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When you just have to be creative

I don’t know about the rest of the world, but enduring this pandemic has been challenging, but not always devastatingly so. My life pre-pandemic always seemed to fly by at lightning speed, filled with busyness.  Some necessary. Some of my own doing. The colossal pause created vacillating emotions: relief because I have so strongly desired a way to slow down and rest and sadness because I am a naturally a doer.  The former, in many ways, has been short-lived, but I have enjoyed the moments of intentional quiet and a less harried rushing around. The latter has been fulfilled by being an educator teaching in a pandemic. Every day is an adventure as I try to find ways to engage to connect and build relationships with students in order to support their academic dreams. These efforts rely on my education, my practical experience, and every ounce of creativity I can muster.

Creative thinking is something that many (including me) would argue is not limited to only certain facets of life.   Yet, I think many of us fail to recognize how much creativity enriches our lives and brings a peace we often desire. After spending a month in lockdown, I realized how desperately I needed activities outside of work where I could use my creativity.  Pinning more things to Pinterest boards worked for a bit, but that effort didn’t sustain me. 

When stores opened again in Minnesota in the Spring, my mini-me and I embarked on a walk across town backpacks, masks, and a spirit of adventure in tow to the hobby store to indulge our need to create something.  My fingers longed to do something more than type keystrokes on a computer, and crocheting sounded like the perfect solution. Being in the fresh air and moving with purpose brought joy in every step.  Inside the store, we lingered a bit longer, not because we really wanted more than the couple items we sought, but because looking at something other than the walls in our house was refreshing.  After selecting a few skeins of yarn, we were on our way to the checkout, when an endcap with woodland themed jelly roll quilt strips caught my eye. 

I know.  I went for skeins of yarn and here I was tempted by the oldest marketing trick in the book – the endcap display. I’d always wanted to try one of these quilts, but I came for yarn, not more fabric. My thoughts raced on practicality and necessity, but settled on the knowledge of recent news of a new baby due later in the year who would need a quilt.  But woodland animals.  Who could resist?  Turns out, not me. 

Also, turns out that my longing to be creative is not surpassed by my belief in my ability to multi-task with superhuman strength.  I didn’t dig out the quilt until several months later.  In my defense, I also completed my doctoral research, defended my dissertation, allowed students second and third chances to wrap up spring semester and taught summer school.  Sewing the quilt top was a fun as the tutorial I found.

By the time, I circled back to the quilt, I quickly realized that 1 jelly roll was not enough, but sadly the store was sold out. And now, the baby was due soon; so, off to the store for coordinating fabric to make an outside border and backing.  Thankfully, the cutest little fox fabric was available that coordinated well with the adorable fox in the original fabric. 

Since the original jelly roll creation was too thin and long, I had a bit of extra that could be used to make a taggy blanket.  But then it hit me that I didn’t have a big sister gift for the new baby, and stumbled across a cute tutorial. (Okay, that really happened after spending hours on both Pinterest and YouTube, because I cannot read patterns and needed something simple to follow.) I decided to really go out on a limb to create a coordinating stuffed fox and used some of the fabric for the fox’s belly.  The creativity just kept pouring out. Thank heavens!

The final products reminded me how much I love creating things and how essential the process is to me. Whatever brings you joy, my hope and prayer is you make time to enjoy doing it. I have learned in this worldwide pause that creating something with my hands for someone I love is giving the very best of me. 

Wherever you are today, how might your creativity be used to love someone else?

Comfort and Connection

Maybe it’s getting older.  Maybe it’s the time of year. Maybe it’s the realities of living during a pandemic. Lately, I have spent a fair amount of time in reflection . . . just simply longing. My yearning has little to do with material things.  I am also not hoping with persistent angst of returning to “normal” because there are many aspects of that existence I simply do not miss.

As winter settles in, I find that this year is no different than other winters.  While I love the beauty of the four seasons in Minnesota, I will forever be a Florida girl, and the melancholy gray of winter often drains me.  I long for summer sunshine, but mostly I long for the comfort of the sights, smells, feels, and joys of my childhood days and all the people associated with those memories. Sadly, some of those people have gone on home to Jesus, but my heart aches to have my Mama’s breakfast with biscuits and eggs or my Nannie’s chicken and dumplings.  Oh, to be able to talk in circles with my Papa, and to have my hands grasped by my Granddaddy’s followed by his quintessential Hey Granddaughter! would be one of the greatest joys in a time that isn’t what any of us envisioned. 

While wistful dreaming always brings a smile to face, I decided late last summer and early fall to take tangible steps to bring the connection I long for into my winter months, especially my February.  I embraced years ago the Scandinavian concept of hygge (which I have to believe my adopted Norwegian grandmother, Leone, is beaming in heaven and probably telling my Southern grandparents that was one of her contributions to my development). Rather than focusing on all that is not, I have become intentional about doing the things that bring me joy – finding comfort in keeping intentional connection. I’ve been cooking in my Nannie’s cast iron skillet more, and even developed a black-eyed pea recipe that I know she would adore.  Just like my youngest says at her bakery business stand at the Farmer’s Market, I’ve enjoyed a few foods (biscuits and cornbread, y’all) that are definitely good for my soul, but maybe not for my hips, and I have not lost one minute of sleep over that decision. 

Many years ago, on a visit to my Mama’s house, we went through the closets of the front bedroom that was once mine when I lived with her and Papa in graduate school.  She was ready to clean out some things, and in our exploration, we discovered a few quilt tops that had never been finished.  I asked her what she was going to do with them.  Her response was nothing. She didn’t quilt much at that time, preferring to crochet instead.  As I had only recently gotten into quilting, I asked her if I could have them.  So, with little space in a minivan with four kids, I packed up three quilt tops when we headed on up the road back to Minnesota. 

When we got home, the busyness of life filled our days and those quilt tops were packed in the back of a closet at my house.  Apparently, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree as those beautiful heirlooms (based on the paper piecing on the back some of the newspapers dated to the 1960s) went from closet to closet.  That is until, I decided to be intentional in preparing for the quiet and reflective moments of winter.  As the leaves started to turn, I pulled those old tops out, bought some batting, and fabric for the backs. I spent weeks tying the quilts as they were never really meant for machine quilting, and then completed the binding, using the backs as the borders.  With each one, I thought of the connections through time and love that those pieces of fabric brought to me.

Now as winter has settled in, when I have those moments of longing for warmer places and a whole lot more sunshine, I wrap up in the warmth of one of the quilts. Bathed in memories, the fabric and stitches embody the love shared across generations and remind me of the faith and hope they all passed down to me. Even though longing still comes, the love that transcends heaven and earth will carry me through even the darkest days.

The rush to return to normal

When my pursuit for the jaunty chapeau was almost over, I kept telling myself – Soon, very soon, you will get to return to some semblance of a normal life. For those who have ever pursued graduate studies, we know the dissertation process is not one for the faint of heart.  Recently, I engaged in a conversation with friends who shared “war stories” of vision, wrist, and back issues just to achieve their dreams of a terminal degree.  So, returning to “normal” seemed like an appropriate reward for four years of hard work.  Only in my case (and that of all the other graduates of 2020), the ending was rather anticlimactic because of COVID-19 pandemic restrictions.  Instead of normal, the entire world got a big whopping wallop of not normal.

At the beginning the challenges with coronavirus, with so much misinformation and perhaps overly hopeful wishing, led many to believe that the whole pandemic would be done by fall. Much like when my OB-GYN said based on my mother’s childbirth experiences, our first baby would be born by ten o’clock, fall came and went with no return to normal.  (For the record, ten o’clock came and went and came and went again before that baby made his appearance in the world.)

As infection rates and deaths progressively grew worse, a sliver of hope was on the horizon with the vaccine.  Conversations shifted from “How are you holding up?” to “What’s the first thing you are going to do post-pandemic?”.  (Also for the record, I intend to live up to what my husband says I need to have as warning sign. Look out world! She is a hugger! I am going to hug people – lots of people – perhaps all the people!) The wistful and hope-filled shift was subtle, but definitely detectable.  Like every other human, (Okay, maybe not a few of my much more introverted friends, but in general, most human beings) I am ready to return to some sense of normal. 

But here’s the thing, that normal doesn’t exist anymore.  I am NOT being pessimistic, but rather being transparently honest. Every fiber of my being clings to hope, but I know we must honor the sanctity of humanity and all we have experienced. We have to come to terms with the heart-wrenching losses of people, of livelihoods, of traditions and so much more.  So many losses, tangibly and painfully real, as well as those that exist only in our hearts and minds.  Some wounds rose to the surface in 2020 that if we want true community in this country, we must address because we cannot continue to ignore the real pain that exists within the fabric of our society.

While some will emerge from this pandemic relatively unscathed, others will have lost their entire worlds.  Some will rush to return to normal while others will still be trying to define what their life will look like.  Anyone who has experienced deep loss, especially those who have lost in tragic ways, knows that one cannot simply return to normal.  That previous life or existence isn’t waiting for us in the future.  In grief circles, this is referred to as the new normal.  For others, like me, time is marked by the before and after of the tragedy.  I mark time as before and after the bus crash that changed everything in my life.  This measurement isn’t always a conscious one, but it surfaces when asked to remember something from the past.  I have often heard my husband’s family mark time this way after beloved family business was lost to a fire. I doubt they even realize that they measure time in this manner, but those touched by tragedy are unable to separate themselves from that tragedy.  No matter how hard we try it is always a part of what we carry forward.

As hope emerges to the surface akin to that first breath of air racing in the lungs after seeing who can hold their breath the longest under water, I sincerely hope we emerge with an intentional kindness and grace to recognize that for some, the new normal will be not be an easy transition.  As some will describe first world inconveniences, others will have lost their grandparents, their parents, their siblings, their cousins, their spouse, their childhood friend, their children or even their businesses, their farms, their careers. The year 2020 will be the one that we wish they could erase from their memories, but the pain of that year will be one that lingers. For some for a lifetime. 

In the world of teaching and learning, we frequently have conversations that trauma informed practice will be needed extensively even when the old way of doing school returns.  Yet, I haven’t heard any conversations of boldly and bravely preparing to love those for whom the pains and losses of coronavirus will not be easily overcome.

Using my teacher educator speech, those who know better, do better.

My humble prayer is that in the rush to return to normal, we, who know better, shine brightly for those who will need to be kind and gentle to themselves for a bit longer or for as long as they need. Pack our Kleenexes, our listening ears, our crying shoulders, and every ounce of grace, patience, and love we possess.  If pandemic history tells us anything, the world will heal physically even if our waiting can seem like the beginning of the Narnia tale where it was always winter, but never Christmas.  Maybe, just maybe, instead of exerting all our wishing for the pandemic to be over, we could shift that energy, those prayers, to using our waiting time, asking for illumination on how to love others who will need us most on the other side of this mess.

To my students

I know many of you already know this, but I love you.

I tend to tell you that often, but I feel that today you may need to hear it a bit more than every other day I say it.  I am a big believer in overusing those three words, and don’t get me started on giving a hug when one is needed (even if I can’t right now).

I know we don’t all have the same lived experiences and that we all have different beliefs and fears and hopes and dreams associated with the election outcome.  Even though I have not lived your stories, I want you to know that I will never take for granted the sacred trust you place by sharing them with me.  You teach me new ways of looking at the world each and every day.  It sometimes feels like we are all part of one of those hidden picture puzzles and after hearing your stories, more of the picture of life – life in America – is revealed. 

In hearing both ends of the spectrum on the reasons behind your thoughts on the election, I want you to know that my ears and my heart are listening because if no one has ever told you this before, you are worth listening to.  You are amazing and your ideas for a better world bring me inspiration. Every. Single. Day.

Educators do not take an oath like physicians do, but the day I became a teacher, my life as an individual was over.  I know that some will read that and think I have lost my mind, but truth be told, there isn’t a single moment of any given day that I am not thinking about, worrying about, praying over, and hoping for you. So today, is not really different in that sense, but I see your faces, I see your worries and fears, and I hear your cries. 

For many of you, this is your first election where you were legally old enough to vote and all of the uncertainty is agonizing and frankly exhausting.  We regularly talk about COVID fatigue in class, and all the divisiveness and, frankly, general malaise of disrespect spewed about is draining.  Right now, more than ever, I want to make sure you are safe – emotionally, physically, and mentally.  We’ll get back to academics, but today – do the things that bring you joy and comfort. 

I want you to know that if I had an oath, mine would encompass all the things I currently do: cheer like crazy at your successes and big moments, push you farther than you thought you were capable because you are more talented than you know, sprinkle water on your hopes and dreams to help them grow, talk/text into the late hours because you need a campus “mom”, sit next to you while you cry, bring snacks when I can, go for walks in the fresh air, laugh with you, and bring the very best I have to offer in every class.

You know how I always say that we (the faculty and staff) are here to help and that if I don’t know the answers, I will go with you on an adventure to find them.  In that way I walk alongside you, but there are other times, where you may need a little more.  In those moments, if you need me, I will walk behind you to catch you when it feels like you are sinking.  I will be there to offer a hand up if you stumble, and I will tell you all the ways I do so every day, just so you won’t feel embarrassed.  And if the moment ever comes where you are in danger, you better believe, I will stand in front of you. I will protect you from whomever or whatever wishes you harm. 

I don’t talk about this side of my life to you much, but a few years ago, I had the opportunity to speak in my parents’ church.  I spoke about my journey through grief.  It was a moment that I will never forget because it was a huge church and I had the opportunity to talk about how our words and our actions matter on a topic nobody likes to talk about in America.  And right now, a whole lot of people aren’t willing to talk about things that make them uncomfortable, and yet, those conversations are how we bring about change.

Here’s the crazy part. The thing I remember most about that day was the bulletin handed out had some pretty amazing words.  Words so profound that I still carry them around in my bag. In some ways, I have restructured them to be my oath to you.

To all who desire to learn,

To all who want to grow,

To all who remain curious,

But also, to all who are weary and seek rest,

To all who mourn and long for comfort,

To all who feel lonely and isolated and desire fellowship,

To all who hunger and thirst for change,

To all who need to be reminded how incredible and amazing they are,

And to all who need someone to listen,

This professor opens wide her door and heart for you!

Loved by the best

In a world where people are obsessed with collecting material things, I balk at that sentiment with one exception.  I love to collect the fellowship of new friends and hold them dear in my heart, maybe for a fleeting moment, maybe for a few seasons of life, and some for the rest of their days. Have a rough day in school and need a place to pray, not only will we probably be friends, but so too will our children.  Sit next to me on a plane, and we will most likely be swapping Christmas cards and story ideas for a lifetime.  Reach out to me about wanting to help others as healing for the grief you are experiencing and you will become one of our family’s dearest treasures.   Be my neighbor or my nanny and you become my family.

My niece tells me that I have never met a stranger.  She is probably correct in that assertion.  I simply love people. I love even more when they pick me which is why I feel like my whole world has been knocked off its axis.

Meet “my “Grandma Ruth.

I didn’t so much as pick her as she picked me.  Grandma had been a part of my world for a long time as we attended the same church for many years, but she “officially” became my grandma following the bus crash.  She knew and understood grief, but she also understood loving Jesus, teaching, fellowship, hospitality, writing, loving others, and laughter – all the things that quintessentially define who I am.

Following the bus crash, she began to send me messages of love and encouragement – just not in the traditional way for someone her age, like phone calls and cards.  Oh, she did that too, but I often referred to her as my techo-granny.  The first messages came on Caringbridge, then on this blog, then via email, and ultimately on Facebook.  The depth of her care saw beyond the surface and saw how deeply in the midst of our world spinning out control with endless doctor and therapy visits, multiple surgeries, tired days after fitful nights of lost sleep, and that through the haze of exhaustion I simply needed fellowship.  She saw to making sure that I (just Kandy – not mom, not wife, not educator) wasn’t lost in the shuffle, just the way I imagine a shepherd looking over its weakest sheep.

Those messages turned into an open invitation to join her and her friends for Show & Tell.  See when they never let you graduate out of the 4th grade (the grade she taught for the majority of her career), meeting for coffee and showing off your latest quilting or sewing project becomes Show & Tell.  Sitting around a table or crammed into a booth at Hardees depending on how many of us were there, I felt loved and cherished.  I was the only one who didn’t qualify for an AARP card and I felt that I had been invited to sit at the cool kids’ table. 

By this time, she had become more than the sweet whitehaired tiny phenom at church and she simply became Grandma. She became such a mainstay in our lives that for a very long time our youngest truly believed her that her middle name of Ruth was because she was named after Grandma Ruth.  Because all of my children love her as deeply as I do, we never thought to tell Sal otherwise. 

At some point, she was simply Grandma to all of us.

There are so many precious tender memories that my heart’s song could sing, but I think these are some of my favorites.  

Grandma was talented, though I often felt that she considered herself rather plain.  She was a writer and wrote her life story about which, I am completely biased, but honestly could be made into a movie.  She shared her writings with me, and I had a front row seat to her most precious memories.  Marrying the love of her life on Christmas Day at a military base while he was training for World War II and to celebrate, going to the movies afterward is the one of the most romantic love stories I have ever read. She also began to sketch some of those memories later in life.  Those sketches became cards that she gifted to many of us for Christmas.  She once asked me if I had used them all up and then had a sheepish little grin when I told her I couldn’t bear to part with them because they were her work.  They were simply too precious.

Artwork by Ruth Lee

She watched and prayed for my children through their successes and their hardships.  She loved listening to Sal sing and was so proud of Erin following in her footsteps to become a teacher. I am certain that Sawyer attending the University of South Dakota rather than her beloved South Dakota State University was considered a necessary evil.  Their rivalry was one where they loved to tease each other.  So much so that following her first stroke, she still gave her feisty fist raise. We brought lunch to her family members after church that day and sat with Grandma while they ate.  When more family arrived and the doctors were there to chat, I kissed her on the forehead and told her I loved her.  She was unable to speak and her lucidity was coming and going so soon after her stroke.  I stage whispered because her family are all also State fans that I had called Sawyer to tell him what had happened.  Knowing he was aiming for medical school, I shared that he had one thing he wanted her to know besides how deeply he loved her and everyone expected some morsel of health advice. Then I said it.  Go Yotes!  That familiar spark entered her eyes and she raised the only fist she could and laughed. 

Grandma moved from her mom suite to a nursing center which is where she celebrated her 100th birthday. A decade prior we cut short a family vacation so that we could drive through the wee hours to make it back for her 90th celebration.  But now, with coronavirus restrictions, she was on the other side of a series of glass windows with a phone with ear buds so she could hear us.  At first, she didn’t recognize us, but we just kept talking and telling her we loved her.  Then that spark came back again and she put up to the glass her beautifully aged hands, the ones that once had held mine, that had created beautiful quilts and artwork, and that had wiped my tears.  I put my hand up on the outside window wishing desperately I could hold hers just one more time. In barely an audible whisper, she said, “You are my girl.”  I sobbed the entire way home.  It was her birthday, but I was the one who took home the largest gift.

I know in my heart that the picking of me to be her girl was a direct off-shoot to her greatest sadness, losing her first son while her sweet Bob was still overseas fighting the war.  She was an octogenarian when a dear friend and I hosted the first ever October 15 – Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Ceremony at our church.  Grandma was in attendance and wept for that precious little boy and thanked me over and over for the ceremony because back then we didn’t have such things.  Her grief still real six decades later reinforced that we never get over the loss of a child.  We live, but we carry that brokenness with us.  She frequently told me that she knew exactly the first thing she would do in heaven – I’m going to rock my baby.

The moment I heard of her passing, I knew she had found a rocking chair somewhere in a corner of heaven and she fulfilled her lifelong yearning amidst what I imagine to be one of the biggest homecoming celebrations ever in heaven.  I also imagine a red-headed boy giving her one of the biggest sneak from behind squeezes ever and thanking her for loving his family so fiercely (even if she cheered for the wrong team).

My world feels a whole lot emptier as she was my very last grandmother. Biological and adopted, I have been loved by the best.  To her actual family, thank you for sharing her with all of us, because I know we are not the only ones. 

Grandma – I will always carry all the lessons you taught me about writing, about creating, about loving and serving others, about teaching, and loving Jesus and I will love you forever. 

Save a rocking chair for me to hold my babies one day. 

Love your girl – K

Breathe in, breathe out

One of my cousins who has a heart like mine for loving others, regardless of their story, participates in a ministry called “Mother to Many” which serves homeless youth in Washington state.  Over the course of the last week, I have been a safe landing spot for several women and teens in my life who have been dealing with one of life’s hardest lessons – losing someone they loved. I’ve often wanted to create a sign for my front deck (which I imagine is an actual front porch with a swing, some rockers, comfy cushions and big ol’ pitcher of iced tea) where the sign would sit.  A girl can dream, can’t she?

“Braggin’ and Bellyachin’ Allowed Here”.

We were made to fellowship. Women need a tribe, a circle, an inner sanctum, and if my wistful front deck can be that spot, the welcome mat will always be out.  If you need to celebrate, I will cheer with you.  If your heart has nothing but lament, I will hold your hand, wipe your tears, and rock next to you.

The women in my story are all like my own daughters, but I think my dear friend, Joy, who upon my announcement of first going back to chase the jaunty chapeau of doctoral studies, proclaimed that because she knows me as an extra momma to many in our community, that my official title upon graduation would not be Dr. Kandy Noles Stevens, but rather the more appropriately fitting – Dr. Momma K.  Throughout the last four years, she has always used that title in every exchange and perhaps she won’t know until now, how deeply and profoundly her belief in me encouraged me – EVERY. STEP. of the way.

So, life has brought me back to the place I love now that the textbook readings and exams are over to having the time to be a “Momma to Many” and wiping tears, while listening to the tales of sadness after sadness has been a noble calling.  The unfortunate thing is the loss hasn’t been from an actual death, but rather the ending of a friendship.  From the teenagers in my world to the mommas, discontent and leaving others out or behind seems to be running rampant, and from what I have seen, the women and girls of the world are hurting.

Much like not knowing you lost the plug to your Yeti cooler while driving across country with red snapper caught fresh in the Gulf of Mexico, I wish I didn’t know the stench of losing a friend.  Sadly, both malodorous experiences are ones that clings to your soul.  The fishy smell in my vehicle eventually went away, but the heartache of betrayal and loss never really do. I have learned some truths through my experiences and to be honest, writing about it is about the very last thing I want to do today.  For those who’ve followed my writing over the years, they know that I often wrestle with God about the things I don’t want to share like having someone formerly very dear me tell me that I am doing a horrible job of remembering my son. I just don’t want to share this story, because frankly, the pain cuts too deep.  But just like the horrible truths a momma learns after losing a child, there are corollary truths following the loss of a friendship and for some reason unbeknownst to me, God really wants me to share because I keep waking up in the night thinking about this blog.

In the same way that I can only imagine a prize fighter picking themselves up and assuming a pugilistic stance, protecting themselves from life’s body blows, these sweet women have picked up the shattered pieces of their hearts and came to me with the shards in their hands.  Together we wiped away the splinters and bandaged the wounds as I shared three lessons I have learned when a friendship runs its course.

  1. Despite how we believed a friendship was supposed to last, some people are only meant to come into our lives for a brief moment, teaching lessons we needed at that time, and others will be there for a lifetime. It is easy to confuse the two, but the life long friends show up with your favorite drink and a hug when they know you are going to face a terrible day and you didn’t even utter a word. They sit on your deck and hold your hands as you cry because there was another bus crash. They call simply to breathe God’s words into your ear and pray so fiercely that you find yourself not knowing whether to cry or to celebrate, ending up doing some sort of awkward dance of both.  Finding these women may take well into adulthood, and for some, that girl has been with you since childhood.  Whomever they are, love the momentary friends lightly and let them go, they were never meant to stay.
  2. Some of my sweet women are grieving friendships that started off wonderful, but slowly over time ignored signs that much like the frog in the boiling pot of water indicated clues that the situation was becoming toxic. The ghosting.  The negative things said behind the back, but never to the face. The little things that grow into big things, until an explosion happens.  I have learned the hard way, my dear ones, that in the long run these momentary friends really are doing you a favor.  No matter how deeply it hurts, they really are. For those of us raised with the values of forgiveness and turning the other cheek, leaving behind those friendships which have really soured can be incredibly difficult.  I once heard Christian author and speaker, Julie Barnhill, address this very concept. In any toxic relationship, God isn’t mincing words, forgiveness still needs to happen, but we were never called to hangout with basement dwellers.  Did you read that correctly?  If not, read it again.  God still calls us to love, but we were never asked to be someone else’s punching bag or toxic waste dump.  In the sacred rhythms of life, breathing prayers in, breathing prayers out, and moving on may be the greatest gift of those friends. 
  3. Finally, the granddaddy lesson of them all, Jesus truly gets it. I think in the midst of deep pain we (well, at least, I know I do) forget that while fully God, Jesus was also fully human.  He wept outside his friend, Lazarus’s grave. Much more like me, he got mad and flipped tables.  And he also knows the pain of betrayal and loss of friendship.  Remember he started with twelve friends, whom I would call the inner sanctum, but his time on Earth ended with eleven.  When I first heard a speaker share that truth, I wept, because it was closely following the words that to this day still make me cry, you are doing a horrible job of remembering Reed.  I cried knowing that Jesus knew who would betray him and knew the consequences of that betrayal. While I could say something so trite, almost trivial to another hurting, I understand.  I’ve been there before. Little comfort would be found in those words, but pouring your heart out to Jesus, sage wisdom and endless comfort can be found with him.

Loss of any kind hurts.  Losing a gal pal has its own kind of sting. Beautiful girls – take time to grieve your loss. Mourning is necessary, but allow God to collect those tears in his bottle, knowing that he designed you for fellowship with other women and knowing God has other doors to open while you praise him through tears, sometimes loving from afar, while standing in the hallway.  Hold lightly to those momentary friends, saving space for the tribe of women he planned to hold you close to their hearts all of your days.  For they will be the ones who will walk with you to the finish line, holding your hand and maybe your iced tea, and praying with and for you, every single time.


Some of your lifeline friends will also forgive you when the ocean and salt air makes for interesting hair.  For the record, I only see love and support in this photo.

On heaven’s time, Jesus not only understands the depth of your pain, he once lived it.  And here on Earth, I don’t have all the answers, but what I can promise is there will always be rockers, iced tea, a hug, and a listening ear at my house.

Breathe in, breathe out – you are loved and cherished, even if it at this moment, it doesn’t feel that way.


No momma dreamed this . . .

The whole world seems to be turning upside down and inside out. I really wanted my return to blogging to be similar to the reveal of a debutante at a ball to announce that the author and tagline of this blog have changed.  I wanted my “I’m Back” message to be celebratory, announcing the chase for the jaunty chapeau came to a conclusion.  Oh it did.  I am officially a Doctor of Education now, but the entire ending was rather anticlimactic. Dissertation defense on Zoom, no commencement, and the factory which makes said chapeau was shut down due to COVID-19 restrictions.  For every other person experiencing a milestone let down, I get it.

Two things, however, remain steadfast: my love of learning and my passion for sharing that love, especially in all things related to STEM education.  From the moment I announced my intention and set off on one terrific ride and, at times, incredibly arduous journey, one of my dearest friends has honored my dream by calling me Dr. Momma K.  To know that I earned that title is rewarding, but knowing that, the way I look at the world has changed.  Not because my education makes me better than anyone else, but rather I now hold sacred how much I truly do not know and have a fervent desire to learn more.  While some might see earning a terminal degree as an ending, I see it as a beginning; hence, the tagline change for this blog from Faith, Family, Football to learning life’s lessons.

Coming back to writing has been a challenge in that I, like everyone else in America, have lived with the uncertainty of our times with the pandemic. Now with the racial, political, and ideological divides in our country stronger than ever, I am disheartened over the stress we feel.  Even more than that, every fiber of my being aches for the meanness spewed about on social media of the general malaise of society and the resistance to pick up burdens for our neighbors.  Rather than being beacons of hope and unity in troubled times, what I am seeing reminds me of those gathered with the stones at the ready much like those in the gospel of John in chapter 8 – the story where everyone was ready to stone to death the woman caught in adultery.

After 23 years of formal education, I have learned there exists so much more that I do not know that I do not know.

There is no typo in the previous statement.


I laid in bed the other night after reading all the vile things that friends and family were saying to each other in the name of Jesus and I broke.  I’ve been generally sad since my educational journey ended, but this was an absolute breaking of my spirit and I wept.  My prayers were translated by divine intervention because all I had to utter were moans.

Desirous of change, yet I felt so small and powerless.

In high school, I remember reading Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery. That short story so profoundly touched me that even all these years later, I remember it and trust me, I’ve read much since those Florida high school days.  If you haven’t read it, I encourage you to do so, but the ritual portrayed continued because of ancestral roots.

Slinging stones.

I didn’t sleep for days in high school after reading that story, ruminating over the concept of there has to be a better way.

In my tear-filled talk with God, I started thinking about my friends and really examining my eclectic mix and wondering why it is that I have absolute no desire to sling stones.

I have friends  . . .

Who are White, Black, Asian, Latinx, Hispanic, and Indigenous/Native peoples.

Who come from every faith community and those who are atheists or agnostics.

Who are Republicans, Democrats, Independents, Libertarians, and those who do not vote.

Who are in every age group.

Who love the arts and those who think the arts are a waste of time.

Who believe in science and those who think scientists are lying.

Who love sports and those who could care less.

Who are educated and those who are not book smart but know an awful lot about life.

Who are straight and those who belong to the LGBTQIA family.

Who are moms who breastfed and those who bottle fed.

Who love dogs and hate cats and those who love cats and hate dogs.

Who live in urban, suburban, and rural areas.

Who work white collared jobs and those who work blue collared jobs.

Who exist on SNAP programs and other assistance and those who make millions annually.

Whose families emigrated here generations ago, those who just arrived, those who are here undocumented, and those for whom their lands were taken away.

Who vaccinate their children and those who do not.

Whose children are drug-addicted and those whose children have never seen a drug outside the pharmacy.

Who are married, divorced, separated, living together, widowed, and single.

Who care about the environment and those who think climate change is a hoax.

Who homeschool, who send their children to public school, and who love their private school.

Who love meat and those who are vegan.

Who believe in value of news media and who believe that media outlets are prone to lying.

Who value the ability to accumulate material things and those who are minimalists.

Who fought for the flag and those who kneel before it.

Who know trauma and who have never experienced the depth of that pain.

And finally

Who have experienced racism, sexism, agism, homophobia, disability discrimination and those who have never experienced injustice in a minority status ever.

And here is the crazy thing . . . they are, as a lot, beautiful human beings. I choose to believe that we are all just doing the best we can and that we don’t know all the details of someone’s story.

But even I have my breaking point. Spewing hate.  It just has to stop.

Why are we slinging metaphoric stones?

While I do not agree with my friends on every single aspect of life or to be honest in some cases on many aspects (I mean really. To choose a less hot-button example, I am a chemist and science educator. Why someone I love would not trust science makes absolutely zero sense to me.) Even though I am left shaking my head in disagreement, I have never once wanted to sling a stone because I have learned that if I listen closely to their story, I may find that I have more in common than might be noticed on the surface.

Through the sharing of stories, I have learned that some atheist vegans love mercy, seek justice, and walk humbly more like Jesus in their community than some other devout pew sitters and for me that was profound discovery.

There is so much more that I don’t know that I don’t know.

I know the sting of being told I couldn’t achieve in my beloved science because I am girl.  I know uncomfortable glances and grabs. I know the lunacy of trying to make a major purchase and some man erroneously thinking I didn’t understand how to calculate interest. I know the struggle that families who have children with disabilities experience, even if my time in that valley had an expiration date. I know being shunned because I chose to pursue education and my choice doesn’t fit someone else’s ideals of womanhood and motherhood. I have felt the sting of the Mommy Wars.  I know grief intimately and I know the pain of having your child’s death become a politicized sound bite.

But what I do not know is someone clutching their purse because I got on the elevator.  While shopping with some of my black friends, I witnessed the pain of not being waited on in a store even in the community I love, but it isn’t an everyday experience for me personally. No one casts a side glance when I enter a store.  Even though I come from a law enforcement family, I have never once had a conversation with my sons about how to act if pulled over.  There are things I simply do not know and a million others that I don’t know that I don’t know.

Maybe that girl horrified by The Lottery was onto something. Maybe we are the generation who lays down the stones and finds out the stories that lie behind the clenched fists holding tightly to the baggage of mistrust, falsehoods, discrimination, and devaluing others those stones represent.  Better we stub our toes than continue to diminish dreams and break bones and hearts.

My dream is that through the sharing of stories we will learn why someone believes, acts, or values the way they do. We must listen. Simply listen, without expectation of countering. Maybe we ask God to show us the way he sees those different from ourselves, lest we forget he is the one who created them, and in that seeing, we seek forgiveness for all the ways we have failed to recognize the beauty and the brutal parts of their narrative in the fabric of the world’s tapestry. Around those dropped stones, perhaps we spread pesticide on the pestilence and roots of hatred and fear of difference.

In doing so may we realize that no momma’s pain should ever be someone else’s agenda.

If we listen closely, I am betting we will find that behind every single thing that divides us is a painful story that belongs to some momma who never dreamed this America for her child.


Dear Students

I miss you!  Today was the day, I was planning to have cookies, cocoa, and tea to welcome you back to campus and to hear of all the great things you learned while completing your spring break.  Whether you were practice teaching for pre-student teaching, traveling with families or athletic teams, or just simply taking a respite, I couldn’t wait to hear your stories and see you smile while sharing them. Even though I have told you this before second only to my children and “grandchildren” you are my world and I felt it was important for me to share this with you today. I am disappointed my welcome back party is not how we are going to spend our day today.

STEM center

I am so sorry we are facing uncertain times full of unknowns, but there are two things that will remain steadfast – my love for you and my commitment to help you reach your dreams.  This crazy world we live in needs your talents, your big ideas, your hopes for a better future.  While I don’t know all the steps forward or backward we will take in the next few days or weeks, what I do know is there will be a plan.

The hard part is as future educators, social workers, justice officials, entrepreneurs, and business management professionals we tend to be planners.  But how do we plan when it seems the rules keep changing?  The tough true is we wait.  As hard as it is, we have to also have trust and faith that the decision-makers are working in all of our best interest. Just know that is my daily prayer for all those tasked with making the tough decisions on what to do next.

In our personal waiting time, we can be proactive with our thoughts and our time.

Reconnect with someone through a letter or card in the mail, an email, a phone chat or text, or even an online platform.  I ask that you intentionally love each other in these classes, by checking in on a different classmate each day. Be purposeful in connecting.

While lots of events have been cancelled and businesses ordered closed, this virus hasn’t cancelled nature. I am doubling down on my commitment to getting you outside and right now some fresh air might add some much-needed perspective and time for self-reflection.  There are loads of other things not cancelled like music, books, journaling, doodling, playing games, kindness, hope, and dreaming.  Enjoy things that you might have forgotten how much you once loved in our busy lives, but that are still hallmarks of living well.

Be wise with your interactions and be thoughtful of those at higher risk. Due to having asthma, I am one of those people who needs to make some tough decisions about physical isolation and limited interactions. You all know how much I love a classroom full of people; so this is going to be a tough wait for me.

While I may have to be physically remote, what this virus cannot do and what it will not do is erode how deeply I care about each of you.  While I would much rather be in the classroom with all of you, this virus will not change my work ethic to deliver to you the best I have to offer in terms of your education and life. Thankfully, I have the ability and the skills to move my classes to an online format which is what we will do going forward for now.

I know there about a bazillion and one “What if” questions.  Believe me, I have some too.  As more direction regarding specific cases comes to light, I will be certain to share them with you all.  I know it is tough to wait and to not know, but hopefully we all know more very soon.  So what do we do in the meantime?

Even though we are on extended spring break, look ahead and keep working on any long-range assignments in my classes.   When we do resume instruction, I will still utilize our course’s checklist and use our content area for sharing resources about our topics.  For my education students, we won’t be able to gather together to complete science investigations, but I will strive to find similar ones that can be conducted from home using items you most likely have on hand.  I will make videos to share instruction, and if there is enough availability, I will attempt to host my office hours online via Zoom and at the very least using instant messenger in our course. I’ve heard there might be some limitations on how many can be on Zoom at a time; so, we will be conscientious of that and work around it.  For my AOS Scholars, we will determine a plan to support your academic success in science as soon as we know the steps others are taking.

So what won’t we be doing in this waiting time?

We aren’t going to panic.  We aren’t going to lose hope.  And we aren’t going to forget who we are! We are the SMSU Mustang family and we always take care of each other.  It’s who we are.  It’s what we do.  It is as ingrained in us as is our genetic code. The family atmosphere at our university is what defines us and it is what makes earning a degree from here so incredibly special.

If (or should I say, when) there are rough moments.  Get outside for some fresh air. Reconnect with someone and tell them how much they mean to you.  Remember that in addition to the traditional methods of contacting professors, you all have my personal cell phone number.  You can reach out for the big stuff, the little stuff, and all the ordinary stuff in between.

But most importantly: I’m thinking of you. I and every other educator (at all levels) that I know are planning for how to help you and all the students around the country succeed.

Even though we don’t have all the answers today, we’ve got this!

We have a world to change!

I miss you.  I LOVE you all!

Professor K (also known as Miss Kandy)


Hey Reed . . .

Hey Reed –

I can hardly believe that it has been a year since I last wrote to you.  Seeing the last date posted somewhat shocked me. I realized that while 365 days have passed without writing, there hasn’t been a single day that I haven’t thought of you.  There just has been so much that has occurred in the last year.

Some wonderful.  Other parts incredibly painful, but most of it exceptionally busy. Through it all, our people have loved us fiercely and I would be lost without them.

In the last year, there has been so many things to report. We finally put a swimming pool in the backyard and we love it. When I look back there, I think of all the adventures we had with the tree house and I can only imagine the tales we would have had with a pool. You would be amazed at the stories created by Erin and her work with kiddos teaching them confidence and comfort levels with water.  Remember when Cloie was born and Erin marched with “confidence” to slide down the Y slide even though she wasn’t old enough to do it on her own. Turns out she never lost her confidence with water.  You would be proud.

Cloie graduated from making imaginary gnocchi in her play kitchen for you to actually owning a bakery with a friend.  I can only imagine that if you could see her in action in the kitchen, at the Farmers Market, or at events, that your voice would be boasting the loudest, “That’s my baby sister! Isn’t she something!” Remember when you wrote the Youth as Resources grant to create an art show for kids, she did a similar thing by being one of the founders of Marshall’s Kindlmarkt. There are so many times that she has an insatiable drive and passion for something that I have to pause because my heart knows that whatever she says it would have been something that you would have said.

The milestones that we missed with you have come in rapid succession for Sawyer. We are so happy for him, while also grieving the moments lost.  Your best buddy grew into an amazing man with a heart that is both courageous and kind. In the last year, Sawyer became a dog owner, graduated from college, got accepted to medical school, and got married.  It was a beautiful celebration for Sawyer and Sydney surrounded by our dearest people.  Imagine our surprise that the photo we received from the honeymoon was the cardinal that wouldn’t leave the porch of their cabin.

Dad keeps busy with work and church.  He still loves hunting and fishing, and Cloie is always on the hunt for a hunting dog for him.  We all just humor him, because he, of course, continues to report that he doesn’t like kids or dogs. The rest of us have yet to meet a dog or child that doesn’t end up being his best buddy.  Speaking of that, give Huck a hug from all of us, we miss like crazy too.

And speaking of buddies, our extra kiddos have graced our lives with a whole brood of adopted grandchildren.  And this year, our hearts found a few more to love. L, C, B, K Reed (named after you), P, D, and two more on the way make us Grammy and Grampy, the best names we could ever have. You would love all of them.  We and their parents make sure they all know who you are, and this year, the oldest, L, had lots of questions about you.  She wanted to know how big you were when I remembered we still have your Lands End jacket from kindergarten, the same grade she was entering.  In that beautiful way where heaven touches Earth, it fit her perfectly.  Rather than just telling her a story, we could say, Reed was exactly the same size as you are when he was going to kindergarten.  It was such a precious and tender moment.  Beautiful in its simplicity, leaving an indelible mark on my heart.

The lack of time spent keeping this blog running has been spent teaching while being a doctoral student and about a bazillion other things.  The light is at the end of the tunnel on my schooling, and in almost a cosmic recognition of how sacred I hold February 18 as my last fully whole day, I received a notice yesterday, that while my dissertation still needs to be defended, I am a candidate for graduation.  The irony is not lost on me that the timing of the news was on that day and not today. The challenges and struggles have been many and the journey arduous, but achieving my dreams when for so long they have been deferred is incredibly gratifying. There were times when I wasn’t sure I would finish within the timeframe I gave myself considering everything else going in our life.  Truth be told, in those moments, I, often think of how you bravely faced your diagnosis of a debilitating eye condition, and I realize we are not ordinary people.  Clinging tightly to your bravery, I persevered.

When I look back over the last year, I can vividly see all the beautiful colors of the amazing moments, outlined by the black threads of grief in the despairing moments.  The most colorful ones are the instances where we were surrounded by those we love and those who fiercely love us back, doing extraordinary and especially ordinary things, in life.  The most perfect moment was the flash of red color I saw out the window after experiencing the shock of the surprise party for my 50th birthday. I was surrounded by love. In every corner I looked, another person I love was there. There were some who couldn’t make it, but the one my heart wanted more than all made sure that I knew he was there.

Everyone was shocked when I pointed out the window, but a momma knows.  She always knows.  No matter how far away heaven seems most of the time, my momma hearts knows that the distance can never exceed the depth of my love for you.

Loving you now and loving you forever, until I can hug you again.   Until that moment, holding my memories of you tightly in my heart.





Dear Reed . . . it’s February

Dear Reed –

I almost feel I should start this letter with and then there was February.  I don’t how to explain it.  Life will go by so swimmingly well, and then it’s like some cosmic explosion of sadness comes sprinkling down from the universe.  Stardust of grief covers every surface and I realize, Oh it’s February.

I can hardly believe that eleven years have gone by without hearing your laugh, seeing your beautiful red hair and mischievous smile, watching your little old man imitations, or being wrapped in one of your sneak up behind a person hugs.  Those years have, at times, felt like a blink of an eye and at other times, like a lifetime.  I still find joy to be elusive on occasion, but I am dogged in my pursuit because I know confidently you would never want us to live our lives void of happiness. Being a thinker is definitely is a wonderful skill as a lifelong learner and as an educator who daily reminds her students to stay curious, but it can also be a curse when I wonder what life would have been or would be like if you were still with us.  My imagination gets the better of me, so much so that I almost grab the phone to call you to tell some random thing or another.

Aspects of February remind me of when I was little and we would go to the beach.  I was so tiny that standing a few feet from the shore was never a safe bet.  The waves coming in were so strong they would simply knock me down and current going back out into the Gulf was strong enough to pull me under.  No matter the direction – coming or going – I could not shake the strength of the sea and days, although fewer than in the early years of losing you, feel exactly like when I was little and I would try to keep standing upright.

I don’t really believe that time heals all wounds, but I do believe that over time, our ability to live with our grief – the new normal so to say – improves.  There are some things however that I avoid altogether, because they always bring incredible pain such as the school’s Hall of the Forgotten, only that isn’t what they call it.  I have never understood how a Hall of Fame would be in that location. A thousand times I have implored for change, leaving a trail of broken promises.  No matter how hard I try I cannot find joy there. It is the very definition of February for me.

Thankfully, even though February moments happen, there are more moments of joy. This last year has been one filled with amazing experiences with lots of travel adventures and buoyed by incredibly hard work of going to school to realize my dreams.  We have had celebrations and we have others anticipated in the near future – Sawyer’s graduation from college, Erin’s graduation the following year and watching her simply flourish as a teacher, Cloie’s moving on to high school and most recent math accomplishments, and finally Sawyer’s and Sydney’s wedding.  I will admit that they are all tinged with some February because you won’t be there, but we are joy-filled for where life will take them.

Despite moments of February, there are so many incredible blessings that we experience on a daily basis.  Experiencing a loss as deep as ours gives you eyes for how others are hurting in this world.  We never had the visual acuity that you had for seeing what others live through, but now we have the clarity and the focus to be able to help.  In this way, we keep your legacy of loving others alive.  Losing you also provided our circle.  Don’t get me wrong, we are surrounded near and far by incredible, loving people.  But the circle.  They cheer the loudest and love the largest.  Spending time without them is akin to a fish out of water, and many of them chuckle when I say I just love breathing the same air as you.

There are some blessings so amazing that we could have never imagined or hoped for them.  Some are little, like tattoos in memory of you and Jesse, Hunter, and Emilee.  Others are so precious that I thank God daily for them in my life.  In only the way heaven creates family, Lydia, Claire, Brinkley, Ethan, Taylin, DeShawn, and Keaghen Reed are just about the best blessings that we could have ever asked for, especially the timing of the last grandchild on the list.  His birthday exactly two days before your homegoing date.  In only the way that God could, his birthday lessens the blow of our darkest day.

While enduring February may always be a struggle for me, loving you never was and never will be a burden for me.  There are moments where I pause and think of how we will make sure to remember you, especially with all our littles and others bigger in the circle and beyond, because in our blessings each of them are also being raised to know about you.

To answer the question, What about Reed? It’s really simple, we are all going to continue to live out your legacy of loving others like it is oxygen for our souls.  Simply because that is the best way to diminish the waves of February.

Waiting until the day I can hold you again.  Hug all our peeps and especially that red-furred wonder, Huck, who I still miss incredibly too. Watching with hopeful anticipation for the next cardinal and . . .

loving you always, now and forever because ours is  love stronger than February.

Love – Momma