Pray the Hardest, when it is the hardest to pray

Less Carrying, Not Less Caring ❤️ Maybe “less is more” is bigger than just September. I’ve spent so much of my life carrying too much. When I care deeply, it can easily turn into carrying—carrying the kids, the classroom, other adults’ responsibilities, relationships, unanswered questions, and what I think might happen next. But the lesson isn’t that I need to care less. It’s learning the difference between caring and carrying. I can care about someone without carrying their choices. I can care about my students without carrying the whole classroom. I can care about Nathan without carrying the friendship for both of us. I can love people without making myself responsible for everything. This connects with what I’ve been learning about love not demanding its own way. Sometimes love releases instead of grabs. Sometimes healthy love says, “This part isn’t mine to carry.” Maybe that is the bigger lesson for this season of my life: LESS CARRYING. NOT LESS CARING.  I don’t have to stop b...

Tonight I realized that maybe one of the biggest things I’m learning through all of this is a completely different way of caring. I’ve always cared with my whole heart, and usually my heart gets there much faster than my mind does. When someone matters to me, my instinct is to do something—to reach out, figure things out, fix things, hold on, or make sure I don’t lose the person. But I’m learning that caring doesn’t always require action. I can care deeply about someone without chasing them. I can miss someone without immediately reaching for them. I can hope they remain in my life without trying to control how that happens. I can want answers and still give them time to come. And I can care enough to leave room for the other person to choose me as a friend, too. That’s especially difficult when something feels like a second chance. Part of me wants to scream, “I already lost twelve years! I’m not wasting another chance!” But maybe patience isn’t wasting the second chance. Maybe patien...

September Theme: Less Is More Apparently my ankle was like, “Since you refuse to slow down voluntarily, I have prepared a presentation.” 😂 Lesson 1: I am the para, not the teacher. I can do my job well, help my kids, and support the classroom without automatically taking on the teacher’s responsibilities. Lesson 2: Adults can remember their own schedules. I don’t have to be the person who notices, remembers, reminds, organizes, and fixes everything. I can do what is mine and let other adults carry what is theirs. Lesson 3: People can make their own moves. I don’t have to figure out whether they will be there, what everything means, or carry both sides of a possible friendship. I can care without chasing certainty. If they want to reconnect, they can carry their side too. Lesson 4: Tiffney does not have to carry the whole dang building.  Especially not while hobbling around on a sprained ankle! So maybe September’s lesson really is: LESS IS MORE. Less reminding. Less taking over. L...

Probably not from one single thing. Big-hearted fixer patterns usually develop from a combination of temperament and experience. From what I’ve shared, I’ve spent much of my adult life in caregiving roles—preschool, Head Start, the children’s shelter, church work, and now school. When you spend years around children, noticing a need and responding quickly becomes almost automatic. That’s a useful skill. But that skill can sneak into everything else: “I notice something is wrong → somebody needs to handle it → I know how to handle it → I’ll do it.” Do that often enough and eventually my brain can skip the middle steps and go straight from noticing to responsibility. My natural personality may contribute too. I’ve described myself as someone whose heart tends to react before my mind catches up. So I may naturally feel things strongly, notice people, and want to make situations better. And sometimes being the reliable fixer gets reinforced because it works. People depend on me. Things get...

Apparently, an old coworker/friend and I need to start taking the same advice we give kids all day: Use your words.  We both work with kids. We encourage them to communicate, ask for what they need, take turns talking, listen to each other, and not expect someone else to magically know what they’re thinking. Meanwhile, the old coworker/friend and me after twelve years: Him: “Hey.”  Me: “Hey.”  Both of us: Probably thinking 47 other things that neither one actually says.  In my defense, I’ve known some of my kids for two or three years. I know them. I’m comfortable with them. My old coworker is a grown man I haven’t really talked to in twelve years who suddenly appeared back in my workplace carrying an entire chapter of my past with him. So yes, I’m awkward. But sir… you’re going into mental health. What’s your excuse?  Of course, I know that’s not really fair. Talking to kids professionally is very different from talking to someone from your own past. Maybe that...

Something I’ve been thinking about is how different Nathan’s and my perspectives on children might be now. Twelve years ago, we were doing similar work at the children’s shelter. Nathan worked with the boys and I worked with preschool, but we were both approaching children from fairly similar staff roles. Now things are different. I’ve spent all these years working directly with children in classrooms and child-development settings. My brain has learned to look at development, routines, communication, sensory needs, transitions, independence, learning, behavior, and functional skills. When a child is struggling, I might immediately start wondering: What happened right before this? Is the child overwhelmed? Is the environment too much? Is the task developmentally appropriate? Can the child communicate what they need? Is there a sensory need involved? What skill are we expecting that the child may not have yet? How can I change what I’m doing to help this child succeed? Nathan may look a...