This morning a branch fell on the roof. Or a whole bunch of branches from what it sounded like. This has happened before and although this time the entire house didn’t shudder, the noise was significant. It was only just beginning to get light outside, so I wasn’t able to easily go out and assess any damage. While I waited for the sun to come up just a bit more, I texted James to let him know that something had hit the roof and we might have damage (again). I also fretted over the plans we had for today (actual plans!), worried that a branch through the roof would surely prevent us from going to see the kids for our socially-distanced, outdoor Christmas together. I also found myself feeling frustrated at the financial implications, knowing we’d have to pay our deductible (again) and that we’d be dealing with clean up for the day.

Basically, within mere moments of the thud on the roof, I was already wound up about the hassle this natural event was causing on our home, our day, and our bank account.

As soon as it was lightly grey outside, Trudy and I headed out the door. Finding nothing on the roof at the front of the house, we went out to the back deck where the huge branch had been most visible the last time one fell on the roof. Only this time there was nothing. Nothing. No.Thing. We went back out the front of the house and circled the house looking for any branches that must have hit the roof and slid off. Nada.

I texted the husband, who had been at the ready to come home, to let him know there was no need. There was apparently no crisis afterall.

I have no idea what caused such a significant sound on the roof. Perhaps Santa himself was flying over on his way to start delivering packages (what?! Michigan is too on the way from the North Pole to wherever he starts, and maybe he got a head start this year knowing he’d have to mask up before going down each chimney…) Maybe some packages fell off onto my roof and then he swooped back to pick them up so while I heard a sound, there was nothing to actually see when I got out there.

All I know, is that I have no crisis this morning. Our plans for the day are not altered. Our bank account is intact. There won’t be any clean up or dealing with tarping the roof this afternoon. James doesn’t have to leave work to come deal with patching the roof. I panicked for nothing. And while I’m glad I was prepping myself to deal with the situation at hand, it’s frustrating that I let it go so far before validating that there was actually a crisis to contend with.

Today, I will be blessed by many things, the best of which is time with family. But I’m also blessed by that which didn’t happen. I’m blessed by the lack of a crisis. By the No.Thing upon my roof. Today I am blessed by a very loud noise that turned out to be even less than a little thing. It turned out to be nothing at all and that is a blessed no thing indeed.

There’s a typo in my Christmas letter. There’s also a font size problem, and while I could easily blame the Snapfish design software for making it extraordinarily difficult to edit, I have to not just take the blame but own it. I realize my blog has typos more often than not, things I catch hours, days or sometimes even years after I originally post, but the Christmas card is a more sacred production to me. I’ve gone to such lengths each year that I keep expecting my family to stage a Christmas-letter intervention.

James, knowing how deeply the typo was going to stress me, quickly suggested I reorder them. And I’ll admit, the suggestion gave me pause. I had time. No one would be the wiser. And the teacher-voice in my head that reminds me, like I remind my students, not to just double-check but triple- and quadruple- check important things, could at least be muted for now.

But I just couldn’t.

I could blame the error on 2020, the year of all-things-going-amok. I could commend my own laissez-faire attitude suggesting that taking a step back from perfectionism isn’t always a bad thing. I could even explain it away as the perfect culmination of my year of being so far less than perfect – a year when I haven’t felt like the best teacher, the best friend, the best mom or the best wife – a Christmas card that is not my best seems perfectly fitting.

But I just can’t.

The typo feels like the exact lesson I needed right now. You might say I’m overthinking this, but, when my Christmas letter itself is about lessons learned from my chickens, it seems appropriate that I think of them when it comes to this typo.

You see, I have a chicken who keeps laying her eggs on the ground. She can’t even get motivated enough to jump up on the stool, to hop in to the spacious, clean, dark nesting boxes in the coop. She just lays it wherever she may be. I have other chickens who haven’t laid in a month because they are molting. The loss of feather is so minimal you don’t even really notice by looking at them, but obviously something significant is going on inside that requires all their energy (and protein) and egg laying just isn’t going to happen right now. And I have an entire flock that is so baffled by the light that stays on later in the coop that they keep getting themselves shut out at night. Sigh. The truth is, it’s hard to be a chicken sometimes. And sometimes, it’s hard to be a human.

So, the typo is my lesson in perspective. It’s my reminder that sending out an imperfect Christmas card is not the end of the world, not even close. It’s my reminder, too that sometimes we need to just give ourselves a break, to ease up on perfectionism and breathe – or molt, or lay the egg right here in the pine shavings – whatever works for now.

So, while you read my letter and you notice the typo, and the font that changes sizes from the top of the card to the bottom, and all the other little things I should have fixed, or noticed, or spent more time on, just know that I’m giving myself a break. The lesson from this typo has given me a much better perspective – the perspective to see that the money I would have spent (happily, easily, gratefully) reprinting the cards, is put to far better use giving someone else a break – someone who needs it much more than I do. So, with the money I saved, I’m giving a couple flocks of chickens to people who need them more than I ever well. Thanks to Heifer International, this lesson, this perspective, this typo, has now blessed others – a blessed little thing, indeed.

It’s an elementary school tradition. It’s one of the very, very few places it ever happens anymore. And yet, each and every morning, my fourth graders and I say the Pledge of Allegiance. There were years when I said the Pledge wondering how many of my students even knew who God was. For years, I have said the pledge and spoken about it with great emphasis on the last two words, “…for all.” I have tried to teach my students that this is inherently what makes American both different and an amazing country to live in. These promises are for everyone. Liberty and justice aren’t just promised to some, or many, but to all.

This year, I get almost choked up on the Pledge in its entirety. From “United States” to “one nation” to “indivisible” I wonder every day what America will be like when these students are old enough to truly understand those words and their meaning for us as a country. They have no idea how divided our nation is, but they could relate. Most of them have divided homes; they could understand the concept without much explanation I believe.

And so I wonder, how will we ever truly get “liberty and justice for all” if we cannot see, accept and behave as “one nation” will we remain “indivisible?” It may be a chicken and egg type of question. Will the inclusion of all create a truly united set of states, or will uniting the states bring the inclusion?

I have no answers. While I ache to be part of the solution, as a white, middle class American, I admit I don’t even know where to begin. So I will do what I know I can do. I can pledge, every day, with my students. I can help them to understand what the words mean beyond just a pause in teaching and a reminder to take off your hat. Admittedly, though, the Pledge feels more like a prayer lately. “Dear God, help me to teach these children to…

…pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. And to the republic for which is stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

It had never really been a matter of if, but always when. As far back as June, our district gathered a committee of educators to create a plan for virtual learning that would greatly improve on our efforts from the spring. This plan was continually evolving as new technologies were introduced and ideas came to mind that would streamline the student process in ways that didn’t even exist a mere months ago.

Even once in-person learning began in the fall, we never lost sight of the virtual plan. It didn’t just loom in the backs of our minds, our administrative team kept us tweaking it, making modifications that would help teachers, parents and students navigate a sudden shift in the learning environment from school to home.

Teachers were also required to complete significant technology training, all geared and focused on virtual learning models and programs that would help us provide more engaging and robust learning over the internet. There was significant grumbling about the training at the time. It was hard to see the purpose when we had a classroom of students and we didn’t have devices in hand for the students to even utilize should we make a virtual shift.

Despite all the planning, training and preparations, however, when the decision to go virtual for just a handful of days came, it felt fast and unexpected to many. As is often the case when change rears its ugly head, many staff escalated into panic mode. There were tears, and arguments. There was significant complaining in the hallways and behind closed doors.

And while it might have felt harried and chaotic, there was a plan and people to help implement that plan. Everyone stepped up. Parapros and Title 1 staff jumped in to help classroom teachers get all the necessary supplies in each and every backpack. Copies were made, lessons adapted and devices and all their accoutrements were unplugged, bundled up and loaded up with students. Teachers ensured each child had log ins, workbooks and even brand new social studies books that hadn’t even been numbered for each classroom yet. Resource room teachers ran through the building to find extra textbooks with just minutes before the last bell rang and students loaded up in buses.

It was right after that bell, right after I bustled my students out the classroom door with bags that weighed half their body weight and instructions still ringing in their ears about Monday’s virtual learning plan that I saw the note. Sitting on the table outside my classroom was a handwritten but photocopied note in cursive script that only grandmothers use now.

I sat in my classroom and cried. This note, while unsigned, most certainly came from a woman on our staff who works as a paraprofessional. Photocopied for each and every staff member in the building, this woman took the time to encourage us and to lift us up. Here were all were, scavenging about for all the things each student needed; venting about how hard virtual lessons would be; complaining about the fact that the shut down was caused by factors outside of the school and not inside; and yet, this woman, who surely grew up in much “simpler” times – who could probably never have imagined school or learning to look like it does now, was the first one to offer up a voice of hope. This woman, who could be at home, retired, but chooses to spend her days with the kids was calm, collected and ready to provide support in any way she knew how.

I wasn’t scared of virtual learning. I wasn’t panicked about what Monday would bring. My math lessons would go on pretty much the same as they had before. But in a year when I feel more disconnected from my class than ever – a year where we can’t hug, can’t stay in close contact, can’t even see each other smile behind all the masks – her reminder that these students still saw me as their leader and that all the things these students were experiencing were amazing life lessons if we embraced them as such – her note, struck a much needed chord in my soul.

I am not a hero. I am a teacher. Adapting to the changing environment is part of life and part of being a human on this planet right now. It’s what every single one of us is doing. No one has been untouched by this virus. No, I am not a hero for teaching under these circumstances. But if I can teach my little corner of the world, embodied in these ten year old bodies that we can adapt, we can embrace change with open hearts and minds and positive attitudes; if I can show, model and convince these children that life is going to be this way even when there isn’t a global pandemic going on, that change and adversity are an integral and necessary part of life; if I can help just one child to feel strong in the face of adversity, then maybe, just maybe I have done my job. But for this woman, this author of this note, she has already done that. She has empowered, she has encouraged, she has reminded us of the larger picture. She, with one quickly written and copied note, spread a sense of purpose and calm. She may not be a teacher by profession, but today she was most certainly, my hero.

I’ve hit a professional slump. Teaching has always been exhausting, but the last few years it’s taken more out of me than I think I have left to give. Of course, a global pandemic hasn’t helped. Not only is it very hard to job search when the entire educational world is turned upside-down, but it’s hard to love your job when your classroom has been redesigned with safety, not learning, in mind. Perhaps the worst of it this year is that I am only teaching math. I have no passion for math. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. It’s not that I can’t teach it, or that I’m not teaching it well, it’s just that it does nothing for my heart. It brings me absolutely no joy. I don’t get nearly as excited about numbers as I do books or words. I don’t feel the same thrill when a student masters a math skill as I do when they come running up to tell me about a book they are reading or a cool word they found. I might be saving a lot of money not buying classroom books and mentor texts from Amazon, but I don’t get excited about the lessons I am designing. And while the kids still think I’m crazy funny, and while I still over-animate my lessons and my examples to make it as engaging as possible, it is sucking the ever-lasting life out of me to do so. Depleted doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Because of that, or in addition to that, or as a result of that, or with no connection to that whatsoever, I’m not sleeping well. I started taking melatonin awhile back and I think even those quick-dissolving pills have given up on me. And then, just because it’s my sob story, this week is conferences, which I normally LOVE with an unnatural fondness, but this year, conferences are virtual. And only ten minutes long. And only for those we really need to see, which means behavior or academic issues. And as if I wasn’t already scrounging to find joy within these four walls, well, there’s little be had with long days of only discussing the challenges of learning.

All of this is to say, I wasn’t in the mood today. I’m tired. I’m bone tired. And today I was ready to phone it in. I didn’t think I could possibly muster the energy to engage myself in the lessons, more or less an audience of socially-distanced and masked ten year olds. Even as I logged in for our virtual morning announcements, I wanted to just crawl under my desk and sleep.

Waiting for our principal on the school-wide Google Meet, I half-heartedly chuckled at the projection screen. Most teachers have their webcams turned off for the announcements, knowing how much students love to be on camera, we all try to keep the focus on the words of wisdom our school leader shares each day. One teacher had his webcam on but upside down, creating a gravity-defying effect of his classroom for all of us to see. But then there was Mr. Clark. With a baby in his arms and two beautiful blonde children by his side.

Mr. Clark, who works in our building with students who struggle to manage their behavior at times – I can’t even say he “works”, though, as he makes it seem like his dream job. He’s always happier than seems reasonable. His pep talks aren’t just limited to students, either. He’s listened to me vent and helped me problem solve with the patience of Job. And he never, ever loses his cool. Quarantined at home, with three little ones and a wife who is also trying to remote teach, here was Mr. Clark, with children dangling from every appendage, taking over the morning announcements while our principal was in a meeting.

They all introduced themselves. Mr. Clark, then little Mr. Clark, then Miss Clark, the beautiful daughter and then an absolutely adorable “hi” from the baby on his hip. They all wished a happy birthday to one of our students and then led our entire building in the pledge – all from his living room, literally deep in the throes of being a father and an educator in the most symbiotic way.

And with that, I was ready. If Mr. Clark can smile and laugh at 9am while creatively occupying three young children while still managing to fulfill the needs we have for him here, then I can find the passion to teach math today.

And I did.

Thank you, Mr. Clark. And little Mr. Clark. And Miss Clark. And the baby who said, “hi”. You might think your morning announcement was “no big thing”, and all told it probably didn’t last more than two minutes, but today, on a day when I really needed it, I, and therefore all the students I taught today, was very blessed by that little thing.

I didn’t even know it was there. James saw it first as I pulled into the drive on a Friday after school.

“What’s up with Yoda?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. After I parked the car in the garage, he asked again and told me to look at the grill on the Jeep.

Lo and behold, Yoda.

The truth is, I have no idea how he got there. I had to assume someone at school put him there. I sent an email.

“The yoda on my Jeep, cute he is. What jedi responsible for this?”

No one came forth.

Apparently another vehicle had been given a tail, but that’s as far as the trail of leads went.

Which actually makes it even more fun.

I was at an office the other day and as I left, the receptionist asked if that was my Jeep parked outside that she could see through the front windows. I said yes. She said, “We were all just admiring Yoda!” I had to tell her the story of the unknown origins and she said that was awesome and that they should do that to someone’s car there.

Yoda. Spreading joy from grill of a Jeep, he is.

He will not go. No amount of corn, sweet grain, fresh grass or coaxing will make him take one step any closer to that trailer.

Samson, our beautiful bull, has outgrown our farm. While we love him and the calves he sired, we worry about his aggression. And the cost of his healthy appetite.

The Mister has tried twice, in vain, to get Samson loaded in a trailer. It’s heartbreaking for all, as we really don’t want to see him go, and we know as we coax and plead with him that the end game isn’t a pleasant outcome for the bull in question. We aren’t exactly taking him to some other farm.

He will not go in the trailer because it is unfamiliar. He has only ever been in a trailer once. He did not go willingly then, either, and he was only five months old at the time. The memory of wrangling him with great difficultly when he was much younger leaves us certain there is only so much coaxing we can safely do at this point.

The unfamiliar leads to fear. Samson was calm and somewhat cooperative as we got him in the shelter several yards from the trailer. But when we were finally able to get him close, he was no longer in a cooperating mood. His whole demeanor changed in the vicinity of the unknown metal space. Mine, too. He is afraid of the big metal box. He has no idea what it is or why it is suddenly at the gate and he is, quite naturally fearful of the addition.

The fear led to destruction. It didn’t take long at all for things to escalate from calm to violent. He jumped the gate, breaking the wood barriers as he did so, just to get away from the unknown trailer. Despite standing outside the electric fence, he scared me so badly I fought back my tears and had to stand with hands on knees to even catch my breath and slow my heart.

What Samson needs, is time. Time to experience the trailer’s presence on his own terms. Time to acclimate to the addition. Time to investigate at his own pace, in his own way. Time to see the trailer as a treat-dispenser and not the transport to the end times as it actually is. Unfortunately, we don’t own the trailer and so time is something we cannot literally and figuratively afford to give him.

The idea of something unfamiliar leading to violence is not foreign to those of the human species, either. We all know how the unknown can lead to fear, hatred and destruction as well. It’s been all over the news. It’s been all over the country. Heck, I jumped sky high and screamed like the proverbial girl when a walking stick landed on my shoulder the other day. A walking stick bug. It wasn’t going to hurt me in the least, but it wasn’t something I was familiar with and so I reacted with fear and dashed the poor, harmless creature to the ground.

Perhaps what we could all use a little more of in this world is time with the unfamiliar. We need to build trust with the things we do not know. We need to investigate, familiarize and experience the unknowns in our lives in a calm, safe environment. This takes time. And it feels to me, as a nation, we are running out of time. We are jumping the gates, destroying the barriers and turning to violence to avoid the unknowns and unfamiliars.

In the case of our country, though, these unknowns and unfamiliars are often just people. People. Human beings. People with hearts and souls and dreams and wishes and families and jobs and fears just like us. People.

What would happen if we all took the time to get to know someone unfamiliar, someone different than us? If we were to pause in between facing an unknown and reacting with fear to take time to breathe, listen, love and learn, — ah, what a world we might live in.

Samson remains in the pasture. Blissfully unaware of the endgame he avoided by his refusal to load. He reminds me. He reminds me of the dangers of what can happen when we let the fear turn to hatred and destruction. He reminds me of how quickly we can turn away from something unknown out of nothing more than fear, and how we can be destructive in our nature, our words, our beliefs because we let that fear consume us. He reminds me to take the time. People deserve our time. Our country, I fear, depends on it.