Setting Sail

The blue sky is the perfect replica of the lake this morning, the horizon line lost from my view.  The birds are loud, and the little kids on the playground even more so. This is the kind of spring day I was made for.   The chirping warmth of the blue sky, the promise of blossoms turning to full-fledged beauty, and the tiny voice inside my heart that says anything is possible.

And so it goes. Anything is about to be possible. For the past 11 years, I have breathed in this lake view, these junior high students, these countless essays and lessons and moments. And now it is time to go. Albert Einstein said, “A ship is always safe at the shore – but that is NOT what it is built for.” I understand this sentiment, and I am ready to put his theory to the test.  This week I signed a contract to teach AP Literature and junior American Literature at Elyria Catholic High School.  This morning I am watching a freighter filled with rocks float by on the lake, and it helps me to cement the decision to move, to sail away from the comfort of the shore.

Some people think I’m nuts for leaving the safety of a job I know so well, these dear people that I call my friends, and the routine that is ingrained in my muscle memory.  But I am ready.  I’m not always the most adventurous, but this decision seems rock solid wonderful to me.

Only slightly masochistic, I know my new job will be harder. There are nine novels lined up on my bookshelf for the first quarter alone.  And the high school students come with their own set of angst and technology and neediness. They can also drive away! A lot has changed in the time I have been gone.

I will also miss my friends. You don’t have the all-in personality I have and work somewhere for 11 years without getting attached. These people have seen me through births and deaths and everything in between. They have saved my life and my soul and my sanity. I will not take that parting easily.  

And there is something about this lake view that has buoyed me as well. The Panther football field outside my new window will not quite suffice.

I am leaving my kids behind. I know they will be well-loved, and I am happy for them to spread their wings without my shadow at the end of the hall. (It is hard to be a free range parent when you work twenty yards away.) And every seventh grade girl deserves to navigate the rough seas of junior high without her mother at the front of the class. For that I am most grateful.

As I sit here on the brink, I appreciate the freedom of my choice. I am thankful for the lessons learned here, the pieces of these students I will carry with me. I wonder at the blurred horizon; but I’m content with knowing that 20/20 vision of the future is impossible.

The day I got offered the job, still reeling and amazed by the new fork in my path, I left EC and turned on the car radio to hear the song “Say Geronimo.” Such a perfect moment of clarity and expectancy that afternoon, and I feel even more certain of my decision today. I CAN make this leap, and anything is truly possible.

On Breathing and Balancing

Why do I feel like crying at yoga class?! Under normal circumstances, crying and I are actually quite well-acquainted, including but not limited to baseball game brawls, school masses, moments with my lawnmower, and the general beauty of the natural world.  But what is this strange intensity that makes me feel as though tears will well at any second once I come to the top of my mat?

Let’s be straight. I know just enough yoga to be dangerous. But I do feel a strange calling to investigate this art of breathing and strengthening my muscles. I am assuming it will make me a calmer mother, too. (It really shouldn’t take much to improve on the lady yelling “I am not Cinderella” the other night. But really, you should see the ways these clients load the dishwasher!)

So lately I have been taking my talents to a local yoga studio. Last night I showed up with the awkward grace I am known for, and OHMed my way to the top of the mat.  I love the idea of the static stretch, the quiet, the focus. But the breathing sends me over the edge. I always feel like I am teetering between hyperventilating and breaking out into tears.

And there is the metaphor. I AM always teetering.

It’s been a big week of preparation for my children. The middle guy has his first Gallery Opening this evening at BayArts. His drawing class met every Tuesday all year, and I am amazed by the creativity that lives in his brain. Tomorrow, my baby makes his First Communion.  The importance of that moment is not lost on me, despite the chaos of fried chicken and baked beans and chalice cookies. Not to be left out, my girl is competing in the county-wide spelling bee on Sunday. Yes, I know I am blessed.

But I have been spinning lately. And running, both literally and figurately. And I guess it makes sense that when I stop for a second, emotions that I didn’t know I had will appear.   And it is somewhere in this chaos of mothering that the breathing beckons me. I read an article a few weeks ago about how kids grow up too fast. I can attest to that myself. But the article also contemplated what WE mothers are doing WHILE the kids are growing up. Am I growing too, and who will I be when they leave the nest?

Last night I scared myself. Went too far too fast in a halasana position, and felt like I couldn’t breathe.  But you know what? Just last week I couldn't do it at all. Progress.  I felt this same kind of amazement when I ran my marathon: 26.2 miles of me pounding asphalt.  And it made me wonder, what ELSE is there that I think I cannot do?!?

Yoga is a great way to see that my mind and body are connected, and I CAN do more than I realize. I can learn that on the yoga mat. I can practice that patience in my house. I can feel the fear in my career and challenge myself in new ways. I can relish those moments when breathing deeply is my best and only choice.

So what am I doing as my children are drawing and growing and spelling? I am breathing. And reaching. And balancing. No professional yogi for sure, but a woman in the midst of becoming. And the art of becoming is the perfect pose for me.

Chasing Grace

Topic of the week? Sacraments. Webster says that a sacrament is a “visible sign of God’s grace.”  Fair enough, and I am sure that I should be ruminating on the upcoming First Communion in my house, or the beautiful Anointing of the Sick that our pastor offered to a first grader needing a liver transplant and his donor cousin last week. I also totally appreciate the sacrament of Reconciliation, which my second grader was not too happy about recently when he had to come clean on all the cash he spent buying gems on his video game, Clash of Clans. (Thank you, Apple, for knowing that I really didn’t WANT to spend 1, 109 dollars to give my son super-powers in a video game, and graciously refunding my money.)

As sacraments go, I am one hundred percent able to spout off the rites, the sacramentals, and the minister for each sacrament.  Not surprising, really, since I have been standing or sitting in a Catholic school for most of my 43 years. I can even define words like transubstantiation and chrism and eucharist.  

But to me, sacraments go beyond the veil of the church and the priest and little boys with slicked back hair and clip-on ties. Visible signs of God’s grace? I see them every day.

Grace: “seemingly effortless beauty or charm; a disposition to be generous or helpful; divine love and protection bestowed freely on the people.”   Oh my, this world is full of grace-filled moments. Ever see a girl go up to someone sitting alone on the playground and make her smile? Grace. Ever see an elderly man help his walker-using wife into a grocery store? Grace. How about some generally quiet girls standing up to a bully in class? Grace.  Ever see a student who struggles in writing finally write a beautiful metaphor? I have. Grace all around. Or how about a spontaneous hug for a brother who has skinned his knee or my daughter taking out the garbage AND recycling without being asked? There is even grace in my happy little home!

Nature creates grace too. Daffodils, planted by my father, bloom in my back yard. Now my sons pick them for me in grubby–handed bouquets. Grace. Or the streaks of sun reflected through the clouds or lake or trees? Grace. Heck, even my boys dancing in the hail yesterday (really April?) remind me that opening my eyes to see the pebbly white beauty is tasting eternity.

So yes, I am preparing excitedly for my kid’s First Communion, as he has been singing church songs at full volume for weeks. I appreciate the tradition and sacraments of my faith. But living with intention and looking for “effortless beauty and charm” in the people I meet? That is a game I am willing to play in all moments, big and small. And being a minister of grace for others? To help a struggling student or throw the ball to my boy in the yard or buy a tired grocery clerk a candy bar? Those are occasions when I know I am kissing the divine.

Hiding in Plain Sight

I’m obsessed with spring. Year after year, large piles of snow give way to an awakening earth underneath, and I am still no closer to understanding how it happens. What is the trigger? How do these crocuses know that even under two feet of snow, it is time to rise and shine?  How do trees bud and the birds come North? Must be magic, like my favorite illusionist David Anthony sawing a woman into pieces before my very own eyes. Illusions. Magic. The unfurling of new life from the darkened earth. I just can’t figure any of it out.

My rake and I do know a few things. We need to rid the lawn of the many acorns that the hapless squirrels have thrown around all winter. And eradicating the dead grass will make room for a lush new lawn when the April rains decide to cease.   We even intuit that it is time to clean the beds and spruce them up.

Today was the day to order the tools of the trade for beautifying the beds. Don’t ask what I will do tomorrow when I come home from work and see four yards of mulch and 2.5 tons of river rock in my driveway. (That’s a magic trick for another day.) But a stop at the Rock Pile led to a chance encounter that put a smile on my face.

I saw him near the bananas. No working mother of three can ever leave the house on just one errand, so after ordering the mulch, I headed to the grocery. Halfway through the produce section, I stopped dead. The gentleman with the twinkle in his eyes looked very familiar.

“Excuse me,” I said. (I live big, and have no qualms about making a fool out of myself near the mangoes.) “Is your name Tommy Burns?”

“Yes,” he replied. There was that twinkle again.

“My name is Katie Kraven. Do you happen to remember my dad?”

He was as shocked as I was, and broke into a huge grin.

I have vague memories of this man who I know played a huge role in my father’s life. He helped to paint the house I lived in as a little girl. He is my sister’s godfather. And he was a role model, mentor and friend to my dad for years.

But time has gotten away from us and it’s been a lifetime since I’ve seen him. He hugged me and grabbed my hand. He told a few funny stories about his great-grandkids, their antics, and his removable teeth. He explained that although his kids have moved around the country, he lives in the same house where he’s been for decades. A few moments to catch up, and then he was gone, with his bag of lettuce and one yellow banana.

I love the magic of these freeze-frame moments, these chance encounters that come seemingly out of the blue. I know who he was to my father. And I know the positive impact he had on my dad’s life. But how do you reconcile that between the Vitamin Water and the organic chips? I don’t know all the details, and it is too much history to relive at this point, but I know Tommy’s impact somehow must ring in me still.

Magic, I tell you. How else to explain that the people we need, the reminders that can heal us, are like daffodils popping through the earth or rabbits pulled from black hats? They have all been hiding in plain sight all along. I’m pretty convinced that this is the way with most miracles.  With random grocery moments. With bulbs that blossom into beauty.  With new eyes on old realities, and new hope in the darkest moments.

So many blessing are hiding in plain sight. And it just takes a little raking and a little wonder to uncover them.

Faith in Chocolate

Another Christian holiday is upon us, and I’m again amused by the juxtaposition of faith and tradition. Grandma suggested the other day that the kids were too old for the outside Easter egg hunt she does for them, and she was met with great resistance. I’m waiting for their un-belief in the Easter Bunny schtick as well, but we are still going strong.

I thought Santa would have been on his way out by now, but I haven’t heard a peep of unbelief.  At ages 12, 10.5 and practically 8, these three still believe, wholeheartedly. Caveat: They’re a little lukewarm on the tooth fairy, but then again, the tooth fairy is a total flake around here. And these kids often lose their teeth AFTER they lose their teeth!!—One is still in the crack in the driveway sidewalk. We can see it but not reach it. But, I digress.

I suppose it is possible that my cherubs are just playing us to get more loot, but I think it is deeper than that. Think about it. These three believe wholeheartedly in Jesus rising from the dead after three days in a tomb. Why wouldn’t they believe that a special bunny could hop through the world delivering eggs all night?!

These kids have FAITH with a capital F. When their beloved Pa died, they consoled US. “Mom, why are you crying? He is in HEAVEN!!” Of course they were sad, but their belief in Pa’s eternal life was rock solid. Thank you Catholic School Education! (And I only get a LITTLE miffed when Sean tells me that I am not his favorite mother,…Mary is!)

It’s a good question. Why do I expect them to run out of faith in Santa or the Bunny, but hold ON to their faith in a benevolent, resurrection God. These children of mine are all or nothing.  I think that is a good thing. I know their faith will grow and change and be challenged as they age. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I think I get where they are right now, though. If they believe in a personal Jesus that died for their sins on the cross and paved the way for eternal life, which they do, then why give up their faith in a chocolate wielding bunny?

Don’t get me wrong. I know it’s coming soon: testing their faith, and testing their believe in gift-bearing creatures. I’ve been taking precautions of course. Our bunny always makes a (poorly) rhymed scavenger hunt to lead them to a gift. These kids are no dummies; I typed it this year so they didn’t recognize any handwriting.  And the peanut butter chicks and giant chocolate bunny ears are well hidden from wandering eyes.

Most of all, I appreciate the way they teach ME about faith. They insisted on the Good Friday service yesterday, and want to experience the beauty of the Easter Vigil tonight, even with its length. Along with belief, they like to live their faith too.

So it’s a good thing the bunny learned how to type, and I’d say Grandma better keep hiding the eggs!

Moments of Victory

They say that parenting is the hardest job in the world. Frankly, I think that working on power lines in sub zero temperatures or herding wild boar might be more arduous, but parenting sure has its moments. Or you could be like me and choose  teaching as a second career, and then your whole waking life will be composed of moments when you are explaining and instructing, and your clients are either daydreaming, writhing on the floor, or trying to squirm their way out the door! (I will leave it to your imagination as to whether these scenarios take place in my classroom or my living room.)

At any rate, life is a game of moments. There is ALWAYS beauty in the chaos. I tend to keep my eyes wide open to experience these moments, both in my classroom and my house. But the experts ARE right. Parenting is nearly impossible. To teach, love, cajole, empower, motivate, remediate, activate these three very different creatures on a daily basis is a privilege and a chore.

The Zac Brown Band says “Soak it all in. It’s a game you can’t win. Enjoy the ride!!” He’s right, but I’m the kind of girl who likes to have some W’s for the win column. The following recent moments stand out as victories for this haggard mama.

1.Parenting Win: Nature Category: The other day my 12.5 year old daughter got in the car, looked at the sunrise and declared “That is so beautiful!! Look at those colors!!” She quickly turned to me and said, “And I’m not even making fun of you, Mom!” Hilarious.

2. Parenting Win: Getting the Job Done Category: I got stuck at work recently for several unplanned after school meetings. Unfortunately, the girl who runs my house when I am working was also staying late for her writing club. We arrived home late, wondering if the house would be on fire and the boys playing Minecraft amidst the flames. Proud mama moment to see both boys had changed out of their uniforms, completed their homework, and eaten their after school snacks.

3. Parenting Win: No Means No (But Often No Leads to Better): Cue first warm day. Yeah, it was only about 49 degrees, but the boys were playing baseball in shirtsleeves and clamoring for Speedway slushies. No I said, over and over again. Finally satisfied that no really DID mean no (seriously, do these children not KNOW me?!?!), the elder boy decided that they should make smoothies. A few ounces of frozen berries and mango juice later, all parties were delighted.  And the kids had a much healthier treat!

4. Parenting Win: Grocery Store Edition: The FIRST miracle occurred when the eldest willingly went to the store with her mother to stock up for the week. And of course, the mother found a former student to talk to. Mid conversation, I turned to find that not only did my daughter empty ALL  of the groceries on the belt, but they were already loaded in bags in the cart. Love that helper!!

Obviously there are a myriad of moments, big and small, that constitute parenting wins. And equally obvious, there are moments when these same key players are dissolved in tears over a math problem or a runny nose. But win or lose, Zac Brown is right: “It's a near-perfect day. Wishin' I wouldn't get any older. They say that it's gone 'fore you know it…So soak it all in. It’s a game you can’t win. Enjoy the ride.”

Sorry, Wrong Number

“Hi. Is Chuck there?”

“Sorry, you have the wrong number.”

Again and again and again. The constancy of the wrong numbers astounds me.

I have had this phone number for six years, ever since I looked around my eighth grade one day and realized I was basically the only one who didn’t own a cell phone.

That started the cycle of wrong numbers that continues to this day.  At first it was random.

“Hi. Is Chuck there?”

“No. Sorry.”

Then came the messages. I’d check my machine and hear “Yeah, uh, Chuck? Where do you want the crew of guys today?”

I figured Chuck was a contractor.

The calls continued. Six years later, and I’m still getting calls. I don’t understand why they don’t have his new number.

I guess it wouldn’t be such a big deal if my dad’s name weren’t Chuck. Well, Charles D. Kraven to be exact, but he always went by Chuck. I can still picture him holding out his hand to shake when he met someone new: “Chuck Kraven, glad to know you.”

He’s been gone almost fourteen years, and it’s the little things I remember and miss the most. Believe me, I just had a run-in with his favorite chocolate coconut bars in the bakery the other day. Sometimes time does NOT heal all wounds.

Lately, the calls are coming more frequently, and during times of turmoil.  I was crying in my reading chair the other day, when the phone rang.

“Hi. Is Chuck there?”

And then last week at school I was waiting for an important call during my planning period.

“Hi is Chuck there?” I answered, and before the guy hung up, I finally decided to ask him who Chuck was.

“Is he some kind of a contractor?

“No, he works at the steel mill.”

Insert chills and spooky music. My dad spent the better part of my childhood working swing shifts at U.S. Steel.

And there are other Chuck messages.  Last summer I was on vacation at the pool with my kids, having a really bad time of things. I was in a lousy mood with some difficult circumstances and generally feeling bereft.  I spied a guy with several tattoos, and Phillipians 4:13 stood out. After a quick Google, I had it:  “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I approached the man to thank him for the message and tell him the verse helped one weary traveler.

“I did it for my son Chuck. He died of cystic fibrosis at age 19.” The tears rolled from my eyes. And his. We hugged, and cried some more. His name was Chuck too, of course. I promised to pray for his teenage daughter who was still battling the disease.

I don’t know that I ever understood what it would be like to live without my dad on this earth. I mean, how could I? I didn’t know that I would still be able to get wiffs of his cologne or hear his voice in my head. I didn’t realize that the lessons he taught would grow louder and clearer with time.

And I certainly don’t know why my phone keeps ringing for Chuck, or what kind of message he is trying to send me.  But I know for sure that love lives on.

Sometimes I wonder if I make too much of things, or if I find connections that are just coincidence.  I feel my dad in moments big and small, but is he really here? I almost wish I was kidding in sharing that as I was writing this today, I missed a phone call. No message was left, but curious, I hit redial to hear these words: “Thank you for calling United States Steel. “ More chills. More love. Okay dad, I get it.