It was midway through Year Two of #FridayCookies when a friend messaged me and condescendingly sweetly told me that it was a little embarrassing how I kept trying to make #FridayCookies happen, and maybe I should just, you know, make the cookies and all that, but stop with the hashtag. If you had read it, you’d have heard Mean Girls in your head, too. I didn’t bother to respond. Truthfully, I felt a little embarrassed for her because she completely missed the point.

Given that #FridayCookies is presumably my version of “fetch,” you probably need a little background explanation. In the fall of 2014, I had a 7th grader and a 5th grader, both involved in time-intensive activities and high-level academics. My husband was split between running the baseball/softball facility, coaching high school baseball at a local charter school (the only one in Central Texas to compete in UIL – so, no pressure!), and doing his best to sneak in hunting and fishing getaways with his dad and brother. I was working full time from home, consulting in marketing, development, and photography, and had just “retired” from serving in ministry with our church’s high school choir program after 12 years (sniff). It was the inaugural year of Today’s Teenager Family, and it hit me hard. Really, really hard.

On a Friday in early September, I returned from school drop off and sat in my kitchen wrestling with despair. What a week it had been, and yet, I couldn’t even pinpoint what it was that made it so. It just WAS a week! Every day seemed to bring some new and inexplicable challenge. After a lifetime keeping on the sunny side, my rosy glasses seemed perennially fogged. Sitting at the kitchen island, I told myself, “This will not do.”

I had been participating in the #100happydays instagram challenge in the hopes of continuing to focus daily on the good things of life. But it seemed I needed a bit of a boost. So, as I was looking for something to be happy about (and yes, I read that and cringe, but I’m just being truthful), I spotted my citron Kitchenaid mixer. I decided to make some cookies just because, and whipped together a batch of toffee brickle drop cookies from the Heath toffee bits bag. And you know? It worked. My despondency dissipated. I posted a picture on instagram and went about my day considerably lighter.

The following week, which played out much like the one before it, I woke up on Friday already determined to make cookies again. At the time, my oldest niece and I had an ongoing joke about hashtags, and in a flash of inspiration I searched the hashtag #FridayCookies. Thinking surely there would be hundreds of posts, I was surprised to find just a few, one being a bakery far away. No one was using it regularly, so I decided I would start. That very day.

When I picked the children up from school, I told them that I understood how difficult this season seemed to be for all of us. I knew that they were both facing big challenges at school, we were all feeling the effects of changing friendships, and sometimes it felt a little cloudy around the house. So, I was going to bake cookies every Friday. They were welcome to tell friends or neighbors. Or, we could just eat them ourselves. But no matter what happened in any given week, we would ALWAYS have something to look forward to on Friday. Cookies.

They reacted with an enthusiasm reminiscent of their pre-middle-school years, which was affirmation enough for me. From that Friday on, I baked. I generally stuck to favorites, but reserved the right to try something interesting from time to time. And I instagrammed virtually every one.

Did #FridayCookies take off? No, not really. My friend was right; it didn’t turn into the next big trend. When I say my friend completely missed the point, I mean this: I didn’t start the whole #FridayCookies thing to start a movement. I did it to build a connection in my own little family. My people were individually struggling with hard things, and it was showing up in our family dynamic. I only started with the hashtag because my oldest was on instagram, with my youngest soon following, and it was a way to reach them in their own language. And I think in many ways, it worked.

The advent of high school brought Friday night sports, which made #FridayCookies a bit harder to pull off, but we’ve kept it going most of the time. I don’t instagram them all anymore, and sometimes it’s more like #FridayCookiesOnTuesday. But after four years, my favorite Saturday breakfast is still two cups of coffee with a couple of #FridayCookies I stash away for this exact purpose. And every now and then, I see someone on social media decide to do their own #FridayCookies, and I say a quick prayer for their sweet family to enjoy that little connection as much as I have.

Group projects. In school, they are everywhere. Love them or hate them, you can’t avoid them. It was true when I was a student, and it is even more true for students today.

When our kids started participating in group projects, my husband gave them one excellent piece of advice. “Look around, find the smartest person in the room, and get that person in your group,” he said. He went on to explain that he knew our kids would want the project to go well and be successful, but wouldn’t want to carry the whole thing themselves. By choosing someone very smart, they were pretty likely to have at least two in the group who cared about the outcome and therefore invested in the process.

I thought that was brilliant advice, and it has worked quite well for both kids. Personally, I have always despised group projects. Well, I thought I despised group projects, until a conversation this week got me to thinking: our lives are a series and collection of group projects! 

I’m not necessarily referring to the workforce, the usual justification for all the group projects students complete in school: “you will work in groups throughout your career.” While that is true for many, there are many others whose work is autonomous or at least mainly so. I’m thinking about the whole of life. Our friend groups. Our families (because marriage is definitely a group project, and parenting even more so!). Our neighborhoods. Our schools. Our churches.

As I mulled over this idea, I realized a couple of things. First, based on that expanded definition, I am actually a fan of group projects! And second, my husband’s advice rings true for all of those groups.

So, how does that advice translate to the group projects of life? It isn’t meant as a put-down for others (including ourselves), but rather, an encouragement to find people who elevate the standard you are seeking to reach. It’s pretty well documented that people tend to adjust up or down to the standard of the status quo in any given scenario. Challenge them, and almost always you will find that they rise to the occasion. Require little, and they will deliver the bare minimum necessary.

This idea of choosing the smartest person in the room really resonated with me following a recent lunch with friends. Our particular group goes back 25 years, to our college days. Four out of the six of us met for lunch, and nothing earth-shattering happened. We talked water leaks in houses, dogs, books and podcasts, jobs, cheese, trips, friends, families, cheese again, haircolor. Nothing of consequence. However, I realized after our conversation how much I value these women, even when it’s an ordinary lunch on an ordinary day. Each of the friends at the table (and the two in the group who were not) holds a unique place in the dynamic we have created over these decades. They are individually gifted in different ways and different fields, and have made us collectively smarter as we teach each other, question each other, and listen to each other. Although I could highlight many strengths of each, it’s easy to separate out one way in which I feel each of these friends is the smartest person in the room.

One of us* is a true model of kindness, consideration, and love with no strings. I will never be the kind of friend she is, to all she befriends, but I can aspire to it! She remembers everything. It’s an insane skill set. I quit trying to be her years ago, and am content to just watch her transform the people around her with quiet support. (yes, she inspires so many italics!)

One of us is amazing in her field; if I had a question about navigating a professional environment, she’s one of the first I would call. Throughout her career she has shared her successes, challenges, risks, and new opportunities, and I have learned so much that I can apply to my own career path. Her viewpoint is fascinating.

One of us has been a phenomenal example as a wife and a mom. She married first in our group, and was the first mother of boys. The laidback attitude and easy flexibility she shows have been an absolute example to me as we’ve built our family. She has created a beautiful life, and I admire her so much more than she knows.

One of us is a drop-everything-and-be-there friend. I can go ages without talking to her, and even longer without seeing her, but when life blows up in my world, I can call her, and I do. Her response to her friends in crisis is immediate, practical, and guaranteed. She has saved my life a couple of times, and that’s not hyperbole.

One of us is the very example of self-awareness and confidence in who she is. She is very, very smart. Her intelligence shows in the way she comfortably inhabits her views, interests, beliefs, and relationships, whether they look like everyone else or not. She is literally one of my favorite people, which I’m pretty sure she knows.

I’m not fishing here when I say that I’m not exactly sure WHAT I bring the table; there isn’t really much needed! These are five women who are bringing the highest and best to an always-evolving friendship. And the kicker?

This is only ONE group in my life’s collection!

Although I am not especially social, given the pace of our life and the strange schedules we have always followed in our careers, it is still easy to identify the many group projects that make up my world. Considering these people and their strengths, I seem to have subconsciously taken my husband’s advice in many different areas, to my absolute benefit. The challenge is to figure out how we all can be the smartest one in the room for someone who needs it.

*I’m leaving out names to protect the innocent! 🙂

I normally try to write intentionally, thoughtfully, with integrity.  This is not one of those times.

I am perplexed. I find myself in such a strange time of sweet, and painful, and stretching, and a confusion that makes me feel far younger and more foolish than I should be while wearing a mantle of weary and hard-earned wisdom. I know I am not alone in this. For some, it stems from current events and the resulting reactions – from people we only observe from afar, and from people in our every day world. For some, it is finally experiencing, full stop, the long-lamented racing away of time. For many, it might be the constantly shifting world we live in, so much faster and more difficult to adapt to than times in the past (and the inner battle to decide if that’s middle age talking or objective reality). I just know that the layers of life are sometimes light, and sometimes almost unbearably heavy.

In one of these moments today, after too long on the road, Spotify randomly played “Maybe It’s Time” from A Star Is Born, a movie I haven’t yet seen. The song is sung by Bradley Cooper, an actor who continues to surprise me (I’m still not over the way he speaks fluent French!), but I didn’t know that when it first started playing. I just knew that it crept into the Jeep and quieted my mind. Music does that sometimes, and this song was a long sigh of relief.

At the end, he sings, “it takes a lot to change your plans, and a train to change your mind,” which may be my new favorite lyric of all time. Like my father before me, I love trains, tracks, and the promise of the next adventure just around a corner. That promise helps me navigate the perplexity of life sometimes. It certainly did today.

So thank you, Bradley Cooper, for singing out the breath I was holding today.

THERE’S SO MUCH.

To write can mean peeling away layers slowly, carefully so as to avoid tearing the thin skin of our outer selves. To write can also mean taking an armful of messy, poorly-balanced thoughts and throwing them onto paper before they drop. Both approaches can have a certain beauty. Sometimes, neither approach does. And in our world today, it feels as though there is so, so much to write about, whether gently or in hurling fashion. Which leads me to a sense of paralysis, where my thoughts race while my words screech to a halt. What can I say? How do I say it? What are the chances that my balanced left/right brain self will alienate everyone on all sides? (The answer to that last question is – HIGH. Chances are HIGH.)

So…when in doubt…birds.

I love birds. I always have. I love them for their existence in nature, in spiritual meaning, in physical presence, in song, in personality. So, while all of our brains are spinning in whichever way yours might be spinning, I will tell you a story about birds.

On the edge of my bathtub, a sacred nightly space for me, sits a very inexpensive ceramic figurine of two chickadees on a branch. These two birds have lived in my home for more than 15 years, but have been a part of my world as long as I can remember, thanks to my grandmother.

A mere six months after I was born in Oak Cliff, Texas (just south of Dallas), my parents packed us up and headed to Southern California, the first of many job-related moves that would characterize my childhood. Growing up in a fairly nomadic family, I did not have a physical “home” in the way many children do. My parents, loyal Texans that they are, maintained that Dallas was HOME. We were always “Texans in [fill in the current state/country]” and that was that. Therefore, “home” was split between our grandparents’ houses in Oak Cliff.

My two sets of grandparents lived a very short distance apart, and our trips home to Texas involved sleeping at both houses by turns. Each held its own particular allure for us as children, a subject I could go on and on about with great sentimentality.  For the purposes of this story, I’ll restrain myself (you’re welcome) and stick to my paternal grandparents’ house on Perryton Drive. Their 1950s home had two bedrooms and about 1300 square feet; sleeping an additional five people took creativity and a “camping out” mentality. The front door opened directly into a formal living and dining, and the opening from one to the next featured cool geometric shelves on either side. On those shelves sat what we would call “special things” – small decorative items my grandmother loved. There wasn’t anything of great value, looking back, but they were all special to her and therefore off limits to us. The exception was the aforementioned ceramic chickadees.

For reasons unknown, I loved those from the time I was a tiny girl. I bunked on the camp cot right next to those shelves (while my older brothers slept luxuriously on the pullout couch), and perhaps as a goodwill gesture, Grandmother would let me play with the chickadees. I have drowsy-edged memories of snuggling on the cot in the dark, a distant murmur of adult voices and occasional kitchen sounds in the background, my imagination running free as I moved the chickadees from shelf to cot and back. Those birds were my friends, and when Grandmother finally left us at 93 years old, they came to nest in my home. They’ve survived several moves – barely (thank goodness for super glue). I think in many ways, they represent for me the strange mix of tenacity, beauty, specificity, adaptability, freedom, and risk that life requires.

Fast forward a few years to last summer. Having experienced a series of extreme lows and highs in a scant few months’ stretch, our hearts were all a bit tender. I had never really discussed my love of birds with my husband, in all honesty. I simply held it in my heart, knowing that he lives there as well and would therefore understand. While I was out of town one weekend, he rearranged our bedroom so that our chairs faced the large window that looked out into our courtyard-like backyard and fountain. He then proceeded to pull together what was essentially a bird sanctuary. He considered the existing placement of trees and water features, then added plantings and several feeders with different seed to attract the songbirds I love. That window became our favorite place to be. It was slow going at first, with a few fairly disinterested house finches flying by briefly but never staying. Until one day, when my husband called me urgently but quietly to come to the window. There, on a branch next to one of the feeders, was our first real customer: a Carolina chickadee.

I had never seen an actual, live chickadee up close like that. I was riveted as he hopped from the branch to the feeder, picking through his options until he found the safflower. I held my breath, willing him to stay so I could study his tiny, perfect form and coloring.  He obliged for a moment; then, seed in mouth, he took off for the woods behind our house, with his distinctive waving flight pattern. I realized I was still holding my breath and turned to my husband. “Did you see that? It was a chickadee! Our first bird is a chickadee!”

It was one of those moments when I felt utterly and completely loved. Loved by my grandmother many years before. Loved by my mother, who made sure those chickadees came to me. Loved by my husband, whose heart was struggling to heal from the grief of losing his father, but still considered me. Loved by God, who so often uses birds in the Bible and in nature to paint a picture of His love and care for us.

It was less than a year later that we sold that house and moved to our current home. A part of me was devastated to leave that sweet window.  We had amassed a diverse population of birds, all precious to watch. It was no longer a sanctuary just for birds. It was my sanctuary, too. But when we came to see our current house for the first time, we were greeted by a robin’s beautiful song. We stepped onto the patio in time to see her singing away in a mountain laurel before taking flight. I looked at my husband and he looked back at me, and that was it. A few weeks later, I placed my chickadees on the edge of my new bathtub, and whispered to myself, “Welcome home.”

I’ve always been a talker. Although I am an introvert by nature, I’m an introvert with a lot to say. Anyone who has sat under the teaching of my mom has heard the story of me and the grandfather clock. I know this because, my entire adult life, I have met people who respond to my introduction by saying, “Oh, you’re the one who had to stand in front of the clock!”

Context: I am a third child with two older brothers, one of whom has plenty to say himself (sorry, but it must be said!).  I was four when my middle brother started Kindergarten, leaving me with the house – and my mom – to myself.  After a few days of crying into my snack plate in front of Mister Rogers, it hit me.  There was no one to compete with. I could say anything I wanted, any time, and no one could interrupt me.  Argue with me.  Override me.  It was Go Time, and go I did.

My poor mother, who took homemaking very seriously and had much to accomplish, quickly ran out of patience as I followed her from room to room, pattering away.  She took me to the grandfather clock and stood me in front.  Pointing at the face way up high, she told me, “This is the big hand, and this is the little hand. When the big hand gets to the 2, you can talk again.”  (Before everyone fires off judgment about my mom, it was maybe five minutes, and I don’t blame her – I’ve done the same thing to MYSELF from time to time!)

As the story goes, I stood perfectly still facing the clock, hands clasped behind me, my gaze on the clock face never wavering.  The moment the big hand hit the 2, I was off and running…chatter chatter chatter. But according to my mom, a stay-at-home wife and mom in the 70’s living in a new place and still somewhat isolated, it was five minutes of heaven.

So, for more than 40 years, I’ve been famous for talking.  Again, I am an introvert so I wasn’t one who would talk to a wall, but in my circle of comfort, nobody could beat me for talking.  But as I grew up, something became very clear to me.

Talking and conversation are two very different things.

I have spent a great deal of my adult life purposefully trying to learn the art of conversation.  It’s not rocket science, but it can be hard to do.  I started this blog originally, years ago, because I tend to end up in very interesting conversations and I didn’t really have anywhere to put that. The reason I fall into these conversations is that I’m not afraid to talk about anything, with the right prompt and the right person.

I feel that conversation, as a daily art, has taken a real hit over the last few years. Digital conversation has opened so many doors of dialogue, but one of the unintended side effects is our inability to have a live, in-person conversation effectively. I was thinking about the art of conversation this week because someone I’ve known for a relatively short time was asking me why I’m in fundraising when I hate selling. It’s a common question for someone outside the philanthropy field, because there is a perception that development is selling. To me, fundraising is just a conversation about opportunity, and that conversation requires skill.

I think there are people who are, by nature, sparkling conversationalists. They are witty and thoughtful by turns, and it seems effortless. For the rest of us, it’s a good idea to keep a couple of methods tucked in the back pocket and put into practice whenever necessary. Time and trial has given me two strong concepts that serve me well when I am wise enough to use them – listen and ask.

This order – listen and ask – is very deliberate. To implement ask and listen is to essentially turn a conversation into an interview. Ultimately, that ends up one-sided, and the other participant(s) will walk away feeling vaguely disconnected. When you are raising support, that’s an obvious problem, but it’s just as much of a drawback when you are building a relationship or trying to get something done. So, I stick with listen and ask. Again, this is not rocket science, but I think the state of conversation in our world today affirms that knowing something and doing it are two very different things!

Listen. My husband works with someone whose mastery of this concept has greatly influenced my treatment of important conversations, particularly those that are difficult or potentially emotional or contentious. In one of their first meetings together, Ryan noticed that his partner said very little and allowed the other people to talk. Even when faced with comments that perhaps would inspire a rise to defense, he generally stays quiet. LISTEN has a huge effect on both positive and negative conversation. In a positive environment, to listen is to affirm to your conversation cohort that you are a safe space for them to authentically participate and be vulnerable. Does that sound a bit precious?  Yes, it does, and some conversations never reach any significant depth. However, I like to keep options open, because you never know when a fairly shallow conversation can take a dive toward something more meaningful. When people feel heard, they tend to invest more in the conversation, and in turn the relationship. And what is life, if not an array of relationships?

In a negative or potentially contentious conversation, to listen is to facilitate one of two excellent outcomes: other people eventually move past a venting/emotional phase into a more receptive frame of mind (hence turning the conversation from a negative to a positive), OR, honestly, other people bury themselves. I had a recent opportunity to enter a negative conversation and very quickly realized that moving it to a positive was simply not going to happen. So I chose to channel Ryan’s partner. By listening and NOT TALKING except when necessary, even in defense of myself and my own viewpoint, I was able to exit the conversation with integrity intact and no regrets.  And the other person in the conversation was revealed.

(Of course, anyone who has spent time in effective debate knows that listening is a tool for effective argument. You have to know what you are debating, and you will only really learn that through listening.)

Ask. Sometimes conversation flows easily and naturally. Sometimes it is awkward and bulky!  When this happens, you can choose to gracefully exit and move on. Except when you can’t. Perhaps it is a professional connect that I have to cultivate. Perhaps it’s a new family member with whom I need to form some basis for amenable relationship. Or perhaps it’s someone who doesn’t feel comfortable enough with me to invest.  That’s when ASK can come into play. Uncomfortable or unnatural break? Ask a question. No one knows everything about anyone. There is ALWAYS something you can ask. I have developed this mindset firsthand in my own home. For years, one of my children had a tendency to make very unusual statements with zero context or background. I quickly learned to ask a follow up question, and when I did, it was amazing what I learned and where the conversation moved. So I naturally developed this habit and have taken it to the outside world, with great results. Again – I’m not talking about interviewing people, firing questions until they have that deer in the headlight look (my degree is Broadcast Journalism, so believe me when I tell you I could do that in a heartbeat). But ASK can be a great tool for conversations, both pleasant and challenging. Misunderstanding can kill a conversation; a well-placed question can rescue not only a conversation but a relationship.

Developing the art of conversation is an ongoing journey, and I don’t believe we ever arrive. I still struggle with being a talker, and as I mentioned parenthetically above, I still stand myself in front of the invisible clock. But I like to think that I am gaining ground in professional and personal maturity. Doing so results in better conversation, which leads to better relationships, which culminates in a better life.

I’ve been gone from this space for a very long time.

(Three years, in fact.)

Right around that time, I read a blog that talked about the loneliness of parenting preteens/teens, in part because the constant conversation and public sharing dwindles and stops as your children grow and earn the right to choose what they show the world about themselves. That concept – a young adult’s right to own his or her public identity without we parents shaping it alongside them – hit me very strongly. And because so much of what I learn daily is somehow intertwined with teenagers (either mine, or members of Ryan’s teams, or even my students during my sweet interlude teaching high school French), I realized how difficult it would be to write and yet be mindful of that. So, I stopped. Aside from the occasional, lengthier-than-usual social media post, my words have been locked up tightly for right around three years.

A lot has happened in that three years, in our little world. Final goodbyes to middle school. Job changes and detours (including the aforementioned interlude teaching French!). History-making accomplishments by both of the Kjos men for Gateway. Cancer. Unexpected loss of a parent (for us and for others we love). Friendship beginnings and endings. Another move. School changes. Church changes. More dog adventures than we bargained for (I’m looking at you, Lowry). Dating. Driving. New sports. New hobbies.  Poor decisions. Amazingly wise decisions. Parenting struggles. Teenager survival struggles. CRAZY amount of change in society. Growth and setbacks in our family relationship and identity. And most of it played pretty close to the vest.  I’m sure you can all relate (except perhaps to Lowry, because there is only one Lowry – he’s a future blog post, believe me).

I find that God usually speaks to me through other people, in triplicate. Seriously. Almost without fail, three different, unrelated people will say the same thing to me in a fairly short period of time. Perhaps God knows I’m not always the savviest about connecting the dots, so He makes them impossible to miss. Fortunately, while I still wouldn’t call myself savvy, I’ve definitely matured in my ability to see and respond to what He is saying to me through others. So, when I was “encouraged” to start writing again on three separate occasions, by three people in my world who do not know each other, I decided to listen. Is this the best time in my life to try for consistent writing? Nope. Do I still battle that awkward feeling about blogging (because it does feel so narcissistic and “look at me” although I do NOT feel that way about bloggers I read!)?  Yep. But even just this summer, I have learned – and learned well – that when God tells me to do it, however He chooses to tell me, I better do it, because that’s when life really happens. (And your last argument falls when your teenage son says, “Go ahead and write about me, I don’t care!”)

So, hello again. And please be aware in advance that I wholeheartedly agree with William Faulkner when he said, “Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it’s the only way you can do anything really good.”

Today marks the end of another school year, which, beginning when my oldest was 5, is more important a measure of time than the ball dropping on New Year’s Eve in Times Square.  I’ve learned a lot this year. A LOT.  I disappeared from this blog, among many other places.  Much of my online communication has become fairly generic.  We’ve moved into a new phase of life, in which even the adorable things said by my preteen & teen aren’t owned by me, and thus can’t be shared without great thought.  However, I’m pulling the “41” card and allowing myself the luxury of this, a public message about my little people (and the big one).  Starting with the littlest…

LONDON:

What a ride. What a ride!  I have never seen such leaps and bounds in one person, over one school year.  For her entire angelic first year of life, when London traipsed around with me whenever and wherever, I used to look in her eyes and think, there is a lot going on in there.  Someday it’s going to come out.  And it did, particularly at home or with family.  She’s been a crazy one her whole life, and brings so much of the fun to our family (as captured by the classic videos, “There’s a Box in My Bathtub” and “I. Love. CHEESE!” among others).  Genuinely interesting and hilarious, she is that cliché child who brightens any room into which she walks.  And not just because of her wild golden curls.  The downside is that she spent many years at school banking on that charm, concealing very real struggles in learning.  Until now.

After her incredible compensatory skills were finally overshadowed by her challenges at the end of 4th grade, we knew (with our help) that she would either seize her own opportunity for success, or try (and fail) to get by on charm alone.  As a parent, there comes a time where you can’t really force something.  There has to be buy-in and commitment from the child, too.

London did it. She bought in. What I have seen this year is the beginning of belief in, and fulfillment of, who God created London to be, by London. She decided who she wanted to be, and that is who she is becoming.  Now, she’s only 11…these are big overarching sentiments that gloss over a wealth of daily struggles.  But the child I drove to school this morning is a completely different child than the one who started school in August (in a wonderful, bigger, brighter way).   With the help and belief of some key adults at school, for whom I am forever grateful, London hopped off the fence.  To Ms. Heflin, who cared enough to visit with me and provide resources and ongoing encouragement, even after London aged out of her “elementary” domain…to Ms. Urbanek, who revolutionized London’s self-confidence about math and academics in general…and to Ms. Arnold, whose strict standards and high expectations in dance, balanced by her evident love for her dancers, grew London leaps and bounds in personal pride and responsibility…there are not enough thanks from this lady.

I have no idea what to expect from London in the years to come. She is a surprise, all the time.  She is silly and crazy and smiley on the surface, and she is a deep thinker and feeler inside.  She hides hurt well…just ask us how many years she refused to wear her hair down after one too many “backwards compliments” about it.  She watches, all the time, taking in the lay of the land, and responds accordingly.  My challenge will be to help steer her in those responses, as the lay of the land gets trickier and the choices others make take a dive.  She has the very best older girl cousins to look up to, which is a lovely thing for a preteen girl today.   I just can’t wait.

TEXAN:

Ah, 7th grade boy.  An entirely different species. I spent far too much of this year saying, “why didn’t anyone tell me?”  Which is, of course, ridiculous.  I grew up with two older brothers, and my nephews started prepping me years ago…but it’s different when it is YOUR kid!

From the day Texan was born, that was it…he was my buddy.  Not my “friend” – don’t get me confused with parents who want to be their kids’ friends – but my buddy.  Just as there is a special relationship between a mom and daughter, there is a THING between a mom and son that just IS.  No way to really describe it.  At least, I haven’t figured out how to.

An inevitable part of that THING is the eventual separation that has to happen as a boy struggles his way through to growing into a man.  It’s not a loss of love for his mother, or respect. It’s simply a change.  A daughter’s number one woman in life can be her mother, forever, without necessarily interfering in her eventual marriage (although, there’s a whole other blogpost in that sentence – another time, y’all).  A son, however, has to be able to transition his greatest love from mom to wife.  By definition, there can only be ONE “number one” so – sorry, Mom!  🙂

Now, that separation has been going on for years, slowly and in small increments, but the onset of teenager-hood ramps it up into a different level of interesting.  I find it very hard to be the mother of a 7th grade boy, at least this one (my only experience with it).  I cannot be rational about Texan, which is shocking considering how rational I can be about pretty much anything else.  I have watched his victories and challenges this year, some of which have been huge.  He has had some of the same social struggles I had at the same age, which makes me hurt all the more knowing how it made me feel at the time.  I have seen kids act as his friend one day, and the next tell him he’s only achieving what he is achieving because his dad has connections or his family is “loaded” (um, did you SEE me cleaning the bathroom at Triple Play last week? Or was it the 2003 and 2005 cars we’ve been driving that tipped you off?).  I have watched as girls have responded to the fact that he finds them genuinely interesting and can have a decent conversation with them…and I’ve seen boys respond to the same thing somewhat differently.  I have struggled with his insane pattern of growth, to which I cannot relate AT ALL, and felt very small in my ability to help him navigate through.  BUT I have seen a ton of fun…just seeing the light in his eyes and the joy in his face as he really, truly discovered basketball this year has been worth everything.

But what I have mainly observed is how that kid just keeps going. He adapts, and keep moving forward.  For a little boy who always hated change, and for whom a little shift in daytime schedule could induce night terrors, it is incredible to me to watch him grow up.  It is more evident to me every day that children truly do not belong to us, but are just on loan from God.  There is so much awesomeness about him that doesn’t come from me, or from Ryan, but is simply – Texan.  It’s why I just can’t get too stressed out about mistakes or concerns that I see my peers so upset about. If there was ever a kid about whom you could say, “oh, it’ll come around,” it is Texan.  When we named him, we didn’t realize how apropos that name would be. He is big in every way, just as any good Texan should be.  I’ve said it a million times…I just love that kid.

KJOS:

And of course, there’s Kjos.  THE Kjos.  You hear very little from me about Ryan.  He chooses not to be a part of social media, and I respect that choice and his privacy – most of the time.  But back to my spirit of “41,” I’m rebelliously putting it out there for the whole world to see, just this once.

Two things initially drew me to Ryan, 20+ years ago.  The first happened during our very first face to face conversation, when he never took his eyes off me to do the infamous “scan the room” all college guys seem to do when talking to a girl. Not only that, he asked me specific questions in response to what I said that showed me he was listening, and interested.  I’ve told Texan (and indeed, teenage boys I’ve worked with in youth ministry across the years) that there isn’t much better you can with a girl than that.

The second was watching him pitch. Not because I liked pseudo-celebrity college baseball players (“Can’t Touch that Stuff of Kjos” read the headlines that year).  But because I love to watch people do what they are brilliant at, and I love people who have unwavering commitment and work ethic about whatever they love to do.  WAY before Derek Jeter said it, Ryan lived out Jeter’s oft-quoted observation that people may have more talent than you but there’s no excuse for anyone to work harder.  Ryan was that way about baseball until the day his shoulder said “forget it” – then transferred that dedication to the next thing. I’ve never seen someone who gives more when it matters.

In addition to years of working to build Triple Play Sportsplex, this was Ryan’s third year of coaching high school baseball at Gateway College Prep, which is a public charter school that does “more with less” since we do not get property tax money.  Most charter schools don’t even bother with UIL competition in anything – sports, academics, fine arts – because that missing money is what funds those programs at traditional public schools.  Gateway is unusual in its level of UIL participation.

The first season Ryan coached, he had 11 eligible players.  Eleven. For those of you who don’t know much about baseball, you have to have 9 players on the field, and pitchers have limits on how much they can throw, so 11 players is basically ridiculous. This year, he had enough players to field both JV and Varsity, and got the school’s first ever playoff win for a team sport, reaching Regional Quarter Finals for the first time in school history.  Yes, I’m bragging a bit.  Our school is not allowed to recruit players from other schools/districts, and Ryan doesn’t.  He does not use ineligible players. He does not cheat the system. He simply looks at what he has, and he coaches.

There is no way to communicate to you what a challenging job this is.  For one thing, there’s a TON of stuff that happens with these various players that would violate their privacy if I told you.  Suffice it to say, teenagers have HARD lives.  People have HARD lives.  HARD things.  A high school baseball coach is easily as much a counselor and minister as a coach.

But per usual, Ryan handles coaching – and kids – with a single-minded dedication and a pursuit of excellence far beyond a high school level. He has a respect for the game, and resulting high standards for players and play, that is puzzling to many.  Don’t get me wrong, he is in it to win it, but his primary focus is seeing players learn how the game is played, and play it well – flawlessly, even.  And, despite the fact that half the teenage boys of the world are so awash in change that they can hardly walk in a straight line…they do it!

My greatest observation this year about Ryan Kjos is this.  He owns our name in this town.   I’ve never understood it more than I have this year. Whether through Triple Play (celebrating 10 years this fall!) or Gateway College Prep, Ryan has built a solid reputation for the Kjos name.  He takes his reputation, and ours as a family, very seriously.  He makes me very proud to be his wife.  As I’ve said for years, he’s the only thing that makes me silly…the only thing that makes me blush.

We are going to close out this long, strange, challenging, exhilarating year with another trip to the campsite at Cutfoot.  I can’t wait.  Anyone who made it this far, I appreciate your indulging me in this singularly selfish ode to my people.  They deserve it.  Friends – “keep your stick on the ice.”

When my little people were maybe 3 and 5, like in this adorable #TBT photo (you’re welcome for the gratuitous shot), they fired my own words back at me for the first time.  We were eating at some fast food place, undoubtedly with the type of playscape to which I credit my children’s outstanding immune systems, and I opened a ketchup for each.

(By the way, I know some of y’all are judging me for the 3 year old with fries.  Don’t try to hide behind your screen.)

“What about your ketchup, Mommy?”

For maybe the 100th time, I replied, “I don’t like ketchup.”

A small face screwed up in thought, and then brightened and tossed back, “But you always tell us we need to try something new, even if we’ve tried it before, because we might like it!”

Yep.  I DID always say that, didn’t I?  But ketchup?  The point of that motherhood wisdom is to teach them to like things that have some redeeming value.  Not ketchup.  However, I decided to take one for the Mom Team and answered, “Well, you got me.  I do always say that, so I will try some of yours.”

So began my love affair with ketchup.

That incident taught me that, as a mom, I was right – we should always try something new.  That became a bit of a mantra for me from that day forward, and I’ve made a point to deliberately try something new (or try again) ever since, at least every year.  I was 33 then.  Sometimes it worked – guacamole (thank you, Jillynn Shaver, Becky Fenlaw and Julio’s on Duval!), raw tomatoes (yea, Shelley Beauchamp, a Groupon and whatever that nice restaurant was in Virginia with the excellent caprese salad!), or coconut (that one took a few years of putting on Dolores McNab’s pile-on faithfully every Chapel Choir Tour announcement party, but it worked!).  Sometimes it didn’t – I gave poi two shots and that’s a big NO, as are mushrooms, although I’ll revisit that one later.

I hadn’t decided on my “new thing” for this year. It’s a big one – 40 – so I was kind of hoping for something a bit more extraordinary than a run-of-the-mill veggie.  And boy, did I just figure it out.

I’m trying something new – failure.

Since I was born, I’ve been a perfectionist. I wish I could go to therapy and blame my parents for their ridiculous expectations. Given that the one time I failed something in school, my dad bought me a five pound bag of M&Ms and told me not to sweat it, I think that option is off the table. No, I’m wired how I’m wired.  Internally I believe wholeheartedly in doing things excellently.

I’m also wired to be lazy.  I’d rather sit and read a book and eat some chips than do pretty much anything I’m “supposed” to do.  I’ve spent my life dealing with the internal war these two things create.  Typically, the “good side” – productivity and excellence – wins.

When you spend your life this way, an inevitable side effect is that you do things fairly well, the majority of the time, leading to the expectation by the world around you that you will continue to do so.  However, because I am human and sometimes the “book and chips” side wins – or, because I’m human and sometimes I just mess up! – I fall short of people’s expectations of me from time to time.  As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed that this has led to an increasingly dramatic reaction from people.  It’s like there’s an inverted relationship between performance and grace for high achievers – the higher and better you perform on a consistent basis, the lower the level of grace given when performance falls short.

I should note that I’m not talking spiritually here, lest my Jesus friends panic.  The only place I’ve come to terms with failure and grace is in my relationship with God.  No worries there. I’m talking 100% here and now.

Now, there are many people who are high achievers who don’t give a rip what anyone else thinks, so the level of grace afforded them by others is completely inconsequential.  I’m so amazed and impressed by those people – I am not one of them.  A big part of my perfectionism is wanting to do things well, not just because I feel they SHOULD be done well, but because I want to make life better for people in any given situation.  People who don’t care about what people think accept their own failures with more of a shrug and a “next time” attitude, not stopping to worry about how it affected others because they know they will essentially make up for it and succeed the next time.  Because they refuse to base things on the opinions and thoughts of others, and consequently the grace (or lack thereof) afforded them by others, the “others” in question eventually back off.  These people succeed because they aren’t afraid of, or intimidated, by failure.  For many of them, they don’t even consider failure to be failure!  So they keep moving forward without letting failure, or perceived failure, stop them.

I want that. I want to be that kind of person.  It’s not exactly how I’m wired, but as I mentioned, I’m certainly wired to be lazy and read and eat chips all day, and I’ve conquered that over and over for 40 years.  Why can’t I decide to move past my perfectionism in the eyes of the outside world and embrace the possibility – the inevitability – of failure?

That’s going to be my new thing.  I’m going to achieve or fail, but I’m not going to do either with an eye toward the reactions of others.   Anyone want to join me?

PS I’m still going to continue down my road of trying to find a new food to like this year, so if you have any suggestions for 40, please bring ’em on!

I’ve mentioned that I am mildly – or possible wildly – uncomfortable with the idea of blogging in the first place, primarily because I feel odd about holding forth for x-hundred words with the expectation that anyone will want to read it.  Thus my inconsistency in writing.  Then time passes, people need things, the road to mission trips and vacation beckons…

Truthfully, I’ve sat down at the keyboard multiple times and stared at a blank screen.  Type, reread, delete, repeat.  There’s too much to write about, and too little.  The WORLD is big and overwhelming and full of crazy people, a notion reinforced every time I look at a screen that is connected to it.  The need to educate myself about the many, many BIG issues going on inevitably brings a malaise that steers toward a cup of coffee, a cookie and a good novel.  I don’t want or plan to bury my head in the sand.  It’s just that the very effort of learning even the names of all the different “sides” to everything going on makes me tired.  The sheer mass of information available, and the persuasiveness of all of it, adds another layer to the heavy responsibility of sifting and winnowing truth from fiction.  Right from wrong.  To whom I should throw my support on any given issue, on any given day.  What friends I might lose depending on what I say today, or tomorrow.

What ultimately sets me to rights is the secure knowledge that I wasn’t designed to effect change on a global scale.  A lot of people are, and I’m amazed and full of admiration for their skills and abilities.  No, I’m a 5-table coffeeshop kind of band – no arena tours for this girl.   My job is more of a behind-the-scenes, right-place-at-the-right-time kind of thing.  “Divine appointments” is the “church term” and what I believe them to be.  The funny thing about writing this blog, which started as a result of the many interesting conversations I find myself in, is that those key appointments are where my ministry and influence lie.  And because those small, specific moments are often pretty BIG conversations to the participants (myself included), I find it impossible or disrespectful to share them with outside readers!

So, as the weeks progress and more world events unfold, I am determined to overcome my malaise and really dive into what’s going on and what it all means.  I want to be prepared for those small, divine conversations that might affect what others – and I, myself – think, and do, about it. I truly welcome your input – I’ve been very surprised by the varying (and who-would-have-thought) opinions of many of my friends online regarding current events.  I’m a big believer in benefiting from the knowledge of people I can trust.  And after a post like this, be on the lookout for an upcoming, obnoxious “how cute are my adorable kids???” edition, complete with pseudo-artistic photos…..

I had a lovely, leisurely lunch with old friends today, a pleasure my hectic schedule has denied for such a long time. It was timely.  I needed that shot of friendship, laughter and genuine interest.  For about the past month, I’ve been in self-imposed exile from social media, with the exception of a few scattered Instagram posts.  After receiving a few rather surprising responses to some of my typical (and in my mind, very non-inflammatory) commentary, I realized that, at least for awhile, perhaps the online platform was not the best place on which to communicate.  

Social media is generally the easiest way for me to know what’s going on with friends and family (because let’s face it – who wants to call at 11:30 at night or 5:00 in the morning and fill me in?  That’s been my life for a few months).   Leaving that arena, I knew I would experience a certain amount of silence and possibly a sense of isolation.  I did, both, in spades.   And it was good for me.  

After only a few days, it became glaringly obvious how much of a window the internet is to a giant world of ideas and people and celebration and heartbreak.  I’m the first to say that in many ways, technology has whittled away at our ability to successfully navigate personal relationships (although, honestly, I see that more with texting than any other format).  But I was amazed – amazed! – at how much of the human experience *I* get to experience through social media.   I have reconnected with people that I would literally never have seen again (or seen at all!) were it not for the internet.  My mind and heart have been challenged with ideas and ways of living and thinking that are invaluable, either because I learned something that made me change my life in a positive manner OR because I was reaffirmed in what I already think or believe.   I have been invited to participate in people’s lives.  Maybe not in the way it was done “back in the day” but meaningful to me just the same.

So I think I’ll jump back in.  Maybe I’ll get my feelings hurt, or maybe someone will take everything I say in a way it wasn’t intended to be taken.  But it’s worth it to learn, and grow, and cheer others on as they learn and grow as well.  

Besides, given my reputation for talking, I should probably break my silence before they send out search and rescue.