Blog Postings

Traditionally, harvest season is a time for thanks and a time of celebration. As kids, it meant our hours of summer labor were finally paid off as we sat atop a trailer of pumpkins and other vegetables. The concept is more striking as I consider how learning to work in our family garden business taught me both how to work hard and how to navigate struggles outside of our control (a September snowstorm for example). Our family business also taught me to be thankful for the simple things: rich soil, time together and the friendships formed with family. Whatever laid in store for us, we faced it together and worked through it. Now, all these years later, we still face the storms together even if we are miles apart.

The October pumpkin patches bring back both happy and hard memories. One photo I hold close is from the fall of 2011. I am holding six-month old Josh in his pumpkin costume. His blue eyes are vibrant and even now I can feel his delicate body pressed into mine. We had just returned from Denver Children’s and were trying to adjust to the news of his terminal diagnosis. I remember being angry at the doctors because they had to be wrong. It was a beautiful fall afternoon, but like the leaves around us, we couldn’t ignore our season was changing.

This weekend we stopped at a pumpkin patch on our way home from Papa and Grandma’s house. My childhood memories of days at the farm flooded back as I tried to explain to Emma how much picking the perfect pumpkin means to me. As we loaded in the truck for home, Emma sat proudly displaying the pumpkin she had selected. Her smile reminded me of how simple life is. The moments of joy are all that matter and sometimes we are too busy looking for something else to notice them. I am working to be more aware and grateful for these moments.

In a webinar on overcoming teacher burnout, host @johndelony noted that optimism is a learned trait. We have to train ourselves to look for the positives in each element of life. It is so easy to be sidetracked by the “what ifs,” “should haves,” and “if onlys.” As I consider the past ten years since Josh’s diagnosis, I have cycled through all the stages of grief, but have never felt fully healed. On social media, a friend posted this image from the Ralph Site Blog (2021) which captures the stage I am currently experiencing.

I am unsure why I feel this pressure to “be over” Josh’s death. Some days my guilt for still grieving for my son makes me question my faith, my ability to cope, and often makes those around me uncomfortable. I am trying to practice optimism, yet, the “everything happens for a reason” still cuts a bit too deep. I am still searching for grace in my grieving.

To help keep me focused on the positives, I have started a gratitude journal. My sister, Emily, is my accountability partner. Each day we share three things from our day for which we are grateful. I covered my journal with photos that bring me joy: Emma’s handprint, her first trip to the ocean as we traced Josh’s name in the sand, a camping trip, and Marge Pierce’s poem “To be of Use.”

Being grateful shouldn’t be a challenging practice, yet, for some reason it is. Each day I look for others who help to fill my cup instead of draw from it. I am not saying there are not hard moments, but in each moment, I search for subtle reminders to keep moving forward. Even now, a decade after Josh’s diagnosis, the fall leaves remind me of another season.

The fall of 2012 I had the privilege of being home with Josh. It is a luxury many families do not have with those we are losing. Together we witnessed leaves changing colors and daylight fading. On warmer evenings, we sat in the sunshine on our front porch and soaked in the sunset. The planter on our front step, a gift from my coworkers, stating simply “happy harvest.”

I am grateful for the moments and the memories. I find myself both joyful for current moments and am stricken with sadness for moments left unmade. Yet, perhaps I am more aware as I know how quickly these joyful moments can pass. A coworker recently shared she lost a daughter six years ago. She said it has made her cherish the moments and the relationships she is able to have. She is a fiercely strong woman, both as she grieves and as she heals. Our relationships are our legacy. As the quote on my tea bag reminds me “Gratitude is not about what is received; it is about how you receive what is there.” I am working on being there – being here- present in my moments both of struggle and of strength.

A few weeks ago, I completed the Montana Half Marathon. This time, in contrast to most of my other races, I trained primarily alone. Courtney encouraged me to run it for me – with no other expectations than those I set for myself. Yet, as I did so, I found myself insecure and reaching out for support in other ways. This mirrors my need for support in my grief; my need to know I am not alone in my sadness, and that there are others who understand the oxymoron of grief in joy.

As I trained, I found a colleague who is also a runner and although we never ran together, we checked in and encouraged each other daily to keep at it. We talked about the challenges of running alone through the morning darkness and how easy it is to bail when the only person you feel you are letting down is yourself. Like in grief, when it is only ourselves we let down, it is easy to fail; however, when it is others we disappoint, we feel the heaviest burden. On race weekend, I was unable to make it to packet pickup. One of my dearest friends offered to pick up my race bag and deliver it to my house. I credit the support of these friends, in addition to my amazing cheering team & my friend Sarah’s company on race day for another successful race. As much as I want to pretend I can do it all alone – I need my support team.

An obvious understatement: life is a lot of work and is filled with the unknown. Like harvest season, the best I can do is keep working hard to hold onto hope. Hope in each pumpkin I am able to harvest, each race I am able to run, and each season of change I am able to weather.

The busy month of August is upon me. It is a season of excitement and stress as I prepare for another academic year while also working to stretch time to fit in as much summer as possible.

John Delony @johndelony shared on Instagram, “One of the best ways to get stress out of your body is to be active.” When Josh was born, Courtney had recently started running half marathons. Two years later, Courtney and his sister Tiffany completed thirteen half marathons (technically twelve half marathons and one full) in Josh’s memory. That same year, my friend Amy, who weathered many of our storms with us, convinced me I too could run a half marathon. She and my friend Sarah B. helped push me to complete my first half marathon in Seeley Lake after driving through a February whiteout to get there. I remember being so proud of myself for doing something I didn’t ever think I could do.

This summer Amy again encouraged me to check something off my bucket list. Together with Courtney and three other running friends (Melissa, Sarah, & Erin), Amy and I hiked 29 miles in a little over 12 hours to successfully complete the Beaten Path. It was not only challenging, exhausting, and a bit crazy, but also breathtaking and rewarding.

Runners refer to something called “the wall.” I was the first to hit it after soaking both of my shoes & hurting my pride on a creek crossing. I cried all the way up the next hill, knowing we still had hours left to hike. Melissa, who politely offered to be our caboose, told me, “You are ok. We all do it at one point or another. Someone else will do it too.” Her empathetic words carried weight both for our hike and for my search for grace. When I stepped in the creek for the second time, everyone simply shook their heads and Melissa said “Well, I didn’t think it would be you twice.”

It is important to acknowledge that part of my strength comes from the people who have chosen to walk the path with me. Over the course of our time on the trail, this group of strong, caring women helped to encourage and push me to keep going. Courtney was my guide. As he always does, he found the balance to both tell me to push the pace when my legs were under me as well as to slow down when my ankles couldn’t navigate the shale field.

As I reflect on our hike, I again am filled with pride for having accomplished something I never would have thought possible.

Delony finishes his post with “Do anything you can to be active. Exercise will clear your mind and heal your body unlike anything else.” For the past nine years, running is where I process grief and both the mess and beauty that is life.

In a little over a weeks time, I have ran at both 10,000 feet and at sea level as this week my sister and I gathered with three of my female cousins from my mom’s side in Orange Beach, Alabama.

As I worked to convince my ankles and bare feet to keep moving in spite of wet sand and waves, I considered how much running and family relationships parallel each other. We have grown up together even though we have been geographically thousands of miles apart. My cousins and I share a fierce friendship and an uncanny connection as a result of the way our mother’s raised us as well as the paths we have traveled.

When I think about the walls of grief each of us endures, it is like the beaten path. As we are on it, we forget there are others who have survived it before us. We are so focused on our own loss, it is easy to forget that others also know hurt. Yet, with the love and support of others, we can continue up the mountain or down the beach even if it is with tears in our eyes.

The past two months have been jam-packed. May brought Mother’s Day, the RKM Run for Heaven’s Sake & Joshua Tyree Half Marathon, and perhaps my final day as a classroom teacher. June brought our fourteenth anniversary, Father’s Day, and a visit from Aunt Em!

My friend Stace recently shared with me that this has been a year of transition. Her words are so true. In many elements of life, I have floated from one extreme to the other, back to the first, and then tried to tread water somewhere between the two shores. Perhaps transition is the best word for the ebb and flow of life and the waves of bliss and those of sadness each holding us in their wakes. Ironically, I battle motion sickness anytime I do anything with water but swim, but I am too stubborn to admit it and instead attempt to work through it so I don’t miss the good times. Perhaps, like grief, I need to give up on some elements of control and dive into the water where I feel the most comfortable.

During her last visit, Emily commented “we all have something.” Her words echo the popular paraphrased quote from Plato about how we need to be kind to one another for each of us is fighting a battle others know nothing about. Being kind goes a long way these days. I need to work on this. There are days I am unkind. Sometimes the people we lean on for strength are the same ones we need to be holding up. My sister comforted me by sharing that just because others are suffering, it doesn’t make our pain less important. Each of us carries a weight.

My family life has always been private. It is part of what has made publishing this public blog such a risk. I remember from an early age politely responding “doing well” anytime I was asked how “enter personal situation here” was doing. I never viewed it as secretive, but more so as self preservation.

When my mother-in-law was diagnosed with breast cancer, I asked if she was comfortable with me sharing her diagnosis. She shared that the more people who know the more people who can pray for her. This week she finished her final round of radiation. Each time I visit with her I am awed by her unfaltering faith, courage, and grace. Her wisdom has passed onto Courtney and I am glad she kicked cancer’s ass so she can keep guiding us. She is a port in the storm for many of us.

When those we love are ill, it reminds us how much they mean to us. We desperately hold onto the moments and work to pack in the memories just in case they becomes our last. It calls into question the who and what we surround our lives with. It makes us question things like the jobs we work and the effort and energy we put it to certain tasks. Yet, we still take so much for granted. We miss so many moments.

I am fortunate to be able to see my parents on a weekly basis. Our time together is both joyous and emotionally draining. It is hard to watch my mother slowly change as she is held hostage to her mind and body. Each visit, I leave thankful for the time we have as I know others do not have this privilege.

When my mom was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in the fall of 2005, she shared with me that she didn’t want people to know she had been diagnosed. Instead, she wanted at whatever point it was obvious that she had Parkinson’s to be able to simply answer “I have had it for years.” This fall will be the sixteenth year she has been battling the disease that has slowly taken pieces of joy from her. She still has her witty humor and on occasion, her full-of-joy smile, but we are no longer able to honestly say we are “doing well. Their love keeps us afloat, but many days she is out to sea and my father does his best to navigate the troubled waters.

Moments with my parents and my in-laws make me realize most of what feels like a big deal, is in fact trivial in the long run. Our time with family, the moments we share together, and the examples we leave for our children is what will remain.

I have been mentally wresting about my professional identity for the past year. Who am I, if not an English teacher? So much of my identity the last fifteen years has been centered on the work I do instead of the person I have become. On my final day of classroom teaching, I received a message from my friend Karissa.

Such a simple gesture, but her words of encouragement have stayed with me these past few weeks as I transition from a teacher to an educator. This connects to how I feel about my search for grace. I am constantly searching for the footing between what I want to do, what I should do, and what I end up doing.

This month marks my third year of contributing my voice to Josh’s story. To my story. As I drafted this blog post, I read back through my previous post on this occasion and although I feel I have grown, I feel the same pull towards needing to find balance between what was, what could be, and what is.

I hope some day to return to the classroom. As I consider the person I was when I started teaching compared to the person I am now, again I feel a surge of remorse for what I could have and should have accomplished as a teacher.

I am still in contact with one of the first students I ever taught, Katelin. It is disheartening to realize the influence I had on her versus the impact I feel I have had on students this past year

Her words have stayed in my mind as I consider my search for grace. It is fitting that the three words she uses to describe me are the same three I use to describe her. I wrote the words out and have taped them to my mirror. Perhaps a daily reminder of the me fifteen years ago will help me become more of the me I hope to become.

For the prompt on the final semester exam I asked students to reflect on “a positive moment or experience that shaped their definition of learning.” One student came up to double check that it was acceptable to reflect on a negative experience. I attempted to redirect her to the part of the prompt that asked her to find a positive, even if it was initially out of a negative. She left my desk (and perhaps my class) generally annoyed at me and my expectations; however, in the next hour she transformed her writing into one of the strongest piece of reflective writing I have read from a student. Her concern and purpose for writing (other than for a grade) was to show how a moment that could have been bitter, as a result of her reflection and commitment to growth, has instead become a positive.

This is my ultimate hope in pushing myself to continue to write this blog – that my role as a mother is not a negative or slanted, but because of the challenges – I have learned joy unlike any other. This is not to say Josh’s life or memory is a negative, but each day he spent with us has forever shaped me to appreciate the positives even in times of hardships.

Here is to another year of striving for strength, stability, and grace regardless of what waterway or hallway we find ourselves traveling down.

Today is the 6th of April, but many people in Montana celebrate it as 406 day.

406 is the Montana area code making Montana one of about a dozen states to have a single state-wide code. While this seems like an odd day to celebrate, for me, it is a day to focus on the positives and unique elements that make this 4th largest state my home. It is important to note, many people call Montana home even though through choice or circumstance they now physically reside in other places.

When I was in high school, I couldn’t wait to graduate and move away. I wanted to discover new places and people. I thought if I lived somewhere else, my story would be more exciting. Now, twenty years since my high school graduation, I have never once lived outside of Montana’s borders. I have traveled and experienced other states and countries, but at the end of the trip, I am always happy to return home. I married a man who is the epitome of a Montana boy. Through his influence, my appreciation of Montana has only continued to grow and mature.

John Steinbeck in Travels with Charlie penned “I’m in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana, it is love. And it is difficult to analyze love when you’re in it.” And while elements of Steinbeck’s facts have been disputed, this statement remains a truth for me.

Montana is known for its big sky, mountain waters, breathtaking sunsets, and open plains. Another aspect of Montana is our ability to make our big state into a small town. It is this small-town support which provides our ability to rally together, even if we are hundreds of miles apart. My love for Montana is not only for its beauty, but also the people who call it home.

One foundation that fully embraces this state-level community of support is the Ramsey Keller Memorial. Those of us who have had to say goodbye to our children too soon understand both the heart ache and the financial stressors of this kind of loss. The memorial is committed to supporting baby loss families in the state by paying funeral costs for our children under the age of one. Last year, the Ramsey Keller memorial was able to donate $99,000 to Montana families. As I have referenced in earlier posts (Courageous Vulnerability, Moving Forward, and #whywerun), the RKM Run for Heaven’s Sake is one of the ways we honor Josh’s life.

In a way, a terminal diagnosis when he was only six months old allowed us to prepare for Josh’s death. I remember reading most children with Josh’s diagnosis pass away before the age of two. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. But, it was our reality.

To help with the medical costs a family member set up an account for donations. For the next year, this account funded through the love and support of our community helped ease the financial stressors. This account slowly transformed from a medical expense account to an end of life expense account. When we met with the funeral director and he began to break down the expenses, it gave us comfort to be able to not worry about the cost of honoring our son with a headstone and service. We purchased three plots on the cemetery hill and selected the middle plot so Josh could rest between us when our time comes. While I am at peace knowing only his body rests here, my heart is buried in this Montana soil.

In a little over a month, our community will rally together to raise funds for RKM at the 10th annual Run for Heaven’s Sake. Last year, the race was virtual and we had support from all 50 states and all 56 counties. This year, along with the virtual run there is a 5K, 10K and the Joshua Tyree Half Marathon.

Each year, I witness how heartache and loss have brought our families, communities, and state together. It is a love like no other, but as Steinbeck writes “it is difficult to analyze when you are in it.”

——-

To read more about the Ramsey Keller Memorial, to register for the run, or if you know a Montana family in need of support please visit the RKM website.

This past weekend, we celebrated Emma’s fourth birthday. There were cupcakes, balloons, and a water slide! As I listened to a room full of people who love her sing Happy Birthday, I was filled with joy for the life and love we share.

Emma is a sassy, fiercely independent girl. Even when she is driving me crazy, my heart is full for the miracle that she is. She reminds me each day to celebrate the small things and to cherish each moment with those we love. The moments she still lets me snuggle with her are the best!

Today we celebrated Josh’s tenth birthday. And while it looked much different than Emma’s birthday, it was no less joyful or full of love. Courtney and I spent the day fishing the Stillwater.

It was a day to simply be together remembering the day Joshua joined us:

Driving like crazy to get to the clinic

Having to wait for a parking space

Visiting with the woman ahead of us in line who clearly was not having the time of her life

Calling our family to say he was officially on the way

Courtney calling back an hour and a half later to say he was here

The trips back and forth to the NCIU from first the maternity wing and then our home

Road construction bumps exaggerated by crash c-section scars

The days we spent desperately wanting to take him home, but the doctors knowing something wasn’t quite right.

An April Fools joke that wasn’t a joke, and another day of together, but not.

Although the first few weeks were not a standard delivery story, they were some of the most joyous days of my life because I was able to hold him in my arms. I remember thinking I just wanted to take him home so the scary part of his story could be over and we could just be together.

Ten years ago, I did not know life or loss the way I know it today. Yet, it is because of this knowledge that today we held each other a little tighter.

One of my favorite poems is “On Turning Ten” by Billy Collins. Every time I read the final stanza it causes me to pause and consider a paraphrased version of Rumsfeld’s quote:

we do not know

what we do not know

until we know it

This week I visited with a colleague who I have not see for a year. She is one of the most vibrant, strong, and authentic teachers I have worked with. She shared with me that her mother had recently passed and that this year has been especially tragic. I resisted my sympathetic urge to say I understood assuming if I explained I knew loss it would make her grief less. Instead, I tried to convey how sorry I was for her loss and that even when we know someone is no longer in pain, we must still give ourselves grace to suffer from the absence of those we love.

We discussed how as teachers we need to share both our uplifting and vulnerable moments with our students. This year, especially, we need to model what it is to be human. As Collins writes the moments “I fall upon the sidewalks of life / I skin my knees. I bleed.” As I connect this to my life outside of the classroom, I realize it is not only my students who need to be reminded of this, but myself as well.

Emily, on her last trip home, shared her mantra of “not perfect, but better”. I find myself too often caught in the anxiety of attempting to fix things, when instead, I need to accept most things are outside of my ability and find peace knowing I have helped make them better. I also am learning that better can simply be the best I can be in the moment. I know there are moments where I could be a better mom, wife, daughter, sister and teacher; yet, I also have to accept the best version of me is all I can offer.

My sister, like my mom, always finds the good in a situation. She always looks for the best in people. She makes so many of our lives better.

Life, love, and loss are all moments of vulnerability. By having one, we also experience the others. Sometimes, even when those we love are still with us, we lose pieces of them. It is this slow crumbling which still aches deeply when I think of my days with Josh. We held onto each sunrise we were given, knowing fully, we were losing him a little each day. Even on the days we fell upon “the sidewalks of life”, joy and love gave us comfort.

Collins writes,

“It seems only yesterday I used to believe

there was nothing under my skin but light

if you cut me

I would shine”

Today I am reminded that some cuts can both shine and bleed.

Eight years ago today, our handsome boy Josh passed away in our arms. The weather this morning is chilly, but not as bitterly cold as it was in 2012. Even still, the stillness of the snow, brisk wind, and grayness of the sky hold me in the moments of that day.

This morning, I retreated from reality and soaked in the hot tub with a cup of coffee and my phone open to my blog app. As I read through the posts, especially the one about this day: Support for the Journey, and those from the past few years: Angels We Have Heard and Doing What I Love, I realize they are gifts I have given to myself to capture memories in the same way certain songs convey a past feeling or experience.

I grew up in a musical household. I remember waking up to my dad playing the organ and mom singing to practice for church. I remember falling asleep listening to polkas and waltzes when my parents would meet for band practice. Songs have always held meaning and music has often conveyed emotions for me when words alone have failed me.

Emma loves music. She sings, plays (an open interpretation of the verb) the piano, and has her favorite jams for our morning drive to school. As we have searched for the best kids’ radio station, I have guarded certain songs as Josh’s and have skipped them. Now, in her almost-four-year-old-wisdom, Emma is quick to notice my skipping and calls me on it. She is in the stage of “Why?” for which I have to search for grace as I attempt to answer her questions both honestly and age appropriately.

Last weekend we drove past a cemetery on our way across town. As she looked out her window, Emma asked,

“What are those rocks doing in that yard?”

“Those are headstones.”

“What are headstones?”

“They mark the place where bodies rest when people die.”

“Why do people die?”

“Because sometimes people get sick. Like, remember how we go to the cemetery in Laurel and baby Josh has a stone?”

“Yeah.”

“That stone is where his body is since he is in heaven.”

“But, why did he get sick?”

“Because sometimes people do.”

“But, why?”

“Oh, look at the lights and decorations on that house. Those are pretty….” The Christmas lights a welcome distraction to redirect from the question I am still hesitant to answer.

In October and November, we celebrated my dad’s, mom’s and Courtney’s birthdays. Like most celebrations this year, they looked and felt different. Still, we found ways to celebrate even if together didn’t mean together in the same way. For Mom’s 70th, Emily organized a Zoom party. From cities all across the US, over 30 voices joined together to sing happy birthday to her.

It meant so much to my family that we could take the time to celebrate my mom. For many of us, she has been a constant source of hope and happiness through the years.

There are many moments from both my childhood and my adult life in which I distinctly remember an urgency to be home: the sleepover at my new fourth grade classmates house, my first semester of college, the MRI center in Missoula, the Children’s Hospital in Denver, an airport in Atlanta, and ironically the stay at home mandate of 2020. Whether it was a lack of my maturity, homesickness, or the need to be reassured that I was safe, I remember the sinking feeling of wanting to be home and needing the embrace of my loved ones to remind me there is light even in the darkest of hours.

One night, Emma woke up crying and wanted desperately to be held. We snuggled together in the rocking chair. It is the same chair my aunt and uncle rocked their daughter in over 20 years ago. It is the same chair we rocked in with Josh. That night, as Emma and I rocked in the darkness, I sang to her This Little Light of Mine. It has been one of the songs I have been guarding and in the moment, it was what we both needed to be comforted.

The other day Emma’s childcare asked me if Emma had a brother. I shared that she has two. They said she talks about Collin all the time and how much she loves him and how every time they are together they go swimming. When I shared that her other brother, Josh, is deceased her teacher said, “that makes so much more sense. The other day we were reading a book and there was an angel on the page. Emma pointed at it and said my brother is an angel.”

All I could muster for a response was, “Yes, he is.”

Today, Courtney and I will spend the day together. There isn’t a plan or a checklist of what we have to do. Tonight, we will drive with Emma through town to look at Christmas lights and share in the joy of this time of year.

As I reflect on the year, I am thankful for each of the memories we make together even when together looks different. I keep thinking this day will stop hurting so much, but in the words from Ed Sheeran’s song Supermarket Flowers “Oh I’m in pieces, it’s tearing me up, but I know /
A heart that’s broke is a heart that’s been loved.”

These past few months have been a strange version of summer. I feel like most of our plans have transitioned from plan A to plan COVID. Regardless, we have done our best to make the most of our time together: week long trip to West Glacier and Ashley Lake, fishing with Court, working in the garden with Emma, weekly trips to Red Lodge to see Mom and Dad, a trip to Missoula with family, and I have logged 280 miles in the last nine weeks towards my marathon training.

This month as I prepared both physically and mentally to return to my classroom in such an uncertain time, I tried to focus on the good and to work on the elements that are within my control. In July, I was notified that I would be teaching English from a cart. I spent the next week moving my personal items out of the classroom I have taught in for almost ten years. After the last box was moved out, I stood in the hallway and looked back into the room. It was odd to feel possessive of “my space” and then realize how much the physical space I occupy becomes a piece of my identity. With the help of an amazing custodial staff, we moved all of my classroom materials to my technology integration office. It is a nice space and I spent hours making it feel like “my space,” but something about it being an office instead of a classroom feels out of place.

On the Thursday before students arrived on a Monday, I learned I could return to “my” classroom. When the custodians came to see if I wanted help moving all of my things back to the classroom, I told them with everything going on this year I would teach from a cart. I explained I didn’t need all my things to teach, all I needed was a space to occupy with my students. In the past few weeks, I have had colleagues move not only buildings, but content and grade levels. So many of the things I use to find important are now irrelevant as I adjust to what education is during COVID.

Last Sunday, I heard an update from the health commissioner about the uptick of cases in our county. What my classroom will look like for more than a few weeks is unknown, but I will do my best regardless of what my room (or digital classroom) looks like to share a space for learning to continue. This week I was eager to teach four, two hour blocks to two sections of students. It reminded me who and what matters during this uncertain time. Again, I found myself trying to focus on the elements I can control when there are so many uncertainties.

Yet, everything this year feels fragile. So much is still and will continue to be uncertain. So much could and will still change before the class of 2021 graduates. One of our school leaders, Jeremy, shared the following with me “blessed are the flexible for they will not be broken.” Although some days I want to dismiss the statement as optimistic, most days I seek hope through its message. As a result, I have been searching for hope anywhere I can find it. During a writing club gathering, a piece from The Missoulian was read. It prompted the reader to identify 19 words of hope. Here are mine:

A trail sits

silent, surene, smoky

in shadowed sun.

My headlamp’s lone

beam illuminates

slumbering hoppers

safe from sneakers.

On a training run last weekend, I passed a gentleman walking an elderly lab. Politely, we exchanged good mornings and his voice alerted me to the fact that I knew him. I wanted to stop him and ask him all kinds of questions, yet an overwhelming emphatic feeling came over me and I choose to just keep running. When I told my running partner it was the superintendent of the district I work for, she said “oh, I didn’t recognize him without his suit. He must be in disguise.” It was part of this disguise that made me think how a person in a position of such a high level of accountability would need a day to simply be—a person. Too often, I feel we find someone to blame instead of recognizing the person is only one person in our system. Our district has asked us to focus on finding breakthroughs not barriers this year. All week as things I could not control changed and then changed again, I focused on that moment on the path and choose to just keep running. We are all just people doing the best we can with what we have.

I have been listening to the Underneath it All podcast on my solo runs. It addresses why some of us turn to the outdoors. During the third episode “Port in the Storm,” the guest speaker shares her struggle with high-functioning depression. As I listened to her story, I felt as though her words were sharing my experience: loss, trauma, shame, guilt, fear, life. It gives me hope to know I am not alone and many of us seek ways to keep moving forward.

Last night out for sushi with Courtney my fortune cookie reminded me to take time for the things that bring me joy.

On Friday afternoon, a coworker asked me what I am passionate about other than my work. I said running. He laughed and said that running didn’t count. I disagreed. Running has been one of the things I can selfishly allow myself to feel. I can’t convince myself my mental health is more important than many of the items on my daily to do list; yet, finding stability through running, I do just that. On Saturday, I joined three of my friends on a twenty mile long run. We joked about wanting to buy tickets for the struggle bus, but each of us made it by continuing to run forward, even when all we wanted was to give up. Hope and friendship (and perhaps sheer stubbornness) carried us. Sometimes, it is the struggle that makes us stronger.

The beginning of a school year brings new beginnings for friendships. Because we share a space, we share stories and we lean on each other for strength. However, each interaction in which the casual “do you have children” question surfaces, I catch my barriers going up and I want to find a disguise for my grief. In seconds I run through the pros and cons of being vulnerable about Josh’s life and the person I am now because of our time together. I am who I am because of my son. His story is the reason I continue to write my story.

I continue to search for grace in grief, hope in despair, ports in the storm, and breakthroughs not barriers on this trail I am upon. Here is to a year of uncertainty and for the strength and courage to continue even when the trail is unknown.

This weekend marked the official start of summer. While many of us have been anxiously awaiting summer “break,” it is an odd feeling now that it is here. I am thankful that I was able to continue teaching remotely during the COVID-19 school closure both for my sanity and so I could continue to pay my bills. This said, I am also ready for a break. The past three months have been some of the most emotionally and mentally exhausting in my teaching career. There were and still are so many unknowns about what the future will hold.

Yet, we keep moving forward

for our seniors whose final weeks of high school were historically different than what the rest of us experienced as seniors.

for our retiring teachers whose final class period didn’t have a class or a time period.

for our students whose only safe space is in our schools.

for our colleagues whose humor and companionship we took for granted before the closure.

for our kids, both ours and the ones on the other side of the computer.

So much has changed about what we consider to be best practice in education. Most of what we have learned during the closure is connected to other elements in education that need to change. It is true that we don’t know what we don’t know. It is also true that we can not unlearn what we now know. These lessons resonate in all elements of my life as I search for grace.

One of my closest teaching friends made the comment that “sometimes when the world is crumbling around you, it is time to take inventory of what is worth repairing and what needs to be discarded.” When I consider the phrase “back to school,” I truly hope whenever we are able to go back to school, that we seize the moment to keep moving forward taking only the best crumbles with us. This time of our lives becoming the snapshot documenting how we learned the lessons we learned to move forward.

My life could be recorded by a series of snapshots. I think about each of the major moments in my life and more often than not, I have a visual record from the day. A snapshot to refresh my memory when the pages of my brain begin to fade. Looking through old photos at my Aunt Lee Ann’s house, my sister Emily found this gem from the early days of Hilderman Gardens.

This weekend, two random women walked by my parents living room window inquiring if we were open. I politely explained that we were no longer operating a gardening & floral business and pointed them the direction of another greenhouse. It gave us a reason to reminisce about the way things were and the fun we had working together as a family. Emily and I both love to garden, a lesson we learned and memories we will forever hold. I love that now Papa and Grandma are sharing their joy for gardening with Emma (side note, one does not need a helmet for gardening – we were getting ready for a bike ride).

Emily celebrated her 40th birthday with Zoom happy hours, texts, & emails. Originally, we had planned to go to Spain this summer. Then, we changed our mind and planned for a week in Hawaii. Next, it was her favorite girls getaway in Oregon. Finally, it was a one-way ticket to Seattle and then a road trip home. On the 902 mile drive from the SeaTac Airport to my driveway, we had sunsets and views we wanted to capture. As best we tried, the photo was never quite the same as the shared moment together. Sometimes the sweetest memories can not be recorded. They are what Brene Brown calls the “ordinary moments.”

I wanted to share a couple of photo collages for Father’s Day of Courtney. I made one of him and Emma. They have a special father/daughter friendship. They fish, bike, and explore together. I sorted through photos from the past three years and struggled to limit my selection to 9. Each photo capturing a moment of our lives together. The collage made me joyful and eager to see what their future holds.

As I sorted through photos on my phone to make a similar collage of Courtney and Josh, I realized I continue to use the same photos over and over. Then, I internalized- my snapshots of my son are limited. It made me want to print them all, just so I could hold them, suddenly afraid that like him one day they would be gone. In that moment, I had to pause, reflect, and search for grace in my grief. I found strength remembering the “ordinary moments”: the weight of his body curled up against my chest as we rocked, the way our dog Hoyt licked the top of his head when he was in his bouncer, the silent moments when the world slowed down and we focused only on each other. Now, years after his death, these ordinary moments are what I hold onto. The snapshots are my evidence, but the moments in between these moments are what matter to me most.

I have three necklaces hanging on my vanity. Each, like a photo, captures a moment of time and purpose in my life. They are keepsakes marking the journey I am on and the distance I have traveled. The diamond necklace Courtney gave me on our one year dating anniversary. The three stones representing our past, our present and our future together. The heart footprint necklace my aunt and uncle had made when Josh was diagnosed. It is crafted off of Josh’s birth certificate footprint. The name necklace was given to me by a baby loss momma at Emma’s welcome to Montana party. She understands that moving forward can also mean holding onto the sweetest crumbles from our past.

On Tuesday, Courtney and I celebrated our thirteenth wedding anniversary. We bought a box of cookies from Crumbl Cookies. Later, we sat together on our couch eating cookies and flipping through the pages of our wedding album. Each page reminded us how encompassing our community of support was and still is. As I compared our selfie from our anniversary to a selfie from our honeymoon, I know together we will continue to pick up the crumbles and move forward

for Josh

for Emma

for us.

It is often when I am the happiest that I am aware of my grief the most. Mother’s Day is a day to be thankful for life, but it is in this happiness that I grieve. As a result, it is one of the days I need to give myself, and others, the most grace.

Next Sunday, friends and family members will join together to Run for Heaven’s Sake. This year, the RKM run will be virtual, but it will not be any less powerful for the participants or the baby loss families who will benefit from the funds. The race gives us both an outlet for our hurt and our support for one another. We use the #whywerun for families to share the names of those we love. Every run I do, Josh is in my heart. It is through Ramsey Keller’s legacy that we continue to honor our son.

To help show how wide arching our support is, this year, we have challenged participants to help us color our support maps. Our goal is 50 states + 56 counties = one community.

If you would like to join us, register to run or learn more about the Ramsey Keller Memorial by visiting www.kisses2heaven.com.

This year, we will be running the race together as a family. These are the reasons we run:

We run for our son and the joy he gave us.

We run for our daughter and the hope she brings us.

We run for our families and those who can not join us.

We run for ourselves and the love that endures.

This morning, Emma helped me harvest flowers from our yard to take to Josh’s headstone in Laurel. We tried to explain through our tears that Josh is in heaven and the marker is only a stone. It is a day of joy, grief, and grace.