I was supposed to be in Oregon, sitting by the ocean, hoping I could catch a late migrating whale or two. But for many reasons, I am home. As a consolation to myself, I let my broody hen sit on some fertilized eggs so I would have some new chicks to attend to (not quite the same as being ocean side, but still…) But, reverse chicken math took its toll this round and seven fertilized eggs quickly became two hatched and three squished and one crushed egg altogether. I ordered three day-old chicks from a hatchery, and only one survived the overnight trip from Ohio.

The upside is my broody hen is being the best mom she can be and is luckily quite unaware that she inadvertently killed three babes shortly after they hatched. She is trying to keep an eye on the three remaining, but the one survivor from Ohio is a firecracker and is keeping us all on our toes. Earlier today, when I went out to refill their ever-upended water and food, I watched Little Miss Ohio slip right through the chicken wire on the run and out into the woods. Fortunately she slipped right back in when I ran around to catch her, but oh goodness do we seem to have our hands – or feathers – full with her.

I had names all thought up and picked out specifically for each of the breeds that I had under Della, but now I’m not even sure which two are the ones that survived, and Little Miss Ohio needs a name more suited for her than the one I had originally picked out. I’ve been thinking about my original list of ideas and trying to find a combination that works, but it wasn’t until I was getting ready to go check and refill yet again that I realized exactly what their names need to be.

Sitting by the back door are the boots I always put on when I am running outside to do something quick. Whether it’s taking out the trash, stepping out with Trudy, or checking on the flock, these boots easily slip on and suit the need in any season. They are worn boots, too big for my feet and yet too small for my heart as they are James’ last pair of boots that he wore at work. The left, as his always were, is stained purple, though faded now in ways they never were, from the blueberry dye he held in his left hand to stamp the beef. I would wear them for the same reasons when he was here and each time I slip them on, or see them sitting by the door, they wrap my grief in worn leather comfort – if just for a moment.

In any case, it’s the boots that tell me exactly what I need to name these three survivors. For feathered friends that were to bring more joy to the farm this summer, I know of only three other little girls that brought James so much joy – Margot, Edith and Agnes – the little girls in the Minion movies. The very movies that transformed my beloved back into a young kid, laughing and giggling and quoting the lines every time. (I have very, very fond memories of hearing James and Little G laughing in TN while they watched a Minion movie together!) Edith, in the movies, is curious and loves to explore. This seems like the perfect eponym for Little Miss Ohio and her adventurous spirit! The movie character, Agnes, is a sweet little thing infatuated with unicorns. I doubt my little black chick has any thoughts on unicorns, but she seems a bit more shy and prefers hanging out under Della’s wings. And Margot – the eldest in the movie, with all the apt generalizations that come with that role. My little gray chick, the first of the three to survive, will be a great Margot as well. All three, here to bring little sparks of joy, like the sound of his laughter, back to the farm. Unless, of course, any of them end up being a “Bob”.

It has been on my to-do list for months. I can’t say why I have avoided doing it, but I even chose to paint my bedroom over doing this task. I have had the materials for several weeks and my sister’s sewing machine has been in the mud room for at least half that time, but there was something about this project that made me keep procrastinating. But as my first week of Winter Break wraps up, I wanted to finish up as much of my home to-do list so I could move on to my school list – one that is equally as long and daunting. So, today, with no time left to delay, I had to tackle making the guest room curtains. Even as I got started on it today, it was reluctantly and with much grumbling. I had already spent time measuring and writing down the steps I would need to take to make them. All that really was left was the “doing” part of the job, but it just kept feeling like the one thing I didn’t want to do at all.

I have sewn many valances in my life, but all of them, and I mean, all of them, were over 25 years ago. So, I settled in at my dining room table with the sewing machine, duvet cover that I was using as the fabric, scissors and measuring tape and set to work, anticipating a long day of tearing out seams and cursing at the machine that wasn’t to blame at all. It took a couple of YouTube videos to help me get the bobbin threaded and installed correctly but once I got that figured out, I found myself puttering along like I had been sewing just a week ago. The cliche about riding a bike seems to apply to sewing machines as well as I remembered things like leaving the needle down when I needed to adjust the fabric and reversing just a bit at the start of each seam to keep it from unravelling.

If sewing wasn’t stepping back in time enough on its own, I also dug out my ironing board and iron, both of which have been tucked away for about as long as my sewing skills. And between ironing and sewing, I found myself thinking an awful lot about my mom. I turned on a Spotify playlist full of John Denver and James Taylor and hummed along, just as she would have. Guiding the fabric under the needle, I felt joy at knowing Mom was still guiding me today. The curtains I made today would have earned me a B- at best in a Home Ec class, but I think Mom would have been quite proud, given how long it had been and how little practice I have had. Her lessons have stuck with me and even being used in a very basic manner, I was able to sew some very nice curtains without much hassle at all today all thanks to her.

As I hung them in the guest room, I thought about all the projects I have accomplished over the last week. I have hung curtain rods and painted rooms and assembled furniture and hung pictures and now, sewn curtains – all tasks that required skills I learned from my parents. Using a drill, Phillips screwdriver, iron or sewing machine might seem outdated or trivial, but they were the very tools that I needed the most right now as I change the feel of my living space to one that reflects “me” more than “us.” And even though Mom has been gone for more than half my life and Dad and I haven’t worked in the woodshop together for quite some time, the skills they both taught me are ones I will remember and use for a lifetime. Especially the ones on how to make a house a home.

It was my therapist’s suggestion that I buy some new furniture.  She thought changing the house around might help me cope better with the constant reminders of James’ absence. Trudy, my 70-pound lapdog didn’t mind the rearrangement up until the one and only chair she was allowed in went in the trash.  

The chair was long overdue for disposal – springs were poking out the back, fabric was worn through in several places and I was on my second set of slipcovers for it. But it was the one piece of living room furniture I allowed her to be on and Trudy was eager to snuggle with anyone willing to share the space with her. 

I moved the furniture full of memories downstairs to a mostly-finished room, where the new arrangement might displace most of the reminders and allow me to make new associations with the couches we had picked out together.  New furniture was delivered for the living room, changing the feel of the space entirely.   

The first few evenings I sat in the living room, enjoying the couch and the chair and ottoman, a pair of sad brown eyes rested on my leg. Trudy gave me the most pitiful look, as though she was truly neglected since she couldn’t sit with me. A few nights later, when I eventually sat downstairs to watch some TV, she was there again, head on my knee, sad eyes laying a silent guilt trip. 

I realized at that moment that my therapist was right.  We need to do everything we can to infuse our lives with as much joy as we can. So, I pulled a blanket from the basket and hardly had to tap twice on the seat next to me before Trudy bounded up and settled right in against me, taking up at least two thirds of the couch herself.  Within minutes she was sound asleep, happy as a dog can be. In fact, that’s where she is right now, completely at peace and thrilled to be next to me.  Joy, wrapped up in a whole lot of fur. 

I’ve known since I was young how short life can be, and the importance of treasuring every moment we have, but finding my way back to joy since James died has been a long, tough road.  He brought a tremendous amount of joy into my life and I have really struggled to feel it again in his absence.  I am learning – at a snail’s pace perhaps, but I am learning –  to let joy seep in through the small moments, like when a happy dog is curled up beside me.  

It would be easy, in the world we live in today, to fill ourselves with worry, fear, angst and anxiety.  It would be understandable for all of us facing loss or trauma in any form, to turn to despair or to lose sight of hope.  But the thing James brought in abundance to this life was joy and it is that exact thing that I miss so dearly about him. It’s what we all could use far more of.  So, this holiday season, and for the whole year through, I hope you let joy seep into your daily moments as well.  Let the dog on the couch, let the chickens on the porch, fill the bird feeders so the cat can watch and definitely book that vacation to the coast.  James taught me that joy is all that really matters and I owe it to him to live it, to create it, to share it and celebrate it.  I wish you all a season, a year, a life, filled with joy.

Just as I began to round the jagged corners of the second anniversary of losing James, the owl returns. Three nights ago, I had just shut off the TV downstairs when I immediately sensed something. Trudy perked up as well and we both sat in the silence trying to figure out what had alerted our senses. The owl. The great horned was back. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could, grabbed a blanket off the couch and crept outside onto the deck. Scared that I would frighten him away, I sat down on the deck stairs, as hidden from view as I could be and waited.

For well over an hour, the owl talked to me from no more than fifty yards away. And for well over an hour I spoke with him. I told him about all the ways my heart still breaks and all the ways I am trying to heal it. I told him about the mundane public things like my new principal, Jacob’s move and even my young hen, Molly, laying her new beautiful green and brown speckled egg. And I told him all the things I never tell anyone but him. I may not understand what was being said in those beautifully soft, muted calls of the owl, but my heart went from sobbing to quiet comfort in that time.

I woke up at four the next morning, wide awake for unknown reasons. Unknown until I heard him again. This time he was out front. I ran to the front door and unthinkingly opened it, setting off the alarm, frightening both myself and the owl.

But he was there again the two nights ago. Two in the morning, I awoke again to the sounds of the owl. It’s a sound that is barely audible from my bedroom, but ever since we moved into this house, it’s a sound that always woke me. Trudy and I both lay awake, listening to the great horned, letting him soothe our sorrows. He is there again in the morning when I check on the chickens before leaving for school. I pause in the grey of the early morning hours and listen. I tell him again how much I love him and I reluctantly get in the car and drive to school, wishing I could just stay and sit on the porch and listen.

The owl could not have come at a better time, giving me a small ounce of faith in all the unknows that remain for me. Time has not healed the wounds of grief and loss for me. Despite medication and therapy, his absence is still sharp and the struggle is palpable. I will trade my precious, fleeting hours of sleep; I will trade the warmth of my bed. I will trade hours of the night to hear the owl. I would burn my entire house to the ground if it meant he would stay here with me every night.

But I know he can’t stay. I know he has better places to be, a truth that pains my hearts something fierce but also brings me great comfort. So I will listen now with all my heart. I will soak up the sound. I will savor the soft, gentle words that ring in the still of the dark night that speak to my soul. I will savor even the silence between his calls. He is here with me now. Right here. So I will lie here in the same room two years later, where he drew his last, difficult breath. I will lie here with the window open, knowing, hoping, trying desperately to believe that somewhere his sweet gentle soul lives on. And I will let the calls of the owl soften the jagged edges of my sorrow.

I am a leaf, falling from the tree that once sustained me, once gave me support, once gave me reason.

I am falling, completely at the mercy of the cold, cruel wind and the gravity that pulls me ever downward.

I fall and I fall, further and further from the only home I have ever known, from the only life I have ever had.

I fall, toward uncertain ground, an uncertain future.

Even my soft landing is no consolation. Where is my purpose here? Where is my connection? What will I become? I see only what I have lost above me.

My season as a leaf has ended. This life I had – far too short – was full of purpose on that tree; the shade I provided, the nourishment, the protection from the rain, the safe place to land, the soothing sound when the warm, spring winds blew.

I was there when the sun was shining brightly, and I held tight when the storm winds blew. I was there when the birds sang at dawn and I was there when the night creatures roamed below.

And now? What am I now?

I am nothing. I am only a reminder of what used to be.

Then again, the breeze whispers. Then again.

Perhaps, the rain murmurs. Perhaps.

What if, the clouds sing. What if?

Maybe, the owl calls. Maybe.

Maybe – I am not the leaf. Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe I am the tree.

Maybe this is just my season of loss. Maybe this is just my time of rest, my time of self-preservation, while the cold winds blow and the ice hangs from my limbs. Maybe this is just a time when I need to hold on, stand strong. Maybe now, when I can provide no shade, when I can offer little shelter, maybe now, when I can barely nourish myself, maybe now when the winds blow and the storms cause parts of me to break, maybe now, all I can do it wait.

Maybe.

Maybe spring will come.

Maybe one day I will feel the buds begin to grow again. Maybe one day I will have enough within me to leaf out, to grow, to shelter, protect, nourish and soothe once again.

Maybe.

Maybe it will not always feel like winter in my heart.

Maybe.

Maybe I am the tree.

I am terrible at grocery shopping. I have a list in hand, but it lacks many needed items and is in no discernable order. I start with an organized approach to the process, but I end up backtracking multiple times and changing my mind about what sounds good for the next several days and it is not uncommon that I end up back at home with still missing ingredients. I could solve all of this with better preparation, to be certain, but grocery shopping is a chore I hate, mainly for all the ways that it reminds me that I’m alone – James was the grocery shopper in this relationship. He was also the primary cook once we got married. Being at the store, and in fact, prepping any meal at all, is something I with to do as quickly and simply as possible so as to minimize the reminders.

And so it was that I found myself at Meijer on July 3rd, with every other last-minute American that lives near Kalamazoo, trying to get the essentials for the long weekend. Only I didn’t have to be there that day, I could have been there at any time, but my procrastination and reluctance had me now walking the crowded aisles, trying to navigate a relatively small shopping trip among the throngs of people heading on vacation, or getting ready for family gatherings and BBQs. Less than ideal, but a manifestation of my own making for certain.

I was in the produce department, the place where, on the rare occasion that James and I were at Meijer together, we had often split up to “divide and conquer” whatever remained of the list. Today, I had already picked up romaine, tomatoes and bananas and was choosing a handful of nectarines when I saw him. He was near the peppers, but was easy to spot for the hat he always wore and the beard I loved so much. I saw him. James. James. And then, as fast as my heart had leapt, it was shattered, for my brain said what my heart had failed to see – it wasn’t James, but just someone who looked enough like him to take my breath away.

I was not at all prepared for this. I don’t know if there’s anything that could have made me ready for such a tsunami of opposing emotions. He was there, and then just as quickly, I was suffocating in his loss all over again.

Had it not been for the cart in front of me, I would have crumbled to my knees. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe; I fought (and lost) to keep the tears at bay. As I rushed to the check-outs, I was employing every breathing technique I had ever learned or heard of. The man waiting in line ahead of me looked my way and I shook my head begging him not to ask if I was okay because I was the furthest from okay that I had been in months and I feared that one simply touch of sound or air would shatter the very fragile grasp I held on the world.

The three bags of groceries were all but shoved in the back seat and the cart returned to the corral with a shove while the tears rolled down my face. I wasn’t even in the driver’s seat before the sobs arose heavily from my chest and I sat and cried and cried and cried, grieving him all over again. And as if I wasn’t already drowning, among all the cars in the crowded lot, I saw the same man getting into a grey truck, remarkably like James’, just two unobstructed rows in front of me. It took conscious effort to not open my door and run to him, but my mind knew the devastation I would feel upon seeing him close enough to really know it wasn’t my James and kept my heart from opening the door.

My grief is an ocean that I am forever swimming in. Most days, lately at least, I feel like I am floating, softly, gently on the surface, as if on an inflated raft in a backyard pool. But there are moments, like this, when I am reminded of the vast, deep, dark ocean that surrounds me and the effort to remain afloat is barely manageable.

It is this tenuous grip, this fragile balance that makes walking through this world so difficult. It is knowing the power of the flood that is there, just beneath the surface, that scares me. His love brought me so much joy – so much joy – and I don’t want to live always feeling devastatingly sad when I am reminded of him, but I do not know how to stop feeling angry and confused and lost because he is gone.

I finally dried my eyes and pulled myself together enough to drive home before the milk got warm. On my way, my dad called. We talked about nothing important, and yet, he was the reminder I needed that grief will not always consume me like it does now, for he has lived this path. This loss will always be with me, but I will reach a point where I can talk about him and think about him and those conversations and memories will bring me joy. He would want that, I know. I’m just not there yet.

There is no easy way to describe the past year. There are no words that can adequately explain the journey my heart has been on or all the ways I have struggled. Last night I thought I would break completely. I felt nearly as shattered as I did a year ago. I curled up under his blanket and I cried and cried. This morning, when I woke, I knew something had to give. I knew if I remained in this space for any longer the grief would consume me. I knew that change was necessary and that I was the only one who could make it happen. I had no control over the cancer that took him, no control over losing my beloved, but I had to find a way to control what happens next.

I walked into my bathroom and took off my ring. I put it in the dish next to my sink where his ring lies, along with a couple bracelets and some earrings. Later, I will move it to the safe, but I just cannot look at that ring all day long any more. I cannot be reminded every second of every day of the thing I no longer have. I am not married anymore. It is a fact that I despise, but it is truth and my only way forward is in truth. James is gone. He cannot return. Forward is my only option and I have no choice but to move in that direction alone.

I started cleaning, working on projects previously left undone. I need to claim this space as mine and I need James to exist in all my precious memories and not in false belief that he is going to grab his hat from the top of the fridge and put on his boots waiting by the door. I have spent a year wishing he were with me, months and months screaming over his absence, days upon days crying for the loss I feel without him. I suspect, if he were here, he’d tell me with a heart full of love to, “Throw some dirt on it.” My wounds will never be gone, but it’s time to forge ahead, finding my path once again.

My love for James isn’t “over,” I’m not “moving on” or trying to erase what we had. My love for him is complete. He was a part of my life I will forever treasure. I know it will not be easy. I know this grief will live in my heart forever. I know I will always think of him, miss him and remember him. But it’s time for me to figure out who I am without being his wife anymore. It’s time to start writing the next chapter.

Dear family, friends and loved ones, 

I am currently teaching idioms to my fourth graders and I realize that sending a thank you card before the holidays might seem like putting the cart before the horse, however, looking back on our journey over the last couple of years and my journey since I lost James last December, there is nothing more important to say this holiday season, than to express my deepest gratitude to all of you. 

It is not hyperbole to say I would not be here writing this today if it weren’t for my sister, Julie.  She was here in my (and James’) darkest hours and she has remained present when I’ve needed her, nearby when I was uncertain and at a distance when I had to go it alone. Likewise to Rob, I am deeply in debt for all the times he helped fix things around me while I was still trying to fix things within me.  My gratitude extends to my dad, who has walked this road before and who has shared his support and insights with me to help me navigate this unwelcome journey. To my second mom, Judy, and her email chain, your love and support was multiplied by all your friends and family who took me into their hearts and prayers.  To my son, Jacob, and his wife, Carissa, more than just delicious scones and banal tech support, your visits warm my heart in immeasurable ways. To my brother, Garrett, and his family, thank you for help with garage doors and deck stairs and other decisions that may feel trivial to you, but felt mountainous to me. I am thankful also for my Aunt Marg, who has her entire church praying for me and who sends me anecdotal emails that light up my heart.  My appreciation goes out to my mother-in-law, Evelyn, as well, who helped me heal while her heart was still breaking.

My deepest gratitude to my friends – from Jaime who left her classroom and showed up at my door immediately upon hearing the news to “The Heathers” who have continued to invite me out and check in on me – your strength and support has lifted me more times than you can know. Deep thanks to Steve and Jess, your friendship meant the world to James and will always mean the world to me. My gratitude goes out to Marissa who “co-taught” solo last year – picking up the slack for me in my physical and mental absence – you are the reason I was and can ever hope to be “highly effective.” 

I am blessed to work with an amazing team of gentle-hearted people who didn’t just allow me, but encouraged me to put family first and who have been there before and since to support in any way they can. Likewise, in all their precious ways, I am grateful for my students, who have hugged me and handed me tissues, who have written me note after note to encourage me.  Your compassionate hearts give me hope for our future.

To all members of “James’ Army”- including my extended family and circles of friends,  from my high school chemistry teacher and his wife; to Sarah, a kindred widow herself, who knew to recommend a book on joy in the midst of my grief – you all have touched my heart in so many ways this past year.  Diane, your note forever lives in my wallet, and the cards, emails and blog comments that all of you have sent me, have reminded me again and again that while grief is uniquely personal, it is also universal.  

I would be remiss to leave off Trudy, Charlotte and the flock.  You all gave me a purpose, if only, in the early stages of my grief, to get out of bed to fill food and water bowls.  I am especially thankful to have Trudy to talk to, if only so I don’t question the sanity of talking to myself so much.  I promise more walks and less tears in the days ahead.

Above all, I am forever and ever grateful for James.  For his humor, for our shared dreams and above all for his love. This home, this farm, this life, this path I am on would not be possible if it hadn’t been for you. My love for you, Chief, is bigger than Germany. 

May you all have a season, a year and a life full of blessings and, most especially, full of gratitude.

A year ago, hospice brought all the equipment to the house. The reality of how limited our time together was became tangible, but even then we had no idea that four days was all we had left.

This entire year has felt like a countdown. Get through Christmas. Just get through our anniversary. Just hold on until the end of the school year. Survive the summer, my birthday, his birthday, Thanksgiving. I have not been strong, I have not been courageous, I have not been many of the things people say about me and to me. I have only, just barely survived, but even that was not by choice.

More than one person has told me that the first year is the hardest. I am more and more certain they are wrong. The first year has been excruciating, don’t get me wrong, but the closer I get to the anniversary, the more I realize that this is really just the beginning. We knew a year ago, that our time was limited, but now I fully understand that my time without him is endless, and that feels even more impossible to bear.

I miss him from the moment I wake until the moment I close my eyes. I do all the things necessary to keep my home, keep my job, keep my life moving forward, but I… I am still so very angry. I am still so very sad. I am still so incredibly lost without my best friend. I do not understand the “why,” I do not understand the purpose or the meaning of any of this and the idea that maybe we aren’t supposed to understand provides no comfort either. Robert Frost said it well when he said, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life; it goes on.”

I keep thinking this will ease up, that I will turn some magical corner, that acceptance will arrive on my doorstep but in reality, it feels like the waves just keep coming. At every turn there is a song, a funny story, a sight, a sound, a meal, an event, an issue, a question, a memory – every where in every thing and all around me exists a world of shared memories, shared stories, shared lives. Except it’s not anymore. My first Christmas card in the mailbox was from the funeral home. A student chose “hoity-toity” as his vocabulary word this week. “Billie Jean” comes on the radio every time I turn on the radio it seems. A “To My Wife” birthday card fell out of his unused tablet this week. I think the Highlander needs new brakes and it will be the first time since I met James that I’m going to have to pay for someone to change them. There was an actress on NCIS last night that I knew from somewhere else and he wasn’t here to tell me where we knew her from. I made my annual trip to the mall and couldn’t even finish my pretzel – I haven’t eaten one by myself in years.

And I still open the bedroom window every single night hoping to hear the owl.

Life goes on. But only for one of us.

You know that party game where someone asks you, “If you could have dinner with any person alive or dead, who would it be?” In the few times in my life when I’ve been in a group and this has been asked, people have astounded me with their answers: historical figures, spiritual leaders, even ancestors from generations back have all been suggested and I have been in awe thinking of the depth of conversation that might be had with such people.

For me, I’d like to meet Kate DiCamillo. More than likely, all four of my regular blog readers are shaking their heads and then doing a Google search to even know who that is. She’s my favorite author, a children’s book author, and while I love several of her books, my dinner guest selection really has everything to do with her book The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane.

I’m sure I’ve told the story before, but I bought the book without knowing a single thing about it. It was on a display shelf at a Scholastic Book Fair and I bought it for my niece, probably part of a Christmas present. She presumably read it and it sat on her bookshelf for a good many years until one day when she cleaned off the shelves and bequeathed my classroom with the books she no longer wanted to read or treasured. This book was among them. It still doesn’t explain why I chose to read it. Many, many, many books have been donated to my classroom over the years and I haven’t stopped to read but maybe two. But somehow this one just caught my attention and I stopped to read it.

And I have never stopped. I’ve read it every year to every class and it breaks my heart and gives me hope and makes me long to be such an author.

We are in the midst of the book now, with my two fourth grade ELA classes. We use it to work on our summarizing skills as the chapters are just the right length and with just enough content that students can really hone in on the most important details and by the end of the novel we’ve done enough modeling, practicing and checking that they are really good at independently writing their own summaries. At least of fiction texts. But the truth is, I just applied a standard to this text because there is no way I will ever teach and not read this book to my class. If I were teaching high schoolers, I would find a way to make it applicable.

But today was the day when my students got to really feel the power of the written word. Today is the day when, for me, they get to be a part of the magic of a book – of the way it transcends the moment you are in, the way it provokes strong emotions and connects the experiences in our own hearts to the fictional characters within the pages of the novel. Today was the day when students ran to get the tissue box and it wasn’t just because Mrs. Koehn was crying, but all eyes were damp and red. And we haven’t even gotten to the ending. Lord help me when the ending comes.

I won’t say what happened. If only because some of you have yet to experience this novel and I don’t want to detract from that experience in any way by revealing any events, but today would have been a day when James would have asked me about school and I would have only said three words and he would have hugged me and known what a hard day it was for me all because of this one chapter. And that was before, well, before.

In all honesty, if Ms. DiCamillo were seated across from me at a dinner table and I could talk and ask her anything, I’m not even sure what I would ask. She could tell me all her writing secrets and the story of her inspiration for the novel and she could tell me her daily writing practices that lead to such amazing chapters, but to be honest, there has to be something within a person that gives them words such as these that can time and again move hearts such as mine. I think, in all honesty, I would simply thank her. Not just for the experience of her books, not just for all the emotions that conjure up and spill over, not just for all the ways my heart breaks and mends with her choice of phrase or word, but for helping me help students fall in love with reading.

As I closed the chapter and we sat down to write our summary today, one of my students said, “Are we going to read more books like this one this year?” I asked what he meant by that and he said, “I’ve just never read a book that made me feel like this.” I assured him that I hoped many of the books we read together and that he chooses to read on his own make him feel this way.

Presidents might have changed history, spiritual leaders might have changed religion, our own ancestors would surely have amazing personal stories to tell, but Ms. DiCamillo changed the hearts of many of my students, turning them into readers and for that, I’d sure like to buy her dinner.