 

I see you. 

I promise to honor what I have, and in doing so, I promise to honor what you have lost. 

This week, I’m going to hold my 5yo a little tighter because I know his life is a gift in mine. I vow to call my mom and my dad. I’m going to tell my husband I love him and mean it. I’m going to invite my friends into my home and enjoy the companionship and memories we share. I’m going to snuggle my dog because I value her loyalty and presence in my life. 

I think we can do this for each other. I think that we can ease the ache of loss by really loving and embracing all that we have right now. 

So, here’s what I ask of you: share with me your successes and experiences and relationships. With you, I will celebrate all that you have and gratefully accept the honor you’re paying to what has been lost. 

The First Time

My husband and I recently put down our wonderful beagle pup of ten years. This was an indescribably difficult decision. And one a lot of people go through.

I was moved by the kindness and warmth of the vet staff throughout this painful process and ultimate decision. In the moment my dog took his final breath I had been sobbing. The doctor was on the floor with me, solemn with me, and quiet with me as I let go. His presence in the room so closely mirrored mine I had more than one urge to ask him if he was ok, if it was difficult for him. Each time that urge would surface, I would quickly remember this wasn’t  his first time, in fact he probably does it all the time. But he had the remarkable ability to really be in the moment of my first time. 

I recently returned from a trip to find a card from the vet’s office signed by all of the staff with heartfelt messages and I was again moved by their sincerity in helping me through my first time of letting go of my beloved dog. My first heart-wrenching loss of this kind. It’s standard procedure for them but that’s not how it felt for me. 

Whatever it is that you do in your life - teaching your 717th student how to write their name, helping your 208th patient recover from surgery, meeting with your 376th client whose home is going into foreclosure - I hope you can approach it with genuine engagement of remembering it’s the first time for them. Because it matters. Whether or not it matters to you, it definitely does to them. A lot. 

8 years

8 years

It went by fast, huh?

When we got married, I wondered what this would be like. The fun stuff seemed easy. But what about the other stuff? How do vows translate into overcoming difficulty, surviving the unthinkable and still coming up for air with something that looks like a marriage? 

We don't get to know how things turn out or what challenges will come our way. In the last year my husband and I have suffered the devastating loss of three close family members and a miscarriage. We spent months with broken hearts, picking each other up when one of us had strength and the other needed to borrow it. It wasn't all pretty or perfect. It was messy. And difficult. I remember moments looking at my husband through my tears and thinking, "do you still love me now?" And again later, "how about now?" Not questions to be satisfied with words but with actions. And he showed up every single time. 

Here's what vows look like in the dark moments:

"I love you more than this hard moment"

"I love you enough to get to the other side together"

"I love you enough to remember all the good when your heart is so broken you can't"

"I love you enough to hold the hard things for you"

"I love you enough to be strong for you"

"I love you enough to let you cry and not feel ashamed about it"

I didn't need this year of heartache. I didn't need the constant reminder of how fragile life is. But I'm grateful for the chance to know, without question, that I've chosen someone who shows up for the easy stuff and shows up even bigger for the hard stuff. 

I'm not wondering about the next 20 years, or the next 8, or the next year. I have this moment and this person, and I'm so grateful. 

The Things I Can't Say

You're wondering what it's like to be sad? Really, really sad?

It's gonna be a long journey, are you ready? If this important to you, stick with it. If you're really patient and you don't say a word. If you dig way down, farther than you've ever gone. If it gets a little dark but you're not afraid. If you wait there and you can just be. There you'll find, carefully tucked away, the things I can't say.

There are things I can't say because I promised I wouldn't. There are things I can't say because they're wrong. There are things I can't say because they would hurt other people. And there are things I can't say because they would hurt me. That's what you've come here for, right? The peeling of the last layer, the peeling off the deepest layer of skin. Raw, exposed, vulnerable, irreparable.

Unprotected, the things I can't say unravel into darkness and silence and aching and nightmares. The dark so bright you'll shield your eyes. The silence so loud you cover your ears. The ache in my heart will shatter the ground you stand on. Your nightmares will keep you awake. The reality of dark will beg for sleep. The reveal will break me and I will crumble. My protective layer dissolving and pooling around the remains of what was. 

And once the protective layer is off, it can't be put back on. You won't look at me the same. You want want to touch me. The sight of me will terrify you. I won't be safe to take around your friends. So you'll leave me here in the dark, with the things I can't say, trying to put back all the raw little parts of me that I carelessly revealed to you. 

The pain is familiar and the darkness is soothing. The aloneness has a predictable ache. I want to call your name but when I speak, sadness fills me and I choke. I want to find my way out but I am numb.  I also know I can't stay. I will drown here. So I will wait, alone, while it burns and I struggle to cover up the parts that hurt. It may take days or it may take weeks but when the raw stings less and I feel less naked, I'll crawl my way back out. I will feel the sun on my face and I will take one tiny step forward. 

With each step forward, I might remember the dark and I might not. But the next time someone asks what it feels like to be sad, really, really sad. I'll just smile. Because there are things I can't say. 

For 21 days

For 21 days, I thought about you nonstop. Imagined our life together and all of things I couldn't wait to show you.

For 21 days, I imagined introducing you to my family and friends. They would admire how connected and in love we were. The perfect pair. 

For 21 days, I made my decisions based around you: what I ate, what I wore, plans I made. You were my guide in everything I did. 

For 21 days, my senses absorbed the amplified world around me: smells were stronger and tastes were bolder. 

For 21 days, I dreamed about you when I was sleeping and daydreamed about you when I was awake. 

For 21 days, I bought you small gifts, and hung your picture in my room, and made space for you in every corner of my life. 

And by the time you were gone, though there was no way to make sense of it,  I already knew it was over. 

21 days seems so short but I know no amount of time with you would have ever been enough. 

And I know this, my short 21 days with you growing inside my body will ensure I never take for granted a single second I am holding my next sweet baby in my arms.