tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68402922024-03-04T23:32:11.181-05:00Toblogsharing the story.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger771125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-41349868899909081882024-01-17T22:11:00.005-05:002024-01-18T08:23:02.321-05:0047<p>Hey Al,</p><p>Today’s your 47th birthday. I feel like I should have some kind of profound perspective to share about days like today. Like I should be able to wax poetic about loss and love and time and impermanence,</p><p>Today what I felt most was sadness. And anger. And I just really want to talk to you.</p><p>I spent last weekend in Kansas City with the cottage boys. We talked about you a lot. It was the kind of talking about you that felt natural—funny stories and memories, nostalgic laughter. On Monday, as I sat in the plane waiting to take off on my connection from Detroit, for the briefest moment I found myself thinking “I can’t wait to tell Al about this weekend.” </p><p>I don’t have thoughts like that a lot any more, which makes me sad in and of itself. I suppose it means that I’m settling into this new reality, but it stung, and I was glad for a window seat that allowed me to look away and into nothing until I gathered myself again. You were <i>so</i> present in my mind during the time in KC that it only felt natural to look forward to telling you about it when I got home. I was glad to get home; your parents were here when Tobin brought me home from the airport. We ate together, and I was thankful for it, but it was you I wanted to tell silly stories to most of all.</p><p>Today was Tobin’s first day of his last semester of high school. Even as proud as you think you would be of him, it’s more. I try not to lean on him as an adult too much yet, but he is a great help. He’s in the midst of college application season and making big plans. Evan just finished his first semester of high school. He did great work in the classroom and on the soccer field, and he has his sights set on varsity goalie as soon as next season. His heart is as big and kind as when he was little, and he maintains a clear love for others that hasn’t wavered, even as he navigates what can be a big, mean high school. Lauren has jumped into clubs and activities and has the most generous gift-giving heart I’ve ever seen in someone her age. She is magnetic, and I love hearing her opinions on the music she’s discovering and listening to. She advocates for herself and speaks honestly about difficult things—I don’t think she knows how thankful I am that she is unapologetically herself, even when it would be “easier” to conform to what others might want of her. </p><p>All three of them are beautiful, evolving versions of themselves. I see much of who each of them is becoming as fruit of <i>you</i> and <i>your</i> work and love and care. They are each distinct, dynamic blessings in the lives of so many people. Through them I feel like I see and hear you most distinctly, which on days like today is maybe the greatest blessing of all.</p><p>I’m navigating a paradox of <i>knowing</i> how proud you would be of each of them and <i>feeling</i> angry that you’re not here to see it. You’re the person who has always helped me talk through things like this. </p><p>Meggie is here with me, curled up against the cold, or maybe her own sense that we’re all missing a crucial part of who each of us is. I love you, Allison, and I miss you more than I even realize myself sometimes. Thank you for more than I could ever list or say.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-33756105506715175202023-11-06T21:49:00.002-05:002023-11-06T21:52:43.428-05:00Two<p>Yesterday at church, we observed All Saints Day. Katie’s message focused on an image of the Israelites moving as a group to the Promised Land shortly after losing Moses. They had to cross the Jordan without Moses who had shepherded them there. I remember hearing that story when I was a kid as a happy one: Moses was with God and the Israelites were left in the hands of Joshua to complete the journey. </p><p>Pastor Katie’s interpretation of the passage leaned more into the pragmatic reality that the Israelites had a journey to complete, a river to cross, lives to lead, and their own paths to walk. Of course not everyone can make the whole journey, and some people have to cross the river under circumstances that they hadn’t anticipated. I appreciate that, and I find it more satisfactory than the pat, oversimplified “there’s a plan to everything” lens that my childhood self digested.</p><p>But yesterday, two years to the day since Allison died, I felt mostly indignant on Moses’ behalf and sad for the Israelites. The gap between the promise of the journey and the reality of its conclusion felt mean and capricious. I imagined the grief of those who crossed the river, simultaneously thankful to have made it and guilty to have made it without the person who was the foundation of their community. There is room for lament in the Promised Land; there has to be. There must be. To deny it feels like a commodification of the people and the process of reaching it. Moses was not a means to an end; I’ve too often allowed myself to think of him (and other people) that way.</p><p>Katie and Caleb were with us for the weekend. We hiked, ate food together, visited, played games, and spent low-key time together as a unit. They were some of the last people to be with Allison in November 2021, and their being here felt right and good and bittersweet. We visited old hangouts. We laughed and told stories. We all got to sit together in church. The kids and I have felt and continue to feel the support of so many people in person and deed, especially Al and Amy, but I acutely feel the vacuum of Allison’s absence in all of it. I feel on top of things a lot of the time, but sometimes the enormity of it all still unsettles me and returns me to the anger and indignity that dominated much of my thought for a long time. I want Allison to be an active, present part of it all.</p><p>Tobin is in a season of applying to colleges, finishing a brilliant high school career. Evan is thriving as a student and athlete at the outset of his own high school experience. Lauren is diving into activities and band and clubs, making a familiar path through middle school uniquely and brilliantly her own. Their promise seems unlimited, and on my good days I can assure myself how proud Allison is of them and how overjoyed she would be to actively participate in every component of their lives. On the harder days, I can be angry and sad and lament. There is room for lament; there has to be. There must be.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-77096539551028030452023-01-17T23:47:00.002-05:002023-01-18T00:02:42.203-05:00Birthday<p>Today is Allison’s 46th birthday. I don’t want to conjugate that any other way. </p><p>I didn’t make my 2022 goal of posting here once a month, but we’re still here. As always, some days are harder; some are easier. Today was hard for me. The kids and I talked frequently over the previous week about what/whether we wanted to do something to commemorate Allison’s birthday. One idea I had was for all of us to eat at Gocciolina, which was one of our favorite date night spots in Durham. I made reservations for the four of us and made sure that all of the kids knew that they each had veto power. As it turned out, I was the one who wasn’t up for dinner there. I haven’t been to Gocciolina since Allison died. I love the idea of taking the kids there, but the more I thought about the reality of it, the more I felt an eye-welling sense of being overwhelmed. I vetoed dinner there myself and canceled the reservation. I’d like to think that I can take the kids there eventually, but I’m trying to give myself the space to be not-ready.</p><p>We started the day with donuts from Early Bird. During the first lockdown of the pandemic, I was terrified of bringing COVID home. Since I was the only one leaving the house with any regularity, I felt especially responsible for keeping everyone—especially Allison—safe. The very first restaurant food during that lockdown was donuts from Early Bird. I remember being nervous and excited for that return to normalcy. This morning, I woke up before the kids to surprise them with donuts. The familiar place and taste felt connected to Allison. Tobin and I went to a doctor’s appointment in the morning, so we didn’t all eat donuts together, but it felt unifying to share that treat on Allison’s birthday.</p><p>I had a teacher workday and needed to go in for a while. The new semester starts tomorrow, another firm reminder that the earth still spins, the seasons still change, and inertia keeps us moving no matter how much I’ve wanted to freeze and rewind time. I usually like to visit with friends and colleagues on work days. Today, I just needed to be alone. I was grateful for a steady stream of text messages from people telling me they were thinking of Allison and the kids and me on her birthday, but each message added a little bit more emotional weight to a day (week? month? year?) heavy with it. I listened to music while I worked and made copies and prepared for new students. I listened from beginning to end to the first album I bought after we moved to Durham: Mogwai’s <i>Happy Songs for Happy People</i>. Every track was a stream of memories. I listened to that record on the drive to work during my first year at Riverside. It was on the stereo frequently in our first apartment in Chapel Hill. I remember it playing while I graded papers and Allison worked on law school homework with our newly-adopted Hannah in her lap. I teared up a few times, thankful to be alone in my classroom.</p><p>I finished enough work to justify going home. When I got home, the kids were making music, playing games, reading, and making the day their own in numerous ways. The weather was rainy and dark and cool. I was tired. I decided to lie down for a while. Meggie joined me for a nap under Allison’s favorite “magic” blanket. I fell asleep in my room to the record <i>Eno Axis </i>by H.C. McEntire.<i>. </i>Allison introduced me to H.C. McEntire after she and Danielle saw her open for the Indigo Girls at DPAC years ago. Falling asleep to a record that we both liked with Allison’s dog against my hip was more important than just a nap.</p><p>Most years, on Allison’s birthday, we would get takeout or go out to eat. I presented the same options to the kids tonight. I think Allison would have picked Naan Stop or Thai Spoon if I had to guess, but I didn’t want to dictate choices for the family tonight. The kids decided on burgers and fries from 5 Guys. We ate together and joked about the enormous servings of fries and gave Evan a hard time about eating so quickly. </p><p>After dinner, we watched a movie, then there was still enough time for some more games and play. I put up my dartboard, which I had been meaning to do for years. We had it up in our house in Woodcroft years ago. I’ve played on it with a lot of the people who sent loving messages about Allison today. It felt good to see it properly installed and to throw a few darts at it. The kids tried it out, and we even put our first small dart hole in the drywall to make it official.</p><p>The night ended like hundreds of nights ended with Allison: watching college basketball. Tonight we watched Kentucky beat Georgia. The conversations that padded the color commentary of the game ranged from the dramatic swell of the 6th grade group chat to whether Apple computers were better than Windows and everything in between. It felt almost normal. Now everyone is in bed. We’ll wake up and start new semesters at school tomorrow. It was a day of food, work, play, rest, more food, and more play. It all ebbed and flowed on memories and reminders that leaned more toward bitter on the bittersweet continuum. But it was still a day for which I’m thankful.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-40026222134579771072023-01-16T10:06:00.000-05:002023-01-16T10:06:01.809-05:00I miss you<p> On November 12, 2021, Lauren texted Allison’s phone with three words that sum up more than 90% of what I’ve wanted to say for over a year: “I miss you”</p><p>I miss you.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-58114908999684773922022-06-06T13:51:00.004-04:002022-06-08T06:39:18.069-04:00Spring Sports+<p>I have a vivid memory of my mom and dad getting excited (is that really a fair description?) about their DayPlanner calendars when I was a kid. They had dividers and inserts in their two (maybe three) ring little calendars. The notebooks were little leather books that could have been journals or devotionals. When the new year would roll around, they'd switch out the calendar pages and refill the notebooks. I wasn't curious about the contents of the calendars, but the discarding and renewing of days, weeks, and months was a process that stuck with me. Each year was different, but was populated with the same kinds of activities, meetings, and observances.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaNfbH12jMcwi1CBDKEnRB0-aJbWuEVbNtyP8blyLMvBVPS4PVjIsEwN5O_HmrKLS1Jedik2YvVscuQVQP8BANwXZMBvvEe1OZWsEAeM1mcI7LLW1Po1FAxgmHSBRL_gKBsefUazt9zseEvcCsnyZaFFFoAiv3leLkp69WJg0dXYY2IkPBXs/s649/calendar.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="382" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaNfbH12jMcwi1CBDKEnRB0-aJbWuEVbNtyP8blyLMvBVPS4PVjIsEwN5O_HmrKLS1Jedik2YvVscuQVQP8BANwXZMBvvEe1OZWsEAeM1mcI7LLW1Po1FAxgmHSBRL_gKBsefUazt9zseEvcCsnyZaFFFoAiv3leLkp69WJg0dXYY2IkPBXs/s320/calendar.jpg" width="188" /></a>Our calendar this spring was packed from mid-February through the end of May. I keep a digital calendar, but the principle is the same as my parents' calendars. About six weeks ago, a friend and I were trying to figure out when we could get together for dinner at my house. I looked at our calendar and realized the first week of June would probably be the first time I could count on free time. My DayPlanner was full. The kids played on 4 teams among them this spring. The boys completed confirmation classes at church and dedicated extra time almost every Sunday to class and study. It's apparent I didn't make time to post here during May. We were busy, but we made it happen.</p><p>Tobin's U19 soccer team had a good season. He found a permanent position in a new offensive set that helped him thrive. One of the things that amazes me about team sports is how <i>one </i>small change seems to set everything in its right place. T's team spread their offensive attack wider and worked the ball laterally more for the last 6 games or so. That small switch payed dividends: they beat teams that had bested them earlier in the year. Their fluidity on offense improved, and along with those developments, the team as a whole seemed to come together stronger than it ever had. They finished their year going undefeated in a season-end tournament on a couple of blazing-hot days in Raleigh. During the last stretch of the season, T joked that he felt like he never got subbed out at all.</p><p>Evan played two sports for two different teams. He played baseball for his middle school. He played first base most of the time, but also was a consistent relief pitcher. At one point he was leading the team in RBIs--I'm not sure what the final tally was. The competition of middle school baseball was feast or famine. He observed one evening that it seemed like his team either won by the mercy rule or lost by the mercy rule. He is excited by next season's prospects because almost every member of the starting team will be back for next year. Ev also played another season for his year-round soccer team. He excelled as goalie, and has fielded a lot of requests to move up a level of play. He had hoped to play more in the field this season so his skills there could develop, but he wound up in net most of the time. His attitude was great about it; he would admit to wishing he could play more midfield, but he also really enjoys the competition and focus of being goalie.</p><p>Lauren played "majors" softball this year, which came a year earlier than I had expected. When her tryouts put her in the majors draft (which is the highest level of Little League softball), I was a little worried whether she was big enough/fast enough/experienced enough to keep up. As I should have learned with Lauren by now, I was wrong to underestimate her. She hit 2nd in the lineup most of the season and played reliable defense in the field, mostly at 2nd base and left field. She was a little nervous and shy at the beginning of the season, but by the end was all-in. Their team started slow, but had a brilliant 6-game unbeaten streak in the middle of the season. They beat every other team in the league at least once, and even navigated some poor sportsmanship by opposing teams with grace. Her coach was consistently positive and encouraging throughout the year, and even gave Lauren an award for the way she grew into the team and her game during the year. Beyond the success of softball, Lauren also jumped in to school chorus and all-county chorus with both feet. She enjoyed music so much that she has signed up for band next semester in 6th grade. </p><p>Each one of the kids put themselves out into the world this year with a confidence and ethic that reminds me consistently of what remarkable young people they are. We still talk at home about giving ourselves room to feel and be and do what we need in the wake of Allison's passing. I half-expected that at least one of them would need to take some time off from a season or an activity. Instead, they each balanced school and sports and church and other commitments with grace and dedication that was exactly the inspiration I needed on the days when the calendar felt more daunting than I might be able to manage.</p><p>Allison would have loved all of it. Yesterday was 7 months since she passed away. Amid the regular roller coaster of emotions that accompanies our sports seasons every year, this one had a different weight every time out. Personally, I alternated between wanting to generate a kind of "do it for mom" energy and feeling profoundly sad that she wasn't in the folding chair next to me for every game and practice. Al and Amy were invaluable all season, helping ferry kids all over, and watching as many games as possible. Our friends on other teams and even from other states checked in regularly about the hustle and grind of spring sports. I'm thankful for the help and the company, but it would be dishonest to say it wasn't difficult regardless.</p><p>Now we're on to summer, another "first" to navigate. We have plans for travel and some projects on and around the house. Last night, we ate the first of what I hope will be many meals from the garden. I made a pesto that I used to make for Allison. We have peppers and tomatoes and cucumbers flowering in the garden. I've gotten to throw darts and hang out with neighbors for what feels like the first time in ages. This reprieve after a busy stretch provides a welcome contrast to the hectic pace we kept for a long stretch. Allison concluded <a href="http://www.walshsmith.com/2017/09/busy.html">a post</a> a lot like this one in a way that reminds me she is with us in more ways than I sometimes let myself think; it also highlights the contrast of this busy season with so many of the ones before: </p><blockquote><p></p><blockquote><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 13.2px;">the current fullness of our lives highlights so many things I am grateful for: healthy, able bodies; sports; community; a true partner in parenting; two vehicles; a big yard for football; jobs; good schools; and even enough hours (in some days) to make good food for my family.</span></blockquote><p></p></blockquote><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-35081076232999727212022-04-30T22:41:00.021-04:002022-05-02T11:20:22.893-04:00Algorithms<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">A discussion question I asked this week in class was “What conspiracy theories do you believe in or enjoy learning about?” The responses were the usual tired stuff: JFK killed by the CIA, faked moon landing, Illuminati, and so on. One mentioned the idea that life is a simulation, and that we’re all programs carrying out code from our programmer. It’s an idea I’ve enjoyed reading about before, from Plato’s Allegory to The Matrix and everywhere in between. </span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-7d7e71aa-7fff-1477-ba87-73a173414111"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That response made me think of the if-this-then-that programming responses that I’ve encountered over the last weeks.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I used tax software to prepare and file our taxes earlier this month. During part of the process, the program prompted whether significant changes have happened since last year. When I keyed in Allison’s passing, a pop-up window appeared. Its if-this-then-that programming expressed condolences and assured me it could help me file anyway. I was almost offended by the banality of it. I actually stopped the process and waited a couple of days to resume. A coder at some point was told to be sure to provide pop-up condolences as part of the customer service. Was that programming decision itself a reaction to someone offended that the software </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">didn’t</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> sputter regards in a previous iteration? I don’t know which would be worse, but in the moment, I felt like the struggle of the last months was more of an input variable in a simulation than real, weighted reality. </span></span><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was too stupid and too predictable and too much to deal with.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Related, I realize that I bristle at being called “Matthew” lately because no one calls me that unless it’s a legal business matter. The letters and emails that start “Dear Matthew. . .” often have their own kind of mail-merge sympathy written in. I’ve made a lot of phone calls settling accounts and notifying agencies over the last months. I told a friend that I think I’ve been offered condolences from at least three different continents. I imagine the if-this-then-that on the computer screen of the customer service worker on the other end: “Ah yes Matthew, we at International Conglomerate Incorporated are sorry for your loss.” I recently read David Bentley Hart’s </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Doors of the Sea: Where Was God in the Tsunami?</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> It’s a book about loss and tragedy and how to talk about it in a responsible way--especially from a Christian perspective. One of my key takeaways is that it’s often best to </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">not</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> say something. Having nothing to say is where the banality of commercial condolences comes in, I guess.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have my own if-this-then-that responses that sneak up on me. A couple of weeks ago, I got an email while I was at work that the principal at the kids’ elementary school was retiring. Allison used to work closely with her when she was heavily involved with the PTA. Without realizing it, my first instinct was to get out my phone and text Allison. I’ve done that for years whenever I want to share a bit of news or get a quick reaction. A friend and fellow parent from the elementary school mentioned that she would love to have Allison’s thoughts about it. So would I.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I also wanted to talk with Allison about the two concerts I’ve seen in the last week and a half. Allison didn’t always enjoy going to shows with me, but she always wanted to hear about them. When I would get in late, she would usually wake up for a minute and ask “How was it?” We would follow up the next morning about the show. She always listened with patience as I gushed or complained or tried vainly to recreate in words how it </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">felt</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and how </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I felt</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. The show I saw Tuesday was the first time I’ve been in a sold-out club in over two years. There were fleeting moments when the sound washed over me and the crowd swayed and the room shook that felt almost normal. The quiet in the car after was exceeded by the quiet of home. I wrote to a friend who asked to hear about it. There were components of the experience that felt familiar to my decades of going to shows: I was at a venue I know well, I ran into an old acquaintance, I was annoyed at another concertgoer, the music moved me, then the music ended before I wanted it to. Home always feels quiet after a show. This time moreso. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m glad that I went, and I want to continue to see concerts with regularity, but the usual progression of my concert algorithm doesn't function, and there’s a hollowness to the experience that deserves to be written about but can’t be put into words.</span></span></p><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-62243805774033037202022-03-13T22:57:00.001-04:002022-03-14T07:03:12.657-04:00Routine<p>I've spent a lot of the last few months feeling overwhelmed. For our entire relationship, Allison has always been the detail-oriented person. We joked that she was the only grown-up in the family. Having to take on all of the financial and household responsibilities over time has been a difficult, sometimes fraught transition. I realize that when I'm feeling most overwhelmed is when I feel least in control. It's most unhelpful that my default seems to be to freeze and not do anything when faced with significant stress.</p><p>A lyric I wrote for a song I recorded forever ago said "If I made up a number, I would keep it for myself / whisper it in quiet, sharing it with no one else / I'd have a piece of all the things between infinities / a little tag of something in the mess of everything." I don't know what I was thinking about at the moment I jotted that down, but now, the idea of owning a tag of something in a swirl of infinities feels like a handhold against unstoppable tides. Thoreau's line about time being a stream that we go fishing in is similar, I guess. I don't know for certain where the water comes from or where it goes, but I've got a stretch of it now that I can think on and consider.</p><p>As a kind of coping mechanism, I've found comfort in routines (handholds) that I've been able to establish. Most of them are silly, but they provide me a sense of control in a life and trajectory that still feels wobbly. Some of the routines are daily; some are weekly. </p><p>Daily: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Every morning, I make pour-over coffee and allow myself at least a few minutes to sit and sip it. I like the process: the boiling sound on the stovetop, the bloom of the grounds under hot water, and the quiet moments on the couch at the beginning of a day. A few years ago, I was struck by the paradox of the uniqueness of each day--even when the activity was the same. I started <a href="https://photos.app.goo.gl/P6YwW5cKiARCnjqv9">taking a picture</a> of the bottom of my coffee cup every morning. No two are alike, but I might mistakenly think they were. Beyond the paradox of same/different in the same activity, whatever complaints I have, I almost always have the provision of time and coffee and a few moments at the beginning of my day that I can stake claim to.</li><li>During the first COVID lockdown, I started completing the <i>New York Times</i> daily crossword. Almost every day for the last two years, I've found time to solve a puzzle and escape for a bit into mental effort that exists only for its own intrinsic value. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzUT2i9zntkyDzmzibTptnpxQMsPuaojgXE1LAfwUT6brEN3IhypIhQeEj8OIlbcwm2dt3Lb1Owxo9oJEmnjt90ZO495rbmTUonUQyY4vavRJr-5UHw5LldsmKxfethMDVvBrs_TvdS-ZKjZc6qA14Y52sFcdJIilHFDTqMxzUQUYdit8SyUY=s960" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzUT2i9zntkyDzmzibTptnpxQMsPuaojgXE1LAfwUT6brEN3IhypIhQeEj8OIlbcwm2dt3Lb1Owxo9oJEmnjt90ZO495rbmTUonUQyY4vavRJr-5UHw5LldsmKxfethMDVvBrs_TvdS-ZKjZc6qA14Y52sFcdJIilHFDTqMxzUQUYdit8SyUY=w391-h220" width="391" /></a></div><br /></li><li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For the better part of 7 years, I've had a daily alarm at 12:34pm that reminds me to take a deep breath and think about something for which I'm thankful. The last 4 months have been the most difficult in this process because my thoughts often drift to bitterness at our loss and the indignity of Allison's disease. Still, my alarm goes off every day. Today, I was at a softball practice watching Lauren confidently work on her form as a pitcher on a new team. Today, I'm thankful for the leadership of my children, who intuitively look forward for the new opportunities and experiences coming rather than looking back at time that can never be retrieved.</div></li><li><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Every night, before the kids go to bed, I take their breakfast orders and ask them what time they need to wake up. Through this, I've been able to hone my omelet skills and help each of them figure out their own routines with which to start the days.</div></li></ul><div>Weekly</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Every weekend, I bake or cook breakfast for the kids. My repertoire is small, but I've reached a point where I don't need to look at recipes for different quick breads, muffins, pancakes, or biscuits. I used to be in awe of my grandma, who could provide food for us, whisking and kneading without guidance beyond her own hands and mind. I hope that I may faithfully replicate at least some component of that for my kids.</li><li>Every Friday is "bagel day" before school. It's a small celebration of making it to the end of another week.</li><li>Every Sunday, I try to cook dinner for the four of us and Allison's parents at our house. I find that I think of Allison almost the whole time I'm in the kitchen on those days. Today, I prepared a potato-kale soup and a salad with crusty Italian bread. It's the kind of meal Allison loved to prepare for us.</li><li>Every Wednesday, the kids and I eat at Allison's parents' house. Amy asks the kids what they want to eat, and we eat and fellowship together. This was a tradition we started after Al and Amy moved here. I'm glad we've maintained the tradition, but there are nights after those meals when our house feels especially empty after we get home.</li><li>I have reminders and calendar alerts set up throughout the week to water the houseplants, pay bills, take out the trash, check accounts, and many others. It's almost ridiculous how much I rely on my smart phone and digital calendars.</li><li>Thursday and Sunday are my big laundry days. Athletic uniforms and other unexpected needs pop up, but those are days I set aside for folding and delivering while I watch TV or listen to music.</li><li>I try to make sure I listen to at least one record from beginning to end every week. Often, it's while I make dinner or fold laundry, but I feel again like it's a little mark in time that I can make mine. This weekend, I was able to listen to multiple records because weather canceled a lot of our outdoor plans.</li></ul><div>People ask "How are you doing?" frequently. I usually answer, "I think I'm doing ok." That's the most honest response I can give. I have handholds each day that make me feel like I can manage. I have moments when a deluge of tasks or responsibilities feels like it might sweep me away. When I'm asked to give a blessing before a meal, or when I think to say one, I find myself falling back on a prayer that I've borrowed from Sara Miles: "God of provision and abundance, you feed us every day. Thank you. Guide us, help us, and teach us that we might also feed others in your name. Amen."</div></div><div><br /></div><div>My prayer, today and every day, is that I love and provide and laugh and cry as fully as I am able for as long as I am able.</div><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-59426901017338458832022-02-05T17:44:00.006-05:002022-02-05T17:48:33.149-05:00Three months<p>Today is three months since Allison died. I have a lot of things that I want to say, but I find myself deleting them almost as quickly as I type them. Nothing seems to match what I'm feeling. Being at a loss for words is pretty new to me, and it's the kind of frustration that I usually would take to her to ask what she thinks.</p><p>One of the things I've done today is go through the memories and stories that people shared on <a href="https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSejGFz35ZcYvE46ai8agFSujqmzuAsZsM1vExeqUAJQSY_eGA/viewform?usp=sf_link" target="_blank">a form</a> I made before her memorial service. My intent then was to share those ideas with people who attended the service, but like a lot of things, it didn't work out the way I planned it. </p><p>So instead of recapping the ups and downs of where I find myself personally on a day like this, here are a few of the memories that friends and family shared about Allison around the time of her memorial service.</p><p>I've excerpted and anonymized them in case people would prefer their names not be published online.</p><p>--------------</p><blockquote><p><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Allison was so absent of pretense that she moved through the world in a way that was uncommonly pure, open, loving and vulnerable. I never asked her if she thought she was remarkable. I assume she would have said “no.” I would have disagreed. I hope one of her many abiding gifts is that some of her stardust will linger, guide, and bend me toward her unashamed and reverent posture toward the beauty and gifts that are, always, present.</span></p></blockquote><p><span>---------------</span></p><blockquote><span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Allison was the first person that demonstrated to me that you could be a Christian and socially progressive--</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">be a Christian and love gay people, care about justice and rights of all people, and also love Jesus.</span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"> </span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">For me, in 2002 in the South, it was kind of earth-shaking. So now, as someone who manages the finances for my church and services as a community justice organizer on behalf of the same church, I feel grateful for my conversations with Allison hunched in our tiny windowless office as we ate our leftovers.</span></span></blockquote><p><span>----------------</span></p><blockquote><p><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Quiet and demure Al surprised us from time to time: I will never hear Cardi B without seeing Al dancing on the dock in Three Lakes. Intermixed with many joys, our friend-family has helped each other through many sorrows. Throughout these impossibly tough times, I have been so grateful to Matt and Al for their openness and honesty and grace, for letting us in and allowing us to feel helpful and connected even as we’ve been so powerless to do the one thing we know they longed for – making Al healthy. </span></p></blockquote><p><span>-----------------</span></p><blockquote><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Allison has been a guidepost on parenting for me. Seeing Allison parent her kids out of love and gentleness showed me the kind of mom I’d like to be, gentle and kind and filled with adoration for her children. Allison’s warmth for others, especially my family, has been so meaningful to watch. She has shared marriage advice (men never pick up their socks) and parenting advice (it’s hard now and it gets easier but it’s ok to cry now) that has stuck with me. </span></blockquote><p><span>-----------------</span></p><blockquote><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Allison appreciated and sought the best in each day, and I was so impressed by and proud of her for making this extraordinary effort to witness to the importance of human dignity during these fraught political times. She gave fully, and I am so thankful for her goodness, commitment, and witness—whether marching for truth and decency, or for loving and serving her family and community so well.</span></blockquote><p><span>---------------</span></p><p><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;"></span></p><blockquote><span>I remember so many conversations with Al, ranging from the really big, important questions (parenting, racial politics) to the even more important (tabloid news). Al was in for all of it. As someone who tends to rush to quick and passionate opinions, I appreciated Allison's more considered approach, which always tended to the generous - she looks at things from multiple perspectives, slow to judge or consider people 'wrong', even if she disagrees.</span></blockquote><p></p><p><span>-----------------</span></p><blockquote><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">Allison may not realize how much she taught me just by her example of a good person. The years I have known her seem too short of time. But I do know her, and I love the person she is. The small interactions that seem insignificant are what I cherish most.</span></blockquote><p><span>-----------------</span></p><blockquote><span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">I met Allison shortly after she started treatment. Her smile, quiet wisdom, grace and love for her family were apparent from day 1. I am grateful for her friendship through support group and beyond. I have been rereading her blog post <a href="https://www.walshsmith.com/2016/06/heart.html" target="_blank">"Heart"</a>. </span><span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; letter-spacing: 0.2px;">As Allison wrote, "I hope that my open heart will lead me to the next loving step in my journey."</span></span><p><br /></p></blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-79000622987666924232022-01-11T15:36:00.006-05:002022-01-11T20:43:43.178-05:00Circles<div class="separator"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">In class, when I talk about symbolism, I mention the metaphorical weight we assign to objects. I often use my wedding band as an example. What is it? Metal, formed into a circle. It has scratches and nicks on it after two-plus decades on my finger. It will eventually get lost or melted or broken. It exists, as all physical things exist, but the symbolism of it exists independent of its physical form. I talk about the infinite nature of a circle: a beginning that also contains its end, blurring the two into a singular form that is simultaneously dynamic and static. A perfect circle, independent of its physical manifestation.</span></div><div class="separator"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-36d222c3-7fff-a9f6-22fb-3d1538a6159f" style="font-family: times;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve found myself thinking about circles and finitude and infinitude a lot over the last weeks. Presence without physical form; symbolic weight absent a concrete object. Existence without beginning or end.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A couple of weeks ago on my birthday, the first since my 18th that I haven’t shared in at least some way with Allison, I decided to pay special attention to circles and the quiet reminders of a continuum that exists without clear beginning or end. Here are a few of the circles that I captured during the course of my 45th birthday:</span></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinP_URo4FUb-xH1rCTtH_q63l7clGNBezMHUYBX_A_6Y6e7vOxBgxqjGUG9eqgXOjLeEaON5hL--mCHqV8uhTQhmHhZgbm6slj3jR0_qUYPEfVUHLhfAE6OdsO8LBkUxKD2gSRoxuIA27kFylqh4UW_6M_fwybqfBh6W3QIjKawRUE5ItJumY=s3024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinP_URo4FUb-xH1rCTtH_q63l7clGNBezMHUYBX_A_6Y6e7vOxBgxqjGUG9eqgXOjLeEaON5hL--mCHqV8uhTQhmHhZgbm6slj3jR0_qUYPEfVUHLhfAE6OdsO8LBkUxKD2gSRoxuIA27kFylqh4UW_6M_fwybqfBh6W3QIjKawRUE5ItJumY=w260-h260" width="260" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhbyLY9BNUPGCXs5TNesJBxbqcNU2pjpWmJq8ebBOZkeZJi_RRw0iH07EBPXq1XGqWO8JtpjZiWZTe88X7oFI9dB-NgxzaFIfWUVah7K8Igshd1Fx5MCs788zKBu7k3N12MmbPg_24semEoP0mhHGCzBW4NqM-82CzVW69sg4y_uANxVS_ySQ=s3024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhbyLY9BNUPGCXs5TNesJBxbqcNU2pjpWmJq8ebBOZkeZJi_RRw0iH07EBPXq1XGqWO8JtpjZiWZTe88X7oFI9dB-NgxzaFIfWUVah7K8Igshd1Fx5MCs788zKBu7k3N12MmbPg_24semEoP0mhHGCzBW4NqM-82CzVW69sg4y_uANxVS_ySQ=w258-h258" width="258" /></a></span><div><span style="font-family: times;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixgSn09yPCS4nfa7YHNX1LyaUqWNF2aPejMhE3MAK44bZHYZY2-xZGTI0YUzQPEiocgB0cQDYGlGN9YmzFMRP9-HhAbck2ZiZ9DJsz9WJrRYJ7mQR-52c_PJeNFrvB4B8VTufK83BzSrcSO_SCorEEd4K6u6h57dq7vYVU4vL8QVC-Dw8BK84=s3024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixgSn09yPCS4nfa7YHNX1LyaUqWNF2aPejMhE3MAK44bZHYZY2-xZGTI0YUzQPEiocgB0cQDYGlGN9YmzFMRP9-HhAbck2ZiZ9DJsz9WJrRYJ7mQR-52c_PJeNFrvB4B8VTufK83BzSrcSO_SCorEEd4K6u6h57dq7vYVU4vL8QVC-Dw8BK84=w259-h259" width="259" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiljTCvr_4n7KxWyE_kXSk1aQNvcfk2Cd2GL4vzu_EAQLT1dn9twgkonvsuOG6qTCfEwbeYPMmI2bcZ5mA4iM0zVC4cimTwdJ_bmLhOY5VIjvGrXdUYk13wBPZnq09s_rI5loOML3tz9BlsNVD4MsGY51GuwYV9913qIQo20KylGZbL8mRazRE=s3024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiljTCvr_4n7KxWyE_kXSk1aQNvcfk2Cd2GL4vzu_EAQLT1dn9twgkonvsuOG6qTCfEwbeYPMmI2bcZ5mA4iM0zVC4cimTwdJ_bmLhOY5VIjvGrXdUYk13wBPZnq09s_rI5loOML3tz9BlsNVD4MsGY51GuwYV9913qIQo20KylGZbL8mRazRE=w259-h259" width="259" /></a><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhz-z_gmnWkxrUxVDgNHEKZz7edDn9Qu1-idrXwWVoLxongp13eFqoWLheu3fUqL0qrVY1Ip4VT64DBAfgPQMqMz7MOt24cY2FQSwebV__6Wp9HEhpJ9ksdSf7nxwX9_Op9ieM-PceI9--MDWjtj1RWc32F064sp6IUQB8ZRc4a0Tis5aU05sc=s3024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhz-z_gmnWkxrUxVDgNHEKZz7edDn9Qu1-idrXwWVoLxongp13eFqoWLheu3fUqL0qrVY1Ip4VT64DBAfgPQMqMz7MOt24cY2FQSwebV__6Wp9HEhpJ9ksdSf7nxwX9_Op9ieM-PceI9--MDWjtj1RWc32F064sp6IUQB8ZRc4a0Tis5aU05sc=w259-h259" width="259" /></a><span><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Metaphorically, the circles outlined hydration, sustenance, activity, and mindful reflection. The unbrokenness of the circles I noticed feels at odds with what feels acutely broken in my life and my conception of it and its trajectory. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Symbolism is an abstraction, but it </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">exists</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, present tense. So do memories and feelings. In my better moments, I’m able to cherish the wealth of memories we have in a closed circle of the time we had as a family of 2, 3, 4, and 5. On my difficult days, I try my best to remember what Allison often said, written clearly in 2015 on the second anniversary of her initial diagnosis: </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><blockquote>I try very hard to stay grounded in each moment. It's hard work, and some days--many, actually--I do a bad job at it. But part of my continued efforts to take better care of and be kinder to myself have yielded the understanding that even my bad days with their fear, anxiety, sadness and/or anger can teach me something. Each new day is another opportunity to learn more and hopefully do better.</blockquote></span></span></div><div><p></p></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-87332668853595101322021-12-05T22:14:00.006-05:002022-02-05T17:55:58.975-05:00"Mary's Room"<p>Over the last weeks, I've thought frequently about a thought experiment called "Mary's Room," attributed to Frank Jackson. It's an illustration of the "knowledge argument." Basically, an imaginary Mary is a brilliant scientist who lives in a completely black-and-white room, one that she has never left in her life. She has all of the scientific knowledge of color and the spectrum of light and how the human eye captures and translates color to the brain. She knows how and why the brain "sees" red and green and blue and all of the other colors. Still, she has never <i>experienced</i> seeing color. Frank Jackson finishes his hypothetical scenario by posing the question: what happens when Mary goes outside into the colorful world? Does her <i>experience </i>of seeing color enhance her knowledge? Has she learned anything new? Or does the reality of color merely reinforce and affirm her prior knowledge, adding nothing to her prior understanding?</p><p>I believe Mary experiences <i>new</i> knowledge through experience. I think her abstract understanding of color and light only provides scaffolding for the less-quantifiable <i>experience</i> of color. These are "qualia," the non-physical components of knowledge that can only be learned through experience.</p><p>I first encountered Mary's Room after a long stretch of thinking about empathy and experience as vital components of human community. Some of the most comforting assurances I've received from others about a range of experience: parenthood, marriage, grief, etc. have come from people <i>who have experienced </i>the phenomena they're talking about. For instance, when my dad died, a friend of mine offered to talk (or not talk) about anything or nothing and provide a space where grief wasn't a present part of our discussions and activities. He had lost his own mother a few years before, and knew from experience that the grieving are often the hub of a wheel of grief with as many spokes as there are well-meaning friends offering condolences. He shared further that part of his epiphany about giving space and offering windows away from that ever-present grief came while he was in divinity school. He felt like the loss of his mom provided his fellow students with a learning lab to try out pastoral counseling and comforting, academic explanations of the experience of grief and meaning. At that point, the abstraction of a friend or acquaintance experiencing grief provided the chance for practical application--a laboratory for applying non-experiential knowledge. In my friend's experience, it was exhausting, a steady offering of pat answers and platitudinous, hollow assurances of the ultimate justice of God's creation. It was Mary's confident articulation of the reality of color without the grounding of her <i>experience</i> of color.</p><p>I learned from him and from my own experience navigating the grief at my dad's death. I can't and don't articulate a lot of the rote responses I grew up hearing: "God is good all the time" being chief among them. While abstractly and contextually true, I feel like those kinds of sentiments too often land as "Stop your grieving right now and move on." It's never <i>intended</i> that way, but the conflict between the abstraction and experience too often steals the grace from the sentiment. I find that people who have experienced that kind of grief themselves are slower to offer such ideas.</p><p>I've known for years that cancer would most likely take Allison from us. I tried to avoid imagining what life without her would be like, but I still wondered. I know academically and scientifically about grief and how it affects most people. I know Allison is loved, and that people would rally to all of us when Allison passed away. The reality of each and every component of the experience: having to share the news with family and friends, the acute physical pain of loss, the sleep disruption, the anger, the confusion, and the paradoxical joy and misery of seeing and hearing from so many loved ones constitute an experiential knowledge, a collection of qualia that together transcend whatever preparation and knowledge I might have had before. I imagine Mary being awed and overwhelmed and startled by the reality of the colors she encountered. How could she not be?</p><p>Today is one month since Allison died. This blog has been a place for sharing the full range of emotions and experiences we've navigated since becoming parents. We decided together not to chronicle the roller coaster of Allison's metastatic diagnosis and treatment here. Our writing has been more private for the last few years, or we've written in other places for other audiences instead.</p><p>I feel different now (at least as I feel led today). I want to make this a regular place for sharing and reflection again. It's now my intent to write here at least once a month, and to allow the subject matter and content to come naturally to me, as Mary's Room has today. </p><p>Two values have especially guided the way Allison and I have traveled the last few years: 1) finding time every day to be grateful for the provisions and blessings of our lives, even when they seemed slight when contrasted with larger fears and concerns, and 2) being honest, even when it means being honest with Lauren, Evan, and Tobin about incurable metastatic disease and the reality of death and loss. It is my hope, today and every day, that I can continue to uphold those values, even when it's difficult to do so.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-56872205391725748782017-12-28T21:12:00.000-05:002018-01-01T21:37:19.593-05:002017<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/allisonandmatt/39360698171/in/dateposted-public/" title="fall fam"><img alt="fall fam" height="500" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4634/39360698171_8bf52ca878.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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As we approach the end of another year, I'm feeling many things: Relief that the busyness of Christmas is complete. Sadness that our time with our out-of-town family is fleeting. Hopeful about being home again and the feeling of a fresh start that a New Year brings. Anxiety about many things, close to home and in our larger community.<br />
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Of course, I'm grateful, too. I'm thankful to have marked another year. Matt and the kids are my world, and they are mostly happy and very healthy. That is huge. But the flip slide of gratitude is the always-present knowledge of the fragility of it all. I try to mindful of what is good and right in front of us in this moment.<br />
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Yesterday, I was in the bathroom with Lauren at Matt's aunt and uncle's house. There was a sign that said, "In all things, give thanks." Lauren, as she is apt to do--even while sitting on the toilet--read the sign and proceeded to scrutinize it. She said, "Mom, what does that even mean?" I said, "Well, I think it means, no matter what happens we should be thankful. Like say, even if you were sick, you should be thankful." Lala scrunched up her nose, narrowed her eyes, and asked indignantly, "Why would I EVER be thankful to be sick?!?"<br />
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I realized she was right. I hadn't quite captured the sentiment correctly. So I tried again: "I think it means that, you don't need to be grateful for being sick, but when you're sick, you can find something to be grateful for." Lauren then wondered, "Like how it's nice how you take care of me when I'm sick?" And I said, "I think that's it, exactly."<br />
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I close this year, thankful for each of you who has taken the time to read another year of our reflections on gratitude. Life is beautiful and difficult; some days it feels more one than the other. I hope that we can continue to find some love, some light even in the darkest times--or at least resolve to look for them again tomorrow.<br />
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<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/allisonandmatt/39360698371/in/dateposted-public/" title="christmas smiths"><img alt="christmas smiths" height="500" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4731/39360698371_40bd56ee24.jpg" width="500" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-31251027478739912352017-12-21T15:18:00.000-05:002017-12-24T16:15:13.609-05:00Trippin'Lately, I've been caught up dwelling a little on how short our Christmas break feels. The last two years have had school calendars that make our family winter tour feel accelerated, meaning that travel feels more stressful than usual. I have family and friends who don't have near the time that we usually have as a family, though. I'm thankful to be hitting the road for the holidays again, and thankful that we have the time and means to do so.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-66524322771487105462017-12-14T20:56:00.000-05:002017-12-14T20:56:19.622-05:00RestWhile life always has a certain amount of busyness for us, all things considered, this is a restful time for us. The shorter daylight hours force us inside and, lately, dinner has been followed by board games. We take a break from sports in the winter, so afternoons and evenings are more open and relaxed than when we are in season.<br />
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We do still run around quite a bit--like tonight. We had a school dinner to which we took separate cars, because Matt had a meeting to go to at 7:00. On the way home, with just the kids and me, I took some extra time to drive around our neighborhood and let the kids see the holiday lights. It was a nice, leisurely excursion that allowed us to take a moment and appreciate some of the wonder of the season.<br />
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When we got home, Lauren was a bit distraught, because she has a "very, very wiggly" tooth. She let me try to wiggle it (not my fav thing) and tried to eat an apple (that's how she lost her first tooth). Alas, the loose tooth remained attached. I suggested that she could go to bed and try again in the morning. She managed a tearful "OK" and headed off to bed. I'm thankful that she understands in her own way that sleep is restorative, and things will be better in the morning.<br />
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As usual, I am a bit overwhelmed by the holiday season. I've got many to-do lists running through my head--only half of which I manage to write down. Though there's plenty of stuff pending, I've slowly but surely checked a few big items off some of the lists this week. And now I've reached the time of the day when I will choose to wind down and rest. I might address a few Christmas cards, or go to bed early. I'm grateful for both the opportunity to rest and my own understanding, in this moment, it is what I need most.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-57389856771767078622017-12-07T21:27:00.000-05:002017-12-07T21:27:05.764-05:00HolidaysI've been especially aware of the bittersweet nature of the holiday season this year. I'm thankful for traditions and memories and comfort foods and time with family, but I've spent a lot of time thinking about my dad and my grandparents and the way that time slips by. My own kids are old enough to have their own memories of Thanksgiving and Christmas traditions. And I'm old enough (and young enough?) to remember this season at their ages. Many of the memories I have are of people no longer with us, though. I know that's the nature of life, but it's a steady pang that underlies November and December for me.<div>
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I have years of happy, loud, fun memories of Thanksgiving and Christmas, but I also have weighty ones of funerals and numbness and a vague awareness that I was supposed to compartmentalize my feelings to preserve my cheer or gratitude. Holidays are complicated. Life is complicated. Sometimes life seems as mean as it seems wonderful. On my optimistic days, that juxtaposition enhances the joy of being with loved ones and the joy of tradition. On my less optimistic days, it makes me feel like life is a slow, inescapable march of loss.</div>
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A friend whose parent had recently passed asked me once "How long does it take to get over it?" I wanted to give a pat, satisfactory answer, but I don't have one. Is "getting over it" anything more than an appeasement of other people's expectations of the shelf life of grief and grappling with the ephemeral? I struggle with gratitude at Thanksgiving because I'm still mad at the unfairness of my mom losing my dad on Thanksgiving week. I struggle with Christmas music because so much of it is intertwined with memories of my dad. I can be picking out a Christmas tune on the piano with the kids and suddenly have to excuse myself to a different room. I can be hit by a chord from the pipe organ and want to be anywhere in the world but in a church. Not "over it," clearly.</div>
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"Grapple" is the verb I use most often to describe what I've been doing with my feelings for the last few weeks (years?). As many things do, "grappling with difficulty" makes me think of Epictetus, who said "When difficulty falls on you, remember that God, like a trainer of wrestlers, has matched you with a rough opponent. Why? So that you may become a conqueror. But it is not accomplished without sweat." I'm thankful to be here to struggle, and thankful for family and friends who struggle along with me. And I'm thankful to see this season through my children's eyes, as I find myself both hopeful and fearful for them as they get older.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-48016568998522742832017-11-30T22:43:00.002-05:002017-11-30T22:43:18.223-05:00CollaborationI've gone to two meetings this week. Both were right in the middle of dinner time, and the one tonight lasted past bedtime. I'm thankful that Matt acts like it's no big thing to handle these on his own.<br />
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The meetings I attended this week were meaningful. One was a PTA Board meeting in which we discussed a proposal for a creative, innovative program. Discussion, disagreement, and, even, awkwardness ensued, but, ultimately, we voted unanimously about what the next best thing was.<br />
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The second was a focus group related to breast cancer services. I met with some thoughtful service providers and survivors, and we were able to have a candid discussion as well as make connections. The gathering had the potential to be uninteresting and formulaic, but it was anything but. It was really inspiring to meet with a group of people I don't know very well--unlike the PTA meeting, where I knew people really well--yet feel connected with them in a common purpose.<br />
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In both meetings, I felt grateful to be part of building something. Not all meetings feel this way, but these two did. This week has been full of reminders of the many connections my family has to our community. My hope is to be a constructive, collaborative participant in whatever group I'm a part of.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-61321723298706651962017-11-23T22:39:00.000-05:002017-11-24T12:45:16.215-05:00ThanksI'm thankful to be.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-36777912841860392802017-11-16T22:56:00.001-05:002017-11-29T22:39:11.247-05:00Fun<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/allisonandmatt/37587021645/in/dateposted-public/" title="Having fun at the season opener. #goheels"><img alt="Having fun at the season opener. #goheels" height="500" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4536/37587021645_907606c5c8.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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These kids. They're fun.<br />
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Last Friday, we went to the Tar Heels' home opener. It was the first time all five of us were in the Dean Dome together--and Lauren's first time ever. The kids delighted in every aspect of the experience: riding the shuttle from the Friday Center, climbing all the way up to our seats, drinking soda, cheering as the starting lineups were announced, rooting for the Heels (who won easily over Northern Iowa), and even hearing a favorite Bruno Mars song played by the band.<br />
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No one really even complained when we had to wait for nearly 30 minutes in 40-degree weather for our shuttle back to our parking lot. In fact, Lauren and Evan spent the time running around in a grassy area, playing tag. It was a treat to be out past 9:00 without feeling like the world would fall apart.<br />
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Once again, I find myself grateful for this season in our family life. Life moves quickly, and my babies aren't as easy to scoop up and snuggle. Their personalities are familiar and also emerging/ shifting as they learn more about themselves and the world. And, increasingly, it feels more like we're experiencing life together--rather than us leading and them, following. I know there will be growing pains, but I hope they know that Matt and I are here, ready to comfort them and celebrate with them, whatever their "growing up" brings.<br />
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I'm thankful for the fun we have together and the love we share. And I'm grateful that even our youngest is able to tag along on later nights--and for the nap she could be persuaded to take earlier that afternoon.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-46993467704524727522017-11-09T21:07:00.000-05:002017-11-10T16:09:43.643-05:00RepairsI had a moment of frustration the other night. I had a long day at work, and needed to get gas on the way home. The fuel door on my car wouldn't open. Because I needed gas, and tried to get the fuel door open for about 15 minutes at the gas station before slamming my doors and driving home. When I got home, I snapped at Allison and banged around the house for a few minutes in annoyance. For a few minutes, I fretted about a stretch of minor annoyances we've had at home the last few weeks: we put a new radiator in my car, I replaced the power window in the passenger door of our van, our dishwasher sprung a leak, and I had to take our microwave apart to fix its keypad assembly.<br />
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Back to the other night: I came inside and watched a couple of videos online for how to access the fuel door, I opened it, and make a quick run to the gas station to fill up. I still need to fix the release cable, but the car has gas and it's ok.<br />
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When Evan woke up last Sunday and I had the microwave mostly taken apart, he asked what I was doing. After I explained it, he said "I'm glad there are videos to help you fix things." I realized he's right. While I would definitely prefer not to have things break or malfunction, I am thankful that I have the means, resources, and ability to take on most of the minor repairs that we've faced recently. I'm also thankful that the greatest frustrations at home that I've faced this week were a microwave and a faulty cable to a fuel door. I'll repair the fuel door soon (with a little help from the internet), and try to remember that I'm fortunate to have solutions to most of the problems I encounter.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-17710884096494394562017-11-02T21:23:00.002-04:002017-11-02T21:23:49.542-04:00Halloween<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/allisonandmatt/38094792442/in/dateposted-public/" title="Halloween"><img alt="Halloween" height="500" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4453/38094792442_b830877a48.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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I'm thankful for the memories we're making, raising our kids with great neighbors. Halloween is one of my favorite nights of the year. We gather with friends for an early dinner before heading out all together. The kids still run from house to house, squealing and laughing.<br />
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My kids never coordinate their costumes. This year, we had Princess Leia, Robot Ninja, and Turtle Wizard. I love how they make their own choices. I'm thankful that Tobin still wants to dress up, even if deciding on what he wanted to be seemed a more complicated decision.<br />
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Halloween is a memory snapshot, poignant in how it feels both familiar <i>and</i> new. I'm grateful for traditions in how they create memories and mark the passage of time. Most importantly, I'm thankful for the people who we are sharing these experiences with on special nights and many ordinary days throughout the year.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-27762778548726149932017-10-26T21:59:00.002-04:002017-10-27T08:00:14.919-04:00Youth GroupA couple of weekends ago, my friend and former youth minister, Steve, treated the boys and me to tickets to Late Night With Roy Williams at the Dean Smith Center. The boys geared up in their Carolina gear and cheered loudly as the Heels raised the banner for the 2017 championship and introduced the 17-18 team.<br />
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It was a great night, but for more reasons than the basketball. We talk (and write) a lot about sports here, but part of what made the night special for me was getting to see Steve interact with my own kids. Steve was a crucial part of my life through all of high school, and has now been part of my life for most of three decades. He was an officiant at our wedding. He's on my short list of most influential people in my life. I'm thankful that every time we get to talk or see each other, it feels like we simply pick up where we left off.<br />
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This year, T started youth group at our church. Tonight, I got to spend some good time with his youth minister at a community forum. T has enjoyed his youth group meetings and events so far, and seems to be off to a great start, making friends and getting involved. I'm thankful that he and Tommy seem to have complementary personalities, and I'm hopeful that T is beginning what will be an important relationship for a long time to come.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-85831915638350587402017-10-19T22:04:00.001-04:002017-10-19T22:04:42.952-04:00Pink<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/allisonandmatt/37093333964/in/dateposted-public/" title="Pink"><img alt="Pink" height="500" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4473/37093333964_fc29850c3c.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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This is me about four years ago, around the time of my first October post-diagnosis. When I look at this picture, I notice how small Tobin's hands are and how he still has his top baby teeth. He was seven--right between the ages Evan and Lauren are now. I also notice my hair and remember how glad I was to have it back, even if I was self-conscious about how short it was. I had only recently shed my head scarves and caps; I felt relieved <i>and</i> exposed.<br />
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Prior to my diagnosis, October and its "pinkness" in honor of breast cancer awareness had been a simple, positive association. But October 2013 felt complicated. My first encounter with this feeling was when I walked into Kroger to do my weekly grocery run. As I lifted two-year-old Lauren into the cart, I noticed a huge display of water bottles, all with pink labels. Behind them was an ad with a picture of a young woman, smiling with her head covered in a pink scarf. I felt a rush of tears--not the good kind--and wanted to run from the store. It felt traumatic, seeing all the pink, making me think about the disease that had turned the last seven months of my life upside down.<br />
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A few days later, I was driving into Chapel Hill for one of my last radiation appointments when I passed a pink fire truck, driven by a smiling firefighter. Tears welled up again--this time, the good kind--as I felt what I'd guess was intended by the color of the truck: a sense of solidarity with women like me, fighting the good fight.<br />
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I don't know why my reactions to these two instances of pink were so different. All I know is that there's a before and an after. Now that I'm in the "after," I'll never experience October like I did before. I feel like I can also speak on behalf on a lot of my breast cancer survivor friends: it's complicated and different for all of us. Some embrace it; some hide from it. I think I might be somewhere in between.<br />
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October happens to be the month I finished treatment. On Monday of this week, I saw my oncologist for my semi-annual checkup. She confirmed I was in good health and, most importantly, my MRI from last week was clear. Tuesday marked four years to the day of my last radiation treatment. It felt surreal to talk with my oncologist about my next appointment in April 2018, when I will be past the fifth anniversary of my diagnosis and likely switch to once-a-year checkups.<br />
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This morning, as I drove across town en route to the two-school drop-off, listening to my kids sing along with the radio, coffee in hand, and my heart pumping a little fast from the adrenaline rush that comes with trying to get everyone out the door on time, I felt a wave of joy wash over me. I am so grateful for this season in our lives. I am here, in the thick of it--sometimes a little too busy, often stressed out, and never handling it perfectly. But I'm <i>here</i>, watching my kids grow and change, laugh and cry, win and lose. I'm cheering them on, comforting them, and laughing with them.<br />
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In this month--this moment--that's what pink means to me. I can look at this picture and be thankful for what has changed and what hasn't. My hair is longer and my boy is (a lot) bigger, but we are still in this together. I can hug him tight and then let him go.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-2477195758492324902017-10-12T21:14:00.000-04:002017-10-14T21:17:18.525-04:00WordsI've been trying to figure out a way to write about recent discussions about words and language in our house. "Appropriate" is a word that Allison and I use a lot about language, and as the kids have gotten older, we've had to help them categorize words they might hear at school or in movies (or from Dad when he breaks something in the kitchen) as "appropriate" or "inappropriate."<br />
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Evan especially seems to have friends who are experimenting with <i>in</i>appropriate words lately. For a string of nights not long ago, Ev tearfully shared with us that he had actually said some of those words in an attempt to be funny or silly. It became clear to us is that Evan and his friends don't really have a firm grasp of the words they're trying out. Still, it was endearing that Ev obviously felt a level of guilt about the possibility that someone might have thought he had ill intent at any point in the words he was using. Allison was especially comforting to Ev when she explained that our words are important, and that we want to be sure we don't use words to hurt people--but that he has a good heart and loves people--and that if he follows his heart, he'll be just fine. He seems to have gotten over it.<br />
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Lala's questions about words are pretty different from Evan's. As in most things, she is more blunt about her questions and ideas. Where Ev will whisper something along the lines of "My friends and I might have said the s-word when we were being silly on the playground at school," Lauren is much more likely to say "Dad, why is [actual s-word] a bad word?"<br />
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Lauren has also picked up on context as a concept at what feels like a pretty early age. Someone on the playground was apparently using an inappropriate word that also happens to be part of the name of a famous national sporting-goods store. So she asked me at home one night, pretty smartly, why that was a "bad word." I explained that it's a word that people use in an ugly way to refer to a body part. Because she is who she is, she asked which body part, so I told her it was an inappropriate way to refer to someone's penis, which is private. She thought for a few moments, then said succinctly something along the lines of "That's really weird that it could be a bad word: it's not like the name of that store is 'Penis Sporting Goods.'"<br />
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Luckily, we moved on from that discussion to something equally puzzling or hilarious. While Allison and I have had some good laughs about these conversations, I realize that I am sincerely thankful to have children who think (and maybe worry a little) about how powerful their words are. One of the points of emphasis in my English classes is the importance of measuring our words. Early in the year, I invite them all to remember a time in their lives that they felt most hurt. After giving them a few moments, I take a kind of straw poll to see how many thought of a time that they felt physical hurt. Those numbers always pale in comparison to the ones who indicate that they remember being hurt by non-physical things. Grief and hurtful words outweigh physical pain for most of us when we conceive of painful memories. I'm thankful that my own children are already grappling with the weight of words and how they use them. I hope their mindfulness will remind me to use my own words to build and affirm and love as a parent, partner, friend, and teacher to those in my life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-76418904871378425962017-10-05T21:16:00.005-04:002017-10-05T21:16:57.523-04:00Reunion<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/allisonandmatt/36812486844/in/datetaken-public/" title="reunion"><img alt="reunion" height="500" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4487/36812486844_a06c9ba141.jpg" width="500" /></a><br />
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The weekend before last, I drove up to DC to spend the weekend with two of my best college friends, Molly and Amy. Molly hosted us at her lovely home, and Amy flew in from Vermont. Three years ago, we had a similar girls weekend in DC but we were also joined by our dear Jeanne from Utah; we missed her this time around.<br />
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There's obvious reasons why I'd be thankful for a time away with my girls: long conversations, good meals, and a little break from the rigors of life with kids. The weekend felt indulgent and restorative. I'm grateful for friends who have known me for almost twenty years, who were right alongside me as I fell in love with Matt, who have been there to share so many joys and sorrows over the years, and who can always pick up right where we left off. Friendships of that depth and length are a treasure.<br />
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The picture above shows us enjoying a lovely brunch. We were joined by our college friend Tom, who happened to be in town, and Molly's husband Deepak, who was taking the picture. There was such a relaxed and joyful feel to the whole weekend. Back home, Matt was holding down the fort, taking the kids to three soccer games on Saturday morning. I'm grateful for him and the way he's genuinely happy for me to get away and handles life at home so gracefully.<br />
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I am mindful of the abundance in my life when it comes to friends and family.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-30420793020006602262017-09-28T20:59:00.003-04:002017-09-28T21:00:10.688-04:00Futbol<a data-flickr-embed="true" href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/allisonandmatt/37124757500/in/datetaken-public/" title="squad"><img alt="squad" height="281" src="https://farm5.staticflickr.com/4342/37124757500_eeed53d5f3.jpg" width="500" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script><br />
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We're parents of three soccer players on four soccer teams. This season has been full of successes so far, with an overall-winning record and lots of fun. I'm especially thankful to experience soccer as a parent, since it wasn't ever really on my radar as a kid. Tobin teaches me about strategy and lineups, explaining parts of the game I don't understand. Evan (#8 in the pic) asks me to play goalie for his shots and practices his moves. Lauren plays with a recklessness and glee that are a wonder (and fit her personality perfectly).<br />
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I'm thankful for soccer, and thankful to have learned about it as an adult.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6840292.post-89158904842982190012017-09-14T21:08:00.001-04:002017-09-14T21:08:31.747-04:00BusyWith two schools, three kids playing on four soccer teams, and two working parents, life feels busier than ever. Tobin made his middle school soccer team, which means he stays after school most days until 5:30 for practice or games. All three kids play league soccer, which involves Tuesday and Thursday evening practices and one Saturday game. I work two part-time jobs, only one of which involves me going to an office. But I’m also still going to a PTA-related meeting almost weekly, which will make a given weeknight all the more hectic. September has been full of evening meetings for Matt, too.<br />
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Yesterday evening ended up being one of the less hectic ones this week, but the lead-up to it was plenty busy. I took the kids to school then went home to prepare for an 11:00 meeting in Raleigh, 45 minutes away. I had taken the day off from my office job, so I could attend this meeting at the law firm I work for (albeit, usually, remotely). My meeting was short and put me back in Durham by 1:00, but I had to run by Costco. I got home with about an hour to spare to eat some lunch and check emails, then the kids started arriving home around 3:00. All the kids. Tobin had a rare day off from soccer. While they did homework and played, I made a pot of chili for dinner. Matt got home from work at 5:15, when I headed out for a school meeting, leaving him to feed the kids.<br />
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I pulled in the driveway around 7:00 and saw a smiling Tobin running around the backyard. He was playing touch football with Matt and Evan. When I walked in the house, I could hear Lauren’s voice from the playroom, engaged in some sort of chitty-chatty, imaginary play. The evening had a more relaxed feel, because the kids had been home—not rushing in from somewhere, scrambling to take showers and get in bed.<br />
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We’d done it. We’d made it through another very full day. And everyone was pretty happy. I don’t love being this busy. In fact, Matt and I try to plan the kids’ schedules so they’re not too busy—e.g., only one sport per season . . . with the exception of school sports, which is a new thing for us? But the current fullness of our lives highlights so many things I am grateful for: healthy, able bodies; sports; community; a true partner in parenting; two vehicles; a big yard for football; jobs; good schools; and even enough hours (in some days) to make good food for my family.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0