Yesterday afternoon, Donald Trump declared his plans to campaign for president. Again. I didn't mind at all. I like his confidence. And since I've always interpreted arrogance and confidence interchangeably, I can almost excuse his excessive use and over-generalization of the word stupid. Especially when his speech was delivered with the kind of brutal truths that almost always kill political careers. But I adore brutal truth. So I watched and listened with the kind of fervor that I hadn't allowed myself since Netanyahu's speech to Congress on the off chance that it wasn't an anomaly. I wanted to enjoy every minute of it. The parts where he talked about China's threat to America . . . and when he talked about the Obamacare debacle . . . immigration reform at the Mexican border and fiscal responsibility . . . support of the 2nd amendment and ending Common Core . . . wait, what?

So let's not think about the irony of the fact that the one issue he cited that I disagree with is the one I could write more than a page about . . . maybe I have a lot to learn and I'm easily excitable at the idea of anything remotely different than the average subversive political agenda. But still, why DOES Donald Trump hate the Common Core? WHY? He didn't say. He just cited the worn 26th world rank statistic, asserted that education needed to be local, and moved on. I would have welcomed the enlightenment, because as it were, he seems less than informed about this particular issue . . .  but maybe it's me. . . maybe I know nothing more about education than I do about foreign policy or healthcare or elections . . . Except that I think maybe I do . . . So let me give you some pretty educated opinions and a few facts.

• Fact . . . and a good dose of opinion: The common core, which is really just a more stringent, specific, and narrowed set of standards for reading and math, IS local. Just because some people got together and decided that there needs to be a common set of standards and benchmarks at the national level doesn't change that education is legislated at the state and local level (check the Constitution . . . nothing there). If the decision is made to adopt the Common Core at the state level, districts still have autonomy on how and what they use to meet the objectives. It's actually a good idea. Think about it. Just because Donald Trump repeated a number doesn't mean it's not accurate. . . 26 as a nation is bad. . . 26 needs reform. 
• Fact: Forty-three of the fifty states have adopted Common Core. From the beginning, Texas and Alaska opted out. Five other states reversed their original decisions to adopt the CC: Virginia, Nebraska, Indiana, Oklahoma, and South Carolina. It IS optional.
  
• Fact . . . and some firsthand experiential knowledge: Even school districts within states that have opted out of the CC statewide can adopt the standards. Fairbanks, Alaska did. There is autonomy at the local, as well as state level. As a matter of fact, there is an inherent autonomy within individual schools as to how any individual objectives or benchmarks might be met. More on that later. . .
• Fiction . . . sort of: There are rumors about kick backs from the federal government if states participated in CC that would denote an subversive attempt to centralize control of education at the national level. That was actually a program called Race to the Top that involved a competition between states where points . . . and funding . . . were awarded for increased state scores. Of course, adoption of the CC for participating states was sort of a prerequisite and it all became a very convoluted issue, which caused Indiana to opt out. But, really, would we honestly expect the feds not to try. They've been doing this with Title I programs for years . . . more on that later.

So maybe the latter was the catalyst for Trump's brief tirade against Common Core. Part of the Republican agenda is to decentralize government, and it's not a stretch to imagine that any educational initiative at the federal level would be met with resistance. But there are more rumors . . . I wonder if Donald Trump has heard them . . . the ones about the actual curriculum within the Common Core having hidden agendas and inappropriate content . . .  

If I had a nickel for every bazaarly offensive or ridiculous math problem or test item I've seen featured on social media that represents what our children are exposed to in the Common Core, I would have . . . well . . . way too many nickels. Johnny's has two mommies and they both give him three apples . . . how many apples does he have? Leroy sells two dime bags of marijuana on the corner for three weeks in a row excluding Sunday, how much money did he make? REALLY? And we BELIEVE this? WHERE do people come up with these things? So let me clear this up, as well.

Common Core (as well as previous standards) provides a set of grade level standards for what students should know foundationally and from year to year. In order to accommodate and support these standards, districts create supplemental resources. These are in addition to textbooks and are things like graphic organizers, content questions, and extension activities like projects, technology, and worksheets. Currently, Oakland County has provided Oakland Scope that has been utilized by local school Michigan school districts (look it up;). So just to be clear, Common Core is a set of fixed standards, not to be confused with supplemental curriculum created to support it. So the original premise is already ridiculous. But just for the sake of argument, let's consider the supplemental resources part of the Common Core . . . 

I was an educator not so very long ago. I still maintain my connection and speak to a lot of educators. I have never, not once in thirteen years, come across a question like that. I have, on the other hand, engaged in a process called item analysis where teachers analyze data and often isolate single questions that are problematic. They're not likely to miss a question like that. Nor would a good teacher in the screening of her materials. In addition, teachers actually create their own curriculum resources from time to time (that's allowed;). Although I have never personally come across such bazaarly objectionable content, I suppose some looney teacher somewhere has committed just such a reprehensible offense, and I'm equally sure they've been appropriately reprimanded. We may see it on the 6:00 news from time to time. People, in general, make bad choices sometimes . . . even teachers. And let's say that somehow something objectionable does slip in at the Common Core resource level; I don't personally know any teachers that wouldn't hesitate to screen something that might be harmful to their students. Eliminating single questions or screening resources for the most appropriate choices does not in any way violate any code of teaching ethics that I know of, and is actually the responsible thing to do.

So the idea that Common Core might be a left wing agenda to take over the minds of our children or lead to government dictatorship seems a ridiculous notion. If Donald Trump has a better idea for creating a paradigm of knowledge that will give the American educational system a more competitive edge, I can't wait to hear it . . . when he becomes president. Oh, and he might want to carry a handkerchief for his next speech. I'm just saying . . .

Last weekend, on the spur of the moment, I drove to Chicago to visit my brother. The destination wasn't anything novel. I've been there easily dozens of times. But this time, we had lunch in a bistro off the beaten path . . . on an outside veranda where dogs are welcome . . . and the Black Hawks played Tampa Bay in the Stanley Cup Finals on a big screen. It was a rowdy crowd, and I tasted one of the best cheeseburgers in the city. After, I helped my brother do some grocery shopping at Mariano's and accepted the glass of Sauvignon Blanc he offered me in the frozen food aisle before 5:00 o'clock. And then I walked his wolf-dog in his trendy and charming, eclectic neighborhood. We bonded over our mutual disdain for the yappy, pompous pitbulls lunging at the fence at the end of her block. The evening before I drove home, my brother and I shared a plate of oysters at a seafood restaurant downtown. He showed me how to season each one differently and then savor the flavor without chewing. I wouldn't do it again . . . but now I can say I did it;)

By anybody's standards, I live a full life. I'm happy and blessed. There's not a single morning of my life that I don't wake up with a deep abiding gratitude for the health and happiness of a beautiful family and the possibilities of the day ahead. Sometimes I let the day take me where it will. Some days, I might be planning something. Okay, I'm always planning something . . . but recent life changing circumstances - some deliberately orchestrated and some unforeseen - have allowed the opportunity to take one day at a time and lose myself in small journeys. In other words, Chicago is about the farthest from home I expect to get for a while. It's not the way I expected my year to go. A few months ago, I was planning a trip to the Carolinas. My husband and I would drive down the east coast by way of beautiful West Virginia, hit the Outer Banks, and the port city of Charleston, where my earliest ancestors came to America, and then swing back west through the Great Smoky Mountains, where they settled later with their sprawling clans. We also planned to revisit Northern Michigan again in the fall with friends, and then celebrate the holidays and the New Year in a mountain chalet in the Rockies with our Colorado babies.

I guess it's fortunate that we never finalized any of these plans before my husband lost his job at the end of April. And this was just a few months after I took that wacky leap of faith from convention that would make Dave Ramsey twitch in his sleep . . . the one that led to this aspiring writing career and this very blog by which I've sought to share my journey. And that being said, let me take this opportunity to thank you and express my gratitude if you are reading this now, if you've read this far . . . and especially if you've been waiting for a blog, as some of you have expressed. And please accept my apology for not living up to my promise . . . as should be the implicit promise of all writers to share the darkest parts of their journeys, as well as their triumphs and epiphanies and sage observations. And let me tell you one lesson that I've learned in this uncertainty (before I get to my real point here;) . . . that it's easy to be honest and transparent if you're convinced that you've chosen your own destiny. If you've taken a risk, and declare that you'll accept the consequences, come what may, you're happy to share because it makes you feel brave. THIS does not feel brave. THIS requires REAL FAITH. We did not leap. We were pushed. The words come harder.

So suddenly, and without warning, our priorities have shifted as we find ourselves mutually quite without jobs for the first time in thirty years. Finding (paying) work is obviously our first priority. And since our home for the last nineteen years has been contingent on Stephen's job, finding a place to live runs a close second. Traveling is a luxury that is neither prudent right now, nor one we can afford. Am I disappointed? Profoundly. Am I sorry for missed opportunities? Regretful for any decisions I've made? No, and no. Because even in this REALLY scary place, my faith IS still intact. I am convinced those opportunities will come back around in a bigger way, that God has a plan, that he knew about this long before it ever happened, that HE orchestrated it for good, no matter what the intention was on the part of any mere mortal (Genesis 50:20), and that HE still offers us an abundant life (John 10:10) . . . even in the small journeys of everyday life . . . even in the places where you can't see through the rubble.

A friend came to visit me this past week. She brought me a dozen eggs from her hens. Why are some brown and some white? I asked her. The brown chickens lay brown eggs and the white chickens lay white eggs. What about black chickens? They lay white eggs. Who knew? I poured us each a glass of Riesling and we talked in my kitchen while I made dinner. After we ate, we took our wine into the hot tub and talked about life - work and children and chickens - until the sun went down. Small journeys teach us. Small journeys connect us. Last week, I finished the book I Am Malala written by the Nobel Peace Prize winning teenager who was shot in the head by the Taliban for daring to advocate education for girls. She shouldn't have lived, but she did, and well enough to still fight for the rights of Muslim girls and women all over the world. Small journeys inspire us. Last week, I pulled into my driveway and was greeted by a hummingbird buzzing beneath the golden petals of my hanging potted plant. We stopped putting hummingbird feeders out years ago . . . for lack of any hummingbirds, mind you. This one was an emerald green and he hung around long enough for me to get a picture of him. Small journeys remind us to slow down and surprise us with beauty. This morning when I woke up, the power was out, and it threw off my routine. No coffee. No elliptical. No internet. I sat down on the couch to contemplate . . . and my Riesling, sensing my displacement (and maybe feeling it, too) jumped up and snuggled close beside me. It was probably the resounding quiet (maybe the lack of coffee) that lulled us both back to sleep. But as I was drifting off in the rhythm of her doggy breaths, I felt the puppy love. Small journeys comfort and sustain.

Small journeys don't need money. Thay are not contingent on jobs or circumstances. Small journeys stitch together the minutes and the hours of our everyday lives. We just have to recognize them and appreciate them . . . and maybe shake off the despair and get up. A song that echoes in your head or a new recipe that you just happen to have all the ingredients for is a small journey. An earthquake or a quiet epiphany. A new skill learned or an opportunity lost. An enlightening conversation or an aching loneliness that brings you back to yourself. An open door begins a journey. A closed door inspires a different one. Journeys are bridges or roller coasters or mountain paths or meandering rivers. They are the other side of dark places reflected in sunrises over valleys or starlight on water. They can begin on a staircase or a porch swing. They can happen in the words of a poem or in the colors of a painting. A prayer answered is a journey . . . maybe even one you didn't remember praying.

Small journeys, when we lose ourselves in them, will take us home to places better than we've never imagined. My wish for you is that, no matter your circumstances, that you challenge yourself to see your journeys today, and name them. Give words to them and keep them close - like golden etching on your heart. It won't cost you a thing and it can't be taken away. Like the eternal riches of Heaven that you only had to accept or ruby red slippers that will take you home. You've always had the power.


Look for my update Small Journeys, Bright Lights coming soon:)

June 13, 2017

​And so continue the Levi birthday chronicles. One year ago today I posted Levi in June as a prelude to his previously posted birth story Waiting for Levi. Over the past year, I have been so very God blessed to have spent more time with this little Colorado mountain boy than any other time in his life. Just since the end of December, we got to hang out in our Christmas pajamas . . . He introduced me to his new baby sister (and a crazy grand-dog) in February. . . In April, we discovered an honest to Merlin REAL castle deep in the forest and high up in the Rocky mountains on a hiking trail . . . hand in hand, we talked of wizards and dragons and ninjas . . . I may have introduced him to my witch cackle . . . I loved the way his eyes widened with intrigue . . . and he quietly and somewhat suspiciously removed his hand from mine. Don't judge . . . It's been much harder to cultivate a relationship with him than it has been with his sister. He only likes boy things . . . and with the exception of his momma and sister . . . boy people.  I must work hard to stay relevant and interesting. He, on the other hand, and as ever, remains fascinating to me (Oh, unrequited love!!!) . . . So here are a few dos and don'ts I've learned on the way to worming my way into his semi-misogynistic little Viking heart: 

• ​DON'T call him a little boy or "baby." You will be delivered with a disdainful, scary glare.
• ​DO chase him down and kiss his whole face. He will resist at first, then go limp in your arms, forgive you for calling him a baby, and then mumble fiercely, "I'm NOT a baby" in order to get more kisses . . .
• ​Do feed him.
• Feed him some more.
• ​Do read to him. Read about dragons or garbage trucks or cool cats with sunglasses and tennis shoes or witches falling off broomsticks or about little girls traveling west over prairies (he'll secretly listen while your read to his sister).
• ​Do Climb something with him.
• ​Don't NOT climb something with him. If you don't climb something with him (like a 30 foot high jungle gym), he'll take it very hard and run away. It's better just to start climbing.
• Find him a stick. He'll keep himself occupied for hours and you won't have to climb anything for a while.
• Feed him. Learn him. Love him . . . until you can steal a little place in his heart . . . maybe just a little to the left of the Ninja Turtles.

June 13, 2016

It's June again. We're celebrating summer and longer, lazier days and our Colorado babies, who both arrived to bless our family around this time of year. Mackenzie is our Middle of July baby, and Levi took his sweet time showing up on a Sunday afternoon in June three years ago.

Meet Levi. Our sweet, happy, animal loving, sister worshipping, momma shadowing, every day's an adventure kind o' boy. He's the best surprise I never knew I wanted. Stay with me here . . . and if you have to judge, at least appreciate my honesty . . .

It's not that I had any reticence about grandchildren. I'll take a dozen of those, please! It's just that . . . well . . . (come closer and I'll whisper;) they were all supposed to be girls. I like boys. I have nothing against them, really. But I grew up in a distinctly boy family. I have no sisters. I never cultivated any close, enduring relationships with any female relatives. So I was smugly, quietly thrilled when my first daughter was born. I never even entertained the thought that she wouldn't be a girl. When my second daughter was born, I was over the top ecstatic. I hadn't been so sure with her, and maintained through my whole pregnancy that it didn't matter. But all bets were off when the secret came out (quite literally;) in the delivery room. I nearly fell out of the stirrups thanking Jesus. I LOVED having daughters. I LOVED raising daughters. And then there were three. By the time my Mackenzie came along in 2009, I was harboring illusions of building my own little colony of girl people . . . even if it was through my daughters. I didn't think they'd mind doing that one tiny favor for me;)

Segue to January of 2013. I was working in my office with the expectation that my daughter would call with ultrasound news that morning, and with every confidence that there would be no surprises. The minutes ticked into hours and I became distracted and absorbed in my work. My IPhone sat face up within my reach just beyond my paperwork. It was just before noon when the text came through. My Brittany, always the creative one, had group texted a picture to the family of Mackenzie holding a chalkboard sign that said "It's a Boy!" (below). I reached for the phone, squinted hard, gasped, and reflexively flung my phone across the room. It bounced off the wall in its Otter Boxed insulation and came to rest safely on the floor while I focused on breathing and thought . . . WHAT do I do with . . . A BOY?! And then I spent the next 20 minutes crafting a response that wouldn't send piercing arrows into my daughter's second trimester tender heart. I'm fairly certain I succeeded. I think I said something to the effect that he would be the best loved little boy every born. I needn't have worried though. Come to find out, Britty was struggling through her own little crisis. It wasn't the boy part that was bothering her. It was the boy parts. WHAT, she wondered, do we do with THOSE?!

I'll bet you can guess by looking at the pictures (and maybe you're a little wiser) that any anxieties we might have thought we had evaporated into thin air even before this beautiful little boy showed up. Sometimes we just need a very short minute (or twentyish) to process. And can I tell you that I am every bit as enamored, as fascinated, as head over heels in love with him as I am with his sister? Even in light of the fact that I am all but invisible to him . . . it's hilarious! He ONLY wants Poppa. Or the dog. Or the other dog (is there a cat anywhere?) when he skypes. He will politely acknowledge me and say hi, Gramma (because his momma tells him to). And then he will crane his neck to look around me and yell, POPPA! And since there is nothing I don't love about this little boy, I even love this:) heart heart heart . . .

Below is an excerpt from my Top Ten 2013 . . . Happy Birthday, my Levi.