I once read the phrase “hand-watered garden” in the book East of Eden, and now I think of it each time I water my plants. The author’s intention was to imply that the man who owned the land was a small scale farmer/rancher. He had no complicated system in place to irrigate acres of fertile soil and crops. He just had a dusty plot of land, and he grew enough to feed his family without relying on abundance. I have a few plants I water most every day of the summer. If I skip a day—just one day—the heads of my baby blue hydrangeas I planted in late Spring in the front corner flower bed will be drooping on the mulch and my tomato plants in the tall container on the patio will look dry and shriveled and the flowers in the planters on my porch—the spiky, purple Veronica, the lime green Coleus, the fire red Impatiens—will begin to wilt. I have two watering cans for this task. When we’ve had rain, I fill them up from the rain barrel situated under a downpipe, but lately I’ve been filling up my watering cans with the outdoor faucet. Once full, I carry them in each hand, sloshing and spilling my way over to the plants. Then I refill. The whole thing takes up a good part of my morning, but I don’t really mind it. Today, as I filled and hauled and poured, I remembered that phrase “hand-watered garden” and I savored this chore as if it were a consecration—a carefully performed duty made sacred by its difficulty and importance. Then I was struck by how similarly I felt about my job as a parent. When my kids were babies, I was sleep-deprived because theywouldn’t sleep. They would get their days and nights mixed up or their sore, teething gums would make them irritable and uncomfortable. Now that they are getting older, there are times whenI can’t sleep. I lie awake thinking of their hopes and their future. I worry over seen and unseen forces lurking around, waiting to pounce on their innocence. Like those 55 steps from the house to that corner flower bed, parenting is not a job that can be done from a distance. It’s not always efficient and it’s often very, very hard. Carrying all that we know about the world and how it might hurt our kids is back-breaking, but nurturing a child and walking with her through both the miserable and the glorious is thrilling. When my hydrangeas have been in the ground for a few more seasons, I won’t have to hover over them quite so much. Their roots will be secure and their stems will be stronger. I will still tend to them but in a different way. When my children are old enough to move out, I will need a new kind of strength. As John Steinbeck, also wrote in East of Eden: “Perhaps it takes courage to raise children.” #parenthood

When my youngest son gets angry, he often gets dramatically pouty. It may start with something as simple as my refusing him one more handful of potato chips. It’s like I’m a snack bartender. I’m mopping up the bar and I see someone who’s tipsy on Cool Ranch Doritos, so I throw the towel over my shoulder while explaining that I’m under mom-bligations to let a person know when he’s has had enough and suggest something to balance out the junk food like an apple. Once confronted and told “no,” he tends to go straight for the Oscar nomination for Best Whiny Pleading. If he’s feeling especially irritable, he’ll play the Runaway Card. There are some for whom running away is a serious proposition and definitely not a joke, so I would not make light of those circumstances. But for my son, it’s a calculated move. He has no intention of actually leaving our property, sometimes he only gets as far as the garage, but he’s wanting to tell me something and test my response. When one of our daughter’s was younger, she would try the same thing. She would announce her intention: “I’m leaving!” and I would set up a camping chair by the house. I would say, “I always want you to be safe, so I’m going to sit here and watch you. Make sure you can see me. If you can’t see me, you’ve gone too far.” I would watch her walk down our very long driveway maybe with a backpack or a baby doll, and when she got to the mailbox, she would turn around and come back. This is what worked for her, my strong-willed girl who had always known me and counted on me to be her mom. For our 7-year old son who’s only been a part of our family for 2 years, I have had to change tack and choose a different approach. When he marches off angrily, I know he wants to punish me. I also know that I am angry, too. I want to go inside and watch TV and let him sort it out alone. But even though my parenting correction was justified, I know that he desperately wants to be pursued. This happened last Saturday. His pouting was like a carrot on a stick leading him to the overgrown field behind our house where the weeds were as tall as he is. I sat at the patio table and watched him as he glanced back at me over his shoulder a few times. The stubborn part of my brain wanted to show him tough love and let him get eaten up by chiggers, but an image came to my mind of a different parent, a fictional father from a story Jesus told in Luke 15. We often call this parable The Prodigal Son. The main idea is that we are like this son, messing up everything and wasting what is good, then finally coming to our senses and turning back homeward. The father is our God, waiting there for us with open arms, forgiving all our stupidity. But I tend to think there are several layers to these stories, and I wonder if we are sometimes called to be the father, too. Did this father stand outside looking toward the road from town for days and weeks and months, praying that his son would come home? Did he keep his love ready for his son’s return by reminding himself that it wasn’t about him but instead about his wayward son? This is my inspiration. When I was given this job as a mom, it was an invitation to grown up, or as the Apostle Paul said in 1 Corinthians 13: “When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.” I followed my son to the field and stayed in his general proximity until his anger had subsided. (I may or may not have fibbed and said I saw a snake in the tall weeds to get him motivated.) At bedtime, my husband and I discussed with him about how to calmly tell us how he feels and how his actions will never make us stop loving him. Hours after the initial disagreement, he was finally repentant. And while this is what we parents are ultimately looking for, it became clear to me that my job is not only to work towards favorable behavioral results in my kids but to be there for every step of the process. #adoption #family #parenthood #patience

Last week the alternator in my husband Brent’s truck went out, and we had to get it towed. I met Brent in the parking lot down the road from our house where he was stranded, then he took my van and headed to work while I waited for the tow truck. When the driver arrived, he expertly backed his behemoth truck behind our vehicle and lowered the bed. He maneuvered levers and switches to release chains and hooks to attach to the undercarriage of our pickup truck. In a few moments, he had pulled the pickup onto the bed and slowly raised it to its original position. Then the driver knelt at the front of the pickup to attach a few more chains. In order to get these chains in position, he had to stick his head and half his body under the pickup. I watched in amazement as his blue jean-clad legs and leather work boots moved slightly while the rest of his movements were concealed from my view. It was like watching a lion tamer place his head in a lion’s mouth, except that instead of the threat of sharp teeth, this guy had to risk a Ford F-150 rolling over him. He escaped unscathed and invited me to join him in the cab of his tow truck. Now I have been driving for nearly 3 decades, but this was the first time I had ever had the privilege to ride in a tow truck. It was quite a leap to get to my passenger seat but once there I looked around. I saw a big box of individually-wrapped Rice Krispies Treats, a 12-pack of Gatorades (with a few missing) and a slew of bungee cords in varying colors and sizes. He asked me where I needed to have the pickup dropped off, and he put the address in his GPS device. The driver and I discussed normal things—traffic, kids, living here as opposed to living in his hometown. I complimented him on his reverse skills, especially since I’ve been teaching my teenaged girls how to drive for the last year. He said that early on he practiced frequently, first on a computer game and then on the real thing. I asked him if he was dreading the summer heat which would inevitably flare up as the day went on. His answer surprised me. “I don’t mind it at all,” he said. “I love my job. I love being outside and helping people. I work for a great company. The heat isn’t really a big deal.” I told him that he was lucky that he enjoys his profession. “I bet there’s a lot of people who wish they could say that they love their job,” I told him. His approach to his tow truck job would be helpful to be apply to everyday living: 1) Have a good attitude. 2) Figure out where you’re going. 3) Have faith even when it’s scary. 5) Practice things that are difficult. 5) Always have Rice Krispy Treats. #lifelessons

On these hot summer days, it can be difficult to find relief from the heat. Most of us have become so accustomed to A/C that even the short walk from our air-conditioned cars to the air-conditioned grocery store can leave us sweating through our clothes as we melt our way across the asphalt parking lot. When those automatic doors slide open greeting us with a gust of arctic air, we are happy once again. When we do venture outside on a hot, muggy day and the sun is beating down without a cloud in the sky, it’s not long before we start looking for cover. An umbrella or a tree or even the shaded side of a building can make such a difference, but why? We’re still outside. No mechanical flow of cool air has been introduced. All that has changed is that we’ve found something to block the sun’s powerful rays. We’ve found shade. For me, I’ve noticed a frequent desire to find shade but not just because it’s been so hot. With the world beating down on us with so much that’s too much, I’ve needed to create breaks for myself. I’ve needed to surround myself with people and thoughts and quiet moments that can block out what might leave me scorched. I’ve needed to sit on my porch without anything in my hands and just watch what’s happening in my front yard. I know I can’t stay out of the sun forever. I need to venture out and see what’s to be done and who’s to be helped. I am strong enough to stand a little heat, but I can’t let the world overwhelm me so that I’m left with heat stroke. I must apply the sunscreen of the knowledge of what is right, and I must wear the sunglasses that give me a worldview lens which puts everything in proper perspective. But when I do seek out shade, I’ll look for someone bigger than me who can cast a wide enough shadow to give me relief from those days it just gets too hot. I’ll think about Psalm 91 which reminds me that “Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty. This I declare about the Lord: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I trust him.” #peace #Trust

I didn’t always love to read as I do now, but I have always loved to be read to. My mom was a natural read-aloud reader. She used inflection and changed her voice for different characters. When I was in elementary school, she read Anne of Green Gables to my sisters and me. I can remember lying under the Christmas tree in the living room, staring up through the lighted branches as she told us about redheaded Anne breaking her slate chalkboard over Gilbert’s head for calling her Carrots. When my mom came to the part where beloved Matthew is dying in Anne’s arms, we all cried silently so we could hear what sweet words Matthew might say to his adopted daughter before he was gone. In school my teachers would often read a few pages from a book before dismissal or after lunch. Bridge to Terabithia or Tuck Everlasting or Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. Sometimes they would ask us to lay our heads on our desks while we listened. More times than I would like to admit, I’d lift my head at the end of her reading to find a drool puddle on my desk where I had become so fully engrossed in the book that I forgot to swallow. Each time a new Harry Potter book was released, my husband would read it to me in the evenings as I crocheted or folded laundry. Besides the fact that I’m partial to his baritone, it was a great way to spend time together and a multi-tasking technique. It wasn’t until the movies came out that we realized he had been pronouncing many of the British names incorrectly. When my daughters were 4-years old, I began working my way through the read-aloud chapter books I felt were essential to their education. We started with the Ramona books by Beverly Cleary, then we moved on to The Mouse and the Motorcycle and Runaway Ralph. We read through all of the Little House on the Prairie series, deciding after we finished These Happy Golden Years that Laura’s husband Almanzo had figured out romance when he built her a perfect pantry with shelves designed for her ultimate comfort. I was able to relive my childhood while reading through these classics. I still love to read to kids. I love to see their faces change when I turn a page to something surprising or silly. I love to hear them say, “Don’t stop! Keep reading!” when I finish a chapter or a page. When our youngest son came to us at age 5, he had never been read to. This, plus the fact that he didn’t know English, made me wonder if he’d share our love of books. We were happily surprised when, almost from his first day in our family, he indicated that he wanted to be read to. The simple picture books on the shelf in his room became some of his favorite things. When he didn’t understand the text, he could look at the pictures and decode the story. Often he would point to something on the page and say “What?” (one of his first English words). We would explain it in every way we could think of, even act it out, to let him know what was happening in the story. Now that he is finishing up kindergarten and starting to read himself, the excitement for books in our house is like this recent stretch of beautiful spring weather. Him sounding out words as he reads the paper books his teacher sends home is like a gentle breeze floating through open windows. And the smile on his face when he’s finished one is pure sunshine. For lists of the best read aloud books, check out the links below: http://www.scholastic.com/100BestReadAloudBooks/ https://www.goodreads.com/list/show/328.Best_Read_Aloud_Chapter_Books #children #reading

For as long as I can remember, I knew I wanted to be a mom, partly because I always enjoyed being around younger kids. I transitioned from playing with baby dolls to babysitting to working at an after-school care program to working as a certified teacher. The natural next step was becoming a mom. When your kids are little, well-meaning people will say things like, “Just wait until she’s a teenager,” as if those early, harrowing years of keeping a newborn alive or surviving toddler tantrums weren’t bad enough. This kind of mentality—the dreading of parenting teens—would seep into my thoughts as I anxiously awaited the day that my precious babies would morph into hideous creatures bent on my destruction. I gravitated toward preschoolers, not high schoolers. Then my daughters reached that pinnacle age that made them teenagers. I’m not going to say it’s been easy. Hell hath no fury like a 7th grade girl who’s having a bad day. Their moods were erratic. They suffered through the highest highs and the lowest lows. But we’ve survived middle school and nearly half of high school, so now I can say that I truly love teens. And not just mine. This weekend I was a chaperone of 55 or so teen girls on a church retreat. We drove up the side of a mountain and made our beds in cobwebby cabins full of Asian beetles tapping at the windows. It wasn’t luxurious or especially comfortable, but that’s not why we went up the mountain. The five other “chaper-moms” (and two sweet college girls) and I were there for those girls. We cooked for them and prayed with them. We helped them find misplaced sweatshirts and enthusiastically played card games with them. We laughed with them and shared with them. A deep sisterhood developed. The chaperones told the girls stories about dating our husbands and giving birth to our kids. We frankly answered questions and explained how we didn’t always get everything right. Hopefully, we showed these already loved girls that there are other women who care about them, too, casting that net of safety and protection just a little bit wider. But the beauty of weekends like these go beyond just a few days. When you reach the heart of someone who is at such a midway place like those teen years, you can see the effects and after-effects for years to come. I’ve already seen it in my daughters. They were once those younger teens, watching and following the lead of the older girls. Now they, along with their friends, are being watched and studied. They are setting the bar for how to treat others. And I know they are watching us moms, too. They are seeing how we laugh together and cry together and share our icky stuff without judgment or an ultimate need to fix everything. So when I came home and sorted through the mail, setting aside a pile of graduation invitations, I knew without a doubt that I no longer consider teens “hideous creatures bent on my destruction.” These sisters are my people. #community #friendship #leadership #parenthood

When my children were younger, I taught them to look at adults when they spoke to them. “Give her your eyes,” I would say when someone asked them questions or complimented their Sunday clothes. This is basic courtesy. It’s the foundation of face-to-face communication. When you look into the eyes of another human being, you are saying, “I am listening.” When I demonstrated for my children how to safely cross the street, I taught them to make eye contact with the drivers. “When you look at them and you know that they see you, then you can cross in front of them without worrying,” I would say as we idled at the edge of a sidewalk, making our way to school in the morning. Something happens when two sets of eyes lock. There’s a silent click that occurs, a momentary understanding, a brief acknowledgment. That moment may not translate into anything permanent or even positive. It may not get filed away as a significant memory, but there is magic in seeing and being seen. I try to practice what I preach, making eye contact with all people, even those who don’t conform to the norms of society. I try to look without staring into the eyes of the disabled. I want my eyes to speak when my words might be too clumsy. I want my smile to say “Hello! I’m happy to see you!” I want to remember the words of Robert Hensel, the man born with Spina bifida who holds the Guinness World Record for the longest non-stop wheelie in a wheelchair. He once said, “There is no greater disability in society than the inability to see a person as more.” I want to see more. I remember so clearly when I fell in love with my husband, nearly a quarter of a century ago. This was the first time I participated in the romantic equivalent of a staring contest. It seems pretty cheesy now, but in the initial puppy love phase, we would look deeply into each other’s eyes without feeling foolish or pressured to break the gaze. The more and better he knew me—the real me, not the “First Date” version—the more I could allow myself to be seen by him. During our dating years, when he sometimes saw me at less than my best—throwing up that one time or post-wisdom teeth removal with bloody gums and high on pain meds, this vulnerability became easier. We may not gaze deeply into each other’s eyes as much now, but I have been known to enter a room and stare at him while trying to remember why I came into that room. I’m not sure if that counts, but it does seem to help. Maybe he’s my North Star and his job is to realign my compass so I can get back on track. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, “Can I help you?” and I squint my eyes in concentration as if to say, “Hang on. Don’t anybody move. I’m thinking.” It’s remarkable what truly seeing can accomplish. And what a difference it can make if we just look up and give each other our eyes. #empathy

To the baby of the family, Ezzy Bear, Lieutenant Happy Face (more of a reminder to cease complaining than an actual title), Ez, Lil Man, Ketchup or Enchilada (codenames for when we’re talking about him in front of him because spelling his name sounds too much like his name): You leave no soccer ball unkicked and no question unasked and no burger uneaten. You have taught us things about ourselves and the heart’s ability to love. You make us smile when you ruffle the hair of your teammates and pat their backs to console them after a missed kick. You make us laugh when you put on your “rocky roll” shows in the basement, complete with dance moves not seen since the days of Solid Gold. You make us proud to be your family. Someone asked me recently if I am at the point in my parenting of Ezra that I truly love him as much or in the same way I love my older three. I answered something generic—I don’t really remember what—but I gave this some thought later. I decided it’s not just about love. Love implies self-sacrifice and devotion and meeting basic physical needs. My maternal instincts create this kind of love for children. It pours out of me pretty easily, like water running downstream. I love most all kids, so yes, I love (read: adore) Ezra. We help him shower and brush his teeth. We pack his lunch for school and quiz him with sight word flash cards. But wholly parenting a child who didn’t come from me is more about connection than love. I loved him before I met him, all those years he grew up without us, a world away. But now we have found connection. When he leans into me when I read him a bedtime book. When he trusts me when I offer an explanation to something confusing. When he believes me when I say everything will be okay each time I take him to the doctor’s office to get a shot. On the second anniversary of his homecoming, we marvel at all he’s learned and how he’s changed. How every time he saw an animal on TV or in person (even a squirrel), his first questions used to be: “Me touchy him? Him eaty me?” We selfishly mourn the loss of Ezra-isms like “inja” for ninja and “crocogators” for crocodiles (or alligators?) and “package” for practice and him making kissing noises to simulate a referee whistle. But we know this is a natural and positive alteration. He needs to grow and change. At this point, it just feels like he fits in our family. Looking back on our original decision to adopt, I don’t know what we expected. All I know is that God asked us to make room in our family for another kid. There have been growing pains and stretch marks as we created space for this one, but God always provided the elasticity required. Now Ezra is tethered to us in a way that can never be severed. I’m sure there are times when he’s wished for a different family—one with a mom who would let him drink Coke for supper and stay up late on school nights—but he’s stuck with us, stuck because love means commitment but also because we’re forever connected. #adoption

I’m attempting to implement a more disciplined writing schedule for myself. Seeing as how it’s been about a week since I’ve added anything new to the fictional work I’m in the middle of, I would take any schedule not defined as “sporadic” at this point. I’m a closet introvert with occasional people-pleasing tendencies that can cause my self-esteem to wobble, so I’m prone to battling some pretty ridiculous mind games. I’ve had a few things published, giving me great joy, but there’s always that little, persistent voice saying, “You won’t be able to do that again. That was a fluke.” Part of the problem is that, for me, my writing practice and eventual product can’t easily be categorized. Is it my job? Well, I don’t make enough to support myself or add much to my family’s expenses with the proceeds of my books. When someone asks me what I do for a living, I pause, wondering how pretentious it would sound to say I’m an author. Is it my hobby? Hobbies are great, but that sounds too casual. It doesn’t adequately express my attachment to this process. Is there such a thing as a jobby? Anyway… Unless I place an appropriate value and priority on my writing plan, I will always push it to the back, that dark, overlooked room in my brain where I list things like: clean the top of the refrigerator or dust the ceiling fan blades. Those are tasks that I should do but other things just seem more pressing. And then there’s the ever-present fear of failure and humiliation. When you write something and put it out for anyone to read, you invite all kinds of criticism. It’s like you’re saying: “Here’s something I’ve created and I love and I’m proud of. Please pick this apart and tell me I stink.” Another possible hindrance to choosing words for sentences and sentences for paragraphs, is the Fame Dilemma. Am I doing this for the sake of art and the chance to create something brand new or is it so I can meet Oprah? In certain circles, ambition is a dirty word, especially for women (hopefully that becomes less of a cultural issue with each passing decade). This desire for success seems innocent enough until it starts to feel wicked and vulgar, and I question why I even attempt to get anything published at all. Such is the battle being waged upon my psyche. I say all this because I’ve been thinking a lot why I started a blog in the first place way back in 2011. Originally, I wanted a place to update friends about our adoption. The 4+ years that slogged on without our son home made me rethink the purpose of my blog and ultimately find my voice. I grew to love my voice and find joy in refining the language that spoke to the hearts of others. So every once in a while, when I’m in an Ideas Desert with no words to make sentences and no sentences to make paragraphs, I feel false and empty. I plop down on the dry ground of that metaphorical desert floor and weep into my hands because all of my thoughts are jumbled and imprecise. My emotions are high and my understanding is low. And I’m afraid the fairy dust has dissolved and the magic is gone. But eventually, I discover something new I want to say and my voice returns. And I write, not because I want money (though that would be nice) or fame (is that Oprah calling?), but because words have become my favorite medium. I like to try them out, chewing them in my mouth briefly before choosing the best one for my taste. I like constructing sentences, long ones with plenty of descriptions and short ones with abbreviated emphasis. I like to look at the jagged margins where I can watch my paragraphs building a story or a series of thoughts like a staircase. I like writing, and I’m going to try to employ this quote from the legendary tennis star, Arthur Ashe: “Success is a journey, not a destination. The doing is often more important than the outcome.” Whatever this is, it is mine. My name is Abby and writing is my jobby. #creativity #learning

At the end of February, I was given the opportunity to speak at a Family Reading Night at my son’s elementary school. I spoke for about 20 minutes about different types of book genres and my writing process. I showed the kids (and their parents) examples of the books I’ve written. The kids were great listeners and asked really smart questions at the end. Before the second session started, I asked my son Ezra, who was born in Africa and added to our family almost 2 years ago, to pass out bookmarks I had brought for all of the kids in attendance. Three elementary-aged girls—two younger white girls and one older black girl—sitting at my feet, waiting for my talk to begin, noticed my black son calling a white woman “mom,” so they asked me about it. “Is he your son?” asked the older girl, probably a 5th grader. When you have an adopted child of a different race, this is a normal question and, in my experience, not usually meant unkindly, so I’ve found it’s best to just answer honestly and without a lot of details. You can always elaborate if they need more information. “Yes,” I answered. “He looks different than you, like you’re light and he’s dark,” one of the younger girls, a 1st grader, commented. “He was born in a different country, but he’s in our family now.” I wondered if they would ask the uncomfortable question: what happened to his real mom? That’s the one that makes my chest tighten up and causes me to scan the room to see if Ezra heard the question, so I can read his face. As a rule, adopted parents prefer to be considered real (It’s not like I’m invisible or anything), but I have been around the block enough to know that vocabulary sometimes fails us, and what people say isn’t always what they mean. In other words, it’s not helpful to assume people are judging the whole adoption/race thing and get yourself all worked up. But these girls didn’t ask the dreaded question, so I didn’t have to talk about the sad events in Ezra’s life with perfect strangers. Instead, these precious leaders of tomorrow had this discussion: 1st grade girl: Did you know that a long time ago dark-skinned people couldn’t go to school with light-skinned people? But Dr. King told them that was wrong. 5th grade girl: Yeah, Dr. King wasn’t president but he was still really important. He told us that we’re all the same. 1st grade girl: That’s why it doesn’t matter if your son looks different than you. 5th grade girl: You can love everybody. The other girl who had been silently listening to this enlightened discussion finally spoke. She said, “I’m excited about your talk but I feel like I’ve already learned a lot from you guys.” I jotted down the words they said before I left the school, because…come on. That’s amazing. When you start thinking we adults have really made a mess of everything, say a prayer of thanks for the kids at John Pittard Elementary School. We can get along. We can talk it out. We can learn from the mistakes of those who came before us. When kids are shown loving, mature examples of empathy and given a chance to spend time together in this kind of atmosphere, they will figure out how to make the world a better place. #adoption #children #empathy #race

I have found that the best way to get to know my kindergarten son’s friends and classmates is by making a weekly visit to eat lunch with him at his elementary school. My go-to questions when meeting these classmates for the first time are usually: “Do you have any brothers or sisters? And if so, how old are they?” and “What did you do in Special Area (art, music, library, P.E., computer) today?” I can’t get out of there without also saying something like: “You need to eat that fish sandwich or you’ll be really hungry later.” Replace fish sandwich with chicken ring thing or steak sliders or whatever else is on the menu, and you get the idea. You can’t take away my Mom-ness, even in a busy, ear-ringing lunch room with other peoples’ kids. A few weeks ago, I noticed one of the girls in my son’s class carrying her lunch tray while timidly looking for a place to sit. I watched as another student banished her with an outstretched arm and pointing finger to the far end of their table. The little girl smiled shyly, assuming they were teasing and tried to scoot back down to sit with the trio of her classmates, but she was instructed a second time to move away. With a broken heart for the crumbling kindergartener, I asked my son if I could go and sit with her instead of staying with him. He waved me off as if to say: “No biggee. I sit with you all the time,” and I headed to the other table. By then, the little girl had pushed her tray forward and laid her head on the table. We chatted for the rest of lunch as I tried to cheer her up and remind her to eat: “That chicken patty looks good! And that corn? Yum! Come on and eat up!” But I was mostly sad for how poorly people often treat each other, even little kids. Our family has been watching The Blue Planet TV shows recently. This nature series—like its forerunner, Planet Earth—shows amazing footage of animals doing unexpected things. The Blue Planet episodes are all set under or around water. One thing I found remarkable was a segment about Sand Tiger Sharks. They pointed out that they are one of the few animals which may resort to eating their own kind. Sand Tiger Sharks will hunt other fish, but if things get desperate they will turn on each other. This got me thinking about all of the times I’ve watched shows with animals in hunting parties—a pride of lions trying to take down a pack of gazelles, for instance—and even if they’re unsuccessful, they won’t attack each other. It’s like there’s something instinctive in their brains telling them not to eat a fellow lion but to keep working together instead. I’d hate to think of humans in the same category as Sand Tiger Sharks, Praying Mantis, and Black Widow Spiders—all animals who are willing to throw away any connection to their same species when mealtime rolls around. I’d rather think that we can show kids (and other adults) the best version of ourselves. Not just because we’re stronger when we work together, though that is true, but because it’s the right thing to do. And because tearing one person down brings us all down a little bit. #kindness #together

When I was in high school I was very involved in our drama club. I did just about everything for our school theater group—built and painted scenery, ran spotlights and sound, props manager, stage manager, house manager, and even assistant director. In other words, I was busy BEHIND the scenes. When our drama teacher announced that our spring production my junior year would be Rogers and Hammerstein’s The King and I, I was determined to step out from behind the curtain and participate onstage. By then, I had established a reputation for being organized and dependable—characteristics important for the backstage team. I knew what beverage our director liked in the afternoon (orange juice over ice), I knew all of the shorthand notations for blocking scenes, and I knew every inch of our theater—from the basement green room to the followspot booth. So our director was hesitant to “waste” my talents as a lowly actor. After some begging and promises to be the director’s personal gopher (the assistant to the director), she allowed me to try out with the understanding that I would have a small part, literally small because I would be a child. The King of The King and I has a slew of kids so that was the part I was aiming for, but when I checked out the audition form, I saw that the princesses had to be 5’3” or shorter. Being that I was 5’4” at the time, I lied on the form and said I was shorter so I could get that part. That was the one and only time I’ve ever lied about my height because I was too “tall”! Once I had wowed them with my average talent, they stood all of us potential princesses and princes in a line. Some at the audition were actual children, so my lie became evident. I was not 5’3”! Gasp! The director rolled her eyes at my obvious attempt at deception and consented to giving me a part, although now I would be a prince instead of a princess. When I think back to that production so many years ago, the things I remember most didn’t actually happen onstage. I remember hunting all over town to find enough black hair spray for all of the actors. I remember having to tell the director about the accident involving the huge ceramic panther statue we had borrowed from a local store and my dad’s pickup truck. Yikes! In the end, I realized I wasn’t made for acting. That just wasn’t my gift. But the beauty of being involved in a team as large and as complex as one which puts on a play is that I began to understand I didn’t have to be good at acting to be involved. I just had to be willing to play my part, even if it had nothing to do with memorizing lines. Last weekend, I saw The King and I at TPAC. It was gorgeous and moving and I loved every minute of it. I get teary every time I’m in the audience during a standing ovation, and that matinee performance got me, too. I know just a tiny bit what it feels like to be on the receiving end of that kind of applause. It produces a smile from ear-to-ear that seems to say, “Thank you for recognizing how much work it took to do this thing we love and overlooking all our imperfections along the way. And thank you for not noticing that gaping hole in the neck of that giant ceramic panther.” #talents #team