Raise your voice

Yesterday, as I do every few weeks, I spent the Sunday morning worship service in the church balcony, running the computer as part of our congregation’s AV team.

Tucked behind a big computer monitor and an even bigger TV screen, I can see but not be seen as I sing along quietly to the morning’s songs, enjoying the solitude like a proper introvert should.

The congregation seemed subdued during communion as the pianist coaxed a gentle Advent hymn from the piano at the front of the sanctuary. The organist (yes, we still use an organ, in addition to our praise team-led music) was out sick, and the congregation sang tentatively without the rich, room-filling sound of the organ to back them up.

“Let songs of praise ascending now greet the Morning Star,” we sang softly, our collective voices barely reaching over the tops of the pews.

When I was a kid, church hymns were never quiet ― not when my dad was in church. He was a booming bass, and he loved to sing. You could almost see the little old ladies in front of us bracing themselves as he barrelled out a song behind them, filling the pointy-ceilinged sanctuary with sound. 

His big voice came in handy for his job as a high school principal, its authority commanding respect in meetings and snapping squirrelly teenagers to attention. In a boisterous classroom or in front of an assembly in the school gym, his deep and slow, “I’m talking,” with a lingering and emphatic “I,” made mouths shut and ears ready themselves for whatever he had to say.

No question, volume goes a long way in getting people to listen.

Of course, being loud is not the same thing as being right.

The biggest voice usually gets the most attention, no matter what that voice is saying. The cruel voice, the self-absorbed voice, the voice that disparages and condemns too often out-shouts kinder and gentler words ― and too often we just listen, maybe shaking our heads but forgetting that we have voices, too.

In those church services of my youth, I sometimes squirmed and blushed when my dad sang out, afraid it might make people look at us. He sang well, but he didn’t always nail the melody, and sometimes he sang the words in his head rather than the words everyone else was singing. I worried we would look silly, and sometimes I wanted him to just sing quietly, like everyone else.

Years later, when I had grown up and no longer got to stand next to him on Sunday mornings, Dad told me why he sang so loudly.

He said he knew sometimes other people didn’t feel comfortable singing. He thought, if he sang nice and loud, they would be less afraid. And then they could sing, too.

Leaders don’t just yell as loudly as they can, spouting their own beliefs and declaring themselves unassailably right. Leaders use their voices to do good. To stand up for what’s right, and to encourage others to do the same. They sing loudly so others can sing, too.

In my hiding space in the balcony, as I watched my Christian brothers and sisters approach the altar and, one by one, receive wine and bread that connects us to the booming voice of a Father who loves us so much He gave everything to make us His, I found myself singing that Advent tune the way my dad would have sung it ― loudly.

It didn’t count as real courage, since nobody knew the disembodied voice from above belonged to me. But maybe raising my imperfect voice helped someone else be brave enough to sing, someone who was just waiting for a strong voice to lead them.

My dad has been in heaven a good long while now, but I can still hear his voice booming inside me. I can see it, too. I see it in the resolute doggedness of my high-school-principal brother, leading his school family with firmness and compassion, just like Dad did. I see it in my husband as he bends over his desk, finding words to inspire his people to reach a loving hand toward the hurting of our community. I see it in the many people I’ve had the honor to meet who speak up at meetings and stand up to internet bullies and run for office and write columns because they have a warmth in their chest that tells them something needs to be done, and they are the ones who need to do it.

You have words, too. You have a say in what happens around you. If nobody is saying what needs to be said, say it. It’s OK if your voice wobbles or you get some of the words wrong. Hide in the balcony if you need to. But, if there’s a song in your heart, sing.

The world needs your voice.

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End notes:

1. Above, where I mentioned “Hide in the balcony if you need to,” I first typed “Hide in the baloney,” and I thought that was pretty funny.

2. It didn’t fit in the story, but, for a while, my dad stopped singing in church because he found out it embarrassed my brother and me. I’m pretty sure there’s a profound lesson there about not stifling the people who have the courage to speak up for what’s right. Mostly, though, I just feel bad he stopped singing, and I’m really glad he eventually started again.

3. I nibbled pepper jack Cheez-Its as I typed this, and I enjoyed them very much. I just thought you'd like to know.

If you know someone who might enjoy this blog, I’d be honored if you’d share it with them. I enjoy getting emails from you sometimes (somewhere down at the bottom of this page there’s a place to send me an email) and would love to read and reply to more. Life’s more interesting when we talk about it.

*If anyone’s looking for a last-minute gift idea for someone you love, I was thinking this morning how much I like and use the air fryer my son gave me a while back. You’re welcome!

Now I feel like sharing a picture of my dad. This is him and my brother and me, at Yellowstone Falls, around the time he stopped singing. ...Ever wish you could go back in time and tell someone how much you love them?

Violence and the Manger

I tried to not write this. Not in December, anyway. Not when we’re all supposed to be thinking about angels and presents and joy and peace.

I’m sorry, but it can’t wait. It’s too important.

And, in a way, it’s what Christmas is all about.

Yesterday, again, students huddled in fear as police searched for a shooter on a school campus in Las Vegas.

Again.

Only a few days earlier, on Sunday, the U.S. marked its 37th and 38th mass shootings of the year, more than in any year since at least 2006. Mass shootings ― defined by the FBI as any incident in which at least four people are murdered with a gun ― have killed nearly 200 people and injured another 100 this year alone.

Less-publicized, non-mass murders end the lives of 20-some-thousand people a year in our country. In Michigan, where I live, at least 685 people, including nearly 50 children, died by murder in 2022. Another nearly 35,000 were the victims of violent assault. 

National data paints an imprecise picture of crime trends. By some measures, violent crime has actually decreased markedly for the past three decades, while other stats show recent surges in violence, especially murder.

Numbers and trends matter. Frankly, though, I don’t care if violence is going up or down. It exists, and it’s killing our kids, and it’s not OK.

In November, The Washington Post broke my heart when it published a collection of photos taken in the aftermath of several of our nation’s horrific mass shootings.

The pictures don’t show identifiable bodies or overt gruesomeness. They are not horror-movie graphic.

They’re worse.

Worse because they’re real.

As the Post explained in statements from its editors, the decision to publish those photos was made carefully and after much internal debate over what to show, and why. Many photos obtained by The Post didn’t make the cut because they would be too upsetting, especially to the families of those killed.

It’s all upsetting. I stood in my kitchen and sobbed when I finally worked up the courage to look at the photos and read the accompanying quotes from people who were there, words full of pain and confusion and loss. It all hurt like a gut punch. I wanted to swipe the scenes away and scroll Facebook or surf for animal memes, instead.

I imagine The Post heard from more than a few angry readers aghast at the outlet’s decision to share the images, just like I imagine some people reading this may find themselves upset with me for talking about this, especially now, with Christmas all around us.

But I’m writing about it for the same reason I made myself stand in my kitchen and look, the same reason The Post chose to publish. Because we need to see the bad. Or nothing ever gets better.

When our kids have to practice active shooter drills, when we can’t go anywhere ― not a concert, not a bowling alley, not church ― and know we are safe, it’s time to do something. It’s past time.

Doing nothing is not an option.

And waiting for someone else to do something is not an option, either.

All over the country, legislators and politicians are arguing about the best way to reduce crime. That’s great. Safety should absolutely be a top-priority discussion, and that discussion should lead to action. Now.

Policymakers alone can’t keep us safe, though. New rules, by themselves, won’t stop the hands or change the minds of people driven to hurt other people.

"Mass shootings don’t happen in my town," you may be thinking. I hope you’re right. I hope it never happens to you, to your town. And maybe you live in a place where even single murders are rare or unheard of. Give thanks for that. 

But murder is not the only measure of violence. Even in the safest hamlets, the quietest villages, people are assaulting other people. Kids are being neglected and abused. People are ending their own lives. And the contributors to violent behavior ― inadequate resources, insurmountable barriers, loneliness, desperation ― are everywhere. Around the corner. In your neighbor’s home. At your front doorstep. 

These are our communities. We can and should demand that those with power over us do everything in their power to keep us safe. But safety is in our hands, too.

I just got home from the courthouse, where a judge sentenced a 20-year-old to spend the next 23 years in prison for firing one bullet that ended the life of another young man. As the victim’s mother poured out her pain to the sentencing judge, I couldn’t help wondering what points along the shooter’s path could have kept his finger off of the trigger.

A teacher’s words. A neighbor’s kind gesture. An affirming text message, a passerby’s smile, a toy and warm pair of mittens from the local church’s Christmas gift drive. A hot meal. Could any such seemingly insignificant gesture have done enough good to save a life?

No one action, any more than any one law or policy or program, can stop violence. But one action could impact one decision at one critical juncture in someone's life. It could be the last whap of an ax before a tree is ready to fall, the final push someone needed for them to choose Path A instead of Path B.

When I think about the complexity of the problems around me, I get overwhelmed and want to look the other way. I can’t fix it. I can’t make people put down their guns and lower their fists.

But I can do one thing. And maybe, though I’ll never know it, my one thing is the thing that makes the difference.

The hay-filled manger with its precious cargo is joy and sweetness and angels and heavenly peace. But if that’s where it stops, Christmas is meaningless.

That baby in a box did not come to coo at shepherds. He came to do battle.

Christmas is a rallying cry. What we celebrate each year amid the tinsel and bows is the forward-march cry of the Christ child who led the charge out into an aching world, out where he knocked over tables and riled up leaders and stood on a hill where he stretched out his arms, looked at the people around Him, and loved the hell out of them.

Soak up that precious Christmas peace as much as you can. It’s rare and beautiful. Then take a good look at the world around you, with all its pain and ugliness, and follow the lead of our warrior Savior for whom doing nothing was not an option.

Volunteer at the food bank. Donate to the thrift store. Look an intimidating stranger in the eye and smile at them. Give a homeless person a jar of peanut butter. Do something.

It might be the thing that saves a life.

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Although I address violent behavior in my writing, I want to clarify that the person in the photo at the top of this post does not represent violence. Her name is Cassie. Last night, she slept in an abandoned building. Her last meal was yesterday, when a man gave her some leftover pancakes. Despite her obvious mental illness, she is not dangerous.

I suspect the three dollars I gave her won’t help her that much, nor the ten minutes I sat on the sidewalk and listened to her. But we just don’t know what difference our actions might make. 

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Fa-la-la, and all that

Time to set the radio dial to your favorite Christmas station, crank it up, and rip the knob off.

Most everything about the Christmas season makes me happy, from twinkly lights to the absurdity of a tree in my living room. But way up high on the Great Things About Christmas list is the music.

I hands-down love walking through a store while singing along to whatever goofy holiday tune is blaring over the loudspeakers, or bopping to a Pandora Christmas playlist while I tidy the kitchen. In the privacy of my car, I accompany the local radio station at top volume, delighting equally in the chills of “O Holy Night” and the silliness of belting out, “Thumpety, thump thump, thumpety, thump thump, look at Frosty go!”

You can’t make a strong case that all Christmas music is good. I mean, "Last Christmas" by Wham!. Enough said.

Still, there’s something special about the music of the season that can’t be matched any other time of year.

Christmas music links us to the past. Nostalgia oozes from centuries-old Christmas hymns, the kind sung in four-part harmony in church sanctuaries hung with garland as children gaze into tipsy candles and elderly women wipe tears from their cheeks.

With the opening strains of “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful,” I’m a girl in a church pew between my parents, leaning into my mom’s soft alto and my dad’s deep bass. “Away in a Manger” whisks me to children’s Christmas programs and wiggly little ones and sticky fingers from tight-clutched candy canes. “Silent Night” eases into my ear, and suddenly I’m singing auf Deutsch, caressing the German words as they roll over the back of my tongue.

The songs don’t have to have deep meaning or linked-in memories to set my toes a-tapping, though. Give me some "Jingle Bell Rock" or “Santa Baby” (1953 Eartha Kitt version, please) or, heck, even “I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas” and I’ll sing along, happy as an elf.

Christmas music offers us a lot to love. But one reason we embrace it has nothing to do with cherished memories or religious meaning or even the holiday at all.

I think it makes us happy because we just like singing.

Sure, we have the whole rest of the year to sing. Christmas songs, though ― we know those. They are ingrained in our brains, played over and over December after December in version after version until they are a part of us. And something about the season gives us permission to sing, even if someone might hear us.

And a good sing just feels good. Singing releases endorphins, those squirrelly little chemicals that tell the body everything’s OK. How cool is that? Singing Christmas songs actually creates physical changes that help us cope with the parts of our lives that aren’t merry and bright.

The holiday season, with all its glitter and sparkle, can be tough. The joy of gift-giving takes hard hits from a bank account in turmoil. Unrealistic expectations hold peace out of reach. Burdens weigh heavier when everyone else seems downright jolly.

Christmas music can’t offer the balm to all wounds. But it helps. Singing helps. Doing one little thing to make yourself feel better, like belting out the ridiculous words to a silly song at a stoplight, helps. It makes the not-great a tiny bit better.

It turns out that, at least according to a bunch of internet sites, singing is even better for you when you do it with other people. Shared singing experiences offer all kinds of mental and physical benefits, including a feeling of belonging and connection.

We can’t all join a choir ― although I appreciate those of you who do, because I love listening to you. But Christmas music is never really sung alone. When you go tell it on a mountain, you’re lifting your voice with folks all over the world, all of us soaking in those beloved words and reveling in the melodies of our youths and caroling together in our cars and kitchens and department stores, a separate but united choir all around the world.

And, really, isn’t that when we’re at our best ― when we sing together? Isn’t together how we best confront our troubles and soothe our stresses and heal our hurts? Alone, I can raise my small voice and make things a little better, for me and for those around me. But, together, a choir swelling the ancient song of hope and peace and love for our fellow man, we right wrongs. We share joy. We give. We heal. We restore.

You’ve got a few weeks left to revel in the music of the season. Crank it up and sing away. 

I’ll be singing with you.

Acknowledgements and End Credits

Lately I’ve spent a weird amount of time flipping through books to read their acknowledgements pages.

According to People Who Know Such Things, the thank-you lists authors often include in their books provide a good place to find names of literary agents ― including, I hope, one who might like the book proposal on which I’ve been feverishly working for many weeks.

I’ve always mostly ignored acknowledgements pages. Turns out, they can be pretty doggone interesting and sometimes even qualify as legit tearjerkers. Who knew?

The acknowledgements page is such an interesting anomaly. How often do we see, concisely and right there where we can find it, a recounting of the work that went into the creation of any one object?

Movies have their end credits, of course, as do video games. (I learned just now that the credits for “The Return of the King,” from the "Lord of the Rings" series, last nearly 10 minutes. But don’t quote me on that because I didn’t fact-check it. Also, those credits include a nod to the movie’s “cockroach wrangler,” which is fantastic.)

Such recognition is rare, however. Most people who create most things never get the chance to show the world a list of folks without whom the created thing would not exist.

Can you imagine how different the world would be if everything came with an acknowledgements page?

Say I go to the store to buy a turkey. With my receipt, I’m handed a list of all the people who contributed to that poor, cold bird ending up my shopping cart. The people who raised the grain the turkey ate. Who pumped the water it drank. Who constructed the fencing that kept the turkey from flying away. (Turkeys can fly, right?? I feel like I should know that.)

If we actually gave credit where credit is due, everything around us would come with a list of People Who Made This Possible. The bushes outside my window that give me such pleasure as I toil at my desk represent the labor of people I will never know. The keyboard beneath my fingertips, my faithful yellow mug stained with tea rings, the sage-green blanket around my shoulders in my chilly sunroom ― how many people gave of themselves so these things could exist so I could be warm and productive and comforted?

The lists would be overwhelming. Then again, there are worse things than being overwhelmed with appreciation. I wouldn’t mind giving it a try.

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All my prowling through books’ acknowledgements pages got me thinking who I might include in that section of my book when it’s ready to be published. Big thank-yous to several people who are behind me whole-hog will come easy and be a joy to write. But the longer I think on it, the more I realize how many, many people played a part in the creation of this person who wants to create this thing.

I am who I am because of the people I have encountered in my life, from the fifth-grade teacher who wrote on her painfully shy student’s report card that I had a pretty smile (which makes me cry even now, as I write about it forty-some years later) to the oral surgeon who was so sweet and so kind, as he yanked my broken tooth out a few weeks ago, that I couldn’t help but want to be a better, stronger person.

Had one person in my decades of living not said that one thing, not shown me kindness that one time, not stood up for what was right and inspired me to want to do the same, I would not be entirely me.

The people in your past make you you.

And the people whose lives you touch ― you make them them.

We create one another. What I do and say impacts you, and what you do and say impacts someone else. Your smile or kind word might not completely change someone’s life. But it becomes part of them. 

You get added to their end credits.

What we do matters. I don't know about you, but that sure makes me want to go find someone to be nice to today.

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End note No. 1: I typed the word “acknowledgement” six times (now seven) in this post, and I spelled it correctly EVERY TIME. I’m proud of myself for that. It’s always been one of my problem words. Nailed it, baby!

End note No. 2: This Thanksgiving, as my family eats our poor turkey, we are going to share our “thankful-fors” from the year. My list is going to include the people who read stuff I write. That’s you. Thank you for giving me a reason to do a thing I love.

End note No. 3: I looked it up…wild turkeys can fly, and actually pretty fast. Just not very far or very high. You go, turkeys!

Want to leave a comment? Tell us one thing for which you are thankful that you think nobody else will mention. Or tell us one person you would include on the acknowledgements page of your life's book. Or, what the heck, tell us both.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

Choose your leaders

I woke this morning, the day after election day, to a shock.

No, not that my candidate won or lost. What made me exclaim in alarm was the number of people who got out of the house yesterday to help choose the city’s next mayor.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. I know voter turnout is often abysmal in non-presidential elections and lower than it should be even in hotly contested, headline-splashing races. Still, it saddened and worried me to see that a mere 12% of Jackson residents ― 3,761 voters in a city of 31,000 ― cared enough about who governs their city to cast a ballot.

The candidate who claimed the mayoral seat, the incumbent, won by 279 votes.  Had 300 more people, not even 1% of the city’s population, made it to the polls, the race could have gone the other way

I don’t have a dog in this fight, as they say. I voted, and I have an opinion about who I think was the better candidate, but had you disagreed with me and cast your ballot the other direction, I would still have heartily cheered you on, because you took three minutes to fill in some ovals to have your say in the future direction of the city we share, the city we all want to see prosper, the city where we all want to be safe and have a chance to live the best lives possible.

I’ve been in a non-voter’s shoes. I’ve stood on the sidelines in many an election, declaring I didn’t know enough about either candidate for my voice to matter and choosing to let other people, people I assumed were wiser and more informed than me, decide who should be in charge.

That was before I started work as a reporter a few years back. Covering city government and school board meetings, reporting on organizations vying for a piece of a city’s financial pie, watching leaders who are also humans squabble and bicker, and sitting in court rooms and police stations and residents’ kitchens, seeing up close the impact of the decisions made by a community’s leaders, opened my eyes to the impact of every ballot.

Who we choose to put in charge matters. And it’s up to us to accept the responsibility of making that choice.

I hope I’ll never miss another chance to vote.

I do, however, regularly miss other opportunities to decide who controls my life.

While political leaders wield significant control over our communities, other masters have even greater say in the big and little moments of each day. Those masters reside not in City Hall but inside our heads.

When it comes to casting a vote for how I will approach a problem, treat my neighbor, or make each day count ― gosh, I have not always handled those elections well.

Too often, I start a day determined to stay positive, to work hard, to maintain control, only to give way to distractions, cower in the face of challenges, and leave emotional messes all over the place.

How easy it is to cede control of our days to fear, anger, self-doubt, laziness, those clever tyrants that sneak in and claim authority we have not granted them.

And how shocking it is that we willingly follow, forgetting we have a vote in how we live our days.

We can’t always control all our circumstances. The people we put in charge ― or let others put in charge ― shape the world in which we move, and sometimes that world strikes wicked blows and erects insurmountable roadblocks. But we — not they, not circumstances, not anyone but you and me — get to choose how we respond.

Day not going well? You can choose to keep going. Discouraged? You can choose to believe in yourself. Angry? You can choose to be nice. Sad, disappointed, worried? You can choose to cling to hope with every bit of strength you’ve got. 

I know, I know. Easier said than done. I talk a good game, but I know good and well that within the hour I will have broken my own rule numerous times. But I think I’m going to stick my “I Voted” sticker on my desk, a much-needed reminder that I, that we, have a say. That we get to choose to live generously, to love recklessly, and to fight fiercely for what we believe matters most.

Vote, friends. Vote for your leaders, and vote for what rules your days and your hearts. You have more power than you know. 

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Although this post mentions elections, I’d appreciate it if you would NOT share political opinions in the comments below. The internet offers lots of appropriate spaces for that; this is not one of them. If anyone has exciting news to share about voter turnout in their local elections, please do share, and I’d love to hear how you took charge of your day today.

As for me, I need to post this and go back to working on my book proposal. It scares the daylights out of me, to be honest. But I get to decide whether to listen to the taunting voice of Goliath or to keep going, slingshot in hand.

I choose the slingshot.

With actions and in truth

My mind was engrossed in my computer when Kevin walked into the coffee shop.

Even without looking at him, I could tell he was different from other customers. His chin was down, eyes scanning the room, hands pulling a ragged jacket a little closer about him.

I was in the middle of editing a month’s worth of devotions due to a St. Louis publishing house in a couple of days. Given freedom to write on whatever topic interested me most, as long as I stayed within the lanes drawn by my church body, I had used many of the devotions to prod readers to notice and care for the humans around them, especially those facing life’s biggest struggles.

Four years of working the cops and courts beat at a local paper taught me a lot about the hurts that can knock a person’s life off-kilter. Many of the people who find themselves locked up or living on the street got there via one life problem layered on top of another, each challenge creating another and decreasing the chance of climbing over it all to safety.

Fixing the factors that lead to poverty and crime starts with looking past the external things that separate us and seeing the scarred, scared, longing human being on the other side.

At least, that’s my pollyannaish take on it, and that’s what I was writing about as Kevin walked in the coffee shop door.

He was poor, his clothes said that. His face said he had gotten used to it. I glanced his direction, then quickly turned away. If he saw me noticing him, he might come over and strike up a conversation, and there was no time for that.

Good grief, I chided myself, suddenly aware of my hypocrisy. How could I write about extending kindness to the struggling and then turn away from it myself?

I looked back at the man ― not Kevin to me, not yet, only a man in ratty clothes in the doorway of my coffee shop ― and waited until he looked my direction. Catching his eye, I smiled at him.

In moments, we were in the middle of what would prove to be a long and, frankly, tiring conversation.

He wasn’t homeless, but he might be soon. Recent law changes meant his landlord could kick him out, and he’d arrived home a few days before to an eviction notice. The agency trying to help him said there wasn’t much they could do. He’d fight it in court, but he didn’t have money to hire an attorney. A series of jobs hadn’t worked out, and his criminal record for a minor crime decades before didn’t help.

He wasn’t like other poor people who aggressively panhandled passing pedestrians. That was rude, he said. He didn’t like asking for help at all. It was embarrassing. But he was running out of things to try and didn't know what else to do.

What he really loved was to write poetry, said the man I now knew as Kevin, smiling. His teeth, rotted and gnarled, made his face seem even gaunter than it was. I wondered how much spare money his mom had had to take him to the dentist as a child, and whether potential employers gave him a quick pass, fearing what customers might think if they saw him.

I offered to buy him a cup of coffee. No, he said, he was OK. The workers at that shop knew him, and they gave him free coffee when he needed it. Finally, guiltily, I told him I simply had to get back to work. He thanked me for the conversation, and I gave him a little cash and a notebook, encouraging him to write more poems.

I hadn’t changed his life or fixed his problems, but I left the encounter feeling good. I saw him. I had been kind.

And then I saw Kevin again. It was a month later, maybe two. I was at the same coffee shop, same stool, once again working on a writing project, once again up against a deadline.

And there came Kevin, walking on the sidewalk outside the window where I sat.

I’m sure he could see me. The windows are big and open, right up against the sidewalk. He approached a table just on the other side of the window, turned, and sat down, his back to me.

I don’t know if he looked at me and recognized me. I don’t know if he tried to make eye contact.

I don’t know, because I kept my eyes on my computer. I knew he was there, just on the other side of the glass, and I didn’t look up.

The deadline, I told myself. I had to make the deadline. I didn’t have time for a conversation, and the little cash that was in my wallet needed to stay there because I might need it. It wasn’t like we were friends or anything, after all. He was used to being alone, maybe living on the street. He was fine, and I needed to get my work done.

But the simple fact is, I didn’t want to be kind to him, so I wasn’t.

It was a horrible thing to do.

Living generously is nice when it’s convenient. When you have the time, when you’re feeling giving, when you want to feel the warm glow of selflessness, it’s easy to show kindness, even to a stranger.

Giving when giving is tough ― that’s the real deal.

Dear children, let us love not with words or tongue but with actions and in truth. Of all the Bible verses I’ve learned, that may be the one that rattles around my head the most ― probably because I do such a rotten job of living up to it. I say I love my car, but I don’t get an oil change. I say I love my cat, but I don’t give her her eye drops. I say I love my family, but I grump when I have to put their needs first.

It’s all well and good to say, “I love you.” To really love, though, is to DO, and not just when you feel like it. I pretended to love Kevin as a fellow human being. But I sure didn’t follow through with actions and in truth. I had the chance to practice what I preach, to see him as a real, important human being, and I turned away.

I haven’t seen Kevin since then. If I do, I hope I’ll behave better, but I can’t promise it. The world is full of shining examples of people who, at least on the outside, live lovingly, giving when it’s tough and not just when it’s convenient. I want to be one of them, but I haven’t done a very good job of that thus far, and I’m hardly in a position to encourage others to do better.

I guess the best we can do is close our eyes and sigh with thanks that we are always seen, always acknowledged, always loved in action and in truth by a God who was not content with simply saying, “I love you.” A God who gave when the giving was as tough as it gets, not just for the people who live like they should but even for me, ragged and full of fault as I am.

To those of you reading this: I hope you know He loves you, too. Just as you are.

And, fully aware of my own most grievous fault, I encourage you as I encourage myself: look out the window. Be kind. Even when it's not convenient.

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If you’d like, in the comments section below, tell us about a Kevin in your life, someone who needs us to see them and love them just as they are.

Sweet and warm

I want to tell you about Kevin. But first, I need to complain about coffee shops.

I don’t know when coffee shops became a thing. They only entered my life a few years ago, when I took a newspaper job and the corner shop a half block from the newsroom became a convenient place to meet for interviews.

To the uninitiated, coffee shop menus offer a dizzying array of exotic words with round endings: macchiato, cappuccino, espresso, Americano. In the fanciest places (I swear I’m not making these up) you can order cortado, doppio, ristretto, affogato... There’s lattes and frappes and flat whites and pour-overs and cafe au lait, and cold brew coffee and iced coffee which, apparently, are two different things, even though they both sound like the leftovers at the bottom of the pot that people throw out the next morning.

To a girl who never learned to drink coffee ― they say it’s an acquired taste, and I never saw a need to acquire it ― the wall-mounted list of options on my first coffee shop visits loomed daunting verging on terrifying.

Trying to appear competent in the eyes of my interview subject, I would step to the counter, pretending to weigh what delightful drink best suited my fancy that day.

And then, invariably, I would crumble into a heap of helplessness, confessing to the nice young person behind the counter that I just wanted something sweet and warm.

And, invariably, the kind person taking my order would smile, tell me it was OK, and hand me a cup that warmed me inside and out and made my anxieties melt away, or at least helped me put them into perspective.

Many’s the hour I have since spent at a coffee shop table with my laptop and a cup of hot something and maybe a scone, wrapped in soft music and gentle chatter and clinks and laughter, freed by the caffeine and the sweetness and the warmth of my surroundings to think new thoughts and see the world in a new, quietly breathtaking way.

Snitches of life glide in and out of your periphery at a coffee shop. The animated conversation of the Bible study at the corner table. The mother and daughter sharing a smile. The bleary-eyed college students comparing class notes, the nervous job interview, the couples and strangers and friends stepping out of the busy stream of their days and talking deeply, sitting quietly, breathing, hands wrapped around warm paper cups.

Truth be told, I still don’t know what to order at a coffee shop, although I know enough to be able to ask for a chai latte with confidence. Most of the time, I still tell the barista I just want something sweet and warm and nice. And, bless them, they always come through.

I have never actively wanted to be a business. But, if I had to pick a business that represents the person I would like to be, I would choose a coffee shop.

I want to be a place where people turn for comfort, for warmth and strength. I want to make everyone feel welcome, just as they are. I want to be a place where it’s OK to let your mind expand to explore new ideas and big thoughts, and a place where it’s OK to just sit quietly.

I’m not, though.

Eyes turned to my own stresses and messes, I too often miss opportunities to be a refuge for others. I grumble about my little tribulations, blind to the emotional aches of even the people I love best and ignoring the reaching hands that just want something warm to hold.

One of the lovely parts of being human is that we always have the chance to do better.

Maybe today I’ll look up from my self-absorption enough to give a smile to the hardware store worker who asks if I need help. Maybe I’ll shoot a text to the friend with whom I’ve lost touch or take a few extra moments to make an email a little warmer, a little kinder.

Maybe I’ll set aside my self-focused frets and ask a frazzled colleague what I can do to help, or treat someone who looks different than me as though we are the same.

A little warmer, a little kinder, a little more welcoming…perhaps I’m just being naive. But I can’t help thinking the world would be a nicer place if we were all a little more like coffee shops.

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Shoot. I haven’t told you about Kevin. That story will have to wait until next time. Kevin deserves his own post. But I’ll take one extra moment, as promised, to complain about coffee shops: They’re just too dang awesome.

Shout out to Cabin Creek in Alpena, MI, best little coffee shop I know; to MI Northern Espresso in Rogers City, MI, host of many coffee shop computer dates with my husband and home of the exquisite Quarry View Latte; and Jackson Coffee Co. in downtown Jackson, MI, where the plants all have names and there’s an upstairs, which, needless to say, is amazing.

Oh, one more thing. If I ever opened a coffee shop, I would name it the Angry Bean. I will never open a coffee shop, so the name is up for grabs, and I happen to think it’s a good one. If you use it, please let me know and I will come to your shop and order something sweet and warm.

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Gotta run

To my husband’s delight and my unending befuddlement, our youngest offspring turned out to be a runner.

More of a plodder myself, I watch in awe as Jonah steps up to the starting line at cross country meets, ready to tear up the turf. 

Gorgeous, magical things, cross country meets.

A mass of runners waits restlessly, shaking legs, slapping thigh muscles. The starter raises his pistol. They tense, ready, listening.

And then they’re off. In moments, the fast ones have surged to the front, the slower ones tucking in behind, all moving purposefully, swiftly, faces serious.

Cross county parents don’t stand still. As soon as the runners pull away, moms in hoodies and dads in windbreakers scurry in all directions, hoping to get to their favorite cheering spot before their athlete passes.

At the one mile, the two mile, all along trails that wind through fields and into woods and up and down hills, energetic onlookers hoot and holler and clap and clag bells, racing from post to post, the air thick with their encouragements. All the while, the runners run, one foot in front of the other, breathing hard, determined, focused.

My Jonah is not one of the fastest runners. He falls in the middle of the pack, or maybe further back, depending on the meet.

With cross country, though, it’s not about being first.

It’s about PRs.

Oh, the joy that beams from the face of the runners who cross the finish line with a new personal record. It doesn’t matter if they didn’t reach their season goal. It doesn’t matter if they had a crummy race or if they finished at the back of the pack. If only they can set that precious PR, shaving even one second off their personal best, they are victorious.

And if they don’t PR? Well, there’s always the next meet.

The runners inspire me. I end almost every meet in tears, moved by the depth of their commitment and desire. But what gets me almost as much is the parents, hollering from the sidelines, scuttling from place to place, bouncing on their toes with fists clenched as they watch the last few moments before the finish line; “Come on, come on, come on, come on,” they whisper, the entirely of their being offered in support of this person they love and the quest for one more PR, one more victory.

That’s good stuff right there.

It’s easy to close our ears to the people cheering us on as we run our daily races. They don’t mean it, we tell ourselves. They’re just being nice. If only they really knew me, they wouldn’t believe in me. 

But I watch the faces of those parents at cross country meets and see the love and hope and heartfelt support that fills them, and I’m washed with awe at the realization that those eager faces who cheer me along my way have that same love, that same hope, that same all-in desire to see me do a little better, go a little harder, finish a little stronger.

You can do it, the cheering throng shouts to the runners. Don’t give up. The end is in sight. Push. Try. 

You can do it, say the voices cheering me on.

The stalwart friend standing by my side as I take on a big and scary project.

The church members, friends, semi-acquaintances who tell me they believe I can do work that matters.

My kids, my husband, patient with my fears and ready to tell me again, and again, that they believe in me.

Many days, I’d prefer to run alone, with nobody to see me fail, no one to disappoint if I drop out of the race or get lost in the woods.

But the people at the sidelines won’t give up. They holler and hope and hold out their hands and call my name, and it’s so doggone lovely I can’t help but grab a Kleenex and keep on running, striving, giving it my best.

I’m not gonna PR every day. Heck, I might not even finish the race every day. But I can keep moving toward that finish line one foot at a time, those blessed voices ringing in my ears.

And then it’s my turn to holler.

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To those of you cheering me on, thank you. I need you.

And to those of you fighting your way forward, PR in sight: You can do it.

I believe in you.

I’d be honored if you would share a link to this blog to anyone you think might be interested. If you’d like, leave a comment below and tell us about a recent personal record that you totally crushed, or about a goal that’s just out of reach. We’d love to cheer you on.