A Year and a Half of Foot Drama (Or, How to Take the Long Road to Health)

This isn’t the blog post that I thought I’d be sharing today. Here's why:

Last weekend, I ran in the women’s race 5K. I ran the fastest time I ever have for a 5K. Now you are probably thinking, “Um, what?!” on a couple of different levels with that statement…

As many of you know, I was originally scheduled to run in the half marathon. So, you are probably wondering why in the hell I didn’t run the half marathon, especially since I was training for it (I got up to 8 miles before having to stop.) Moreover, I’m clearly doing something right if I ran my fastest 5K, right?

Short answer to this question? My skeletal structure has been off for many years, and it took a broken foot and a year and a half of additional drama to figure out what was going on with it. I’m now running with proper running form, which is why I had my fastest time ever. However, I haven’t had the time to rebuild up the atrophied muscles to a state where they could sustain a half-marathon.

Long answer to this question? Get ready for a year and a half of drama. Now, I know that this tale is long. And honestly, I could care less whether you read every word, if you skim the rest, or if you stop right now. Your choice. The rest of this blog post- I’m writing all of this for ME and for no one else. This long tale isn’t your typical tale about “hard work = success,” or a moral lesson about how extreme measures can result in unprecedented achievements. Nope, this is NOT that blog post. This is a blog post about how our bodies can mirror our personal issues and circumstances. This is a blog post about learning how to revise expectations and adapt. It’s about learning patience, perseverance, and trust.

Before I even broke my foot last May, I was having issues. During March of 2016, I actually was having a lot of problems with running. My feet would go numb within a mile after starting to run, and my calves and legs felt soooo tired when I ran. It’s really hard to describe and explain because I was in great shape when this was happening. I could climb up 20 feet of silks, I could do the splits again, and I could dance without breaking a sweat. So my cardio, strength, and flexibility were great. I had no idea why my feet were going numb and why it suddenly became sooooo difficult for me to run 4 miles. I felt really confused and scared.

Eventually, I had no choice but to seek help. I went to one chiropractor, but she wasn’t the best fit for me.  She did figure out that my calves were extraordinarily tight, and that it was this tightness that was causing the numbness in my feet and the extreme difficulty with running. However, she had no idea why my calves would become so ridiculously tight. She had me stretching them constantly…scraping the fascia off the muscles…etc. all to try and loosen them up. My calves would get loosened up a bit, but it didn’t take long before they would tighten right back up.

I had to take time off from running for awhile at the advice of this first chiropractor. I felt so sad because I had to miss our hospice’s annual 5K run, and I loved participating in the race with my coworkers. Moreover, I always speak at that event, so it felt stupid that I was speaking at it when I couldn’t run it. (Little did I know at that time that I was soon going to be taking a LONG time off running.)

Eventually, my chiro had me try running again after we worked on my calves for several weeks. And so I went for my first couple of runs that week. And it felt a bit better than before… but it still didn’t feel right. And this is literally how it happened- in such a serendipitous way. I was going on my second run attempt at Gray’s Lake, and just as I finished one lap around the lake, I thought to myself, “Maybe this is as good as it’s going to get. Maybe this is just how running is going to be for me for the rest of my life. Maybe it won’t ever feel great again.” And within 5 seconds after that thought and feeling of resignation, I stepped on the infamous twig, felt my body lurch sideways, caught all of my weight on the side of my foot, and I cracked the piss out of my 5^th metatarsal.

At first I was in significant denial when it happened. My foot hurt like a son of a gun, but I thought that I could walk it off. I mean, I had never broken a bone before, so I didn’t think that anything could actually go wrong. I actually thought at the time that I could walk it off, and then I could run another lap at Gray’s Lake. (LOL…Seriously, Anne?!?!) Well, that obviously didn’t work out. My foot was screaming in piercing pain, so I eventually hobbled to my car and drove myself home. I figured I would rest it one day, and then I would be fine by tomorrow. Again, I had never even sprained or twisted anything on my body before, so it was incomprehensible that anything “bad” really could have actually happened.

Do you notice anything different?!?!

When I got home, I iced the hell out of my foot (believe it or not, I’m actually quite proud that I had the wherewithal to know to do that. I’m telling you- I don’t injure myself hardly ever, so this whole phenomenon was quite novel to me.) It still swelled and ballooned no matter what I did. My family told me to go to the Urgent Clinic, but the clinic told me that they weren’t taking X-Rays due to the fact that it was Memorial Day. They told me to wrap it and come back the next day.

This became one of the most pathetic (but hilarious in hindsight) nights of my life. I couldn’t put any weight on my foot, and I live alone. So what did I do? I got out my volleyball knee pads, and I crawled around on my hands and knees so I could get around my apartment. It was a weird hybrid between brilliant and pathetic. I ended up having to take a sedative to sleep that night because the pain in my foot was so crippling that I could hardly think about anything else.

The next day, I woke up and immediately went to the urgent clinic. They took the X-Rays, and it was very clear I had busted my 5^th metatarsal. I got crutches and a scooter to help me get around until I could walk with just a walking boot. Suddenly, the fact that my feet would go numb when I ran- that became a moot point. I clearly wasn’t going to be running for a long time.

To speak plainly- it really freakin’ SUCKED to have a broken foot. Now, I know that everyone laughed and made fun of me for being so dramatic about it (and yes, I know that I was dramatic.) However, you also need to understand that so much of what makes me ANNE and so much of what gives me meaning and joy- it comes from my ability to be active. For example, most of my social engagements are built on some sort of activity- weekly volleyball, TGR classes, walks, swimming, boating, etc. are all centered around being able to be physically active and social with others. Additionally, being active is also how I cope with stress. I DO have a stressful job that requires me to listen to people’s pain and tears all day long. The way that I let go of that heaviness is to be physically active and not have to think about what sad stories I heard that day.

Everything changed with a broken foot. I felt so lonely because I didn’t have my normal social engagements with people. I felt more stressed out because I didn’t have the release from activities. I gained weight because I burned 90% fewer calories than I had previously. And I would get tired so much easier. I felt like I didn’t even knew myself- who the hell was this person that moved so slow, was depressed, and got tired so easily? It wasn’t Anne…the person that is full of energy and endurance. The loss of a sense of self; that loss is always one of the most difficult that we humans experience.

Remember my nasty, smelly boot!?

I tried to console myself. Okay, most broken bones take 6 weeks to heal, or 8 weeks, max. Yes, it sucked, but I would still be healed by August, and then I would still be able to enjoy part of summer. Is anyone catching a theme, here? That basically my expectations and desires were continually dashed, and I would have to confront a different reality? Well, this is a life lesson that I needed to learn in many aspects of my life, and I was forced to learn this lesson OVER, and OVER, again with my foot. It turns out that I broke one of the slowest healing bones of the body because it doesn’t receive very much blood flow. And apparently, with my body, it was even slower than most. It was NOT healed in 6-8 weeks like most breaks. My only “treat” was that finally at 12 weeks, I was allowed to wear tennis shoes instead of my nasty ass walking boot. I was far from healed, but at least I didn’t have to endure the annoyance and stench of a walking boot. So there I was- wearing tennis shoes to my professional job every day. I would wear my beloved summer skirts, and then polish off the look with ratty tennis shoes. Oy ve.

At 18 weeks, I went in for YET another X-Ray. I thought surely by now I would be healed. So, I go in for the X-Ray, the doctor comes in to talk to me, and he says that my foot is fully healed! He can’t even SEE where the break originally happened! As soon as I left the doctor’s office, I started texting everyone I knew the wonderful news. Moreover, I decided to go shopping for new shoes to celebrate. I had just picked out a pair of new shoes when my cell phone rang. It was my doctor, and he informed me that there had been a mix-up with my X-Rays that morning. My foot was still indeed cracked, and I was NOT healed. I literally wanted to cry or throw something in the store. But I didn’t, and I tried to see the humor in the situation. Of COURSE my X-Rays had been mixed up. Everything else had been a clusterfuck this past year, so why wouldn’t my X-Rays be confused? The only good news is that the doctor said I could start wearing regular shoes again, so I would at least look like a professional adult once more.

Finally, at 23 weeks, I went in for an appointment, and I was pronounced fully healed. The drama of the broken foot had started on May 30^th, 2016, and I was finally healed from it over 5 months later on November 7^th, 2016. Again, while I know that I’m dramatic, please keep in mind that most breaks heal within 6-8 weeks. TWELVE if the break is a bit stubborn. I apparently was going for some sort of world record with TWENTY-FREAKING-THREE. And please, don’t give me statements about “it could have been worse.” I work in hospice full time, so I’m perfectly aware of JUST how bad someone’s health can be. Let’s just stick with my personal situation that it was 23 weeks of hell, mmm’kay?

I started running again after the doctor gave me the clear. I felt very nervous about doing it- I still remembered how my feet had gone numb before the foot break, and I also simply hadn’t run in a long time. I started slow, but running felt fine. I smiled as I ran, and I remember thinking to myself, “I’m B\back!”

I felt so joyous at returning to running that I increased my distances without thinking too much about it. One day, I ran 7 miles, and I did it while running just under 10 minute miles. I decided on a whim that I would run another half marathon. I felt so strong and empowered. I had endured the world’s longest break, and now I was running great again. I had also increased my strength even more while my foot was broken (since lifting was the primary way I could work out), and I just felt like I was made from titanium. I eagerly signed up for the women’s half marathon, a race that was specifically designed to celebrate women’s power.

Well, again, life has…funny timing. It vaguely crossed my mind as I was increasing my distance that I had never really resolved the initial “my feet would go numb” running issue. It had been put on the back burner with the world’s longest foot break. However, I kept telling myself that maybe my calves just needed a break, and that they received one with my broken foot. They needed a break, they straightened themselves out, and it would be fine.

Well, no, it wasn’t. Most issues don’t magically go away; you really have to address the root cause. I knew this, but I didn’t want to have to deal with it yet again. I had already gone through so much with my feet and health that I couldn’t face the idea that there were more hurdles to cross. So I kept running.

Well, low and behold, I had just gotten up to running 8 miles when the same phenomenon started happening. My feet would go numb when I would run, my calves were tight, and my running times started to slow down as the tightness and numbness increased. It sucked- it felt very much like some sort of Greek tragedy where the very thing you try to avoid ends up coming to haunt you.

And so…the search for answers and assistance began again. I tried a physical therapist this time, but she was absolutely zero help. She kept trying to tell me that I wasn’t stretching my hip flexors enough, and I kept telling her that I could do the damn splits, and I knew how to stretch my hip flexors. Finally, out of desperation, I went to go see a massage therapist that I googled on a whim. At the very least, perhaps this person could provide some relief for my ridiculously tight calves. It only took him a half hour for him to immediately spot the problem. So simple…and yet…so incredibly detrimental.

The problem that had been happening this whole time is that I stand, walk, and run on the outside of my feet. I had probably been doing this for many, many years (hell, who knows if I have ever walked correctly), and it finally had caused enough damage to my muscles and skeletal system that I was feeling the tightness in my calves and numbness in my feet. Holy cow. As I listened to the massage therapist, it was like a freakin’ light bulb went off in my head. I had never realized it, but I DID walk on the outside of my feet. I was literally doing everything along the very outside of my foot; picture a line straight down from your pinkie toe to the outside of your heel. THAT’S where my weight was being placed, which is NOT where it is supposed to be.

The therapist massaged my calf muscles and put them back into place, but he told me I ultimately needed to see a chiropractor because my ankles and the rest of my joints were probably out of place. Well, I wasn’t going back to my original chiropractor; that did not work out the first time. I talked to Dissident Daughter Amy, and she informed me that her chiropractor was a miracle worker. I took her advice, and I went to go see him.

This chiropractor took x-rays and scans of my whole body. And what I saw HORRIFIED me. I’m definitely not an anatomy or biology major, but even I can see when bones are uneven and out of place. My skeletal system was all jacked up. One of my hips was one inch higher than the other, and my knees and ankles were not lined up. No wonder I was walking on the outside of my feet and everything was all screwed up! The chiropractor didn’t know how long my system had been like this, but he suspected that something had happened when I was a child and that it had obviously grown worse with each passing year. If I wanted to fix it, I was going to need to come in for several, several appointments during the first couple of months of care before being able to back off to a maintenance schedule of once a month.

Now, here’s the other issue. I don’t have great chiropractor insurance. I have AMAZING health insurance overall (because I work for a health system), but because our organization doesn’t really have any chiropractors within our system, I really don’t have much by way of insurance for chiropractic care. The chiropractor was going to do what he could to discount the visit price so that I was only paying $30 per visit (which is actually pretty damn good without insurance.) However, I was going to need to come in three times a week for over two months. Obviously, that was going to add up very quickly.

Now, some of you might be shaking your head right now. Some people don’t trust chiropractors or they don’t think that coming in that often would be necessary. But you have to understand a couple of things. First, if you saw my x-rays, you might understand why I needed so many frequent appointments during my first couple of months of care. Second, I make most of the big decisions in my life based on my intuition, and this strategy has NEVER failed me. My intuition told me that I needed to do this and it was the right decision (money be damned.) I had a feeling that this chiropractor could really help me, and I also knew that I didn’t want to screw around with my health. I’ve seen enough people struggle with chronic back pain to know that I didn’t want to be one of them; I would rather treat and prevent the issue while I was in my 30’s than pay for it with ongoing pain and issues in my 50’s.

So, when the total amount came to $1200 for two months of care, I slammed down my credit card and told them to charge it. I HAD to do it.

And again…God often takes care of us during phases when we need to grow and challenge ourselves. As luck would have it, just when I found out that I was going to need to pay all of that money for the chiropractor, I stumbled across some extra revenue. I do PRN shifts as a chaplain at the hospital occasionally. Well, it just so happened that one of their residents suddenly quit, and they were short staffed. They would be willing to pay me to do an extra on-call shift every week for two months. I would be able to earn an extra $1600 because of this. While it would have been nice to put that money toward student loans or savings, I really think that God helped influence events so that I could pay for this chiropractic care at the right time in my life. Because of the extra shifts at the hospital, I would be able to pay off my chiropractic care without going into debt. It was amazing.

So, I start going to this chiropractor. He had me take off running for two weeks while we started working on getting my body back into place. And within a couple of weeks, I already felt a HUGE difference. All of the sudden…I’m walking completely different. I can’t tell you how bizarre it felt to start walking with completely new form. I was hyperaware of it all the time; I wanted to make sure that I was not repeating the same error of walking on the outside of my feet. It felt so strange to have to relearn something that I had been doing naturally since I was two years old. Every step I took I would make sure to think to myself “proper form, proper form.” It felt completely strange and different, but RIGHT.

Finally, after 2 weeks, I was given the green light to run again. I was so excited- I thought that THIS time was really it. I had everything in place, so now I could FINALLY run! It would feel great, I would go fast…it would be awesome. The nightmare that I had been through with the past year- it was FINALLY, FINALLY, over. For realz. And so I went for my first run after seeing this chiropractor.

…I ran almost a 1 mile before I wanted to die. I had no idea what was going on, except I felt as though someone had implanted bamboo shoots in my lower legs. There is no other way to describe it. It was literally as though I was suddenly running with bamboo implants. I could tell that it wasn’t an injury type of pain. It was more like my muscles were screaming in agony….like they just couldn’t get enough oxygen or blood. I could NOT figure out what was going on. Only a couple of weeks ago, I had run 8 miles. I couldn’t have deteriorated this quickly. Moreover, the chiropractor had adjusted me to correct form?! What.the.****. I cursed everything.

I went into the chiropractor nearly in tears the next day. Here I was, thinking that I was going to be all better (or at least improved), and suddenly, I couldn’t even run a mile anymore. I mean, at least when I was running on the outside of my feet (BAD form!) I could still run at a distance. My feet may have been numb and I may have been slow, but at least I could freakin’ do it. Now, suddenly, with all of the work I had done adjusting myself, I couldn’t even run a mile. How was that possible? I was still in shape. I felt so stupid and bad about myself.

Well, it turns out that since everything was getting back into alignment, I was running with completely different form. As I had realized. The problem, however, is that this new running form was completely different than how I had been running before. It was the correct form, but it meant that I was using muscles that hadn’t been used in…..many years (if ever at all!) These muscles were incredibly, incredibly weak. This would happen to anyone that made the shift, but the difference was even more pronounced for me because I’m pretty muscular and dense. I looked at the research, and when this has happened to other people, they recommend starting off running only very, very short distances. Like a half mile. And then increasing your distance and speed by only 10% every week.

I about crapped my pants when I read all this research. On the one hand, it was comforting because other people described the same symptoms as me (calves on fire, so sore the next day they could hardly walk.) So I wasn’t an anomaly. However, if I could only increase my speed and distance by 10%....I would never be ready for the half marathon at the beginning of May.

I felt really sad when I realized this. And…if I’m honest…I also felt embarrassed. I felt embarrassed that I had told everyone that I was running a half marathon, and now, I was going to have to tell them that I wasn’t. And I felt embarrassed that my whole ordeal with my feet had lasted like a year and a half. So much time and money spent trying to figure out what was going on…it was like there was a constant new chapter in the saga. Moreover, there was a part of me that kept thinking that maybe if I pushed myself a bit harder, I would be ready in time.

But you see….this is the EXACT lesson that I needed to learn. I didn’t need to learn the lesson of “working hard results in payoff.” I’ve already learned that lesson in my life. I didn’t need to learn the lesson of “taking extreme measures to achieve success.” Again, I’ve lived and embraced that life lesson years ago

No, the lesson that I needed to learn this past 1.5 years is one of patience, perseverance, and trust. Patience: At every turn this past 1.5 years, I had expectations about how everything should turn out and on what timeline it should happen. And at every turn…I was thwarted. I had to learn to be patient. Perseverance: This is different than just simply “working hard.” To persevere meant to keep trying. And this looked different at every turn. Sometimes, perseverance meant taking some time off from running. Other times, it meant trying a different chiropractor. And still other times, it meant putting one foot in front of the other, retraining my bones and muscles to run with the proper form. It didn’t mean that I pushed myself to run 13 miles when I wasn’t ready. There was discernment and the ever-needed patience in my perseverance to know how and when to push. And, I had to learn trust. I was anxious about this issue a LOT the last 1.5 years. (Who me, anxious?) I thought I would never be able to run normal again. I really thought that running had just become a painful, difficult exercise for me, and that it would never fill me with joy or pride again. I had to learn to trust that somehow, someway- I would find my way back again.

This is such a sexy picture. Not.
But I'm RUNNING!!!

These are the exact lessons that I needed to learn in my life the past 1.5 years. Not only in my body, but it mirrored some of the other events and circumstances occurring in other areas of my life. You can’t force certain things to happen in your life, no matter how much you want them. But if you slow down, address root issues, trust yourself, and grow slowly- then life tends to grow in positive, healthy, and sustainable ways. You have to trust yourself, and you have to trust that God and your community will help you along the way. My body was telling me this, and my heart told me the same message as well. It took a lot of drama for me to finally listen to what everything in the world was telling me.

I’ve continued persevering. I’ve since watched several YouTube videos on proper running form, I’ve concentrated on correcting my foot strike, and I’ve slowly built up speed and distance. I’m finally back up to running 5 miles, and I can do it at about a 9:30 pace if I push myself. And, like I said, I ran my fastest 5K a week ago. I'm fairly confident that I can say that I'm finally, for real, on the right track. 

I still have more that I need to do. I can feel that my once atrophied muscles aren’t as strong as the rest of my body, and this means that I am still limited with my distance and speed. But the good news is that I’m on the right track, and I am growing in a positive and healthy way. I’ll get there eventually. Maybe I’ll run a half marathon this fall, maybe it will be next spring, or maybe I won’t do it for a couple of years. Honestly, I’m not really that concerned about making that decision. I’m simply excited to be running with joy again, and I’ve learned the lessons I need to learn.

Unabridged Reflections of a Fed-Up Generic Macaroni Beached Whale Mom

Right now, I dread leaving my house or even my desk at work. I just want to keep my head down and go about my business. The second I do get up and enter the general public, the comments start.

“You look so adorable!”

“Looking cute, mama.”

“How are you feeling?”

No, I am not adorable. I am not cute. How the FUCK do you think I’m feeling? I am 34 fucking weeks pregnant with twins and all I want to do is go home and crawl back into bed for the duration of this pregnancy. I am exhausted and nearly in tears each day at the thought of dealing with almost another month of this: another month of discomfort and contractions that do nothing; another month of my 5-year-old acting out and being sad that his mommy can’t go with him to the park or read to him in bed at night; another month of people staring at my stomach and reminding me that I look like a beached whale by assuring me that I look cute. There is nothing cute about this. My body has been hijacked for the last 8 months. I throw up on a regular basis. Last night I puked because I didn’t spit out my tooth paste soon enough and a little got close to the back of my throat, causing me to gag. I haven’t slept in my own bed in over 4 months. This is not cute. This is some version of hell. Don’t get me wrong – it’s worth every moment for these children I so desperately wanted for the last 4 years – but that doesn’t mean I have to revel in it.

And as much as I want them to be evicted and get my body back, this is really only the beginning. The real battle begins once they are born. That’s when the circus begins, and this time it will be amplified on account of the fact that they're twins. I already have people treating me like I’m some sort of museum exhibit. So, before you gawk at me and ask, let me just take care of the conversation for you: I’m having a boy and a girl. No, they are not identical. They were conceived by screwing and my ovaries feeling the need to over-achieve that particular month. They will be born via elective c-section in a hospital. Good for you for having vaginal, non-medicated water home birth with your midwife, but I feel more comfortable in a hospital. They will sleep in bassinets. Yes, I realize that it will be difficult to get up with two babies in the night, and no, I am not looking forward to it. No, you may not touch my stomach or, after they’re born, them.

I have actually had to provide all of these answers to people – some of whom I don’t even know. It really throws you for a loop when random strangers ask if you conceived by having sex or, implying with the question, if you endured the struggle of infertility. As if it is their business. But that is the thing: when it comes to parenting – motherhood in particular – it seems like it is everyone’s business. There are a lot of expectations piled on top of moms by, it seems like, everyone. The mommy wars are real, and they are brutal. I remember the intense shame I felt with my son when I struggled to breastfeed and ended up supplementing with formula. I was made to feel as though this was failing and that breastfeeding should have come naturally and easily. When I had to go on an extended trip for grad school when he was 9-months-old, I weaned him. One mom incredulously asked if I could have just pumped and dumped to keep my supply up while I was gone so I could resume breast feeding when I returned. Like my boobs were their business. But it stung. A lot. Clearly there was something wrong with me and I was failing as a mother. It turned out ok. He gained weight, was healthy, and is now an inquisitive, bright 5-year-old who blows me away with the things he figures out on his own. I couldn’t tell you who in his preschool class was breast or bottle fed or both.

 

Now, as I’m entering into having infants again, that fear of judgement is returning and I feel my anxiety creeping back. We live in a fairly affluent area with a lot of stay-at-home moms. I stayed at home with our son while I finished grad school and I felt incredibly out of place. We were living on a shoe string and the mom’s group I went to every other week all seemed like Stepford wives in comparison.  They were talking about planning trips to Disney and what type of soccer club to enroll their kids in while I was deciding if I could get bananas cheaper at Aldi or Hy-Vee. That was a difficult time and I felt incredibly isolated. 5 years later, my degree is finished and I have started a career that I am incredibly proud of. It’s a significant part of my identity and helps me feel fulfilled both individually and as a wife and mom.  Now, with twins coming, the question comes up a lot: Are you going to stay at home with them? It really emphasizes how much our culture has this particular picture of what motherhood “should” look like.  Like, I’m supposed to be this perfect mom who keeps the house clean, complete a Pinterest project each day, have our son doing developmentally-appropriate educational activities while I’m not shuttling him back and forth to various activities all over town to make sure he’s socially, emotionally and educationally prepared for kindergarten, serve him a well-balanced diet of organic fruits and vegetables with grass-fed, free-range, hormone-free meats that are cut into the shape of dinosaurs all while constantly having both of the babies (in their cloth diapers and bamboo onesies) constantly stuck to my breasts to ensure we are well bonded, and I’m supposed to proudly do this in public as well and post photos of myself breastfeeding and eating lactation cookies to boost my milk supply so people know that I exclusively breastfeed because pumping and using formula are clearly grounds for contacting DHS. Oh, and I have to take my baby weight off immediately and look like the Kate Middleton every day in my perfectly styled pottery barn decorated house to which my husband comes home after a hard day at work to find dinner waiting for him on the table.

Ok, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but some days I feel like that’s what people expect, and “good parenting” varies from person to person. I’m getting really tired of hearing that my version of that is somehow warped. When our son was an infant, we could not get him to sleep through the night. Whenever we would lay him down in his crib, he would wake up and cry. We were exhausted. Our pediatrician recommended letting him cry as, based on our feeding information, he was getting plenty to eat, and she gave us some tips on how to help him soothe himself to sleep. It worked for us. He’s a great sleeper to this day. He’s a very normal little boy who loves trucks and trains and dreams of someday being a construction worker and a firefighter. That particular sleep training method doesn’t work for everyone, and that’s ok. I was recently visiting a favorite children’s resale store in town. As I was perusing the racks, the clerk was talking to another mom about how horrible and damaging it was to allow children to cry it out, and how co-sleeping was so much better for children, and anyone who chose to have children cry it out were heartless. I felt my cheeks get hot and I had to bite my tongue to keep from snapping at them, defending myself, and reminding them just how stupid and insignificant their conversation was in the scope of real life. I had served as a chaplain at a children’s hospital and watched parents mourn deceased children regardless of how they fed them, where they slept and what kind of clothing they wore. Many of them had done everything “right.”  In that space, walking with bereaved parents into that very real personal hell, the mommy wars ceased to matter. At the end of the day, loving, nurturing and caring for your children in the safest and best way that works best for you is what matters. I kind of wish I had said that. I wish I had stood up for myself and my choices and reminded them that parenting takes a variety of forms, some of which don’t even involve giving birth or conceiving a child. Parenthood is not the epoch of life or the only measure of success, and neither is how you engage in that parenting be you a “crunchy, cloth-diapering, organic, homemade baby food” mom, a “stay-at-home” or “work-at-home” mom, or a “generic macaroni-and-cheese-served-in-front-of-the-TV at the end of a long work day” mom.  Having and parenting children is simply one way of living and experiencing and finding joy and meaning in life. It was what I chose, and my choice to have children and parent them the way I do makes me no better or worse than anyone else. It simply makes me a human trying to figure out who I am in the midst of my own life.

I’m not sure what the next few months will look like. I’m scared, but I’m also excited. I’m excited to meet my babies while afraid of the sleepless nights ahead. I’m sure there will be moments of doubt and second-guessing all of my choices. I will probably still feel like a beached whale and not bask in the joy of parenting, and that’s ok. I and my husband will survive. As for you, whoever you are, keep asking me questions. I will answer them honestly, and I’m sorry if you don’t like what I have to say. And there’s a good chance it will be accompanied by an eye-roll or heavily laden with sarcasm, because, really – let’s be honest - it’s none of your business. If, on my leave after they’re born, my husband comes home and our house hasn’t burned down and our babies are alive, mostly clean and healthy and my sanity is still somewhat intact and our son feels loved and included in the midst of the crazy, it will have been a good, successful day. Just as my friends who are childless-by-choice will have had a successful day by doing the things that they love and caring for the people in their lives. It’s not about how we get from point a to point b. It’s about how we love and care for others in the midst of that journey. And I would really love it if you would care for me not by asking me how I’m feeling, but by telling me that I’m doing a good job and offering to hold a baby while I breathe or shower for five minutes. That is how we can support each other –not with unsolicited advice and snobbery – but with compassion and recognizing that, no matter how we choose to live it, life is hard and beautiful all at the same time, and we need each other to get through it. I felt awkward with those stepford moms years ago in that stay-at-home moms group, but over time I came to recognize that our differences didn’t matter. I needed them. They helped me find sanity and assured me when I felt most alone. They shared with me how they struggled to breastfeed and assured me that however I fed my son was right. They came and picked him up for play dates on days when I was sick and my husband couldn’t miss work. We were at different moments in our lives and had different priorities. Today, that is still true. Despite that, they are some of my best, most supportive friends who encourage me to no end, and I am so grateful they are in my life. I hope that I am that for them, too. They taught me that it’s not about the trips to Disney or being a perfect mom who gets their kid in the right soccer league. It’s about being a decent human, loving your neighbor, and making sure whatever you grow or bring into the world reflects that as well.

To March or Not To March

Following the inauguration of President Trump, a Women's March was held in Washington D.C. The purpose of the March was to advocate legislation and policies regarding human rights and other issues, including women's rights, immigration reform, healthcare reform, the natural environment, LGBTQ rights, racial equality, freedom of religion, and workers' rights. Despite the broadly stated purpose, the March soon prompted responses from women who claimed to not support the March because they had never experienced gender bias.  The hash tag #notmymarch flooded social media. It left the impression of a divided gender, a divided front. The movement lost credibility as a result of the disagreement. As one man in the Special Forces told me, "You women need to get on the same page."

Initially, I was angry at the women who claimed they had not experienced gender bias. You see, I'm a woman who has never fit neatly in the female category. Growing up, I liked boys toys and most of my friends were boys. I was a girl picked first for kick ball on the playground, not last. I cried when I had to get a bra because I did not want to be a woman-in my small town that meant you just had babies and got married and I wanted so much more. I was punished dearly in my small town for being who I was. The girls in my elementary school became increasingly mean to me as they began to be interested in dating and I did not. One of my best friends who was a boy had to hide our friendship from his boy buds or else he would have faced ridicule. One year in either fourth or fifth grade, I had a hot pink winter coat that I was particularly proud of. I was proud of it because it was pretty and even though I liked boy things, I also did like pretty things like most girls do. Someone took a scissors and destroyed my new coat while it was hanging in the locker room. I was devastated. You see we were poor and I knew I would not be able to get another pretty pink coat. Even today this memory bothers me. Why would someone ruin the one pretty thing I had? What sort of hatred makes a person do that to someone else? I knew, even back then, that gender bias was hurtful, harmful and very effective.

And yet, I still could not entirely conform to gender norms because that was not who I was. I went on to join the Army and work in male dominated professions where I continued to encounter various forms of gender bias. You see, I can lift as much weight as a man and run faster than many men in my unit. I can't and won't change these things even when I am unwelcomed. I like shooting weapons and being strong physically. When my husband and I first started dating, I remember we went snowmobiling together and got a snowmobile stuck. He said we would have to leave it and get help because we wouldn't be able to move it. I told him, "The fuck we can't." We tried it and lifted the snowmobile together. He was in utter shock. Just the other day he told me, "You know, people have no idea how strong you are."  He is amazing and I'm so lucky to have such an understanding and non-threatened husband.

It also means I can't and won't be a traditional woman. I won't deny myself that and will not let anyone else deny me that either, no matter what gender they are. So even today, subtle bias pervades my work day.  As a result, I was incredulous when these women on social media started claiming they believed they had the same opportunities as men, or worse, did not believe women were entitled to the same opportunities. How could they say this when there us research that affirmatively demonstrates women are paid less or experience the mommy penalty in the workplace after having children? How could they not want at least a choice in pursuing these opportunities? How could they assume I would make a good stay at home mom because I was born a woman? Because trust me, my kids would probably be irreparably harmed if this asshole stayed home with them.  Brooklyn would be telling people to "Eat a dick," at age 3 and Trevor would be the 9 year old kid teaching all his friends how to string balls, fuckface and cock sucker together in a sentence. I would also be an asshole because I am terrible at unstructured child play. I can play sports and games but ask my to build legos or play babies and I'm totally flummoxed. So you see, it is better if my kids get me in smaller doses. It keeps them normal and me sane. And if you think otherwise, you probably don't know me and my demons.

I have pondered on this topic for the past three months. What I have realized, however, is that as women, we hurt ourselves in believing that our own experiences are the universal truth. Instead of incredulity, today, I am happy that there are women who have never felt the sting of discrimination. Instead of tearing these women down, which is so typical of our gender, I want to support and acknowledge their experience, not convince them they are wrong or imply and assume they have lived within gender norms or are too entrenched in patriarchy to recognize it. If they haven't experienced bias, that is awesome. It gives me hope for what may eventually be my or my daughter's experience. But, because I'm a selfish asshole, I also want the same back. My experience as a non-traditional mother, wife, soldier, lawyer, and daughter has not been easy. No one has the right to deny me that. It is MY experience and MY truth. It may be different than yours but it did happen and I have experienced it, sometimes with much emotional  pain and distress.

As I thought back to what my Special Forces friend said to me I realized he was wrong. Women don't need to want the same thing. But we do need to stop trashing those who want something different. We don't have to all be on the same page, we just have to support each other. Fuck, I don't think all men are on the same page and the fact that my friend said that to me implies that some men believe all women are the same, when we clearly are not. And so we need to change the dialogue. Instead of #notmymarch, which divided us and only made it easier for patriarchy to prevail, perhaps we could change it to #notmyexperience, which would leave open the possibility that our experiences as women are not universal.  That slight modification at least subtly recognizes that as women our experiences are as vast and diverse as we are and we aren't all the same nor want the same things.

I am reminded of the Iroquois story of the Peacemaker. The Iroquois tell a story about how they were at war until the Peacemaker brought the original Five Nations together: "he demonstrated the confederacy’s strength in unity by first taking one arrow and breaking it, then bundling five arrows together and showing how the bundle could not be broken." The Iroquois confederacy was cited as an example to emulate by founding fathers such as Benjamin Franklin, and the arrows still appear today in places such as the Onondaga seal and the 2010 US $1 coin. Women of America, I implore you to always remember the moral of this blog--united we stand, divided we fall.

This Too Shall Pass

My mom has an affinity for dispensing cliches and phrases in nearly any situation. When no one asked me to dance at one of our seventh grade dances, she assuaged my hurt with, "Every dog has its day!" (To state the obvious, this was before I didn't give a fox, solo dancing when need be in most any music venue.) When I was in college and frustrated and confused as to why a date didn't kiss me after we'd gone out, my mom voiced the bright side of this conundrum with, "Well, at least he wasn't all over you like a biting sow."

There are the old standbys that remain from my childhood and there a few new ones, my favorite being in the event the likelihood for something isn't great..."The odds are slim to none and slim just left town." (From the first time I heard her say this one, I have imagined a thin cowboy in a plaid cowboy shirt, faded jeans and black cowboy hat sauntering towards his horse to head out into the sunset). She also has a certain tone and inflection of voice for these sayings (I know my sisters know exactly what I am referring to) and has annoyed (and continues to annoy) each and every one of her children with them.

As much as I don't want to admit it, I think some of the annoyance comes from the fact that her cliches are usually somewhat on target. The annoyance has grown exponentially over the years as I have found myself repeating some of them in conversations not with my mom. Growing up, I didn't think too much about what these nuggets of wisdom meant, beyond the surface. Some of them I repeat because I think they're hilarious (the biting sow will always be one of my all time faves). There is one, however, that has remained with me and become a personal and shared mantra...this too shall pass.

My friend Dave, who has been a guest blogger for Dissident Daughters, was having a shitty week. I wanted to comfort him and during the course of our texts, I told him, this too shall pass. Lo and behold, not too long after, I was going through a rough period and, as a true friend does, Dave reminded me of my sage words and told me that this too shall pass. I remember where I was sitting at the time...these words that I had said and shared frequently sort of slapped me in the face that day. They were exactly what I needed to hear at that time.

Dave and I both love and respect words and the meaning behind them. The fact that this phrase had given us both room to breathe and the wherewithal to mentally "back up" from the situations we were faced with, in such a proximate time period, prompted us to research the origin and meaning (we were both vaguely convinced it came from The Bible). What I found when I dug farther into this beautiful statement held even more power, truth and light than what I had imagined. The phrase is thought to originate from Persian Sufi poets and there is no mention of this phrase in The Bible. The meaning of the phrase was also expanded for me.

I have only heard this phrase in times when comfort is needed...the bad, the sad, the uncomfortable, the heartbreaking...this too shall pass. This is, in and of itself, enough. However, it really became a personal mantra and something for me to live by when I found that the phrase originally meant all things, things we judge to be bad and good, will pass. In addition to providing solace in times of grief, despair, sitting through The BFG in the movie theater, the adage also advises one to be aware that happiness, "success", joy, contentment, reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part Two for the first time...these things also will pass and as such, we would be wise to enjoy these moments to the fullest and remain humble and kind through our successes (as opposed to becoming prideful and puffed up with our "successes").

There have been so many pleasant and joyful surprises that have come to me as I have gotten older...one of which is that I have lived long enough to know the truth in these words. I have survived everything in my life because I am still here now. (Sounds obvious, but really think about that-I don't think we give ourselves enough credit for the events and emotions we have come through in our lives.) Every situation in my life that I was worried about taking care of or getting out of or paying for...I may not have stuck the landing for a 10.0 but I landed. When I encounter similar situations now, I repeat my mantra (realizing that it might take a while for "this" to pass) with the knowledge that it always has passed or at least become something I can bear to live with, over time.

I'm not in the job situation I want to be in right now-I love what I do and I also want more for myself. I have had to deal with the sometimes despairing, fearful emotions, financial frustrations and kicks to self confidence that come along with trying to change career trajectories. And I tell myself, when I am in the thick of it, that this too shall pass (sometimes I have to repeat it, hear it from others and wallow for a while before it sinks in but it does sink in).

This mantra has also made me more mindful of the things I enjoy and feel I have achieved success at in my life. One timely example is the success I have found in running in the past two years. I have been running since I was 20 and I have not been very good at it. I enjoy it, that's why I keep doing it (that and it keeps the crazy at a mostly socially acceptable level). After I "accidentally" qualified for the Boston Marathon, I realized I was kind of good at running, particularly for my age group and I have medaled and been acknowledged in four runs since then, the most recent of which was Loop the Lake (8km) where I got first in my age group.

I would have kept running, anyway, but my new understanding of "this too shall pass" has put an extra spring in my step, a brighter smile on my face and a new commitment to enjoy and do all of this while I can...because at some point, this too shall pass. And I am okay with that-it is the ebb and flow of life and when something leaves, it makes room for something else to take its place. Or maybe it looks a little different as it fits in to the cycle of our lives. Of course, there is sadness that accompanies some of the passings and that is also a part of the ebb and flow of life. Eventually the sadness will become a little less and a little less and someday may even turn into something else.

I got my mantra tattooed on my arm because I want to be reminded of it every day. I had it done with a symbolic representation of the lunar cycle (I have always loved the moon, la luna) because for me, the lunar cycle is a very beautiful, very real and tangible symbol of the passage of our time here on earth. Being mindful of this has, as I said, given me the gift of being present, thoughtful, joyful and grateful for the good things in my life, which has allowed me to enjoy all of these things even more.

Life: Through the Lens of a Marathon

Hey guys! It’s been a while since I’ve posted, hell I’m not even sure I’ve posted during 2017. I think Molly Alesch and I have been the slackers of the blog lately lol. I’ll own it. Anyway, since it has been so long since I’ve posted I would like to talk about an accomplishment of mine that occurred nearing the end of 2016. For those of you that do not follow me as closely on social media, December 2016, I ran my FIRST marathon here in Memphis with my sister Jill Finken and brother-in-law, John Finken. Before I even begin to talk about what I have planned, I would first and foremost like to encourage anyone who has ever considered heck hasn’t ever considered running a marathon, to just fucking do it. It’s amazing, magical, terrifying, and shitty and the most awesome thing you will ever do. So do it.

I think one of the main reasons my marathon experience sticks out to me isn’t because of my time, isn’t because of the accomplishment in itself and it surely isn’t because it was fun. The reason this memory is so keen is because of my family. I use family very loosely because not only did my sister Anne, Dad, Niece and Nephew all came down to support Jill, John and I running in this race, but my friends Jennie and Soren and principals all came out to support me in this endeavor. It was very motivating to see their smiling faces encouraging me from the sideline when I was perhaps, hating my life, so to say.

Running a marathon is a very good example of the way life works in cycles. Sometimes we are the ones running and leading the pack while other times we are the ones that need to be ran with. At the beginning of the race, I started out strong. I started out at about an 8 minute mile. When I got to mile 8, I saw my principals. I was still feeling pretty good at this point in time and seeing them made me feel even better. My principals both hugged me and my assistant principal gave me a drink, or should I say made me, drink a sip of her mimosa for a boost of energy. I continued running and got to mile 12, the mile in which the marathoners broke away from the half marathoners. I was full of adrenaline as my mind was saying, “You’re really fucking doing this.” My adrenaline only continued to release, as right around the corner I could see my dad, Trevor (my nephew), Brooklyn (my niece) and Sister Anne. It was encouraging to hear my dad say, “Good job, Kris!” and hit Trevor’s hand for a high five. One could say I was on the “high point” of life.

Now, everyone knows that with every high point in life, there HAS to be a low point that either got you to that high point OR that is coming after the high point to only make you appreciate that high point even more. Let me tell you, MILES 13- 19 SUCKED MAJOR NUTSACK FOR ME. I’m not even kidding when I tell you I can’t even count how many times I thought about walking off the track quitting. I was exhausted mentally and physically, hurt and had minimal motivation left. Around mile 16, my brother in law, who pretty much had busted out his knee 3 weeks before the race, passed me. That gave me a little energy because I got to see a familiar face in the trenches, but was mostly defeating because the dude with the crippled knee was now taking the lead to me lmao. My mental state only became worse. I had reached my low point. Surprisingly throughout this shit storm, I never walked. I kept going through the hurt because I knew I would eventually finish.

I was coming up on mile 19 and was becoming a little anxious, as I hadn’t seen my friends, Jennie and Soren, yet. They promised me they would come and cheer me on and I was worried they had missed me. I turned the corner, I was on the street very close to my house, and I saw two familiar faces glancing out into the crowd of runners. I was filled with energy and screamed, “JENNIE!” I sped up and ran to them in tears. I gave them both hugs and said, “I’m fucking doing this!” I continued to run and keep a steady pace as I knew my family would be at mile 20 again.

I was coming up to mile 20 and my pace had wavered again because like I said running a marathon is hard. I once again see my dad standing on the side of the road. This time, I didn’t have the energy to pick up my pace. I kept my slow, consistent pace and couldn’t squeak out an excited yell. I was once again back or simply returned to a low point of life. Instead of yelling and cheering me on, my dad said, “Good pace, Kris. Let’s go.” My dad ran with me up until the end of the street where I was greeted by my sister Anne and Brooklyn’s smiling faces. My dad said, “Take over, Trev,” and Trevor proceeded to run with me for a portion of the street. He of course ran faster than I did, as he is an 8 year old ball of energy. Trevor stopped running once I got so far and my sister Anne yells out, “You’re almost there Kris! You can do it!” My friends and family didn’t necessarily get me out of my low point, but they sure as heck carried me through it and made the suck, suck a little less.

I had 6.2 more miles to do. I told myself if I could just keep putting one more foot in front of the other, I could make it. I kept a count in my head. I counted 1,2,3,4 with every step and then would start over again. I knew it was just me and the open road from here on out, as the next time I would see anyone would be the finish line. I made it to mile 23 no issue and started to falter again, until “Jju Jju On That Beat” came on the loud speaker. This immediately made me think of my students. I actually started doing the dance to the song while I was running. I dedicated mile 23 to my kids.

I eventually made it to the finish line. It’s crazy how much energy I got once I knew how close to the end I was. I think I sprinted across the finish line. My sister Jill who came in before me said, “Kris, you don’t even look tired.” I was exhausted though, it was just masked with a lot of happy emotions. As you can see, I would not have been able to complete the marathon without the support of my family and friends. Well, I could have, but it would have just sucked even more lol. A marathon captures the beautiful and not so beautiful moments of life. Sometimes you are the one who is doing the lifting (high on adrenaline and cheering with everyone) and sometimes you are the one who needs to be lifted (having your 68 year old father run with you a portion of the race). The low points may not seem as beautiful as the high points in life, but there is definitely beauty to be found within them. Peace out, blogsters <3.

Pastoral Reflections

It’s been a crazy past couple of weeks for me. I told someone that I felt as though the wind was blowing me into a million different directions these last couple of weeks- ALL at the same time. I don’t love being super busy and need to cut down on SOME stuff, but I DO like having so much variety in my life.

Some of that variety has actually included attending two funerals within the span of 2 weeks. Now, while I do work for hospice, I actually don’t attend hardly any funerals because I work with the bereaved in the time period AFTER the death of their loved one. So it’s pretty rare that I attend any funerals, much less two within two weeks. One of the funerals was for a fellow coworker at hospice, and another one of the funerals was one that I was asked to officiate.

Some of you don’t get to see the “pastoral” side of me.
You see me as the quiet and innocent girl that works

out alongside you at the gym…or as your confident professor…or your awkward/energetic friend….or the guarded girl that’s hard to get to know. I embody all of these seemingly disparate roles, and I’m aware of being perceived as all of them. The subject of how I can exist in such paradoxical ways in different contexts is a subject for another blog post.

Regardless, I’d like to share my “pastoral” side with some of you that do not have the chance to witness it. And so, for this blog post, I’m simply going to share with you the sermon that I wrote for the funeral I officiated a couple of weeks ago. This sermon says a lot about where I’m at right now in terms of thoughts and feelings of the past couple of weeks.

 This funeral was kind of a funny circumstance- I was on call for a colleague’s parish while he was out of town. This colleague informed me that no one had ever died while he was on vacation…and then…go figure…only one day after he left town, someone in his congregation died. BOOM. I was suddenly charged with planning and officiating a funeral for a man that I had never met. What the hell was I going to do? Well, as any pastor or theologian knows, there are theological insights in every life situation. It’s just a matter of mining it.

I wrote the following sermon based on the famous Ecclesiastes verse (the family chose to have that passage for the funeral.) The very last few lines- the ones that I bolded- are the ones that I based the sermon on. I changed the deceased’s name….just because. And it’s written for preaching, not for reading. But since this is a blog…you’re getting the written version.

A reading from Ecclesiastes 3: 1-15

3For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
² a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
³ a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
⁴ a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
⁵ a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
⁶ a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to throw away;
⁷ a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
⁸ a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.

9 What gain have the workers from their toil? ¹⁰I have seen the business that God has given to everyone to be busy with. ¹¹He has made everything suitable for its time; moreover, he has put a sense of past and future into their minds, yet they cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. ¹²I know that there is nothing better for them than to be happy and enjoy themselves as long as they live; ¹³moreover, it is God’s gift that all should eat and drink and take pleasure in all their toil. ¹⁴I know that whatever God does endures forever; nothing can be added to it, nor anything taken from it; God has done this, so that all should stand in awe before him. ¹⁵That which is, already has been; that which is to be, already is; and God seeks out what has gone by.

Some of you may or may not know that I am not Martin’s official pastor. Martin’s family belongs to this church, and as the reverend is out of town this week, I am filling in in his place. I am indeed a pastor; however, my particular ministry is actually with hospice- I provide support to people that are grieving the loss of a loved one. 

And so these past couple of days, I’ve been thinking pretty heavily about what I’m going to say for this homily section of Martin’s funeral service. You see, I never had the opportunity to meet Martin. I only met his family within the past week, and this was after Martin was already gone. And so unfortunately, I don’t have any special memories of my own to share about Martin. I have heard stories about him, I know some of the basics about his life, personality, and dreams- but I don’t have any of my own particular remembrances or perceptions that I can share.

What I know about Martin- I know only from his family- his daughter, his son-in-law, his daughter-in-law, and his brother.

And then- like it so often happens- I had a moment of incredible insight about just how significant it was that everything I knew about Martin came from his family. You see, I was reading the scripture text that the family picked out for this service, and one of the lines in the text simply jumped out on the page from me. It’s in the Ecclesiastes text- the first one that we read today. Verse 14, “I know that whatever God does, endures forever.”

“Everything that God does endures forever.” Everything that Martin has done- all of the lives that he has changed, all of the places that he has traveled to and lived- everything that has comprised his life- it endures forever. It goes on- it doesn’t stop- it can’t stop- there isn’t anything that can take it away. The very fact that I can know that Martin Pryor lived, the very fact that I can know that he was an educator and that he loved to go fishing with his beloved wife Amalia, the very fact that I knew that he had a witty sense of humor- it’s all evidence that everything Martin Pryor has done will endure forever. I didn’t personally know Martin Pryor. But because God’s creation is eternal and enduring, I am able to know him past the time of his earthly life. That is a power that is given to us by God, and it is a power that is awe-inspiring. Everything God does- including the creation of God’s child- Martin- it endures forever. 

And not only am I able to know about Martin Pryor and witness his life after his death, but so are others as well. Martin was an incredible educator and devoted much of his life to education. The students that he taught and the students that they will teach- Martin is the one that started that ripple effect. Martin’s ability to reach others and incite a passion for teaching and learning- that continues to influence people to this day, and it will continue well into the years to come. It makes me smile to think about his students teaching other students- to imagine the possibility of Martin teaching one of his students about elementary education in his time as a professor, and the way that that student could eventually teach young children about reading, and imagination. Who only knows where that succession of teaching would take that hypothetical child?  His family informed me that his students loved him because he empowered them to do the talking and to construct their own ideas. What a gift he was able to give them- the gift of being able to form their own identity and ideas. I can only imagine how they continued to use that in their lives as they innovated ideas in their careers and with their families. Again, what Martin Pryor has done here on earth- it endures, and there is not enough power in this world that could begin to take that away. God created Martin, and we will continue to know Martin, to hear his stories, to see how he influenced the lives of others, and to witness the ripple down effect of his teachings. What God gave endures.

The next line in that verse states that, “Nothing can be added to it.” To me, that says a couple of things. First, it’s the idea that God creates us just as we are to be. Martin was created and lived exactly how God wanted- he was God’s own creation- and thus there was nothing that could be added to Martin to make him more worthy than he already was. The second thing it also says is that Martin’s life is enough. That everything that Martin did- his teaching, his writing for the newspaper, his service in the military, the raising of his children and grandchildren, the moving over 30 times- he did so much, and there is nothing that can be added to it. Martin filled and lived his life with abundance, and there is nothing more that could make it more complete. Martin’s life was fulfilled.

And finally, the final line in that statement says that, “nor anything taken away from it.” One of the most powerful lessons that I have learned from my time in hospice is that there is nothing that is stronger than love. And death- for as heart wrenching, for as difficult, for as confusing, and for as soul-sucking as death can sometimes be- not even death has the power to take away love. Death ends earthly life, but it cannot touch love. We all sit here today, simultaneously mourning and celebrating the life of Martin Pryor. And you will leave here today, and you will still love Martin. And tomorrow, you will love Martin. And time will pass by as it is want to do, and yet- we will all still love and remember Martin. Time, death, none of it- it can’t erase Martin’s life, nor can it take away love. The beginning of Ecclesiastes talks about how there is a time and season for everything. And the very exception to those verses is love. Love doesn’t have a season. It’s beyond time, and it’s beyond death. Nothing can take away from Martin’s life and the love we have for him.

And finally, the last sentence in that Ecclesiastes reading states, “that which is, already has been; that which is to be, already is; God seeks out what has gone by.”

God is eternal and sees the world differently than us- God doesn’t see the world in terms of past, present, or future like we do. God sees all of that existing at the same time, and God sees us in our entirety. And since God always sees us in our entirety, it doesn’t matter where we are in our life- God is always seeking us, and God is always with us. And to me, this is the greatest image of all. Whether we are small children, whether we are in the middle of our life, whether we are happy, whether we are grieving, whether we are already dead- God continues to see us in our entirety, and God continues to seek to be with us. And that means that God continues to be with Martin now. That means that God continues to seek to have a relationship and closeness with Martin.

None of us know much about what heaven is like, and the Bible doesn’t actually give us much description. But that doesn’t matter. Because what we do know that God is always, always seeking us and wanting to be with us. And that means that right now, Martin continues to be with God. What that looks like precisely- we can’t know, and that’s okay. Because we know that Martin is embraced by God, and that is more than enough.

My heart breaks for us as I know that we are starting our journey of grief of missing Martin. You will continue to feel sorrow for many, many days. And my hope is that you reconcile living with that sorrow, because that sorrow is eternal love and longing, and it is a part of being human. But know that alongside that sorrow that Martin’s legacy continues to influence people every day, know that he lived life with abundance, know that nothing can take away your love of him, and know that he is embraced by God. And you, too, are will continue to be sought and embraced by God as you continue to live.

Mom

I haven’t written since 2016 and I think I’ve only written once since LJ has been born. I’ve dropped the ball on several occasions for weeks that I said that I would post, but didn’t as something inevitably consumed my week. I’m pretty much the weakest link when it comes to this sisters’ blog. And here we are again on a Thursday evening and I’m about to blow my week…yet again. I’m tired. I got little rest this past weekend as we celebrated my promotion on Friday (yay!) and St. Paddy’s Day on Saturday (fun!). LJ has been sick since Tuesday (sad face), I was out on Wednesday with him (another sad face), and now I have three billion things that I have to catch up on for work (emoji with staring big eyes). Oh, AND we are trying to put our house on the market so I’m running around every night trying to keep the place manageable for when we finally list it and have our open house. Whew.

In my head I have all these good ideas for a post (update on being a working mom, my promotion to Major, updates on LJ, a rant on the lack of maternity care in the proposed health care bill, etc)  but I’m just going to keep it short. I’m just going to write the post and consider it good enough.

Originally, when planning for my week to post, I was going to write about my promotion because I knew it would be a significant, happy event for me that I would want to remember. However, fortunately our Public Affairs office already did a pretty spectacular job capturing that on social media. So I’m just going to tell you two short stories from this weekend that left an impression on me.

The first is about the best card I received as a part of my promotion and congratulatory wishes. LJ’s daycare had “helped” him make me a card and I received it Thursday night after he got home. It read, “At work you are now a Major” on the front and on the inside it read “But at home you will always be Mom.” The damn card made me tear up. First of all, I thought it was pretty special that his daycare would take time out to make me such a personalized card. Second, it is so true. At work I wear my uniform, for the most part look somewhat put together, and for the most part have my work organized and know what I am doing. But at the end of the day, I’m still just mom. I come home and put on my robe that has spit up, food, and snot smeared all over it (see above unedited picture!). I crawl on the floor with my son. I make funny faces and babble baby talk. LJ doesn’t care what rank I wear or what I’ve accomplished at work that day. All he cares about is getting snuggles from me and that’s all that matters.

The second is about an interaction I had with another mom friend that came to our St. Paddy’s party this past weekend. She has a five month old. I haven’t seen her or met him since he was born so this was my first time seeing them together as mom and son. I could have asked what seem like the obligatory questions for a new mom: How’s he sleeping? Is he a “good” baby? However, I’ve learned from my own experience that those questions are not at all helpful. First of all, I despise how a baby’s sleep has become the holy grail of parenting. Like somehow if your kid sleeps through the night, you are a good parent. Second, what is a “good” baby anyway? One that never cries? They all cry. How can a baby be “bad”?! At any rate, I stayed away from those questions (and recommend you do too, readers!) and simply just asked how she was doing being back at work and balancing all of life’s obligations. We vented to each other for awhile and admitted to each other that most of the time we have no idea what we are doing. And at the end of the night, I made sure to tell her she was doing a great job. And the next morning, I texted her the same thing. That she was doing a great job and was an awesome mom. Because that, folks, in my experience, can mean the world when you are a mom (or a dad) in the thick of things – having someone that listens and empathizes and someone that tells us we are doing a good job.