The song, “I Am Not Okay” by Jelly Roll, has been playing nonstop in my head since January 20th. One may even call it an anthem for the next four years.

I am not okay. I’ve had to turn off the news and silence social media. I’ve had to cut ties and close doors, both literally and figuratively. Group texts have been muted. Holiday gatherings are smaller. Meanwhile, the conversations among our chosen groups reverberate in a politically and socially homogenous echo chamber.

The theme “All Creatures Great and Small” is an interesting one for a Stewardship Campaign. Most often, when we are raising funds for a cause, we aim for a big bang. We color the rising red line in the poster-sized thermometer to show just how much money we’ve raised. In schools, we hype kids up by promising pizza parties and extra recess for classes who raised the most money. We urge people to give more, help more, and dig into those pockets just one more time! Who doesn’t want to be able to save the world, simultaneously while leaping tall buildings in a single bound?! We live by the phrase, “Go Big or Go Home.”

“People will forget what you said. People will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel” – Maya Angelou

It was 7:00 AM on a Friday and the kids, hoodies up and earbuds in, ambled off the buses and shuffled through the doors of Antioch Middle School. As their eyes adjusted to the harsh fluorescent lights of the school, they noticed a bunch of their former teachers from elementary schools lining the hallway. Many of the students gasped. Some shrieked and jumped up and down clapping excitedly. Some yelled, “That’s my teacher!” Some shyly walked by and gave a timid smile and wave. Some ran up and hugged. It warmed my teacher heart to see many of my former students so happy to see their teachers. Talk about feeling like a Kardashian for a minute! Teachers are the ultimate celebrities!

You could see the years’ worth of weariness written on her face. Since last July, she’s been steadfast in her vigil at her mother’s bedside. Holding her water bottle to her lips, singing to her, holding her hand, rubbing her arms, talking in a hushed tone so as not to startle her. Arriving at the care center feeling down and leaving feeling despondent.

During one of our long talks, my mother asked me, “Why do you think God is letting this happen to her? She is neither alive nor dead. Is this some kind of test? I don’t want anything to do with a God that ‘tests’ me like this.”

“What concerns do you have about the future of this generation of teenagers?” he asked me, while holding the phone up to my mouth with the Voice Memos app recording my every word. Casey, my 15-year-old son, had an assignment for his sociology class in which he had to interview someone from the Baby Boomer generation about their thoughts and concerns about Gen Z and Alpha. For the record, I was born in 1982, which puts me right at the end of Gen X and at the beginning of the Millennials, so I am not in the age group for the assignment, but when your kid waits until last minute to do his assignment, we stretch the rules a little. Ironically enough, this has me a little worried about the time management skills of his generation, but I digress.

Well, I’ve already managed to fail the one New Year’s resolution I opted to make this year. Just a mere 18 days into 2024, I gave up on my goal of drinking 64 ounces of water a day, and I put my giant water bottle with the motivational ounce markers in the cupboard.

This was supposed to be such an easy change for me – pick an easy resolution, they said, and you’ll easily see it through. Nope. Not me.

She barely opened her eyes during our visit, but I know that she was aware of our presence. As her newly manicured hand held on to her great granddaughter’s hand, I had to fight back tears knowing that that this will more than likely be our last holiday season with her. In July, my 90 year old grandmother fell in her assisted living center, and since then, she has never fully recovered. Now in the care of hospice nurses, we ride the emotional wave that is loving someone at their closing of life.

She lurked around the classrooms, noting the classes that had the “Safe Space” rainbow stickers displayed outside their doors. With her son in tow, she marched over to the unassuming counselor who was greeting our upcoming 5th graders, and proceeded to ask the counselor where the Christian teachers were.

I have a confession to make: I am not a fan of Independence Day. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good fireworks display and picnic as much as the next person. And of course, I admire the Founders and the risks they took in blazing a new trail in this experiment we call America. Our country, despite whoever is in charge at the time, truly stands as a beacon of freedom and liberty.

Another mass shooting in America. Was it a school this time? A bank? A grocery store? A funeral home? Does it matter?

How often do the words “mass shooting” appear on the news banner of the 6:00 news? How often do we hear those words spoken by the exasperated news anchor? Do we wince when we hear it? Do we shudder when we see it? Do we lash out when we read about it? Do we pray? Do we call our representatives again and yell into their voicemail inboxes? Do we become numb, sigh heavily, and turn away? Do we have to sit down and hold our head in our hands?

My Apple Watch haptics function futilely reminds me each morning (and in times when my heart seems to be racing) to take a moment for myself.

Yeah right. I press “Ignore.”

I don’t have a minute for mindfulness. I don’t even have 2 seconds to breathe big belly breaths for a full minute while I watch the circle graphic on my watch expand and contract in sync with my breathing.

“I am the Lorax, I speak for the trees!”

We all remember Dr. Seuss’ children’s book The Lorax, about a shortish and oldish and brownish and mossy man who fights against the mass destruction of his Truffula trees from the hands of the greedy Onceler. This story comes to mind when I think about my brother looking up toward the heavens to the top of a giant sequoia tree in Sequoia National Park, admiring its majesty, its towering height, its time on this planet.

“Hey Kel, I need your help with something…”

So begins a text message that suddenly spikes my heart rate.

His texts were usually like that – frantic, urgent, and apocalyptic. He sends me articles from The Atlantic that are 46 pages long about everything from politics to polar bears. My brother’s moments in his life have always been characterized by that – intensity.

Here we are well into the month of May: the month I wish would end tomorrow and the month I want to go on forever. I would love to flip the calendar so I can enjoy evenings again without lesson planning every night. I would enthusiastically “peace out” one of the most difficult years of teaching my colleagues or I have ever experienced.

“Mom, will there be a World War III?” she asked from the back seat of the car. I had just picked up Cadence from school, and after the usual, “How was your day?” chit chat, she blindsided me with this big, heavy question. Normally, when I’m given a big, heavy question, I can say with certainty that we’ll be ok, and that the big, bad event is too far off, too far away, or too unrealistic to worry about.