It was an innocent assignment; written in the curriculum years before the pandemic even began.
Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote a letter to children in 1947 and now it was my child’s turn:
“Write a letter to children in the future describing what life is like today for your family.”
She began with the simple facts: her age, family and hometown.
But by the second paragraph, my nine-year-old froze.
Covid-19. Living during a pandemic.
And just like that- it was all too much to bear.
It’s one thing to survive on a daily basis.
It’s another to face it in words.
The fear, the masks, the social distancing.
“Mommy, I don’t want to do this.” She cried.
I held her, told her to take a break and later said,
“We’ll do it together.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we cannot do it alone.
We do it together.
Moving Beyond The Page, Epiphany Curriculum
I can feel it in the air.
Change is a-coming.
Tonight, one of my daughters wondered aloud how it could be so dark when it was “only 7 o’clock.”
It seems like yesterday that it was light at nine.
And yet, here we are.
The constant we can always rely on:
Just as we adjust.
As soon as we settle in.
Change comes in like a thief and reminds us that if there were ever a thing to depend on it was her all along.
I can feel it in the air.
You want to know what is awesome?
They’re here, you know.
And I looked at him knowingly and nodded.
Yes, you’re right.
These are the days.
Have you ever heard the saying, “Don’t burn a bridge.’?
Well, I have. And in my history, it has meant a lot.
But at what point does holding onto burning embers do more harm than good?
Cutting them loose.
Sad, but free.
And yet . . . always wondering . . .
What if they were still there?
So count ’em twice.
Count ’em all.
And count ’em twice.
Count them all.
And count them twice.
The holidays are here and with it a storm of emotions.
Joy, anticipation, dread, and resentment all in the same room mixed with a warm and fuzzy expectation.
For some, it is a time to celebrate.
For others, sadness and anger dominates.
And yet, regardless of our buried relics, this season demands a cease fire.
Patience in the face of indignation.
Understanding in place of incredulity.
Kindness over judgement.
Because on Christmas of 1914, even the Germans and the British ascended their trenches to sing Christmas carols.
And if they can, so can we.
I’m the youngest of eight children.
Let’s allow that to sink in for a bit before I explain that I am from a “blended” family.
I’ll never forget, at 6 years-old, when my teacher asked me to draw a family tree. I looked at her with a blank stare and no idea of where to begin.
How do you explain that you are the illegitimate, love-child of an affair? Of a mother that already had one and a father that had four? How do you draw the two-step siblings you later acquired when you were just three-years old?
It was tough to draw but never tough for me to explain. I always knew my step-dad was my “dad” and my real dad was my “father”.
But not once, not ever, did I know where I belonged.
My childhood was all about trying to find my place.
Where did I fit in?
In elementary school, I attended the meeting for children of divorced parents- but mine had not yet separated.
At home, I found solace in our nucleus of 2+2, until my mom and step-dad divorced when I turned 18 and off to college I went.
My mom sold the house. My step-dad remarried into a family with two new sons and ceased contact with me.
I felt completely lost.
Thanksgiving was no longer spent with the two step-siblings I had called my brother and sister. Christmas with my half-sister was shared with her father. And holidays spent with my father’s four children had never been done.
Where did I belong?
I searched. For many years, I looked for his face, his warmth and the security of his embrace.
And finally, I found him.
And together, we created where I’ve belonged, all along.
15 minutes here, 5 minutes there. A survival technique, part of our evolution as a growing family, these stolen moments sustain and fulfill us.
It began with an infatuation. Absorbing one another like the Vitamin D saturating our skin on those endless beach days. The dust settled in my apartment as my toothbrush claimed precious real estate on his bathroom sink. His place became ours.
Time passed, my belly grew. Date nights peppered our calendar, gradually lessening in frequency as my belly grew, grew and grew again. We treasured time together on the couch if we managed to get all of them asleep before we turned in, ourselves. If not, a quick kiss or a lingering hug sufficed.
Time with mommy became time with sissies. Mommy & Me music class turned into a dance party after breakfast, time at the salon to painting nails on our bathroom floor. Time with mommy became precious.
Not as long, no. Not what it used to be.
Instead, richer, full of more hearts, sharing the beat of the same bloodline.
Stolen moments layering the patchwork of our years.