Originally written December 28, 2017; reposting for posterity

Since many of you asked for the story on Lowry aka “Legend” – here you go. Christmas evening, 2017, just after dinner, we let the dogs out to potty in the backyard at Ryan’s childhood home in Minnesota. There is no fence, but over the previous few days, they established a route they would run, and then return to the back door (the colder it got, the quicker they returned). Even when Lowry’s hunting instinct allowed him to catch a rabbit, he proudly brought it to us at the back door. So, when Major came back without Lowry, we assumed he’d caught the other rabbit and would be back momentarily, particularly because it was around -4 with a real feel in the -20s at the time. When he didn’t respond to Ryan’s whistle, we knew he’d probably taken off after something and was too far – he’s a beautiful athlete of a dog who can run and run and RUN, like the wind. We headed out in three cars to look throughout the neighborhood, getting out to explore the many wooded areas, creeks, parks, etc, as long as we could stand it (frostburn and frostbite happen FAST in these temps). Several Park Valley neighbors joined us in searching despite it being Christmas and unbelievably cold, and Barb posted on a South Hopkins nextdoor site and there were many, many people working on that end. A wonderful example of community that meant SO much.

For those who have never been in this kind of cold, it’s just not possible to explain it except to say – when Texas people were posting all about freezing to death, we were dealing with temps fully 50 degrees COLDER. The reality is – if a dog like Lowry (thin, no winter coat, no winter experience!) stops moving, they die.

After a couple of hours, we forced the kids to go back to the house and stay, while Ryan, Brett, and I continued to drive a wider and wider area looking, getting out, walking everywhere as long as we could handle it, through snow drifts and ice, then getting in to warm up before going out again. You never know how or when to decide to stop. But eventually, we knew – we weren’t finding him, there are a million places where he could go, and we couldn’t risk ourselves out in the cold any longer.

The next morning, Ryan and I went back in daylight and looked everywhere, again, in a wide radius, and found nothing. We simply could not imagine that he could survive the cold and keep moving for so many hours. It had been as cold as -25 overnight. The grief we felt was literally overwhelming. We had fairly successfully navigated our first Christmas without Ryan’s dad, and the last time our family would be together in Ryan’s childhood home of 42 years. Now we had to put aside our own grief – again – and parent two teenagers through a massive, unexpected loss – again. We decided that what we loved about Lowry was his free spirit, his athleticism, his commitment to the hunt, and his ability to run. He was a legend. So if he was to go, what better way than doing what he loves? (yes, that was the parenting spin – alone in a room, we could hardly breathe imagining what he went through out in the elements). Both kids accepted that, but wished we at least found him and had his tags. None of us wanted to go back to Texas without them.

For that day and half of the next (same weather – no warming trend whatsoever), we tried to keep busy. I was headed out to take the kids to a movie to burn some time (which crawls in times like these) when I received a voicemail from a gentleman saying he had Lowry, wasn’t sure if it was a he or she, and wanted to talk to how we could get him back to us. I immediately called back and discovered his address was more than 2.5 miles away, as the crow flies. We would NEVER have found him. We knew he must have found him curled up, frozen, since he didn’t know male or female and of course wouldn’t want to check beyond looking at the tag. We told the kids they couldn’t come (we weren’t sure what shape he was in) and headed that way. We were torn between fresh grief, peace at having closure, and admiration for his ability to make it that far – legend! (because who knows how many miles he actually covered, back and forth, to make it that far!). On the way, we made cremation arrangements and it just hit us all over again. We pulled up, got ourselves together, and knocked on the door. After some barking by a little dog inside (which made me irrationally angry), Chuck and his wife Bert opened the door and invited us in. I couldn’t talk so Ryan was “doing the deal” when I looked over toward the barking little dog…and saw Lowry’s face, eyes looking at me, from the other side of a baby gate. I grabbed Ryan’s arm and said, “he’s ALIVE!” – to which Ryan did not react – so I said it again, and Ryan just bent over. Poor Chuck – he was bewildered – I told him, “We thought he was dead!” and Chuck said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I never thought to say he was alive!” In retrospect, we’re sure Chuck didn’t realize how very long Lowry had been gone – almost 48 hours when he was found. Again – legend! What dog survives that? Lowry!

Lowry looked even thinner than usual, and was basically in shock. He was shedding hair like crazy while we held him. He flinched if touched when he couldn’t see it first. We were able to go grab the kids and Major before we headed to an animal hospital. All of the workers at Glen Lake Animal Hospital couldn’t believe the story, and just loved on him. The doctor examined him, and he had some nail and paw injury, as well as loads of burrs embedded in his fur. He lost almost 8 lbs in two days (more than 20% of his body weight) and the vet discovered he’d gotten into garbage and eaten paper and some other stuff, which indicates that he really did survive outdoors in the elements all that time.

For the first night, he had some trouble settling down – he always sleeps with eyes squeezed shut, but he fought sleep like a baby does for most of the evening. When he woke this morning, he walked like an old dog with hip problems, taking the stairs one at a time instead of bounding up in 3 leaps as he was doing before. But throughout today, he has eaten, taken the meds the doctor gave us, and we’ve already seen his usual Lowry personality and physicality returning, down to the tail wagging.

As I mentioned, I always liked dogs but until Major and Lowry, I wasn’t really a dog person per se. When you are an adult, especially with tweens and teens, your dogs really become the unconditional love you treasure on days when it feels there isn’t enough love going around. You take care of them day in and day out; they aren’t like children but neither are they like animals. I did not understand how deeply they burrowed into my life until those two days and nights when I thought Lowry was gone forever, and we were facing a new normal – again.

I’m so grateful for the many friends and family who checked in, prayed, and most of all, didn’t belittle or marginalize our feelings. The Hopkins community was so lovely in efforts to find him, alive or not. The Glen Lake Animal Hospital and Dr. Bettendorf were just the best. And we have huge gratitude to Chuck and Bert for helping get Lowry inside – he was skittish by the time they found him, and fortunately they used body language and words that we often use when we put him to bed, so he obeyed and came in their house.

And a last word – if Ryan loves you, and something happens to you, he WILL NOT STOP trying to find you/help you/fix you until I make him stop. He will do anything for the people – and animals – he loves. If nothing else, I’ve learned all over again how lucky Texan, London, and I are to have him.

Last spring I went to an event put on by a local fly fishing shop, Living Waters. It was called Ladyfish, and it was entirely dedicated to engaging women with the sport of fly fishing. A blend of information, hands-on practice, and storytelling, it was inspirational to say the least. I walked away with pages of notes, with one quote underlined and circled and starred. “Women can, and should, be fly fishing.”

For me, until I met my husband, fly fishing was something people did in high end films. It required an amazing stream, beautifully vintage gear, and perhaps Brad Pitt or someone similar – all captured by expert photography. But not long after I met my husband, I met his father. In the 24 years since that meeting, my view of fly fishing changed dramatically.

My father-in-law, Mike, was the definitive Minnesota outdoorsman (to me, anyway). He did it all. Hunting (deer and birds), camping (most meaningfully to me at Site 13, Mosomo Point, Cut Foot Sioux), and fishing (lake and stream), in equal measure. But it is fly fishing that best characterizes Mike in my mind.

I was fortunate to have a really lovely relationship with my father-in-law. With a husband who coaches and two kids who play sports and performed in the arts, I spend a lot of time in the stands, and more often than not, Mike was right there with me. Over the years, we had ample opportunity to engage in the sort of meandering conversation that forms the basis of comfortable friendship. One of my favorite conversations I’ve had with anyone, ever, took place on the way to the Soudan Mine and Ely, Minnesota, while Ryan and his brother stayed at the campsite to fish and my earbud-wearing kids zoned out to movies in the backseat. We covered a lot of ground over the years, including fly fishing…the streams, the trout, the gear, the rhythm, the connection. It sounded beautiful but unattainable for me. Like something that had to be a part of your DNA…and it wasn’t a part of mine.

It was only a couple of years later that Mike died, without warning, just a handful of years after his own parents. Lulled by the false expectation of many years to come, we were suddenly faced with so many questions, unanswerable in his absence. If you could only fish one stream, what would it be? How do you decide what fly to use and when to change? What is your dream catch? We knew just about all there was to pass on about camping, hunting, and fishing the lake. But fly fishing was more of an art, and a mystery. My husband had been with him many times, but was generally content to go along with the ride of Mike’s personal experience and knowledge. Suddenly, he was on his own. I certainly had nothing to contribute! It was a lonely feeling for us both.

When I saw an ad for the Ladyfish event in Round Rock less than a year later, I was intrigued enough to check the calendar. Even in the midst of baseball, basketball, and track seasons, that Saturday was wide open for me. Just to be sure, I ran it by my husband. His look of shock at my question – “Is it good by you if I go to this all-day fly fishing event for women?” – was quickly followed by an enthusiastic yes.

The event itself was pretty overwhelming, in a good way. Loads of great information, multigenerational speakers, hands on practice, and more. However, my greatest takeaway was that simple phrase – “Women can, and should, be fly fishing.”

As often is the case, life interferes between motivation and action, and mine was no different. But I knew – I knew – that I had to start fly fishing. I realized that the look that settled on my father-in-law’s face when he talked about fly fishing, and the timbre of his voice as he recounted some of his favorite adventures, were not unattainable to me at all. That connection to nature, to the water, to the process – it was accessible to me, too.

So, this fall, I finally settled on a rod to start with (for those who care, I decided to go with the Tenkara Sato, as I thought this streamlined method would help me get started without the added complication of line management). After long conversation and demonstration with the absolutely lovely people at Living Waters, I was ready to go.

With a goal of working on the cast and just getting familiar with the feel, Ryan and I grabbed my waders and took off for a local stream. It was late in the season and not the best location for a catch, but perfect for practicing the cast without catching a tree instead. And for a couple of hours, with the autumn sun spilling shadows that slowly crept across the stream, that’s exactly what I did. I’m generally an impatient learner; I want to master things quickly. But the magic I attributed to fly fishing as an outside observer proved real and true for me on the water. After the first five minutes of total discomfort, the outside world receded and I found myself in thoughtful solitude and peace. I didn’t catch a thing, and I could have stood there for hours longer exactly as I was. I was relaxed, and felt no pressure at all. Just a sense of belonging, and appreciation for God’s creation.

The early journey home of the sun in fall finally caught up with me, and I packed my things away and walked along the shore for a bit, watching my husband take a few more casts with a spinner until dusk won the day. We stopped short when we saw a really enormous fish in the water; we couldn’t believe its size. It would have been an amazing catch, and I was glad when it disappeared into the dark. Because I will be back, and I hope it will be waiting.

I found myself strangely free of responsibilities for a brief time last weekend. In a burst of spontaneity, I broke my self-imposed “read-the-book-first” rule and took myself to see The Hate U Give. A classmate from high school had challenged friends on social media to see it, process, think, listen. I have a lot of respect for her, so I did.

Well, I’m stuck on process.

Every time I start to try and even talk myself through my response, I just stop. I tried to write about it, which led to the title of this post. So I decided to just tell you a story. It requires me to share a bit more about myself than I normally do. It’s hard for me to hit publish on a post like this, because the sad truth about writing is that you do not control the reader nor the reception. But I’m going out on a ledge.

Some time ago, Austin had just enacted the ban on handheld devices in the city. I knew this was the case; I did not know that included using your phone for GPS unless it was physically mounted somewhere (i.e, propped on your dash counted as handheld, whether you had a hand on it or not). While on my way to photograph a building for a client, I was pulled over on Mopac Expressway by a police officer on a motorcycle.

For those of you who are not from Austin, Mopac is a much-travelled highway west of downtown, by which the wealthier parts of town are accessed. People drive extremely fast, there is virtually no shoulder in many places, and there is significant space between exits. So, when the officer signaled for me to pull over immediately with no exit in sight, I did my best to get as far over on the (non-existent) shoulder as possible. It is important to note that I had NO idea why I was being pulled over. I wasn’t speeding. I wasn’t texting. I wasn’t calling anyone. I couldn’t imagine it was something like a taillight, or surely the officer would follow me to an exit for safety.

The officer came to the passenger side and indicated for me to roll down the window, which I did. The conversation went something like this:

Officer: “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

Me: “No, sir, I do not.”

Officer: “Austin is a handsfree city and you were using your handheld device.”

Me: “No, sir, I was not holding my phone. It is running navigation for me.”

Officer: “We will discuss this in a moment. For now, please hand me your license and proof of insurance.”

PAUSE. At this point, I have to share something I have kept fairly private, until now. When I first began photographing real estate properties, I sometimes found myself alone in remote and vacant homes. I had some safety measures in place, including calling my partner when I arrived and when I left, or sometimes taking her or my husband along. I had the frightening experience of walking in on a squatter once. Even more often, I would arrive at a property to find myself alone with a male homeowner, and a few times my inner radar sounded the alarm. In response, I would call my husband on my cell phone…or pretend to if he didn’t answer. Now, inside I consider myself quite intimidating and fierce, but the reality is, I’m a pretty small woman. I’ve taken self-defense in the past but I am smart enough to know there are limits to my abilities. So, after a few such instances in a relatively short span of time, I decided to get my concealed handgun license. I took the course, legally purchased a gun, and began to carry it with me on these shoots. Because I am a responsible, licensed gun owner, I know that when pulled over, you are supposed to hand over your CHL with your license and inform the officer if you have a gun in the car, and where it is. So…

Me: [handing my license, CHL, and insurance card] “Here is my license and my concealed carry permit. I do have a gun in the car. It is in my camera bag in the back seat.”

Officer: [stiffens a bit, and takes a more authoritative tone] “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to exit the vehicle. Do not make any extra movement; just step out of the car now.”

Me: [looking out my window at cars whizzing by at 80mph about two feet from my door] “Sir, I can’t step out of the car! That’s oncoming traffic…I’ll be killed! I can tell you exactly where the gun is, and you can remove it while I keep my hands on the wheel.”

Officer: [a bit sterner] “Ma’am, that will not work. You have to get out of the car while your weapon is there. You may not make any move except to step out of the car.”

Me: [still not okay with dying on Mopac, so I straighten my back and respond, respectful but firm] “Sir, we are not pulled over in a safe place for me to exit this car from the driver’s side. YOU won’t even come around to the driver’s side. I can direct you to my weapon, or you can watch me climb over the passenger seat to get out, but I am NOT stepping into the right lane of Mopac!”

Officer: [really stern] “Ma’am…” [stare]

Me: [staring back] “Sir…”

Officer: [continues to stare at me; I stare back with excellent posture] “Fine. You say the gun is in the backseat? You can climb out on this side. Do not reach toward the back seat while doing so.”

So out I clambered, in a skirt and heels. He gave me a ticket and a lecture, and I stood as tall as possible and took it, knowing the entire time that I would be showing up to that court date (which I did, and won). When all was said and done, I drove off, furious. He was willing for me to endanger my life (Austin people can back me up – this is not hyperbole) over phone navigation, despite the fact that I clearly respect the law and genuinely sought not to be perceived as a threat (as evidenced by my handing over my CHL and identifying my gun and its location without waiting to be instructed).

As I later relayed the story to my husband, I was angry. I could easily have lied about there being a gun in the car, and I guarantee the officer would have believed me. I was polite, and respectful, and disagreed without being aggressive or combative, and yet he was going to insist that I step out onto Mopac. How would he feel if it were his wife being asked to do the same, I fumed. I am generally a huge fan of police officers, but I was NOT a fan of this one.

Shortly after this event occurred, a friend posted on Facebook about a talk she had with her teenage sons. I did not know then to call it “the talk” because that was vernacular that never entered my parenting world, unless you were referring to the birds and the bees. No, I mean “the talk” about her black sons driving, and what to do if they were pulled over for any reason (or, for no reason they were aware of, as I was on Mopac that day). Where to put their hands. If they were wearing a hoodie (like the ones their baseball and football teams wore for warmups), make sure the hood was down. The voice to use. The words to use. The best way to show respect, to obey, to comply. Basically – everything they should do to avoid violence, or worse. Even if they knew they had done nothing wrong.

I remember telling my husband about it, in the light of my own recent interaction at a traffic stop. The truth is, I knew I was on the side of right in my situation. There was no reason for that officer to be concerned about violence from me, because I followed the letter of the law and simply didn’t want to endanger myself due to the choice he made about where we would stop. So I felt confident and justified in standing up for my own safety at that traffic stop. But reading my friend’s words, I realized that, were I to trade places with her son and all other circumstances were equal, no one in the world would advise me to take that same confident and justified stance. No one.

And I just don’t know what to do with that. Still.

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.”