On Redemption

I had an interesting discussion with my co-workers recently that I haven’t quite been able to get out of my head.  We were discussion that theological dilemma about whether or not God intervenes (or chooses not to intervene) in order to teach us a lesson.  More specifically, did God cause my co-worker to get an intense thyroid virus that rendered him incapable of doing pretty much anything as a way to “slow him down?”  This conversation sprung from an incredibly insensitive comment that I made- pretty much to that effect. 

For the record I felt awful when I realized what I’d said.  I mean if he were battling cancer, I would never in a million years have told him that God caused his cancer in order to slow him down.  That would be awful.  And if someone had told me that God allowed my dad to die so that I could learn something I would have punched that person in the face.  It’s a problematic theology, this “God’s hand in stressful/difficult/tragic situations in order for us to learn something” theology.

And I’ve wrestled with it much this year following my dad’s death.  I don’t believe that God would put our family through the hell of this year to teach us something.  It’s pretty twisted.  I don’t think God causes cancer in order to wake us up or makes us hit that tree with our car to teach us a lesson.  I just don’t think God is that manipulative or cruel. 

But if I don’t believe that, can I believe that God does intervene in some cases?  Was it his hand that caused me to be late, narrowly missing that car crash by mere seconds?  If he saved me, why didn’t he also do it for the others?  It’s a tricky rabbit hole to go down. 

And it’s hard because I don’t want to pick and choose, acknowledging God’s intervention when the outcome is good but not when the outcome is bad.  But then is the solution to acknowledge God’s intervention in ALL things or in NO things?

Like most things regarding God I’m finding myself more and more comfortable with a simple “I don’t really know.”  And that’s how I left it in the conversation with my co-workers.  I’m just not really sure.

But then later, as I drove home, I realized there is something that I’m beginning to know for sure.  I’m beginning to know that in all things God redeems.  This is the story told over and over again throughout the Bible.  God redeems.   He takes what is broken, what is lost, what is ruined and he makes it new, better, beautiful.  He turns a horrific death on a cross into salvation for all.  He redeems.  God is in the business of redemption.

For a long time I believed that God’s work of redemption was a begrudging work.  We stupid humans kept messing up what God had created and he kept swooping in to “fix it.”  And each time he did, it came with an eye roll, a heavy sigh and a hint of annoyance that there was yet another thing in need of redemption. 

But I’m starting to wonder if God maybe loves being in the business of redemption.  If this is the kind of work that makes his heart sing.  If it is exhilarating and fulfilling and exciting work for him.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been binge watching last season of Gray’s Anatomy on Netflix, but this idea of God loving the work of redemption makes me think of surgeons.  Surgery is long, and complicated and exhausting.  And yet surgeons, the ones who were made to be surgeons, can’t get enough of it.  They would stand in one place for hours and hours at a time fixing what is broken in the human body and walk out of that operating room exhilarated, fulfilled and excited.  They aren’t rolling their eyes and huffing about having to fix another heart.  They are in the business of fixing hearts.  It’s what they were made to do. 

And I think God is in the business of redeeming what is broken, hard and hurting. 

So I’m starting to pay attention to this work.  When I do this well I notice it all around.  God is redeeming hard things all the time.  Which is good because we humans are really effective at creating hard things in need of redemption.  I want to partner with God in that work of redemption.  I want to pull people out of wells and help redeem their stories.  I want to be a person who looks for ways to bring about something redemptive in all things.

Because there is something different about redemptive work.  It’s not false positivity.  So many times in this past year of grieving I would get so frustrated with people who constantly wanted to point out any positives or push me along to happier thoughts.  Comments like, “I know this is hard but I pray that you can draw on all your happy memories of your dad right now” did anything but uplift me.  People are uncomfortable with sadness and so they are desperate to find anything positive and I get that.  But it left me feeling like I shouldn’t be sad, like if I just focused on the happy stuff the unbearable pain would just go away.  False positivity wants to hide the pain, cover it up, distract from it, pretend that it doesn’t exist.

Redemption is different.  Redemption sits in the pain and broken.   Honors it.  Allows for it.  And then out of that pain creates something new.  Redemption is rooted in the broken so that you don’t have to ignore or deny it, but blooms something beautiful out of pain.  Where false positivity wants to pretend like things can be the same, as before, if we just focus on what’s positive, redemption recognizes that nothing will ever be the same, but beauty is still possible.  Something new is created and it is good.  It is something altogether different than before it was broken, but it is beautiful and redeemed.

Redemption is everywhere I’m realizing.  Just as God is everywhere, so is his redemptive work.  In all things God redeems.   

One Year

Earlier this month marked one year since we lost my dad.  It feels cliché to say, but I can’t believe it’s been a year and I can’t believe it’s only been a year.  I knew it was true at the time, and the process of grieving him his past 365 days has only confirmed it, but thus far in my thirty-one years my dad’s death is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

In the months leading up to this milestone we struggled with what to do.  How do you mark the first anniversary of the worst day of your life?  In the end we decided to bury him.  There wasn’t really time to make the “what to do with dad’s remains” decision when he died, so we didn’t.  But over the course of the past year we’ve realized it might be nice to have a place to go.  A place for him that is not the back corner of my mom’s closet.  So we decided on a burial plot and purchased a gravestone. 

And on the first anniversary we held a small service, attended by us, my mom and siblings, and many of the people that have walked alongside us this year.  The people who have gotten us through.  Afterwards we went to my mom’s house for chili and gumbo, scotch and Guinness. 

As we pieced together what that day would look like I couldn’t help but think about the day of his funeral.  On that day we’d had a large service in the morning and then invited everyone back to my mom’s house for food, scotch and Guinness.  The day of the funeral is mostly a wild blur, but I remember the raw feeling of grief.  The tears that sprang at a moment’s notice and the numb shock. 

In the weeks leading up to the first anniversary I worried I would feel just as I had on the day of his funeral.  Because those days shared a similar cadence I assumed the emotions would be the same too.

But, much to my surprise, things were different.  There was sadness to be sure.  Tears and that ache of what should be but is not.  But for most of the day I moved with an anticipation of feelings that did not come.  At one point I ran to Mariano’s grocery story for (another) last minute trip before the service.  As I moved up and down the aisles I couldn’t help but think about how it felt to be there immediately following his death.  I remembered how I found myself looking for him in the faces of the shoppers.  I remembered how I couldn’t walk through the international food aisles without crying.  I remembered how for some reason the grocery story had become a hard place to be in the weeks following my dad’s death.  I remembered all these things differently though.  Instead of reliving the memories, feeling the pain and sadness of that time a year ago, I remembered them slightly removed now, with only a vague sense of what it all felt like.

I continued to remember the emotions without the raw feeling throughout that day.  And I realized that time really did what everyone said it would do.  The 365 days of isolating grief I’d endured had a purpose.  Time started to softened the blow.  Time started to heal.  And that was good. 

Which of course carries it’s own set of baggage.  Because acknowledging that you are moving along brings forth guilt.  This is the thing that makes grief the biggest asshole I know.   You can’t make progress without then experiencing sadness about said progress.  

But the point of this story is that one year later time had done something.  My heart had healed a little.  I was a little further along down the road of grieving my dad than I’d thought.

In a ridiculous twist of irony I found myself waiting in a receiving line at the exact same funeral home on the exact same Friday evening of my father’s wake one year later.  A church friend of my husband passed away in a similar sudden fashion.  Like my dad, Robb had died younger than one would have expected and his loved ones, like us, were left reeling.  The receiving line at Robb’s wake wound all through the funeral parlor and we had to wait a while to see his loved ones.  The same thing had happened at my dad’s wake- the line extending all the way outside.  I’d never really appreciated before just what people went through to express their condolences to us.

Once we got to Robb’s widow and stepson I found myself fumbling for words.  I wanted so badly to express to them that I knew, I knew exactly what this felt like.  I knew how hard it was to receive people graciously and how your feet hurt from standing and you still really can’t believe this is happening, that this is what your life looks like right now.  And I wanted to tell that that I can honestly say, one year later, that time does start to do something.  But that I also know how much they probably don’t want to hear that.  I know I didn’t want to hear that when I stood in their place.  I wanted to say that this is the shittiest thing that will ever happen to you and it’s awful and more than once in the next 365 days you will feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.  It is the worst thing you will ever have to go through but you will get through it.  You will get to this day in November 2015 and it won’t feel the same.  And that will be hard too, but it won’t feel the same.  It’s awful, but it won’t kill you.  Grieving will affect every aspect of your life and you’ll hate it but you will get through it.  And it won’t always be as awful as it is right this moment. 

I didn’t say all that.  But I tried to say enough.  I tried to help them know that they were not alone in their pain even though it felt like it.  And as we left the funeral home I once again acknowledged that time had allowed me to remember the pain of this day one year ago without feeling it fresh.  Time had done something.  And that’s good. 

Mini Me

First day of school.  She picked her own outfit and would not be persuaded.  Of course.

When Monster was born everyone commented on how much he looked like his dad.  It went beyond that, though.  Even from birth Monster seemed to show an alarming array of his dad’s quirks.  He was Tommy, in baby form.  And more than that, Tommy got him in a way that I just didn’t.  Long before Monster could communicate any of his needs or desires Tommy seemed to understand what the problem was: too tight shoes, too warm temperatures, frustrations in his playing.  Tommy understood Monster in a way that made me feel like the third wheel on a really good date: unnecessary.

I hated it and at times felt insecure by it.  How could he understand him so well when I was the one who spent the majority of my day with him?  What was it about their connection?  It baffled me.

Until Toots came a long. 

Suddenly I had my own mini-me.  I got her.  Understood what bugged her or how she wanted things.  Intuitively knew what clothing she would prefer to wear and how she’d like to play.  Because she is ridiculously like me.

I realize this anew constantly.  My girlfriends and I laughed at the way she turned her nose up at the Morton Arboretum’s children area.  The Morton Arboretum boasts 1700 acres of natural woodlands and wildlife and its children’s area is designed to feel like you’re right in the heart of nature.  It has streams to play in, playgrounds with climbing structures that look like trees amidst a woodchip floor.  Girlfriend wanted nothing to do with all that outdoors crap.  While her friends ran around the stream and played in the woodchips she stuck close to mama and kept asking to get back in the stroller.

I noticed her mini-me-ness again as I watched her charm her uncle in town for a visit.  She teased and flirted and played him all morning until he was helpless to say no to her.  I had flashbacks of wining favor with the grumpy hostel worker in Paris who seemed to hate everyone but me.  Soon after I discovered one of my top five StrengthsFinder strengths was WOO (Winning Others Over).  This girl’s got WOO too.

I am keenly aware of the different kind of responsibility in raising a mini-me.  She has many of my strengths and, unfortunately, many of my weaknesses.  I am tempted to over-correct those things about her that I am constantly trying to correct in myself.  I can easily assume the worst about her in the same ways I assume the worst about myself.  There are things about her personality that are adorable now, but I worry could spin out of control.  I’m always thinking ten steps ahead of the game with her.

I know that I will want to be hard on her for these things.  I fear for her high school years.  There are a few ways I played out my adolescent dramas that still make me cringe, ten plus years later.  There are mistakes I made, ways I wish I’d done things differently and I know that when I see her making those same mistakes it will be difficult to let her repeat my history. 

But how unfair not to let her write her own story, even if parts parallel mine in unfortunate ways.  And at age two she is already starting to write her own story.

Parenting a mini me is harder than I thought it would be when I was so jealous of Tommy’s understanding of Monster.  While I may get her a little more acutely I also get her a little more acutely.  And with that comes a great responsibility.

So I’m trying to take a step back and give her space to be the person God created her to be.  Because God did not create her exactly like me.  And even if he did she still has her own story to write. 

I think it will be a good one.

on birth and death and when they're connected...

At my dad’s wake my aunt shared a story of my father from his toddlerhood.  As a small child, she said, my dad would play quietly in his crib in the early hours of morning as he awaited his release into the day.  My aunt said my father could be heard at this time saying to himself, “what should I be happy about today?”

It is a fitting story of my dad.  He was always pretty happy.  And it always seemed to bother him when we weren’t happy.  It drove me nuts in my teenage angsty years, the way my dad would implore me to “be happy” when my latest crush/friend/school/rejection drama left me feeling anything but.  My dad though, was pretty much always happy.  I think sixty some odd years after he asked himself that question in his crib he was still finding ways to wonder what he could be happy about each day.

I think of this story almost every time I put Red down for a nap or to bed.  I wonder if she will be like my dad in this way?  If some morning I will hear her pondering what to be happy about that day.

Because I was very newly pregnant when my dad died I think we all hoped Red would fill the void he left.  My mom and I were both convinced she was going to be a boy, I think in hopes that somehow he would be reincarnated in her.  On her journey earthside my dad must have kissed her in someway, her red hair bearing witness to him.  But is that all?  Will I see other similarities?

When she was first born I worried about her.  I worried that because she grew so close to such a broken heart for so many months she would enter the world broken-hearted, filled with an inherited sadness.  And when I lay her down on her polka dotted bedding, thinking of the story of my dad in his own crib, I still worry.

I worry she will know how hard it was to grow her.  How I despaired comments about my growing belly and reminders of the passing weeks of pregnancy.  Her growth was a physical sign that we were all moving away from my dad, moving away from a life that included him.  Her entrance into the world would be a reminder of his absence.

I worry she will bear the weight of his legacy.  That we will all try to convince ourselves she is like him because she came when he left.  And she will wear that legacy like a heavy, ill-fitting coat.  Unhappy about playing the role of someone she never even knew.

Red’s life feels so connected to my father’s death.  It was such a strange, hard season, growing new life, while viscerally mourning the end of one.  Everything was upside down, topsy turvy and impossibly hard.

I wonder what it will feel like when I look back on this season five, ten, twenty years down the road.  Will time have a way of softening reality?  Will my fears about the effect of my grief on her come to fruition?  Will my memories of her first months be so tempered by mourning?  Or will I look back and only remember what was happy and light?

Probably yes to all.  Or something completely different.  I haven’t lived through enough hardship to know what time does to these things.

I hope I see glimpses of my dad in Red in the same way I hope to see it in Toots and Monster.  Not because they replace him but because he was incredible and his characteristics worth inheriting.    And I pray that time will separate these two events, his death and her birth, so that some day they won’t seem quite so entwined.  So that some day they will stand alone with only the happier threads connecting them.

What I learned in African American Studies...

In college I took a number of African American Studies courses.  So many, in fact, that I seriously considered a minor in the subject.  My study abroad semester in put an end to that though as African American Studies credits are rather hard to receive in Dublin, Ireland.

Anyway, I loved these classes.  I was always one of a handful of white students.  And I learned more in these classes than in any other course.   They were discussion based for the most part (a favorite for my extroverted, verbal processing self) and the discussions were always intense and authentic.  Every semester my eyes and heart were opened wide to the actual present day treatment of minorities, in particular African Americans.  Every semester I broke a little more over the history of abuse and injustice they have endured. 

I always did a lot more listening that talking in these classes.  I had so much more to learn than offer. 

They were sacred spaces, these African American Studies classes.

In every class there was often at least one student who had a hard time.  This student was always white and entered into conversations slightly (or incredibly) defensive.  Black students would share their experiences with racism and hatred and this white student would tell them that no, that couldn’t possibly be their experience.  They must be mistaken.  White people don’t act that way.  I can remember in particular one student who quickly became very disliked.  Instead of listening and receiving stories she rejected and defended.  In her frustration she offended and silenced vulnerable sharing.  You could see it on the faces of my classmates.  Every time she spoke up in class those around her started to shut down or get visibly frustrated.  This was supposed to be a sacred space and she was defiling it.  Instead of heart changing dialogue the class found themselves on opposing sides believing that no common ground could ever be found.

I felt bad for her.  Deep down I understood how she felt and the reasons behind her reaction.  It’s hard to hear about the marginalization, mistreatment and oppression of others, particularly when we find ourselves carrying some amount of guilt regardless of whether or not the pain was caused by our own actions or the actions of those that look like us.  Our tendency, in that guilt, is to get defensive.  When we get defensive we sometimes try to discredit the marginalization, mistreatment and oppression.  We put the blame on the other; convince ourselves that they are over reacting, misinterpreting, or exaggerating.  It can’t possibly be that bad.

Unfortunately it is.  But even if it wasn’t, it does us no good to discredit someone’s story.  Their story is their truth.  Trying to convince them their truth is incorrect is not only wrong, but also downright offensive.

I’ve watched with a heavy heart the events unfolding in Ferguson, MO this past week.  It is utterly heartbreaking and difficult to watch.  News of John Crawford’s death split my heart right open.  It’s bad out there right now. 

We have a problem in our country.  We just do.  There is no defending or denying the systematic injustice that occurs on a daily basis in predominantly black communities all across the nation.  We have a serious problem.  Kristen Howerton’s article does a good job of laying out some facts regarding what’s been happening at Ferguson before the shooting and with regard to racial bias and police brutality in general.  I think it’s important to understand the facts regarding what has been going on long before Michael Brown was killed.

I think we also have a listening problem in our country.  We respond to the stories of black men and women much like that girl in my class.  We get defensive.  We try to derail from issue at hand with one-off instances or issues that are beside the point. We as a country are sticking our heads in the sand, unwilling to own or even hear about the racial injustices that exist in America in 2014.  And it pains me to admit this, but I think white Christians are some of the worst offenders of this listening problem.

We need to listen to the stories of others.  Listen without fear or judgment.  Without trying to fix or defend.  We need to seek out the stories of those that are different from us.  We need to really listen to the stories that make us uncomfortable, that twist our insides and leave us feeling a little defensive and exposed.  And then, instead of reacting, we need to sit with these stories for a while until our walls come down and our hearts open and break and recognize these stories as important and true as our own.  We need to listen until we recognize the storytellers as our own.

If we continue to act defensive we will continue to stand at opposing sides and no common ground will be found.  We will do well to remember that when listening to those who have spent a lifetime at the receiving end of systematic injustice, we have much more to learn than offer.  If we can’t do this we will learn nothing.  And what is happening in Ferguson will continue to happen all across our country.

Another Lou to Love

For all of my life I can remember my dad answering my Uncle Tom’s phone calls with the same greeting in his deep gravely voice, “Heeeey Chief!”  And hearing, over the phone, my uncle’s cheerful reply “Heeeey Lou!”

I don’t know why, but my uncle called my dad Lou.  I never gave the nickname much thought, it was one of those things that always just was.   He was Lou and Uncle Tom was Chief.  

*****

For all of my pregnancy with Red I thought for sure I was having a boy.  You can imagine my surprise when, 15 minutes after arriving to the hospital, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.  (There were a lot of surprises in that moment.  The fact that I was holding a baby and not, in fact, still in labor was probably the most shocking.  But her gender did fall towards the top of the list.) 

Names were a tough topic in this third pregnancy.  We wanted to honor my dad, but Tommy and I had different boys names that meant something to us in connection to him.  And, with the exception of one family name my sister had claimed years ago, we really didn’t have any girls’ names that connected to my dad.  Since I didn’t think we were having a girl, and the high emotions behind our differing opinions on boys’ names left us unable to discuss them without (my) tears, we were at a stalemate on baby names right up until the moment Red was born.

A week before her birth my sister had thrown out the name Louisa.  “You could call her Lou.  Like dad’s nick name with Uncle Tom.”  Lou.  It was a thought.  A good one, but not one I took very seriously since I was definitely sure I was having a boy.

Fast forward to the moment, seconds after a nurse caught my baby, Tommy announced that the baby boy I was sure I was having was actually a girl.  A girl for which I had no name.

Once the adrenaline of having just had a baby when sixteen minutes ago Tommy was peeling his dad’s Buick Oldsmobile into the hospital parking lot wore off I tentatively suggested we should name this baby. 

Some of our old names just didn’t seem right.  She wasn’t a Fiona.  And while I loved Breen, my dad’s middle name, I knew in my heart of hearts it belonged to my sisters’ future daughter.  Rory?  We do like boys’ names for a girl.  I threw out Louisa.  “We could call her Lou, like my dad’s nick name with Uncle Tom.”

I was nervous to land on this name, even though it felt right.  Because a week ago this name didn’t even exist on my radar, I feared I was making an emotional decision.  That I didn’t love the name I just loved that it sort of connected to my dad.  Moreover, Tommy hadn’t had any time to consider this name since I was just bringing it up then. 

And there we were, trying to figure out the name for our daughter, a decision that requires more time and less exhaustion than we had at that moment. 

We were stuck between Louisa and Rory, Tommy leaning towards the latter and me towards the former, when my mom arrived with Monster and Toots.  Monster had been so incredibly excited about this moment for months.  He couldn’t wait to meet “his” baby in Mommy’s belly and his reaction did not disappoint.  He ran right over to the chair Tommy was sitting in with Red and immediately started kissing and petting her.  For Monster it was love at first sight.

Tommy said, “This is your baby sister.  What do you think we should name her?  Louisa or Rory?”

And Monster responded, so matter-of-factly, “Louisa.”

And that was that.  Another red haired Lou entered our life.

My mom called my Uncle Tom that night to give him the news of Red’s arrival.  She told him about her name and why we had chosen it.  Later that night he sent her in email.  In it he said the following,

“I feel so honored and blessed to have a new " Lou " in my life to love and cherish forever. That name was created by a special bond over 50 years ago and Tommy & Colleen were unbelievably thoughtful in naming her as they did.”

I think we all feel honored and blessed to have a new “Lou” in our lives.  I can’t wait to tell her about the man we named her after and the ways she keeps him alive.  I love her name, full and shortened versions.  And I love that in her own way she carries part of my dad with her.  He may never hold her, or sing to her, or delight in her in the ways he could her older siblings, but Red carries a cherished nickname and relationship with her.  And miraculously his trademark hair color too.   

7.

kids, I tell ya.  We were kids.

Earlier this month Tommy and I celebrated our seventh anniversary.  We hadn't had a proper date night in months.  My mom and sister took the kids and we set out to drag out our child-free time as long as possible.  We started at a pub and toasted my dad over Guinness.  Then we walked down the block for sushi and wine.  And ended our night with our favorite dessert, vanilla cones from McDonald's.  Classy, eh?

In between all those stops we spent the minutes reconnecting.  We sat side by side on bar stools and made a list of places in the world we wanted to visit together.  We sipped wine and fought over sushi rolls while we rehashed the past week and shared some honest truths.  And we teased each other and laughed together while we pulled out of the drive thru.  It was good, seven years in, to be able to dream together, to laugh together and share together.

We were married on July 7, 2007 or 07/07/07.  I think that made last night our "golden" anniversary?  At any rate it seems, within our marriage, that seven is a significant number.  Biblically seven is significant for many reasons, one of them being a symbol of completion.  It feels true in some ways. Tommy and I are completing a season in our marriage.

The first seven years of our marriage have been about forming our partnership.  Tommy and I are both independent to a fault at times and it's taken us a bit longer than most to come together.  We spent a lot of time walking our own roads, doing our own thing, side by side-  kind of like that parallel play that toddlers do.  The past seven years have been about learning to trust each other, practicing the work of turning to each other first and foremost.  It doesn't happen overnight.  You develop this partnership the same way we settle into sides of the bed.  Over time, with lots of fumbles and grace and love and leaps of faith, this person you promised to love forever in front of all your people becomes your person.  Before you know it there is only one side of the bed that feels comfortable and one person you look to first.  More than ever before this past year as served to cement Tommy and I together.  It was a shitty year and more than once I was afraid it would all be too much for him, that the sadness and hardness of my life would only serve to pull us apart.  But it didn't.  It solidified our partnership and our friendship.  I depended on him in ways I never wanted to have to.  He came through in ways I would never have expected.

If the past seven years have been about laying our foundations of partnership than I think the next seven are going to be about doing the work of being a partner.  We have some dear friends who live in California who have a great marriage.  They are a few years ahead of us in this whole marriage/parenting game and Tommy and I have looked to them as a sign of what's to come. (They are currently in that glorious stage of parenting that no longer involves naps, sippy cups, cribs or carrying a giant bag of crap every where you go.  When they visited earlier this month I stared longingly at Jen's simple small clutch she was able to carry around the museum while I was loaded down with a diaper bag, stroller and quite literally a baby attached to me in the ergo.)  Anyway, what I love about our friends' marriage is that they, better than most, partner with each other in everything. She knows the intricacies of his work life, knows who he's meeting with, or what deals need to be made.  He understands fully what her day looks like and finds ways to support her in it.  They are a team and they inspire me to be a better team member to Tommy.

Years one through seven have been all about forming the team.  Now we're shifting into being the team.  I'm excited to support and help and partner with Tommy more in the coming years.  What's more, I'm excited to let him do the same for me.  This is a huge shift for me.  It is my tendency to just keep to myself.  Sometimes it feels to vulnerable to let anyone into the work I'm doing, whether it be my writing, or my paid job, or even the friend, sister, mother work I do.  But lately I've started opening that work up to Tommy.  It's nice to have a partner I trust enough with the vulnerable, incomplete pieces of my life.

So these days I'm leaning into him more and more, dreaming big dreams for us and trusting that we'll work together to make them happen.  It's a good season we are entering.  I can feel it.