The Lemonade Stand

The Memorial Day sky today is stunning – a brilliant blue sprinkled with cotton-candy clouds, punctuated by the towering tops of the trees. Leaves of striking emerald green wave hello from branches that were bare just a few weeks before. Like magic, and without fanfare, nature did what nature does, bursting out of its winter slumber just as we were all safely taking shelter inside. But how could anyone avoid the lure of summer on a gorgeous day like this?

Ohio has been heating up the past few days, proven by the influx of baby pools in front yards, the angry skin tormenting cheeks and noses, and the gush of hot air that greets you upon opening the door. Summer in Ohio feels a bit like living in a toaster oven. And since we switched to summer temperatures in Ohio rather quickly, some of us have done some stupid summer things – like going for a run during the hottest hours of the day without plenty of water.

Don’t do that. It’s not a smart decision.

One of those stupid people was me. After a three-mile run today through thick air and under a blazing sun, I was parched, with a half a mile or so to walk home. That’s when I saw an oasis in the midst of the concrete grid of the suburbs: a lemonade stand with the most adorable homemade sign and a tantalizing pitcher of ice cold lemonade.

Of course, having left my home to go running, I hadn’t taken any money with me, which was a shame because 1$ for 2 lemonades is a steal, plus I was really, really thirsty. But home wasn’t too far away, and I could probably crawl that far if worse came to worst.

What I hated even more than missing a lemonade while dehydrated was telling the three exceedingly hopeful little girls that I didn’t have 1$ to pay them. I just KNEW they would be crushed with disappointment. There is only so much traffic in the ‘burbs on a holiday, so there was a lot riding on every potential customer.

I felt such empathy for them. My childhood friend and I sold rocks at a table on our dead-end street once. It didn’t go so well. The first of many of life’s tough blows, I guess.

I smiled and broke the hard news. “I’m sorry! I didn’t bring any money on my run today.” I finished with a shrug and a disappointed frown and social distanced myself to pass on by.

Those girls did not skip a beat.

“That’s okay. We don’t mind. We want to give it to you.”

Wait, what? One generous little girl added, “For FREE.”

I was HOT. And I was THIRSTY. So I agreed to a free lemonade but promised to come back and make it up to them later. “We’re gonna be here for a long time,” they said. And as I walked away with my lemonade, one of the girls shouted, “Happy Memorial Day!” Before she could finish, the others chimed in, too, with a staggered chorus of sweet Memorial Day blessings.

As I walked the rest of the way home with my lemonade, I was absorbed in reflection. (Running is always my best thinking time anyway.) I was so touched by this small act of kindness. It reminded me that the things that we give, even the little things like a 2 for 1$ glass of lemonade, matter. They make a difference. They brighten someone’s day. They prompt a smile. How many little kindnesses would it take to brighten our communities and our cities and our country and our world?

It reminded me that what those girls were willing to sacrifice – .50 or 1$ – was a lot of money from their youthful perspective. But they were willing to give to someone wholeheartedly, without reservation. To a stranger, even. Where do we lose that generous spirit as we grow up?

It reminded me that those girls were using cups and lemonade mix and a table and chairs that their parents had generously provided. The kindness the parents had shown toward their children was paid forward as kindness to me. So often we think of people as either “givers” or “takers,” but love, kindness, and generosity are like vines, growing and winding from one person to another until communities are literally woven together. There is no end to love, just expansion, and there are no “givers” and “takers,” only people who will sit on both sides of the table at some point.

It reminded me that we reward children for so many things these days. Grades. Athletic achievement. Participation. Even just showing up. But how much do we celebrate their character? If we ask our kids to describe themselves, do they talk about what they do or do they talk about who they are?

When I got home, I wrote the girls a thank you note and rounded up lots of change to pay them what I owed, plus a generous tip. I wanted them to know how much I appreciated their kindness, especially on this very special day.

Because they also reminded me that while most of us will not die in a heroic act of sacrifice for our country, maybe there is no better way to honor those we have lost than by living a life defined by the kindness and generosity that we show to others.

What Students Are Missing the Most This Week

No photo description available.

I currently teach for an online high school. Online schooling is the best option for SOME students. It is NOT the best option for ALL students. It is also a term that is being used pretty loosely at the moment; “remote learning” is maybe a more accurate description of what will be happening in most homes for a while. But this post isn’t about online schooling.

All of my teacher friends who work in school buildings are working incredibly hard – shedding tears even – to figure out how to do their jobs a different way with little training and without the tools that online teachers have. Also consider that when online teachers are hired, they may not know what they are doing, but everybody else working there does. There are “veterans” to call for help. Not so for most of our brick-and-mortar teachers right now. So many of them are excellent at their jobs, and they just want to provide the BEST for their students. They love your kids! My heart hurts for them. 💔

Most people don’t understand that students enrolled in online schools are expected to work 5-6 hours per day – basically, a school day. For my students this week, it is business as usual. Most people also don’t understand that online students DO have live classes with their teachers. Yes, we have class “together” at the same time. They can see me if I turn on my camera. We can talk to each other with our mics. There is a real-time running chat where they can ask questions. This is different from most online college courses that many adults have experienced.

Monday and Tuesday before our lessons, we took some time to allow the students to share how they are feeling right now. Some of them are very anxious about what is happening outside their homes. The pictures of bare shelves scare them. The constant stream of new information confuses them. Just like the adults, they are rattled.

My students are lucky that their schooling still provides a bit of routine in a confusing time. But many have siblings home from school now, parents home from work, vulnerable people they are worried about, and financial concerns at home. We empathized with them when they said that focusing can be difficult in the midst of all the unexpected change.

My co-teacher and I listened to them and responded to their comments with reassurance. We helped them look for the good and reminded them that it’s not their job to worry – the adults are working together in amazing ways to support each other and create solutions.

After class yesterday, it occurred to me that maybe even more important than the education many students are missing this week is the comfort they are missing from their teachers. And I mean all of our students – from kindergarteners to seniors. My sons often come home from their schools and begin sentences with “Mrs. Scott said…” or “Mr. Chid said…” because they trust their teachers’ wisdom and reassurance so much. Teachers reinforce what we parents are saying at home, or in some cases provide the only calm, encouraging voice a child or teenager hears. They aren’t just teaching content. They provide safety and stability.

Teachers are so important. All of them. My teacher friends are trying to do the impossible this week – either teach online students who are completely (and expectedly) distracted or figure out how to teach an entirely different way with limited time and resources.

Everyone is doing their best under the circumstances.

Maybe don’t worry so much about your kids falling behind in math or English this week. Maybe take some time to look them in the eye and check on how they are feeling. When they express concern, maybe even ask them, “What do you think Mrs. Smith would say to you about this?” Not because you aren’t MOST important as the parent, but because your child looks to their teachers to back YOU up. Your child would have gotten comfort from you AND comfort at school if things were different. And I know that it is hurting your child’s teachers not to be able to share that message themselves… so maybe you can do it for them. ❤️

#bettertogether

Coronavirus Isn’t the Only Thing That’s Contagious

View of market stall in store

There are many different words that one could use to sum up the situation over the past few days.

Unprecedented.
Crazy.
Disappointing.
Historic.
Frightening.
Surprising.
Volatile.
Unpredictable.
Confusing.

And, of course.. contagious.

None of those are particularly positive.

On a scale of “good” to “not good at all,” the past week was a “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad” week for many people. The elderly and those with pre-existing conditions are concerned about getting sick. Healthcare workers are concerned about potentially exhausting the capabilities of our medical system. Teachers are concerned about providing adequate educational opportunities for kids who won’t be at school. Parents are concerned about losing hours at work, paying their bills, finding childcare, and stockpiling toilet paper. Pictures of empty shelves, coronavirus emails from every store and organization in America, and endless announcements of new cancellations are leaving us all a bit edgy.

At one point while discussing the news, my son looked at me and said, “2020 has been a TERRIBLE year.”

That’s a pretty rough assessment when we haven’t even closed the door on March yet.

As an educator, I DO think that it is important to be informed and to take this situation seriously. As I have told my boys when they have complained about cancellations, “Your sacrifice might be saving someone’s grandma,” and I’m not joking. But it’s easy to get caught up in the fear and the extremes and the self-imposed isolation. In fact, yesterday I found my thoughts spiraling into a dark pit of every “what if” that my imagination could unravel – mostly because I had read something that was not exactly accurate. Sorting through all of the information can be challenging. Sometimes you just have to stop yourself, take a deep breath, and recalibrate.

So that’s what I did yesterday afternoon. I stopped and re-evaluated and reflected on what I’m ACTUALLY experiencing – which is a lot of people doing really good, really generous, and really selfless things. In pausing to reflect on my personal experiences over the past few days, I was a bit surprised at how POSITIVE my interactions have been – even with low-hanging, ominous clouds threatening to rain down “the unknown.” (And honestly only a little of what is happening is actually “the unknown” at this point, if we cooperate with the experts.)

On Friday, I squeezed my car into a narrow spot in the packed Kroger parking lot. I was fully expecting empty shelves and grouchy shoppers, people grabbing up supplies like they fought for Cabbage Patch Dolls in the 80’s. To my surprise, it seemed like shoppers were in an extra friendly mood. It was like we were all on the same Kroger team – ALL of us against the coronavirus. We actually NOTICED each other, which is different. At the deli case, I had an uplifting chat with a friendly guy who brought his elderly mother to buy some necessities before hunkering down for a while. On another day, we might have stared at our phones instead of making a meaningful connection, but this time we talked and then waved to each other while waiting in the checkout lines. In the checkout line, I met a friendly woman from West Virginia who was visiting her son’s family. I watched her patiently and kindly allow the man in front of her to hold up the checkout because he had forgotten to grab something he needed to buy. Nobody complained about the lines or checked the time impatiently. Three different times as I shopped, I heard employees discussing how much extra they have been working this week – but they continued to stock shelves, smile, and chat with customers as we walked by. I heard one employee say, “I think it’s going to be like this for a while…”

Friday evening, a few girlfriends were stopping by my house to decompress after the crazy week. I mentioned in a group chat that I could use a roll of paper towels if anyone had an extra until I could find some to buy. I hadn’t realized I was out, but that shelf at Kroger had been empty anyway. The first friend walked into my house with two rolls of paper towels from her personal supply, even though you know she could sell those things on Ebay for $20 a roll right now. Perfect! That should suffice. Soon, the second friend knocked at my door with two more rolls of paper towels from her pantry. Please note that no one here was stockpiling; they were just being generous with the limited supply that they had. When I told her I no longer needed them, she insisted that I keep them to have a couple extra and avoid the store. I know they are “just” paper towels – but I felt the love, you guys. Loving people is really simple. The third friend didn’t know what had already happened, so she let herself in and then handed me a pack of more paper towels. She had been at Lowe’s when I texted, so she had bought them for me. And she refused to take a dime.

After I had gone to Kroger, I realized that buying groceries (and toilet paper and hand soap and sanitizer) feels comforting because it gives us a sense of control (even though that’s a bit of an illusion), which maybe explains why some people are buying SO much stuff right now. But it seems to me that this will all balance out – IF everyone will express what they need AND also share what they have with someone else.

Yesterday, there were some local (and misleading) posts about the coronavirus that created alarm. Despite maintaining a healthy balance of caution and calm throughout this situation, I felt my anxiety rising to high alert, and I didn’t like it. I thought, “Why am I feeling this way, and what would make me feel better?” And I knew the answer – talking to people who are smarter than I am. I reached out to a couple of trusted friends in the medical field after watching the governor’s press conference (which was helpful in itself). One of the friends I reached out to lives nearby, and I see her often. She calmly and honestly shared what she knows and how she feels (cautious and concerned but not alarmed) and what boundaries seem reasonable for our families. I also messaged with another good friend who works in an ER, a friend whom I don’t connect with nearly often enough, and she also calmly and honestly shared her training and her perceptions of the situation. She is concerned, as well, but she wisely told me, “There is no need to panic until the ER nurses panic, and I promise I’m not panicking.” I was so grateful for the kindness and expertise of these two women and so many other family and friends I know in the healthcare field. I know I’m not the only one asking them questions in their personal time, and I am so thankful for their willingness to educate us and to help people they don’t even know, even at the risk of harm to themselves. Seriously, what would we do without these people?!? We don’t think about them nearly often enough.

In addition to all of those experiences, I connected with one of my cousins yesterday, got a message from a dear former coworker I haven’t talked to for a while, texted with some friends who always make me feel safe and loved, shared resources with several teacher friends who have been asked to instantly learn a new way to teach, found comfort and ways to help through my faith, and spent extra time with my two favorite boys.

Listen, I don’t like what is happening right now.

I don’t like it at all.

And I know that it can be scary.

But somehow when things get bad, we get better. In fact, some of us act like completely different people. We remember to smile at people. We dig deeper to give to others. We notice our neighbors. We stop for a minute to help. We slow down to connect. We find space in our hearts to feel grateful. We reprioritize and remember what is actually IMPORTANT.

The worst brings out the best in us.

And that, I hope, is contagious, too.

When Your Year Ends With Hurt and Heartbreak

 

Canva - Candle in the Dark

So long, 2019. To be fair, you had some high points. We shared some really exciting moments, and it was fun getting to know you.

Well, mostly it was fun. But sometimes it wasn’t.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful, 2019. I mean, we did make some amazing memories, you and I, and I appreciate those times for sure. Remember the quiet mornings when we sat with a book on the porch swing at the cabin and watched the sun as it rose above the rugged mountain peaks? Wow, 2019. That was incredible. Or the week when our troubles were swept away with each crashing wave that pounded the Carolina shore? I loved that week, 2019. I really did. The boys have grown and matured, and my oldest started driving – which still doesn’t even seem possible. You were with me when I let go of some old things and embraced some new things, when I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a different woman staring back, when I started imagining a future that I hadn’t been able to envision before. You didn’t spare much time for me to write last year, but you helped me rediscover who I am, take some risks, achieve some professional success, and go back to school. You reminded me that the writing will come, that every minute with my high school student is precious, and that every conversation with my middle schooler is more important than anything else I could be doing in that moment.

My heart is overflowing with gratitude for those moments. I’m thankful for the lessons, the wisdom, and the relationships that we cultivated together, 2019.

To be honest, I thought we were friends.

I didn’t realize how needy you were until you orchestrated such an ugly grand exit. It turns out you were kind of a jerk.

In these last two weeks, 2019, you got me thinking about how I want to be remembered. I want my legacy to be so much different than yours. I hope that the last thing I do is to help someone, to encourage them or feed them or share some meaningful, hard-earned advice. You know, something beautiful that my friends will reflect on in my absence – You heard the last thing that she did, right? Of course, she was helping someone! That’s just who she was! I’m not saying that will happen or that I’m deserving; I’m just saying that’s the legacy I would hope for.

That’s why I don’t understand what you were thinking, 2019. You chose a completely different path – and for that you will be remembered.

That’s the thing about tragedy. It is memorable.

Typically at this time of year, I feel inspired to write some profound reflections on the past twelve months and to shower the Internet with my eternal spring of hope for the future. That spring is still flowing, 2019 – surely you have noticed that I ABSOLUTELY REFUSE to allow any day or week or year to drain it – but there are ominous clouds hanging all over my community this week. One hovers right above my sweet friend’s home, and there is no ignoring its shadow. In our joy and celebration, in the glow of the fireworks and sparklers welcoming the promise of 2020, there has been pain. The deep, dark kind of pain that seeps like oil into every hollow space within your heart.

Canva - Cloudy Sky

Listen, 2019, I’ve been around the block a time or two with some of your friends who’ve come and gone before, and I already know that Joy and Suffering coexist with us on this rotating planet. I also know that we often forget that both are with us, without fail, all of the time. When we celebrate, we don’t invite Suffering to the party; if she is excluded, then we can pretend for as long as possible that she doesn’t exist. And when we are suffering, we forget that Joy awaits nearby, clouded by the darkness. She is a loyal friend, patiently waiting until we can see through the thick fog and embrace her once again.

Canva - Sun Rays Through the Tree Leaves and Mist

As you waved goodbye last night, 2019, even though you left our Worthington community peppered with black clouds and sorrow, I know that Joy was with us as we rang in the new year. Some people felt her warm hug as one year gave way to another. But for those who didn’t feel her presence, I hope that they will trust that she is quiet and she is patient and she is kind. I know that when their hearts are ready, when there is a bit of room where some of the sadness has leaked out, she will slip inside and fill each void. You may have delivered my family and friends some heavy blows, 2019, but I trust that our wins will outnumber our losses in the end. The human spirit is strong. God is good. And dark clouds, unless we tether them to us, gradually give way to the light.

But it takes a while.

As I grow older, every year passes quickly, but for some reason, 2019, you especially seem like a blur. I would have sworn that just yesterday I was sitting around a friend’s kitchen table with a small group of wonderful people getting stomped in a trivia game called Smartass. (That really is the name of the game, not just the name we used for my friend’s husband, who we now know is significantly smarter than the rest of us.) But that wasn’t just yesterday. It was New Year’s Eve 2018. Joy had a seat at the table. And so did our friend Jamey Shiffer.

We laughed and played games and stayed up too late. We gushed about how grateful we are for this community, how thankful we feel that our teenagers found such an amazing group of friends, how our kids were the catalyst for us parents finding one another. It’s a joyful, indelible memory of ringing you in, 2019.

So, seriously, how could you? We were so kind to you. We toasted your arrival. We cheered with excitement when you finally showed up at the party – even though you were the guy who didn’t make an appearance until midnight. But this week, right before we could bid you farewell, you stole someone from us.  You took an incredible husband, an exemplary father, and a loving friend from his beautiful wife and his daughters, whom we love so much. You left an empty chair at our New Year’s Eve table. You sucker punched us on your way out the door.

Last night was more somber, but we clinked our glasses to 2020 around the same table, together. There were some laughs and some tears, there was some joy and some pain, there was some sadness and a whole lot of love. There may have been some loud cheering when we heard that you, 2019, are now gone. There was Jamey’s presence and his legacy – so different from yours – the kind of legacy that makes you hug your friends more tightly and love your neighbors more generously and treasure the time with your family more passionately. And there was hope – so much hope that it spilled out of the windows and seeped under the doors. It enveloped the house and hovered over the street and floated like mist all around the neighborhood and beyond.

2020 Pink

Because here is the greatest irony of all, 2019: The rain from your storm clouds is replenishing our spring. You thought that the downpour would drown us, but instead the heavy raindrops from your black clouds are soaking into our dry ground. They are trickling through all the cracks and crevices, and there is a silent transformation percolating beneath the surface. The pain will gradually – very, very slowly – be filtered from the rest until clear, fresh hope and the purest kind of love pour out.  And what was meant to break us will be given a purpose, a purpose and a hope that will nourish our souls.

Until then, we will keep our heads above water.   We will keep one another afloat.

So I welcome you, 2020! My heart is heavy, but I am happy to greet you and to accept your hope and your promise.  I am ready to prepare for the great things that you have in store for the people whom I love so very much.

And if you are sad today, this first day of 2020, remember that Joy is quietly waiting to slip into your heart.  She will be there when you are ready.  You will recognize her, like a friend whom you have dearly missed.

Here’s to happiness and healing in the coming year.

And to the Shiffer family, and to the other families in our community and in my hometown who also experienced tragic loss, we send you all of our love.

Canva - Cloudy Skies

Canva Isaiah

Canva - Time-lapse Photo of Waterfalls

Feeding the Ache: Twenty One Pilots and My Friend Pete Crozier

Hey, friends!  I’m trying something new today.  If you want to LISTEN to the post while you are doing something else, click on the video link below.  If not, just drop down and start reading!  Let me know if you appreciate the audio!  It feels a bit more like a podcast.  🙂

Read below or LISTEN here: https://screencast-o-matic.com/watch/cqin0GOf3Z

Let me start by saying this: This post is going to take some strange twists and turns, but just stick with me.  Primarily, I want to introduce you to my friend, Pete Crozier, an inspirational guy with an awesome cause that I think you will want to support.  But I really can’t do that until I tell you about the Twenty One Pilots concert I attended in Columbus, Ohio on Sunday for two reasons.

(1.) I can’t stop thinking about it.

(2.) I think I can pull these two things together.  (Let’s hope so, anyway!)

First, let’s talk about the concert.  You guys, it was AMAZING.  In a society where people cannot agree on ANYTHING and are offended by EVERYTHING, music still has the power to create a healthy sense of unity that I wasn’t sure was even possible anymore.  Add to that the astounding level of creative detail in both the production and the music itself and you have a memorable experience that I was lucky enough to share with my two sons.  Those boys waited patiently for months after receiving the tickets for Christmas.  It was their first concert –  and it set the bar very high for their future ticket purchases.

Here’s the deal – I have a bit of an obsession with insanely creative people.  I want to experience the way they think.  I want to look through the lens that shapes the way they see the world.  I want to understand their compulsion to MAKE something that MEANS something and then to SHARE that something with the world.  I want to know the catalysts that move them, the inherent need to tell a story, the emotional tumult that paralyzes most people but erupts from others into words and lyrics and melodies and art and dance and PURPOSE.

Obviously, this fascinates me.  Maybe a little bit TOO much.  But, really, isn’t it interesting?

In truth, I feel like these kind of people are MY kind of people.  I’m talking about people who have an incurable creative ache that can only be controlled through some sort of ACTION.  It’s a pain that drives some people to take REALLY BIG risks, not because they are braver or more confident than anybody else but because inaction is so uncomfortable that the discomfort of action is somehow a better option.

This is where great art comes from.  Maybe this is what allowed two young and extremely talented guys from Columbus, Ohio (Yes, they are hometown boys!) who were a bit outside the box, genre-less, and sometimes underestimated to think, Yeah, we should do this.  And even if we fail, it’s worth the risk and pain.  Maybe they even thought, We aren’t exactly comfortable doing this.  But we won’t be comfortable NOT doing it either.  They responded to the ache, and now millions of people benefit from that decision.

As people scurried to their cars under the night sky after the concert, a young man holding a box full of music approached concertgoers, saying, “We’re a local band like Twenty One Pilots trying to get off the ground.  Free CDs!”  I thought, Wow.  That kid is a risk-taker, handing his demos to people leaving the best concert that most of them have seen in their lives.  And he didn’t seem particularly brave.  Instead, he seemed like he had the ache, and, standing there in front of Nationwide Arena handing out free copies of his music, he was releasing his dream into the universe.  That is SCARY, you guys!  Because you can toss something around in your head for years, and as long as it stays within those boundaries, you cannot fail.  But once that dream leaves your heart and your mouth, it’s a whole different story.

And this leads me to my friend, Pete.  This is an honest blog, so I don’t want to mislead anyone.  Although I wish I were friends with Josh and Tyler of Twenty One Pilots (even though I was probably graduating from high school when they entered kindergarten), I do not know them.  And even though I describe Pete as my friend and I see him often in our community, we are just getting acquainted.  We know each other in a we-played-a-mean-game-of-Catchphrase-together-at-a-friend’s-New-Year’s-Eve-party kind of way.  We know each other because we both like to write and we share that on social media.  We know each other through mutual friends who are trusted and wonderful people, which tells me a lot about Pete and his wife Sarah’s character.  And we know each other because our sons are good friends.

And they are both named Gavin.

So we both have really good taste.  (Or maybe Sarah gets all of the credit for that one!)

In fact, here is a pic of them to prove this is real.  Meet the two Gavins.

Remember how I said that some people just can’t be comfortable NOT doing something when they have an ache to do it?  Well, one of those people is Pete, and he is on a truly awesome adventure right now called Fifty for Father.   On his website, Pete shares personal stories about the loss of his father and the diabetes diagnosis of his son – yes, my son’s friend, Gavin.

Here’s the thing that I love about Fifty for Father: Pete decided to DO SOMETHING rather than just THINK ABOUT IT.  He is currently on the last leg of his fundraising campaign that involves playing 50 rounds of golf in 50 states in 50 days.  That is a lot of driving, a lot of walking, and a lot of time away from the family that he loves.  Why would Pete do this?  Two reasons: to honor his father’s legacy and to raise money for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) to honor his son.  His goal is to raise $50,000 by the end of his journey.  Today is day 37, and he has raised over $38,000 so far.  I know that meeting his goal in the next 13 days is of the utmost importance to him, and it is important to me because we love Pete’s family and his son Gavin and because juvenile diabetes has touched my extended family, as well.

If you are like me and want to track Pete’s travel and fundraising, you can check out this page with his stats.

I love what Pete is doing for a lot of reasons, but here is maybe the strongest one: Pete, like the kid handing out CDs after the concert, released his dream to the universe.  He accepted the risk and the discomfort.  He didn’t allow the thought to pinball around in his mind forever in order to keep it safe.  As a result, he has raised funds for JDRF, has almost traveled across the entire country (even hitting Alaska and Hawaii), and has shared and heard so many inspirational stories along the way.

I imagine how scary it might have felt the first time he put his IDEA into the WORDS that made it “real.”

But I’m so glad that he did.  I’m so thankful for his decision to respond to the ache and to accept the discomfort of risk – a risk that is paying off in a big way.

I don’t ask for a lot, but I am asking two things of you today.  First, if you know Josh and Tyler and you are inviting them over for dinner any time soon, PLEASE  invite me, as well, so that we can talk about metaphors and meaning and all of that English teacher/international rock star kind of stuff.  (Seriously, we have so much in common.)  And if you have a few minutes and a few dollars to spare, please check out Fifty for Father to see Pete’s posts and videos about his journey and to donate to JDRF to support the mission before his 50 day adventure ends very soon.

I’m sure that some of your families have been touched by diabetes, too.

Thanks everyone!

~Mary Ann

P.S.  Don’t keep incubating your dreams.  It’s time for them to hatch.  🙂

A Message to My Classmates 25 Years After High School

There were 273 of us. It was 1994, and there were 273 of us wearing the same caps and gowns, sitting in the same folding chairs on the same green grass under a blue sky in the same beloved football stadium. There were 273 of us with our own unique talents and ambitious dreams, our own secret fears and diverse perceptions of what our high school experience had been. We were an eclectic bunch, divided by interests and abilities and circumstances.

But for a sunny day in June of 1994, we were one.

When a classmate asked me to write something in honor of our 25th class reunion (which is impossible, frankly, because we can’t be old enough for this), I struggled to find the words to share. How do you speak on behalf of 273 people, many of whom you haven’t seen for, well, 25 years? How do you speak on behalf of the ones whom we’ve lost? What do you say to the classmates whom you never personally knew? To the classmates who are bursting with excitement to reconnect this summer? To the classmates who have never considered attending a reunion at all? I hoped that the words would come. So I waited. And they finally did.

Here is what I want to say to you, my classmate from MHS: You aren’t the same person you were in 1994.

I realize this isn’t an earth shattering revelation if you are the slightest bit self-aware, but in a world that teaches us that living equals running at full speed from sun up ‘til sun down, I’m asking you to slow down and reflect for just a minute.  Who were you when you stepped onto that football field twenty-five years ago? And who are you when you look into the mirror today?

I’m going to guess that you are wiser. I’m going to guess that you are much more aware of the world beyond 208 Davis Avenue. I’m going to guess that you are more knowledgeable, more open minded, more compassionate, and maybe even (a little) more mature. You are, in many ways, an entirely different version of yourself.

And that is fascinating. And also really, really cool.

Let me give you an example.

In 1994, I was voted “Most Studious” by my classmates. (Yeah, you voted on that, remember?) Those votes were based on my grades and… well… really, that’s probably all. Maybe my work ethic was noticed by a few people, but mostly my grades sealed the deal. At the time, it was affirming; I mean, I did spend a lot of time studying. But as time has passed and I have occasionally remembered that recognition, it sometimes feels like a sharp stick poking at my insecurities. In 1994, as teenagers escaping the confines of high school, there was an assumption that being “studious” would lead to being “successful.” And success in high school meant something REALLY BIG AND WONDERFULLY EXCITING. Success was glittery and attention grabbing. It was flashing lights. It was prestigious colleges. It was big checks and huge houses. It was power, status, and control, the kinds of things that make other people jealous.

And I’m here to tell you that I’ve achieved exactly none of those things. Not one of them.

To my classmates in 1994, those teenagers sitting in that football stadium, that would probably mean that I am dreadfully unsuccessful.

Except that my idea of what “successful” means has changed dramatically with 25 years of life under my belt. And I’m guessing yours has, as well.

Because you aren’t the same person you were in 1994.

So how has my perspective of success transformed?  If you work hard to provide for your needs and the needs of your family, you are successful, in my book. If you sacrifice your time, energy, and resources to somehow serve others within your community, that is success, for sure. If you are trusted and respected by the people who know you  – that is success! And if you are striving every day to overcome the mistakes that you made in the past and create a better life – you are truly SUCCESSFUL, my friend.

Success doesn’t mean the same thing to me that it did in 1994. Those grades were important, but they weren’t quite as important as I thought they were at the time. (But let’s not tell my kids that I said this until after they graduate, okay? What is said at the 25 year reunion stays at the 25 year reunion…)

When we were in high school and our circumstances seemed overwhelming, our problems often sounded something like this:

• Should I try to meet curfew, drive around a while longer, or see who’s parked at
Burger King?
• What color spray paint would really pop on the rock?
• Who am I asking to Homecoming, and how am I going to pay for the tickets?
• If I get a job, can I still play sports and finish my math homework for Mr. Miller? And if
I can’t, would I rather have money or repeat math class?
• If I can’t balance the equations on Mr. Luthy’s chemistry test tomorrow, will there be
trouble in River City?
• How fast am I going to drive back to school to avoid a tardy after open lunch?
• What’s the recipe for the glue that holds the toilet paper in the chicken wire at float
building?
• Garth Brooks or Nirvana?

But in 2019, life looks a little different for most of us. Some of us faced some seriously tough times in high school; let’s acknowledge that up front. But MOST of us have experienced so much more than we could have possibly imagined since we wore those caps and gowns 25 years ago. There have been spectacular moments. The highs have been higher than we ever dreamed. And the lows… Well, those have been brutal in ways that most of us couldn’t have predicted at 17 or 18 years old.

When you sat in study hall with Ms. Livingston and daydreamed about the future instead of studying, you couldn’t have known if you would meet your soul mate in college or marry your high school sweetheart or decide to live the single life or survive a difficult divorce or elope to Las Vegas. When your mind drifted between CPR drills with Mrs. Meeks or Mr. Burke, you had no idea if you would struggle to start a family or adopt your babies or choose not to have children or raise a bigger family than you ever expected. When your mind wandered during gym with Mr. and Mrs. Pape, you couldn’t have predicted if you would experience the heartbreaking loss of a sibling or a child or a parent or a spouse before our 25th reunion. When you dressed in a sparkly prom dress or a sharp tuxedo, you had no clue if you would move to five different states, commit to a life in the military, open your own business, struggle to pay the bills, change careers after 40, follow your creative passions, travel the world, fight depression or anxiety, care for an ailing parent, watch a newborn enter the world, or hear a frightening diagnosis. You didn’t know if your own kids would wear a Marietta Tigers jersey or if your teenagers would bleed something other than orange and black.

Collectively, so many things have happened to bring us joy, and so many things have happened to bring us pain, and now, after 25 more years of being human, we have so much more in common – we are so much more alike – than we were when we were handed those diplomas in 1994.

When reunions approach, there are some common refrains among people who aren’t quite sure about revisiting the past.

“I don’t keep in touch with anyone from high school anyway.”
“I haven’t accomplished as much as I thought I would by now.”
“High school wasn’t the best time for me. Why would I go back?”
“People will expect me to be something that I’m not.”
“I have a lot of regrets from back then.”
“So much has happened. Those people wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m not the same person that I was in 1994.”

You know… You’re right about the last one.

You aren’t the same person, and neither is anybody else.

The cliques, the ridiculous ways we divided ourselves up to sooth our insecurities, well, that’s so 1994.

In 2019, we are a diverse group of people with a deeper, richer understanding of who we are and what it means to be a human. We are a group of people with something else in common, too: We all searched for our identities in the same halls in the same upside down high school in the same wooded ravine in the same small town that has always taken pride in its roots. We all walked the same brick streets. We all skipped rocks into the same two rivers. And even though we have ended up all over the world, we all share memories of one special place that nourished our angst-ridden teenage souls.

Hail our Alma Mater.

Marietta High.

If you are an MHS classmate (or anyone else) who is visiting the blog for the first time, WELCOME! Please check out old posts, find Still Chasing Fireflies on Facebook, and sign up on this page to receive emails of new posts.  Thank you so much for reconnecting!  HUGE THANKS to Missy Pracht for asking me to write something and to MHS alum Melinda Patterson Crone for sharing her beautiful photograph!

~Mary Ann

Why I Took an Unusually Hard Stance on Gillette’s New Ad

 

father son hands pexels

*Note: This is a challenging post, both to write and to read.  I hope it will bring something new to the conversations you are already having.  Please be prepared for crude language in the first section.

 

I. You Park Like a C***

Let me tell you a story.

Several months ago, a friend of mine shuffled her two young children into a local restaurant to celebrate her daughter’s soccer season with the team. The families laughed. They shared stories. They ate tacos. It was a happy occasion, a short reprieve from the stresses of school and of life. When the event drew to a close and my friend returned to her minivan with her kids, she noticed that a folded piece of paper had been slipped onto her windshield. Maybe one of their soccer friends had forgotten to tell her something, she thought. When she unfolded the scrap of paper, she found this message, scrawled in pencil: You park like a cunt. Her mood quickly shifted. She surveyed the area to see if someone was watching her, to make sure that they were safe. She loaded her kids into the car and headed home, but she was rattled to her core. Who does something like that?

Later that evening, I saw that she had posted about her experience on a private Facebook page for people who live in or around her community. She had included a photograph of the note – the visual evoked a powerful emotional response – and wrote a heartfelt message that our community can do better. The note on her minivan was alarming and unacceptable, but it had prompted a valuable conversation about kindness and respect with her family, and she hoped that sharing this story would remind other local families to have this conversation, too.

Her post had generated an unusually high number of responses.  I was proud of the way we rally around one another to defend what is right. I was proud of us, proud that her message had garnered so much support from the community.

Except it hadn’t.

At first, the comments were kind and appropriate: “I’m so sorry this happened to you” and “This is totally unacceptable” and “We don’t want this kind of behavior in our community.” A doctor who works at a local hospital noted that she had seen people in the ER who had been shot in similar situations; there is danger in treating people this way. Some empathized, imagining how they would feel if their teenage daughters or their wives or their mothers had found notes like this on their cars. But it didn’t take long for the conversation to turn on my friend, who had RECEIVED the vulgar note. First, people justified the note: “I would like to see a picture of how badly you parked.” “How bad do you have to park to get a note like that?” Then people blamed her for being afraid or offended: “It’s just words. What’s the big deal?” “Words don’t mean anything.” “Why are you letting this bother you?” Then people questioned her parenting: “What kind of mother would let her kids read a note like that?”  The downward spiral continued.  At one point in a comment thread, a woman actually said something to the effect of “I hope her daughter gets your daughter’s spot on the soccer team.”

ARE. YOU. KIDDING. ME?

This conversation happened on a private Facebook page for people who live in or near one of the most affluent, highly educated cities in the state of Ohio. And there was only one appropriate response to a person (male or female) leaving that note in those words on a family minivan for any reason: “That never should have happened.”

If we cannot agree on that, can we agree on ANYTHING?

II. Razor Burn

I am eating my cereal and catching up on the morning news on the Today Show. They share a new Gillette ad that is generating some buzz. After airing the ad, the newscasters raise their eyebrows and nod approvingly. I, too, feel a warm glow inside from the positive message. This is huge, I think to myself between bites of toasted oats and dried berries. We are – WITH INTENTION – showing boys like my own sons what behaviors are unacceptable (the beginning of the commercial) and what behaviors are acceptable (the end of the commercial) in a society where the messages we have been sending them have been horribly blurry. I see a beautiful depiction of masculinity, with Terry Crews, the picture of traditional masculinity with his physical strength and confidence, as the ambassador of male kindness and accountability, as well. I see the message that masculinity is being kind and strong and confident and courageous and respectful and responsible and brave. There are MANY, MANY challenging political and social issues with valid arguments that I understand on both sides, but this commercial is something we can all agree on. RIGHT?

The next day, the media is flooded with pictures of men across America throwing their shaving cream in the trashcan.

Is this really happening?

III. The Dukes of Hazzard

Americans are skilled at avoidance and deflection. We are trained to avoid and deflect at a young age, and the skills are honed and reinforced as we watch celebrities and politicians and public relations machines dance around the truth on a daily basis. We suspend our disbelief and accept the Photoshopped images and the “reality” television shows as authentic. We ignore biases and learn from social media that the image we convey is far more important than what is REAL.

Avoidance and deflection are our natural human reaction when faced with the parts of ourselves that make us uncomfortable. This is true of all of us, myself included.  The number on the scale this winter makes me uncomfortable, so I’ve implemented a solution. Am I exercising more? No. Am I eating more carrots? Nope, I am not. My solution is easier and should work until June: I’M AVOIDING THE MIRROR. I’m wearing extra layers to hide things and avoiding that mirror like the plague.

Looking in the mirror ruins the fun of eating mac and cheese, and the truth is that I’m not quite willing to give that up yet.

Acknowledging that the Gillette ad is amazing ruins something, too. It ruins the peace of mind that comes from a belief that we are ONLY responsible for our own behavior, and whatever anybody else does, well, that’s not our business.

The Gillette commercial is also a mirror that is forcing men to strip off the protective layers that we’ve ALL built up by adulthood and take a cold, hard look at an uncomfortable reality: the way we’ve been doing things hasn’t been perfect. It has been flawed. We’ve made some mistakes. And maybe this is a reason why some really fantastic guys I know are feeling uncomfortable. Part of toxic masculinity is the belief that admitting a mistake is a sign of weakness. It’s a fear that a flaw is the equivalent of a failure, that an error is not a chance for growth but a white flag of defeat. We’ve taught our boys not to compromise. We’ve taught our boys that if you don’t win, you lose. In fact, we’ve DEPENDED ON MEN to be firm and tough and stoic and to pretend to be fearless. And that’s kind of exactly what this commercial is trying to say – GUYS, you don’t have to live by those stupid rules any longer.

My two sons and I recently stumbled across an episode of The Dukes of Hazzard. It wasn’t long into the storyline when a dashing Bo Duke blindsided an unwitting girl with a kiss as she turned around. She was surprised. So was I. I paused the show. “Wow. So…. maybe that was acceptable in the eighties? I don’t remember? But you understand that surprising an unsuspecting girl with a kiss like that is not okay, right? It’s completely disrespectful.” We resumed the show, and soon Daisy Duke was wearing even less than her famous Daisy Dukes. She stood in the middle of a country road wearing a tiny bikini to tempt some guys to pull over in order to help her cousins, who, of course, drive a car painted to look like the Confederate flag. Yikes. I had more explaining to do than I expected.  As Bob Dylan once sang, “The times, they are a-changin’.”

This is what we forty-year-old adults were raised on, you guys. These are the attitudes and behaviors that were normalized for us as kids. We tend to remember a lot of not-so-great things fondly if they are threads in the quilt of our formative years. But the messaging wasn’t all good.

Like every generation before us, we have some knots from our childhood to unravel.

father baby pexels

IV. Complicit

It’s hard to look at the people we love, the shows we love, the music we love, the movies we love, the commercials we love, the entertainment we love and realize that all of it is flawed. No one and nothing is perfect. It’s hard to look in the mirror and realize that we, too, are flawed people, that we may have somehow contributed to somebody else’s pain, that we need to change – in significant ways or in small ones. We don’t want to be considered complicit.

We now know that for many, many years the Catholic church harbored a problem of priests abusing children in the church. We also know that the vast majority of Catholic priests are selfless, generous, faithful people – yet the credibility of ALL of the priests took a serious hit when the stories of abuse came to light. And there’s a reason.

According to reports, time and time again the “good” priests chose NOT to address the behavior of the “bad” priests. They were afraid that the unacceptable behavior of one priest, if publicized, would reflect poorly on the church as a whole, so they ignored it. But by ignoring the abuse to protect the whole, THEY BECAME COMPLICIT. If they had not turned a blind eye, if they had forced the guilty priests to be accountable right away, then the good guys would have looked like good guys. In fact, they would have been MORE than innocent. They would have been heroic.

But in so many cases, that is not what happened. By protecting the group rather than contributing to positive change, the priests who were NOT engaging in abuse became tarnished themselves. They tried to separate themselves from the problem, but they became part of the problem.

This is why it is so important for men to support an ad like Gillette’s. Sometimes, there isn’t really a middle ground to stand on. When there is a societal problem and you are made aware of it, you must choose to become part of the problem or part of the solution. You choose to become complicit or heroic.

The commercial is unfair, some people say, because it puts all of the responsibility on men. Don’t women need to be part of the conversation, too? YES. YES, THEY DO. But change happens when people WITHIN a particular group begin TO PUT PRESSURE ON THEIR OWN. Women ALREADY aren’t laughing at blatantly inappropriate comments about other women. Men will stop making those comments when THE OTHER MEN AROUND THE TABLE or THE OTHER MEN ON THE GOLF COURSE or THE OTHER MEN IN THE BOARDROOM stop laughing. That is when those comments will die.

Old habits die hard. But old habits CAN die.

When the bystanders stop resuscitating them.

V. The Playground

It was a beautiful summer day. The sky was clear, a brilliant shade of blue. I was taping clues for a scavenger hunt onto objects around the playground at a local park for a back-to-school party with some friends. I noticed that a few little boys were following, tearing the slips of paper down behind me. I politely asked them to stop and retraced my path, taping the clues back where they belonged. Within minutes, the boys had torn them down again. I kindly tried to negotiate; if you will leave these notes alone for twenty minutes, then we will make sure that you can do the scavenger hunt yourselves in a little while. That will be fun for you. That didn’t work, either. So, while the playground thieves’ mothers chatted away at a picnic table nearby, we assigned parents from our party to stand beside every clue until the game had concluded.

At this point, I was livid, so when one of the same boys walked up behind my son, who was playing soccer with his friends, and spit on the back of his neck in my view, my head nearly exploded. I approached the mothers of the boys and explained what I had just witnessed, adding that it was extremely disrespectful for one of the boys to spit on my son after we had treated them kindly despite their repeated attempts to destroy our game.

The spitter’s mother was indifferent.  She shrugged. “They are just kids,” she said. They finished packing their things and walked away.

My heart was heavy with both anger and sadness. What are the chances that this little boy, the one who spit on my son and was expected to take no responsibility for his behavior, will grow up to become a kind, respectful, accountable young man who respects women, or any authority at all? If that incident is representative of his upbringing, the chances are very, very low.

Some people are perpetuating the myth that an attack on “toxic masculinity” is an attack on masculinity in general – that being critical of “toxic masculinity” is being critical of manhood itself. That argument has proven to be a surprisingly effective deflection, but it’s NOT THE TRUTH. Aside from some extremists on the fringes, no one is saying that being physically strong, muscular, and athletic is toxic. No one is saying that being competitive, hardworking, and assertive is toxic. No one is saying that protecting others by being a police officer, a firefighter, or a soldier is toxic. That is not toxic masculinity – so just stop spreading that nonsense. The reality is that even though we have MILLIONS of amazing and wonderful men in our country who are tough and strong and brave, we also have a serious problem with men involved in gun violence, domestic violence, and drugs. We have a serious problem with men who will not seek help for mental health concerns, men who weren’t taught to deal with stress and emotions, and men who are not financially or emotionally supporting their children. That stuff – it’s toxic. And it’s not just a toxic pill that those guys swallow. It’s a toxic gas that drifts through the air, exposing families and communities to the ill effects.

The truth is that we women, like the mom at the park, contribute to toxic masculinity by the things that we say, the behaviors we allow, and the entertainment that we provide for our sons. And, guys, we know that toxic femininity is a thing, too. It’s only fair that we also call out our own. Victoria’s Secret models aren’t doing women any favors. We do need to hold other women accountable for choices that negatively influence the beliefs of our daughters and our sons, and we need to stop defending women whose behaviors contribute to the objectification of women.

But accepting some responsibility on our end doesn’t let guys off the hook. Those boys on the playground needed mothers who would instill empathy and accountability. But they also clearly needed some solid male role models who would influence them positively and who would encourage the other men around them to have a positive influence, too. Maybe there will be another man who will make the difference – a teacher, a coach, a neighbor, a religious leader, a friend. Maybe.

Somebody has to teach boys like them how to be masculine without being toxic.

And the more pressure that men are putting on one another to be better, the more secure and confident all of our boys will become.

VI. The Wrong Side of History

This week as our nation celebrates Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day, many students across America will read two important historical texts. The first text, “A Call for Unity,” is a plea written by eight white clergymen in Birmingham, Alabama in 1963. In the text, the clergymen ask civil rights activists to stop demonstrating in their city. The gist of their letter is this: Although we do not support hate, your demonstrations are disrupting our peace, so we think you should be patient and give the court more time to work this out. In so many words, the clergymen said we aren’t against you, but we aren’t going to help you, either. They were trying to walk a very fine line between not quite being racist and not quite NOT being racist, if such a line exists.

The second text is Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s brilliant and much more famous response, his “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” in which he effectively tears down every part of the clergymen’s plea, revealing the hypocrisy of their stance.

Those eight clergymen probably did many wonderful things while serving their parishioners throughout their careers. But the only reason anyone is talking about them in 2019 is because they signed their names to the wrong side of history. Their public plea for the “outsiders” to go away and for the insiders to be patient was supposed to deter the civil rights protests, but instead their words confirmed the NEED for demonstrations. Their letter was like a flashing neon sign that said, “WE STILL DON’T GET IT!” In fact, the only positive aspect of what the clergymen wrote is that it prompted Dr. King’s incredible response, paving the way for events that would prove other men heroic and would eventually change the face of our nation in tremendous ways.

In a similar way, the shaving cream in the trashcan last week had the opposite effect of the intent; when men reacted so harshly to a commercial that promotes positive male role models, the images of brand new razors thrown into the garbage screamed “Maybe I have the exact problem that throwing away this razor is supposed to prove that I don’t have.”

I wonder if those eight white clergymen in Birmingham, with the blessing of hindsight, would recognize that by asking the demonstrators to stop rather than joining them in the streets they were complicit in the injustices in Birmingham. I wonder if they would be embarrassed that by trying not to get involved, they actually WERE involved, and their complacence hurt people.

I wonder if the letter they wrote to their community and their place in history might have been different if they could go back in time.

I wonder if they would have been brave enough to join the protests instead of criticizing them.

I wonder if they would have been heroes.

father son sun pexels