I’ve heard it more than once, and mostly from my sister. She’s quick to admit I might be “book smart”, but will remind me from time to time that my common sense leaves something to be desired. I haven’t always agreed with that assessment, but the older I get the more I see it. This morning I was at my worst and I drove to work berating myself and feeling more frustrated than ever at how genuinely inept I felt.

I’d like to blame it on the power being out, but that was really just the catalyst that set it all in motion. In fact, when the power first went out, I was so proud of myself for NOT walking into the bathroom and flipping the light switch that I actually came out and proclaimed to my beloved husband that see? I can actually function reasonably well during a storm. My jubilation did not last long, but the fact that I surprised myself by that small success should have been an indication that these moments are not my strong suit.

This morning showed my true colors. Not only did I try to turn on multiple light switches (some of which are hooked up to the generator, but many were not), but I also put a shirt in the dryer to fluff out the wrinkles before remembering it would not run. When I texted James to ask if I should disconnect the generator before I left for work he jokingly included in his response to be sure I pulled my Jeep out before turning off the generator. What did I do? I put the door up and thought that was the entire hurdle, then turned off and disconnected the generator and turned around to realize my sheer stupidity. My Jeep was still IN the garage and the door would still need to go DOWN, but now it would have to be done manually as I had just turned off all power to the garage door opener. I was beside myself with frustration.

I calmed down by the time I reached school, and I realized that while I might be so angry and upset and frustrated, it wasn’t that I did any of this on purpose. “Having no common sense” is never a compliment, but it isn’t something I can control. I am just really bad at logistics. I can’t seem to think through from this step to the next to the next very well.

James and I talked about this when I got home and he reassured me that I was wrong when I said he married a dingbat. He never sees me that way, it would seem. But as I explained how I felt and that I can see how I can have these amazing ideas (especially for lessons I want to teach at school) but when I try to put them into action, I’m always off on the timing or it takes me four times as long to get all the materials together because I can’t think about the process logically, he understood my frustration even if he didn’t agree with my label. I can be clear about what I want to accomplish, but really foggy about how I get there. My sister, who operates in a much more rational and less emotional zone like my dad, is really great at planning and organizing things that require lots of prep, materials or steps. The thing referred to as “common sense” but which fails to be common at all for me.

The more I think about it (which has been a LOT today), the more I realize that I’ve always internalized this trait as an insult and something to be embarrassed by. But today, as I looked around my classroom, I realized it’s just one more different way that some of us operate in this world. I don’t have ADD or ADHD or any of the other dozen acronyms that appear on my rosters next to student names, but I do have this that I contend with daily. It’s something I need to start looking at from a different perspective. Maybe if I weren’t so dingy, I also wouldn’t be so creative. Maybe if I could handle the minute details of an itinerary or the logistics of a multi-step plan, or even if I could run errands in a gas-saving order, maybe then I wouldn’t have some of my other, more admirable traits. I don’t know.

All I know, is that during my self-loathing tirade of a drive, I actually did a U-turn to take this picture. It isn’t a great picture by any stretch, but it caught my eye and I just loved the idea of the image even if it isn’t the perfect angle or the perfect moment. I think it’s the fog that makes this picture beautiful. I t might be stretching the analogy a bit too far, but I’m hoping that that’s true of me, too, that this foggy-for-details brain that I have is part of what makes me the beautiful creature that I am. For today, I’m going to consider it a little blessing. I might not function at all well during a power outage and I might create lesson plans that take too long to implement well or that I know how to teach, but I can’t write it down in sub plans well at all, but I wouldn’t trade my creative mind for a more logical one. It wouldn’t be me. And that is a little blessing I will hold onto dearly, especially the next time the lights go out.

Jacob and Carissa eloped in July, surrounded by their amazing group of close friends on the shores of Lake Michigan. James and I were fortunate enough to get to see the very newly wed couple the following day on their trip back to Chicago. During a more recent visit home, however, we were able to celebrate the union with a few more members of the extended family. In honor of the occasion, I gave the following toast:

I would like to propose a toast.  In honor of Jacob and Carissa’s wedding, I would like to toast the union of Jacob and Carissa.  But, for a brief moment, I would like to speak mostly to Carissa, my new daughter. 

Carissa, when I was pregnant with Jacob, I saw a poem displayed at a friend’s home and it spoke to me so deeply that I decided to use it on his birth announcements.  The poem, by Anita Robertson, read:

When God wants something great done in this world, He doesn’t dispatch a legion of avenging angels; neither does he call forth whirlwind, nor ignite a fuse of volcanic fireworks. No commandeering of troops into battle nor discharging zealous crusaders to holy causes. He does not orchestrate the burst and boom of thunder, nor display His fiery arrows’ majesty across the sky to bring His purpose to pass. When God wants something great done in this world, He sends a baby. And then.. He waits. 

-Anita Robertson

The truth is, we didn’t have to wait long to see the greatness in Jacob.  Within his first year of life, he captured the hearts of all who met him.  The beautiful blonde curls sure didn’t hinder that process, but he was full of smiles and laughter and love for all.  By two, we could see the start to his future passion for computers and electronics, although we didn’t necessarily know it then.  Papa had no idea when he gave us the 5-disc CD turntable that the audio cable would be the most prized accoutrement.  Jacob had it “plugged” into the couch cushions almost immediately and was “vacuuming” everything around. At three, he became fluent in his first language: Martian.  By four, he could read “The Cat in the Hat” forwards and backwards and at six he was so bored in kindergarten that we had to have a special conference with his teacher so I could help her help him.

As a child, he was forever building things:  “contraptions” out of recyclables, Star Wars X-Wings out of K’Nex, the next space station in his loft.  He once built a fort in the living room and then proclaimed to me that the space was missing that, “Je ne sais quois.” There were no limits to his imagination, his creativity and his persistence (or his vocabulary). It was fourth grade, however, when his teacher shared with me at conferences that Jacob was laughing at other students when they offered an answer in class.  When I questioned Jacob about it later, he had no idea that people could be that wrong without intentionally doing so and thought the kids were purposefully being funny.  I didn’t know it then, but it wouldn’t be long before Jacob was (thankfully) able to participate in classes with students who shared his level of thinking.  When he violated a house rule (which was never more at this stage than watching TV when he was supposed to be doing schoolwork, or leaving his trumpet at school unattended) I had to take away his books as that was the only thing that caused him any kind of hardship.  And without a doubt, taking away reading broke my heart more than it ever broke his.  

When we moved to Michigan, his independence and self-reliance was never more obvious.  He didn’t want me to accompany him into the new middle school he had never even seen before; a decision I regretted acquiescing to the moment I drove away.  But it was there that he met Nick, a friend even now, and together they navigated the difficult pre-teen years.  Jacob continued to shine in middle school, taking advantage of Millwood’s focus on technology and creating videos and animations that I can still easily recall.  His academics also continued to flourish and by seventh grade he was taking high school math classes at Western.  The last-minute trebuchet builds should have been a signal to me that even if he was doing advanced academic work, the common sense was no more than any other teenager, which is simply to say, not a lot.  (Don’t worry, kiddo, I’ve ‘been there, done that’.  Just ask Papa about the scaled drawing of our house plan.)

High school continued to highlight Jacob’s passions and talents.  KAMSC gave Jacob a place to grow among other like-minded students and prepared him well for his college years. Looking back at those years, perhaps we should write Jacob’s freshman KAMSC teacher a letter so he knows Jacob has put his hacking abilities to much better use now!  While he was academically soaring above his years, he did have a hiccup or two getting his driver’s license.  Running over the curb for all of the people in Secretary of State to see, and the fact that we got away with just being flipped off after cutting off a driver in downtown Kalamazoo, left a bit of learning to be desired, but that too, came with practice.  Fall Saturdays make me miss band competitions and I will always fondly remember murder mystery dinners and sleepover with his friends. James, however, does NOT miss the group recitation of the opening sequences of each film during Star Wars Movie Marathon nights, at least not the recitations that occurred at nine o’clock, midnight and three am!   

By the time Jacob left for State, his second-choice college that proved to be nothing less than absolutely ideal, he had not only met you, Carissa, but had started dating you.  From there, there was no looking back.  Not only did Jacob continue to amaze us with all the opportunities and learning and advanced work he took advantage of at State, but he brought home a girl who helped bridge our farm way of life to our dirt-avoiding child.  You jumped right into our family with both feet, participating very early on in a memorable round of tequila shots; breaking dinner plates on the brick wall; vehemently swearing at James during Euchre games and winning our hearts from the backseat when you quietly inquired, “Is this Randy Travis?!”

Carissa, Jacob is my pride and so very very much of my joy.  He is the greatest thing I will ever hope to accomplish in this life.  He has single-handedly taught me more about myself, about life, about relationships, about purpose than any textbook or philosophy or self-help book ever could.  To say I am proud of him is the greatest understatement ever uttered.  And absolutely nothing in this life makes me happier than knowing that he, the child I created and raised, is something my dad is very proud of as well.  

Which brings me the long-winded way around to the point of my toast.  Carissa, Jacob is the child I raised.  From the moment I knew I was pregnant all the way through this exact moment and well beyond, I have loved him unconditionally.  Even when we were neck deep in the Year of the Death Glare, I loved him.  All the love, all the worry, all the sacrifices, all the stress, all the laughter, all the learning, all the forgiveness, all the tears, all the raising that Jacob and I did – together, it was for this moment, for this new union, for this next chapter in life.  Carissa, I raised Jacob, the boy, I raised him and loved him and taught him and learned from him, but I raised the boy so that you, one day, this day, might get to love the man.  

I wish you both a lifetime of love – even when it’s hard, even when the Death Glare accidentally returns; even when his own self-reliance leaves you feeling redundant; even when his calm, rational way of arguing makes you want to scream and throw things – even then, I wish you love.  Love that carries you through, love that carries you over, love that just carries you from one stage in life to the next. 

Let’s all raise our glasses to Jacob and Carissa – I have nothing but love for you both, especially for my boy who stands here today a man already proving he is capable of great things and is only headed towards more.  May you, Jacob and Carissa, blaze a trail of greatness together.    

Everyone should have a night like Open House. No matter what occupation, one night every year, everyone should have an opportunity like this. It’s my favorite night of the year. The energy and joy and optimism that I come home with after Open House should be bottled for all the exhausting, frustrating and maddening days that inevitably come when you are a teacher.

My room is at its finest. It’s clean and bright and colorful. Families walk in and smile. Kids come in and ask, “Can we really sit here?” referring to the under-cabinet pillow spots, or the little couch or beanbag chair. Fellow bibliophiles virtually run to the classroom library, looking over the choices, salivating at the thought of having so many at hand every day. Even the reluctant students, the ones who are only attending because their parent forced them to come meet their new teacher, smile at the candy tucked into their mailbox, or the way I conspiratorially tell them the papers are homework for the grown-ups tonight.

There are always new kids. Kids who have moved here from elsewhere, or even more commonly this year, kids who learned virtually last year and aren’t quite sure they will know anyone. New faces means I get to do introductions, which I always do quite dramatically. “Oh my gosh, Sarah, do you know Juan? No? Let me introduce you!!” After the introduction, I always excitedly proclaim, “That’s just crazy! You both have been in this room for less than five minutes and you’ve already made a new friend!?” I never want a student to feel alone and friendless. Ever.

I get to talk about books, Legos, summer vacations, siblings that I know, cousins that I don’t, pets, and everything else a new fourth grader has been dying to tell me since they first knew they’d be in my class. I get to see parents give reminder nudges about manners, reassuring support for the bashful children and calm redirection for the rambunctious ones. I learn so much in the short time families are in my room!

Tonight, a grandmother with custody wandered around my room for several moments before exclaiming to me, “I absolutely love this room!” She gushed on and on about the lights, the plants, the colors, the books…all the things I love about my classroom, too. It’s an excitement that is contagious and makes all the work, money and time that I have poured into my room seem extra significant. I love when the kids love our classroom, certainly. But when a parent or guardian is excited about it, then I’ve already put some positive points in my teaching bank with that family.

Families think Open House is about the kids. That it’s about making them comfortable with a new room, a new teacher. That getting this preview will help them transition confidently into the new school year. That’s all true, and I hope that it does provide reassurance and a spark of excitement for what lies ahead, but the truth is, Open House is the very thing I need each year to remind me of all the things I love about my chosen profession.

Open House is magical. It makes me forget, if just for one valuable night, that some of these students (or their parents) will drive me absolutely crazy. It makes me ignore how long my to-do list already is, or all the lessons I have yet to plan or the stack of stuff I crammed into a cabinet earlier in the day. It keeps me so focused on the most important part of my profession – on making kids smile, laugh and love a learning space – that I don’t have time to think about anything else. After the year we all had last year, meeting families and students in person this year was exactly what I needed to kick of the year and to begin with renewed optimism, overflowing joy and the confidence that these kids are going to show up next week as giddy and excited about our year ahead as I am. Or maybe it’s the other way around – that I am so full of joy and enthusiasm that I will be sleepless and excited next week, as though it is my first day of fourth grade. Either way, the night worked it’s magic and I find myself right where I need to be – excited and most certainly ready to begin.

My plan for the day was simple. It involved eating snack foods all day while playing board games and cards with my family topped off with amazing cheesecake for dessert. That was it. That was truly the extent of my birthday wishes.

My sister prepared an amazing mimosa spread that she brought over for our breakfast enjoyment. She didn’t know that I don’t like champagne or that I wasn’t drinking right now. The drinks were enjoyed by many, but not as it turns out, by me.

And while I was super excited to go with my new daughter (in law) to get piercings together (her nose, my ear), it wasn’t what I really wanted to do on my actual birthday, but that’s the only day the guy I trusted was doing piercings and so off we went in the middle of the day to do that.

I didn’t even see my husband until nearly one o’clock that day because he had to work. As we got all the snacks and goodies out, we ended up having a very quiet, very private fight while surrounded by a houseful of company.

And I didn’t even sit down at the table to play any sort of cards or games until after four as we had a wedding to celebrate, which was truly wonderful to celebrate and all, but I kind of missed out on a huge chunk of my day of snacks and games.

I know a lot of my family will read this and even as I type, I keep back-pedaling to make sure I’m not offending anyone. My point is that it was just the one day that I thought I had asked so very little of the world and I still didn’t quite get what I had hoped for.

However.

My dad gave me an amazing gift that day. (So did so many others, it’s just that this one makes a point. See? Back-pedaling!) My dad wrote my biography. He included pictures and stories and memories that I had long forgotten or in some cases never knew. I can’t even imagine how many hours (days, weeks, months!) he spent working on it, nor can I even comprehend how it is that he even remembers all the stuff he wrote. And while I sat and read through the book the next morning – laughing, crying, remembering – I realized that my fiftieth birthday was exactly what life is like. I may have thought I had reasonable expectations for how my day would go, but then you throw in a loving, well-intentioned family, a far more exciting and life-changing event like a wedding, a miscommunication between spouses and, well, even the darn hours of a tattoo parlor and you end up with a birthday that reflects the best and more challenging pieces of what makes a life well-lived.

What really happened on my milestone birthday was that I spent time remembering where I came from and all the love and opportunities that helped make me who I am. I was surrounded the entire day by people who love me dearly. I got to laugh and cry and reminisce and create new memories. So while the day didn’t follow the script, I am so glad that it reminded me of what’s really important.

Cheesecake. Cheesecake is what’s really important.

(And love. I have been blessed with a whole lot of love.)

When I first moved to Michigan, over a dozen years ago, my brother in law said he would help me move but only if I promised to be a Wolverine. Referring to the in-state rivalry between Michigan State and University of Michigan, it didn’t matter an iota to me which team I cheered for in college sports, but it mattered greatly how much help I had unpacking the U-Haul. I instantly became a fan of the U of M Wolverines. This allegiance held even when I began dating a man who was an avid Michigan State fan. In fact, it held up until my one and only chose to attend Michigan State. (Once you start writing those big tuition checks, it’s hard to cheer for the other team!)

In the years since, James and I have enjoyed the banter of rival matches with friends and family. The teacher across the hall from me bleeds blue and maize and I take many opportunities throughout the year to tease her about her opposing view. My students know I cheer for the Spartans and love to participate in the “Go Green!” “Go White!” cheer with me. While I’ve never lost any sleep over the outcome of a college sporting event, the rivalry has often added to the fun and sense of competition.

On the field or court, U of M and State are rivals, but when it comes to medical advances and technology, the University of Michigan rivals the big names of Northwestern and Mayo. When James’ dermatologist said “run, don’t walk to U of M” we didn’t think twice. Michigan State was the absolute best place for my son to attend college, but for the absolute best medical care, we went straight to U of M.

We had only met the surgeon once, during a video appointment. It took a moment to recognize him when he walked into the pre-op room, but his smiling eyes comforted us and his easy banter eased our nerves. Even after the surgery, when he spoke with me in the small consultation room, he was understanding and compassionate. He explained the surgery and the next steps and even apologized that we would have to endure the early days of recovery over a normally fun, festive summer holiday weekend.

But when he called us at 5 o’clock on the Friday of Fourth of July weekend to say he had just received the much anticipated pathology report, his empathy blew us away. He said he didn’t want us to have to wait until Tuesday and he wanted to make sure we knew as soon as the results were in. Pathology found no signs of cancer in the two biopsied lymph nodes that this surgeon had removed. It was news we had been afraid to hope for, but the word “negative” brought tears to our eyes, smiles to our faces and prayers of gratitude to our hearts.

Surely this surgeon was as anxious for a long weekend as we were. Surely he had plans to get away, relax and not think about cancer or surgery or even recovery. But this surgeon went beyond compassion, beyond sympathy to empathize with our situation and to do everything in his power to make it better. In doing so, this surgeon, this Wolverine is unrivaled.

When football season begins again in a month or so, James and I will pull out our green shirts and sweatshirts and we will joke around with friends and family over which team is better. And in a head to head match up on the field, we will still be cheering for the Spartans. But we will always know what kind of winners Wolverines can be off the field, when it really matters. And we will forever be blessed by that very thing.

I was fine. I had my bag packed with crossword puzzles, two books, snacks, charging cords and my reading glasses. I had downloaded a movie from Netflix and I had several episodes of “A Million Little Things” to catch up on. I was wearing layers in case the waiting room was either too warm or too cool for my tastes and I had comfortable shoes on. My water bottle was full and I had my notebook along to record any information the doctor or nurses shared with us. I was more than fine, I was ready.

We had checked in to the surgical wing, waiting to be called back to pre-op. We were fine. We had already come through what everyone had told us would be the worst part; earlier a technician who specialized in “nuclear medicine” inserted poison into James’ ear through what would seem to be a rather innocuous procedure that turned out to be extraordinarily painful. We had watched as a gamma camera recorded 2D and 3D pictures of James’ ear, using the radioactive matter to highlight his “sentinel lymph node,” a critical step in highlighting to the surgeon which lymph node should be utilized as an indicator for any spread of malignant cells. The rest, we were assured, would feel like a breeze.

Pre-op went better than well. We continued to comment to each other how well suited all the people around us were to their jobs. Everyone was cheerful, upbeat and positive. We met the nurses, the anesthesiologist, his nurse and the surgeon whom we had only spoken with via virtual chat up until now. We joked about what I wanted whispered in James’ ear as he came out of anesthetic (a reminder of the sheep I somewhat jokingly asked for for my upcoming birthday). We were fine. We were ready.

But then they started to wheel him off to the operating room and as he left and the nurse reminded me how to get back to the waiting area, I was very suddenly and very surprisingly not fine. I was not ready. I felt completely overcome with worry and anxiety. I walked, void of awareness down the hallway but I did not turn towards the waiting area. I could not go and quietly sit down and just wait right now. I could not possibly be idle with all these emotions rushing through me. I needed purpose.

I walked instead, towards the in-house pharmacy, to get James’ prescription filled. I didn’t know what I would do after that, I only knew I had to be doing something and this was the only something I could come up with to do. The pharmacy had received the order but didn’t have it filled just yet, so I kept walking, not knowing where I was headed until I saw a sign that read, “Rogel Cancer Center” and I just couldn’t keep moving. I sat down and cried. I was a long way from fine.

Much of what I was feeling was a sense of helplessness as my husband was undergoing surgery for a sizable malignant melanoma inside of his ear canal. I was worried beyond words about whether it had spread, or what the doctor might find once he got into surgery. But what really struck me in that moment was all the times my mom and dad had gone through what we were feeling and experiencing.

I was only a self-centered pre-teen when my mom had extremely risky brain surgery. Her surgeon at Mayo Clinic was the only one who would take on such a procedure. As I sat in the U of M cancer center chair, I thought about my dad, doing much the same all those years ago. Only he had three young children at home, one just a toddler and her procedure was far riskier and with less assurances than James’. With tears streaming down my face, I texted Dad and asked how in the world did he get through it? “She was brave enough for the both of us,” came his reply moments later.

I have thought about all that Mom went through many times over the years. I have thought about Dad’s role and how stressful and difficult it must have been, but I have never been able to feel that struggle, to experience that worry until now.

The surgery took twice as long as the surgeon had thought and was more complicated than originally predicted, but we remain hopeful about the outcomes. I never did put my new reading glasses to use. I wasn’t able to concentrate on the movie I downloaded or the crosswords I printed out. The hours I sat waiting I spent thinking about Mom and her faith that made her courageous beyond measure. I thought about Dad and all the planning, preparing and waiting he had done over the years she battled her own cancer. I thought of us kids, so oblivious; we often times made things more difficult just because our youth made us so ignorant.

When they finally allowed me back to see James in recovery, I wiped my face, stood tall, took several deep breaths and then all but ran to where he was. And by the time I got to his room, I was fine. I was ready. I could be brave enough for the both of us.

Every two years I dutifully make an appointment with the optometrist and every time the doctor explains to me all the reasons why progressive lenses are perfect for my vision needs. But, despite taking her advice the last three times, I have not come to love or frankly even like, progressive lenses. I give it my best shot, easing into wearing them, committing to trying for several months, but I can never find the “sweet spot” and I have to move my head far too much when I try to read anything to seem normal. In short, I give up every time and go back to being progressively more blind instead.

But blind doesn’t work well for someone who loves to read, which is why I found myself at Walgreens with a book in hand, trying on various “readers.” I was expecting a long day of sitting in a waiting room the next day and reading seemed like a good way to keep my mind occupied. “Readers” would allow me, I hoped, to see the words on the page without moving my head back and forth, even if these lenses would do nothing to help me see across the room. I grabbed a variety of snacks as well, honestly more for James’ sake than my own. He was going to have to fast before surgery and I figured he would be starving by the time we were discharged from the hospital.

I’m not in Walgreens often, but it seems like each time that I am the same man is working the check-out. He’s old, and looks as though life hasn’t been too easy on him. He is always very kind and enjoys making conversation. This time he looked over my items and said, “Ah, a vacation is ahead for you it looks like!”

I could see why he thought as much, as I was juggling a couple candy bars, trail mix, some nuts, two sets of reading glasses and the book I brought in to test out the glasses, but I kindly corrected him saying, “Actually, my husband is having surgery tomorrow, so I just wanted a few supplies for the wait.”

“Minor surgery, I hope,” he replied with a furrow to his brow. He had stopped scanning my items and was looking right at me for an answer. I didn’t feel like I could just nod, agree and move on.

“It’s a bit more than that, but we are optimistic for a good outcome,” I replied.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. Do you mind if I pray for him?” the man said in response. I just stood there, looking at this man – all but a stranger to me, here he was offering the only thing I felt could help us.

“We would really appreciate it if you would,” I told him. He went on to ask my husband’s name and told me he had quite the prayer chain that would be praying for him. “Jimmie will be in good hands,” he said, using a familial nickname as though he had known my husband since he was little. I thanked him, for the prayers far more than for the snacks and glasses and I left.

I sat in the car for several minutes thinking about what this man had offered to us. I had gone in the store to help solve a vision problem but he showed me what it was that I really needed to see. The church is everywhere. Believers all belong to the same family and when one of us needs help, we are all there for each other, lifting up those concerns to God. This man didn’t have to know me or know James to offer the best kind of help possible. And while friends and family have all offered a million varieties of help, including prayers, it was the offer of a stranger that made me really see God today. Lord knows how blessed we are by this little thing.

She thought it might inspire me. Not just spiritual inspiration but for my writing, too. She didn’t know I had been thinking about but never acting on acquiring a devotional for myself when she sent one to my mailbox.

And it’s true, it does inspire me. Daily. Sometimes moment by moment. I am reminded of God’s grace. I am reminded that He is good. All the time. I am inspired by the positivity when days seem difficult and I am inspired by the words that remind me we are all in the same boat, many of us fighting the same battles. We are never alone in our struggles.

What she didn’t know is how inspired I am by her. Growing up she was our favorite aunt. Don’t tell my other aunts that, but she was the youngest (making her cooler just by age), the one who laughed the most and the one who could, in all honesty deal with the bickering between my sister and me better than anyone. She came to stay when my mom was in the hospital; leaving her own family behind, she would come and be our surrogate mom during times of great uncertainty and worry for pre-teen kids. While we never wished Mom would have to endure another surgery or more chemo, we cherished the times when Aunt Marg would come to visit. She smiles so easily and you can’t help but feel like the world is a better place when she’s around.

I remember a time as a young teenager, when my grandpa came to visit. He always, ALWAYS, made us sit in his new car and admire the plush seats. This time, he put a tape in the player and asked me to guess who the music was by. I knew right away from the way he was acting that the pianist was Aunt Marg, but I also knew that my grandpa was beaming with pride and was showing off on her behalf. “Beethoven?” I suggested, “Bach?” He grinned from ear to ear and said, “That might be the composer, but the one performing is Marg!” I wondered that day, sitting in the passenger seat if my dad might ever be as proud of me as my grandad was of my Aunt. I knew I would never be as good at the piano as she was, but her inspiration still kept me practicing.

Just like my daily devotional, I think of Aunt Marg all the time. Perennials she blessed me with are prospering in my front flower bed. Every time I add to our landscape or work in the garden I know my standards for gardening excellence come from the beauty of her own yard. A freezer she generously gave to us holds the bounty of our garden and pasture until we are ready to eat it. My dusty piano downstairs reminds me of her amazing gift of music and how many people have been blessed by that talent.

My mom has been gone for more than 25 years and I have often wondered what it would be like to have her beside me through life’s struggles and joys. But in a way, I already know. When the devotional arrived in my box, it was just like something Mom would have done. And when Aunt Marg emails to say she thought of Mom and what an amazing grandmother she would have been after reading the day’s devotional, I felt the echo of my own thoughts in her words.

Just as I am blessed by reminders of God’s grace in my bedside devotional, I am ever so blessed by the grace and love of my Aunt Marg. She inspires me to be better than I am on any given day. She reminds me that life is full of joy if we take the time to look. And she inspires me to write and share my talents with the world the way she has done. Thank you, Aunt Marg, for the devotional. It has been, like you, a blessed thing indeed.

I grew up with the word. Diagnosed when I was ten, my mom, Jenny, suffered from a malignant brain tumor for over a dozen years before it finally took her away from us. Standing in the garage Friday afternoon, in the company of chickens, I wasn’t at all prepared for that word to be spoken, but there James stood, reading off the back of one of my completed crossword puzzles. “Malignant melanoma” he said.

“Okay,” was my entire reply. “Okay.”

He had been to the dermatologist after being referred there by another doctor. He had been having pain and a sore in his ear that kept swelling. It would bleed at the slightest touch, making it quite difficult for a man who wears ear protection every day at his job. The “ear infection” diagnosis had apparently been quite wrong as James continued to read for me the results of the biopsy.

“It’s skin cancer. In my ear.”

“Okay,” I repeated. Though absolutely nothing was okay. Nothing.

He went on to tell me that the doctor was quite concerned as the portion they removed was of “significant size” and due to its location was particularly problematic. The doctor had basically said, in more medical verbiage, to run, not walk to Ann Arbor as the “best ENT’s in the nation are at the University of Michigan.”

“Okay,” I said once again.

Over the next few days we learned several things. First, don’t google this stuff. Second, we needed far more information and had no hope for getting any until July, when we were tentatively scheduled in Ann Arbor for further testing.

After spending the weekend digesting and trying to live with this news, James and I both agreed that we couldn’t wait until July to get further answers. Before he could even make phone calls on Monday morning, however, U of M called him.

He recounted the conversation to me when I got home. A surgical ENT nurse from U of M had called him. She had received his initial information and wanted to talk with James further. She was all but telepathic, knowing how concerned we must be and immediately expediting the process and moving up the doctor’s consult to next week. She answered every question James had, shared her direct line number and told him if he needed absolutely anything, he should call her directly. James looked at me and said, “Her name is Jenny. The nurse. Her name is Jenny.”

As he told this to me, I started to cry. For the first time since the news arrived, I felt the tears roll.

Of course it is. Of course it is.

We have no idea what we are up against. We know how suddenly this came on and how concerned the dermatologist is. We know that a referral to U of M means you NEED the very best and yet, we are trying with every ounce of ourselves, to not get ahead of anything, to not rush into worry, but to take things one step at a time. Easy for me to say, I’m not the one with a raging ear infection/cancer that’s causing such discomfort that it sent my husband to the ER today just for relief from the pain and pressure.

“Okay,” I keep hearing myself say. “Okay.” Trying to will myself to be calm, rational and level-headed – not the three most frequently used adjectives to describe me for sure. But okay. If Jenny is here to guide us through this process, I cannot help but believe we are in the best hands. Whatever it is, whatever it turns out to be, however small or large or difficult or straight-forward, we are going to be okay. If I learned nothing from all the years my mom battled her own “malignant” diagnosis it’s that worry will get us nowhere but faith will get us to exactly where we need to be. Jenny’s got this. And I have to believe that’s not a coincidence.

Starting seeds while there is still snow on the ground is one of the things that gets me through the doldrums of winter in anticipation of spring. Over the years, James has helped me create our own little growing system in the basement, using a potting bench I built with my dad and a folding table or two. In the beginning, I tried to everything just so, with only certain equipment, lighting, timers and soil mixes. But, over the years, experience has taught me that the key to getting my sprouts all started has little to do with buying expensive grow lights or hydration systems. It has little to do with the exact soil composition (I’ve learned that using our own compost and a bit of seed starting mix will do just fine). What gets my seeds sprouting and growing is how close they are to the light. Not what kind of light, mind you, just how close they are to it.

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The close light source allows the plants to grow at a normal pace, without trying to overly elongate the stems just to reach the nearest light source. Keeping the light very close to the plants lets them soak it up without compromising the integrity of the stems, which is crucial for survival out in the wind and rain.

So, our system doesn’t involve any expensive bulbs or lights. It doesn’t have a purple glow or a full-spectrum anything. In fact, we use fluorescent shop lights that we just had on hand. And they do the job perfectly.

I try to remind myself of this when I’m just not feeling like my joyful self. When I am faced with what feels like the daunting task at times of enthusiastically encouraging ten year olds when I feel far from enthusiastic about anything. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter that the light is artificial. Or that it is an old, rusty, dusty shop light. It doesn’t matter that the cords are a tangled mess and that there’s more than one multi-plug in use just to get power to where we need it to be. What matters is that I bring that light as close as I can to each student. That I spend every day saying something meaningful and positive and specific to each student to brighten them up, encourage them and to help them grow.

My plants are ready to transition to the outdoors. They have enough leaves to soak up the actual sun and strong enough stems and roots to support them in a summer breeze or April rain. I hope that the joy I bring to my students, even when it is far from perfect sunlight, I hope my proximity, my desire to be close and constant, provides each one of my students with the support they need to go out into the world with confidence and strength. I hope that this light is a blessed little thing that helps each one of them bear fruit and multiply joy.