On Making Mistakes

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It is a late lunch day.

With brunch completed mid-morning, I am now in the process of collecting my thoughts so as to get in a frame of mind for lunch preparations. What to make? I quickly remember that I have everything for homemade pizza, and I call for helpers.

Usually, there is a scramble of girls competing for the counter space. But to my surprise, Son announces that it has been a while since he has made anything with me and that he would like to help. I am pleased- he usually passes on cooking. But since it was a storm day today and school is off, he is feeling particularly generous with his time. I am also secretly delighted that we will have some mother-son time together.

We start to gather our supplies and right away I think to myself ‘back off- let him do this’. I step away for a moment and occupy myself with something on the other side of the sink.

“Ohhh…” I hear him say.

I turn my head and discover that in pouring the flour mixture into the bowl, he has spilled it on the counter, a bit on himself, and then more down the side of the cupboard and onto the rug below where it is collecting in a circular pile. I immediately go into my neat-nik self and rush over, start to cluck- hem and haw. I can hear myself becoming too quickly frustrated at this unexpected mess that I now feel responsible to clean up, and I know where this is headed. Not like I scolded in a mean way- but he knew. I was tense.

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” he says to me quietly.

I look up, and watch him turn away. I watch as he walks slowly over to the red corner chair and perches on the edge. We are both on edge now- both literally and figuratively.

And at this juncture, I start to talk to myself:

“Is this what you want- your Son to believe that he isn’t capable of making this pizza? That in making a small mess, he is inconveniencing you? That this minor mess is really worth making an issue over? That this is even something to stress over, tense up about? Do you want to lose this opportunity over a bit of split flour? Give your head a shake, girl.”

I make a choice in that moment. And that choice was an apology. Followed by an explanation.

What I said was this:
“I am sorry that I reacted this way. This is not a big deal. I really want you to make the pizza, and I want you to know that my response wasn’t the right one. Furthermore, I want you to know that when we make mistakes, I know that these are the moments we learn the most. Please don’t think that in spilling the flour it should keep you from making the pizza. I am sorry.”

Sons are so gracious to moms with lots to learn.

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We ended up making that pizza together, and it was an absolute work of art. Son took the better part of an hour to carefully put each topping, each slice of meat on where it suited best. I cannot honestly say I have ever seen a better looking pizza. But more than that, this time of meal preparation was a learning experience for me personally. Because I am starting to realize how very much I benefit from learning about my own mistakes and how I need to find ways to come out a better person for having taken a wrong turn.

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I wish I hadn’t reacted so quickly to the split flour.

But because of my own mistake, I discovered that these are experiences that can help us grow as individuals into more capable, understanding people. We learn from mistakes when we choose to do so, carry forward stronger, more knowledgeable than we were before. And even moms have their moments when the lessons learned are very humbling.

At least they are for me.

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Why Small Matters

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I walk the length of our house looking for something with color to photograph, something to contrast with the vast expanse of white stretching as far as the eye can see. We’ve been hit with our third storm of the week- outside, winds swirl tossing snow in endless piles around our lawn. These February days are what define the heart of winter in Prince Edward Island.

I cross the veranda, where on better days I might cradle a mug of coffee in one hand and a good book in the other. Today, the wicker chairs are laden with frost and hardened snow-ice, my hands encased in thick, black gloves. I trudge down the steps and find myself immediately sinking in foot-and-a-half high snow drifts. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of an isolated icicle hanging from a low-lying branch on the old pine on our side lawn. I make my way toward it, wishing to capture it’s essence through the lens. I snap a picture even as the icicle itself threatens to snap, bent in the middle and dripping water in a slow and steady rhythm.

It is small and minute against the picturesque landscape I can see surrounding it- only entering my line of vision because I went deliberately looking for something charming to photograph. And yet, this dripping, bent-over icicle has captured my attention in spite of its imperfection.

Small and flawed, it is still enchanting.

Certainly small is significant. I live in a beautiful, yet very small ‘island-province’ in Canada, residing in the western end of the same. My community is small enough that most everyone knows your name. I teach at a small rural school five minutes from my home and my own kindergarten class is the smallest class in the school. Incidentally, I also teach the smallest students in the school- the four and five year-olds.

But sometimes I struggle with the smallness of my life, feeling my insignificance in comparison to the world around me. My lack of reach, the difficulty I have experienced in expanding my professional identity, the obstacles in my path- all point to the smallness of me as one individual. And I struggle with the fact that being small means at times: small circles of influence, small impacts and seemingly insignificant means of effect. I write a blog for which sometimes there is a very small audience, for some pieces I write there are even little to no readers. And I feel my voice is sometimes small and muted – even when speaking to my own children who tend to have selective hearing (!). In terms of outreach, my scope is sometimes not more than an arm’s length.

Small is sometimes limiting.

I talk to my mom on the phone and she shares stories with me about my Dad. We both see that because of the reality in which he finds himself, the extent of his effect and the scope of his influence has been made very limited. He was once a pastor of a large urban church where hundreds were in attendance.  A ministry for him that was demanding, substantial in impact and important. And now his ability to live life has been debilitated. I am sure there are times when he wonders and questions the scope of his reach as he sits in a restoration facility waiting to be discharged and given his release. I am sure he questions why, although I never hear him voice the words.

I would, if it were me.

In spite of these limitations, he continues to be an inspiration to those around him- using the smallness of his life to enrich others in very large ways. I can’t even count the times in which he has used his words, both written and verbal, to encourage, help and care for those around him. This is not wasted time that he spends dealing with the effects of his disease- this is purposeful, intentional opportunity, and he is using it to be a care-giver to others whom he sees as needing compassion and consideration.

Every small act of kindness is important and meaningful to the one receiving.  Nothing is insignificant when it comes to acts of care.

And in this way, small can be an opportunity- an occasion in which to make something big out of something very little. Who can ever forget the words of the starfish poem, in which something so very small has become the source of such great and worldwide inspiration:

One day an old man was walking down the beach just before dawn.  In the distance he saw a young man picking up stranded starfish and throwing them back into the sea.  As the old man approached the young man, he asked, “Why do you spend so much energy doing what seems to be a waste of time?”  The young man explained that the stranded starfish would die if left in the morning sun.  The old man exclaimed, “But there must be thousands of starfish.  How can your efforts make any difference?”  The young man looked down at the starfish in his hand and as he threw it to safety in the sea, he said,” It makes a difference to this one!”(retrieved from http://hopefulhealing.com/Starfish_Poem.html)

It must be said: if it matters to one, then it matters indeed.

That tiny icicle is now gone- melted or blown away. It was never meant to last, only there to shine for a short time. But while it hung suspended from that branch, letting light refract through its intricate design, it mattered.

At least it mattered to one.

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Giving is the way to gratefulness

When we count our blessings in the midst of life’s brutal storms, rather than waiting for the sunny days with warmth and light and gentle breezes to appear, it is truly the greater sacrifice. As those watching from without, there is nothing so admirable as observing someone with very little making a great deal about what they do have, however small and humble.

Gratitude can be experienced even when the outlook is dismal, can be presented even when the offering is slight. For even when the pool from which we gather is shallow and lacking in resources, there is still something there.

There is always something in which to be thankful.

It matters not what we’ve been given- we still must find the words to offer thanks.

He was feeling low again- not really in that frame of mind to offer gratitude. Not really in that mode of thinking, really. How can one offer praise when life feels destitute of joy, bereft of common everyday pleasure? He really wasn’t able to pick himself up either, like he sometimes could. Couldn’t rise to the day. It was like he’d been beaten down one too many times and the game was now over. He was ready to throw in the towel.

But she reminded him again of his call to chronicle gratitude. Reminded him of all that he’d already found in which to offer thanks. The five gifts he had committed to finding each and every day- small offerings of gratitude to a Father of good and perfect gifts. And even though it was hard- even though it wasn’t easy, he promised her he would still look for something in which to offer thanks.

And while he was looking for those small five in which to portray his day, something else happened. He started to notice people around him. People just like him, all in need of finding a gift. And as he was noticing people, he began hearing people too. Hearing their hearts, sensing their needs, listening to their stories. And he realized that he could not only count gifts, he could offer them to others as well.

And so he did. He offered a small gift.

And that one, small seemingly insignificant gift- it made all the difference for him. And for her- because she wasn’t expecting it- and to be truthfully honest, neither was he. But because he realized that he was still a giver, still a messenger of hope, he was able to stand in the gap. Even with the limitations of his life and struggle.

Actually, in spite of them.

We all can find gifts- that treasure trove of life that we each have been gifted with. But even more than this, we can all be givers: can give something each day to someone else. We can be the gift. Can be one of the five that another counts as a blessing on their gratitude list. For when we give the gift, rather than merely counting it as acquired, we come to understand:

Giving is the very best way to experience gratitude.

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Teachers: You Are Better Than You Think You Are

One year ago, I wrote a blog post titled “What Students Remember Most About Teachers” which went viral the second month after I published it.  Since then, it has been the single most-read item on my blog with hundreds of views each day and over 2 million views to date.  In particular, at key times of the year (August, September and mid-way through the year), it will spike an interest again with the teaching public, with tens of thousands of views on certain days.

I have been perplexed by this phenomenon over the past year because I am really at a loss for why this particular blog post has struck such a chord. And then I happened upon these two articles tonight.  One, about why teachers feel so bad most of the time and the other, a test to take so as to determine whether or not you are a bad teacher, both written by Ellie Herman (a former teacher).  It got me thinking about teachers again- and why teaching matters.

I don’t want to focus solely on the content of either article so as to critique.  But I do want to point out one thing that I think explains the interest in my blog post that went viral: that is, why it continues to be read by teachers one year later.  And I think the answer lies in part within Herman’s two blog posts. According to Herman, teachers are inadequately trained for the classroom realities they face, get little to no support to deal with those realities, and don’t have the resources  to do the job well.  Add to this, the reality that many teachers (both those who are essentially good teachers as well as those who should never have entered the profession- due to Herman’s five criteria) have given up because the odds are stacked against them.

It is a tough gig being a teacher.

Ironically, when I wrote the article about teachers fourteen months ago, I had no intentions of publishing the letter.  It was actually written concerning a real person involved in a real interaction with me, an actual event; so that scenario I portrayed in the letter was between two real-life colleagues.  I had an actual conversation with someone and sent them the letter because I cared about them as a teacher, and I wrote the letter because I wanted to somehow encourage that person in the very same ways I sometimes need encouragement.  More than anything, I wanted to care for the person I was interacting with as a colleague, so as to remind them that I believed in them and that I knew they were doing a better job than they were giving themselves credit for.

I think teachers need this type of encouragement so as to be reminded of how well they are doing.  And it takes sometimes a moment for us to remember to do this for one another- spurring each other on so that we stay the course. That was one reason I wrote the letter- as a means of inspiration.  But even more than this, I wanted to also relay another message- one that has been felt in more general ways by teachers the world over.  That message was this: teachers, you are doing a far better job than you give yourselves credit- so believe in yourselves and the influence you have on your students.  You are good teachers.  Teachers, we are all better than we sometimes give ourselves credit for.

Something I have heard said about students from both the administration level as well as from our provincial teaching federation (P.E.I.T.F.) president is the following: students bring their best selves with them each day to school.  It might not be what WE would deem best- but the reality is, it is THEIR best for that particular day. I have had conversations with administration as well about parents- parents that do things differently than I do as a parent, but who love their children nonetheless.  Parents who bring their best to the table.  And what I have discovered about parents is this: parents tend to bring the best they have to give to their child’s education as well.

Is their best the same as my best or even your best?  Not necessarily- but best is a relative term as long as we are not talking about inflicting harm or injury on another human being in physical, emotional or psychological ways.  What I am trying to say here is that as long as we are aiming to do something productive for our children, what is BEST can differ.

Which brings us around to teachers.

Do teachers bring their best to school each day? Let’s assume that teachers do not meet the five criteria that Herman has established which make for bad teachers (disliking children, consistently uninterested in your subject matter, don’t have a clue what you are teaching, ignoring a large subset of your students most of the time, and who are overall, totally disengaged in teaching).  Teachers who are not consistently any of those five and who also have a desire at all to investigate their practice and think about their identity as a professional are really who form the baseline for me.  If teachers are at that place- caring somewhat about who they are and what they do, then I feel those teachers are bringing their best to the profession.

Now again: that word best, it is a relative word.  When someone talks BEST they start envisioning other buzz phrases: words like charismatic, creative, reform-minded and inspirational.  Words associated with teaching style like: engaging in praxis, integrating technology, differentiating instruction and scaffolding  instruction. But I am not talking about setting a bar for best for either personality or teaching style.  What I am maintaining here is that bringing your BEST SELF to work means bringing the self that cares.

Care is the quality that defines truly great teaching.  And caring is for me the underlying quality that defines a good teacher.

Weighed against that criteria, good teachers are those who do the following:

Good teachers care about themselves- care for their own personal, emotional, physical and spiritual well-being.

Good teachers care about others- care for people both young and old both children, youth and adults.

Good teachers care about ideas- care about thinking and understanding, knowing and connecting.

Good teachers care about things- classrooms, and books, and lunches and school buses.

Good teachers also care about non-human entities: animals, and plants, eco-systems and habitats.

And good teachers finally care about experiences- what happens at home, in school and some of what happens in between.

Simply put: good teachers care. 

And they tend to care a great deal the longer they exercise that caring muscle.

So when it comes to criteria for defining good and bad teachers, focusing on the fact that most teachers who care enough about ideas and experiences to read an article about teaching are probably good teachers, it almost becomes a waste of time for teachers to ask themselves if they are bad at their job.  We hear enough negativity in the onslaught of media messages to waste too much on this consideration. What we need to be asking as teachers is this: what makes you a great teacher…and how can you find ways to do this again tomorrow?

Then too, ask yourself this: how can I find ways to rise above the imperfect circumstances in which I find myself, the less than ideal situations I find myself in as a teacher and be my best teaching self?  And how can I tap into that reservoir of care that brought me into this profession in the first place?

Teachers, we are better than we think we are.  We just have to remember.

We are a caring profession.  And while we are diverse in scope- each of us bringing different traditions, orientations, philosophies, backgrounds, experiences, personalities, cultures, attitudes and beliefs to the table; what binds us together as a collective is our common care for our students and our profession. We care. And may we never forget how important that quality is in making us great teachers.

Worthy of Grace

There once was a little girl. And she was a beautiful child- a funny, wise, intuitive, kind and loving child. Her mama and daddy loved her to the moon and back again.  They loved her so much.

The little girl loved to play and laugh. She loved life and she was full of joy. Everything about that little girl proclaimed exuberance, enchantment, enthusiasm and excitement. She was a beacon of light to all who knew her well.

One day, that little girl was playing- having fun with her friends. Being a kid. But as she was caught up in what was happening around her, she forgot herself for a moment. A decision that would serve to unravel her composure. Would serve to undo her reputation somewhat.

And so while she was playing- in a moment of little-girl impulsivity, she opened her mouth and words came flying out.

Words.

The words weren’t really like her. They were a bit ugly and mean. A bit hurtful and sharp. And as soon as she said them, the little girl realized that a line had been crossed. That a heart had been hurt. That the words from her mouth, which were now floating out there in the big, wide space that she and others occupied, could not be gathered back in or be reversed. Couldn’t be hauled back and erased. For the words had been spoken- they were now out there in the atmosphere- out there in the air, somewhere. They were now audible and had been heard- hanging suspended in time and place as if they were a pendulum ready to swing.

As soon as she said them, the little girl regretted her decision. She knew better. She was a kind little girl, and saying mean and hurtful things was not her usual style. But she had spoken, and the consequences of speaking are always to deal with what comes next.

The aftermath.

That little girl- she cried. She cried and she cried and she cried when she realized the power of her words. She cried and she cried when she understood the significance of it all. And even though she had been given time in which to process the earlier decision to speak, time in which to take stock and move on- that little girl, she couldn’t shake the deep-seated feelings of shame she was experiencing for having failed. Feelings internalized for having fallen short from the mark- the expected standards she usually exceeded.

After some time had passed, the little girl and her mama were together in the kitchen talking. And the mama decided it was the right moment to talk about what had happened. And so they did- they talked. And as they talked, the little girl told her mama she was afraid to face the people involved in her story because she knew she’d disappointed them. She knew that she had failed.

She was very anxious about it all.

And as her mama watched her little girl’s face- a sweet little face etched with worry and concern, eyes welling up with tears: her mama made a decision that she hoped would give the little girl some hope. Because she loved her so. So that mama- she told that little girl about grace.  Told her that tomorrow was another day. That the mistakes of today were now forgiven and that tomorrow would be a fresh beginning. That there was always another chance. That there was always another opportunity to get it right. There was always tomorrow.

There was hope through the wonder of grace.

And what the mama really meant to say, in not so many words, was that there are second chances- possibilities. All found in hope through redemption, found through belief in Love’s amazing grace. What the mama meant to say was that there is deliverance in aspiration.  Aspiring to believe. That’s what starting over is for, that’s what it’s all about. Because if we live our lives in constant shame for what we’ve done, failing to embrace the hope we’ve been given, we never come to realize the power in redemptive love. Never come to realize that this is where it’s at: renewal begins with pain. Growth comes through anguish. Possibility is the offspring born of disappointment. Grace. When we make mistakes and fail, there is always the chance to begin again. Always the opportunity to start over.

There is always tomorrow.

Redemptive love and healing grace makes this possible. And what better example of the power of redemption can we find than of the story of the prodigal son.

The little girl- she clung to her mama’s few words like a lifeline. She wanted to believe. And so she did- she chose to believe that even she was worthy of redemption. Even she was worthy of a fresh beginning- today, tomorrow- and every day after that.

And so she was- worthy of grace.
How very much she was.

The Story of the Prodigal Son
“There was a man who had two sons. 12 The younger one said to his father, ‘Father, give me my share of the estate.’ So he divided his property between them.
13 “Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country and there squandered his wealth in wild living. 14 After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and he began to be in need. 15 So he went and hired himself out to a citizen of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed pigs. 16 He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything.
17 “When he came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! 18 I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. 19 I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.’ 20 So he got up and went to his father.
“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.
21 “The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’
22 “But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. 23 Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. 24 For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate.
25 “Meanwhile, the older son was in the field. When he came near the house, he heard music and dancing. 26 So he called one of the servants and asked him what was going on. 27 ‘Your brother has come,’ he replied, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.’
28 “The older brother became angry and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him. 29 But he answered his father, ‘Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. 30 But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!’
31 “‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. 32 But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’”

Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Words

They walk and talk- and it is getting so dark outside. The snow whirls around them in a vortex of ragged wind from the north-east as they trudge through the shin-high drifts and try to make their way. But it is rough going. The trail they have carved out is more like a cow-path than anything when they finally make their last turn for home. She stumbles but catches herself from falling.
They press on.
She listens as he talks. And she tries to make sense out of all the trouble- tries to find a way for them both. He turns to her and tells her that she has made him feel better and she hugs him and tells him that was the plan. She wants to help. She cares.
But sometimes words fail to convey that care. Fail to explain, describe, clarify, enlighten. And sometimes even, words hurt: inflict, wound, injure and impair. Leaving the other to try and piece together the remains into something that makes sense.
Life is hard and people are the ones that know this reality the most. Words are sometimes all we’ve got to stake our pride.
And one doesn’t have to look far to find hurting people in need of a word of comfort. In need of a kind gesture, a simple encouragement.
So what does the girl do when she has gazed inside the glass and all she sees is a tunnel of darkness? Pitch black nothingness. An unknown abyss that appears to be bottomless, with no way out?
And what does the boy say when he is faced with the news, given the verdict, read the riot act and there is no happy ending in view?
What do men and women do when life turns sour, when it all turns belly up? When health fails, relationships strain and doom is pending?
What do people do when life gets hard?
Where do we go for help? By Whom are our cries heard?
We wait for resolution with our fragile sense of uncertainty, each and every day. Wondering, guessing, hoping: and then, our expectations are found deflating. Because there is not always an answer that immediately comes to mind. Not always words. Not always an explanation that rises quickly to the occasion, announcing its arrival. Sometimes answers are hard to come by, making both life hard and understanding it to boot seem nearly impossible.
Life is hard- and figuring it all out even harder.
The mystery leads us to the discovery.
The discovery that God gave us people to help us out. Gave us one another- each other, for a reason. To stand in the gap. To bear witness. To hold space. To uphold and sustain one another through the hard times. God gave us ‘each other’ to be that support, that advocate for one another. To sustain one another. And when we do this for the others in our lives, that is encourage one another- even through the hardest of times, we come to realize that we can carry on. There is strength. Hope. And we can make our way through to the other side.

The light shines from the pathway lanterns and together they walk the narrow route toward home. Winds howl and snow eddies tug at their jackets. But these are no match for them. There is no contest.

They got each other- and that is enough.

Galatians 6:2: “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

The secret to caring for people

I wake to the lonely sound of freezing rain pelting the window, and it is mere minutes later that a knock is heard at our bedroom door.
“I’m scared of the rain, can I sleep with you?”

I move over to make room. And as she settles in with her pink blankie underneath our warm quilts and Brunswick sheets, I think of how very much I want to protect this Little One. She is vulnerable, needing me. And I am willing to fill the gap. Willing to care.

Care is meant to be responsive. How very much I am realizing this as we deal with outside agencies. Hospitals, staffing at healthcare facilities, schools, public agencies. They are all the same essentially when it comes down to it: systems that, the bigger they get, the more impersonal the interactions seem to be. Yet, the more that care is fundamentally needed.

When I think of my belief in care and the power it holds to transform and change, I realize more and more that its evidence must be seen and its influence must be felt within the relationships we encounter. Those that span the range from the micro to the macro. We all desire to be heard and responded to.  We all long to be cared for in responsive, empathic ways.

How can we learn to care for people- especially for people when they are not especially likeable? People outside our circles of influence that we encounter in day-to-day interactions?  People inside circles of influence that challenge us, defy and oppose at every opportunity?

I think the secret starts with gentleness and a desire to remain open. Open to the possibilities and open to the fact that there are differences. And the secret continues by remaining soft in our approach- being gracious in our interactions; this is the complement to the quality of openness that brings it full circle.

Open arms and grace-filled hearts always lead the way toward love.

Christian philosopher Jean Vanier affirmed his conviction in the power of love to be a transforming force in our lives when he wrote a recent communiqué posted to his website that states simply: “we are all children who need to be loved, to be a source of joy, to live relationships full of joy, through communion and mutual presence” (Vanier, 2015).  Might be never forget that love is kind- and so must care be too.

Reminding ourselves that the people we find the most difficult to like/care for are probably the ones who need it the most is certainly useful in this process of learning to care for difficult people. If we can allow ourselves to see each person we deal with- especially the most difficult ones we deal with- as people who deep down have vulnerable, fragile selves, we can then appreciate that the defenses they have set up and the walls they have built are there for protection. People with walls up are people with fears.

But they are still people nevertheless.

We can learn to care for people even when they come with baggage. Even when they come to relationships both personal and formal with issues and things we don’t understand.  And believe it or not: we can care for people even when they don’t treat us with care.  We can find ways to care for them anyway.

Because the secret to caring for people is first determining that we will care and then finding something within people to care for. From there, the care will grow.

I can smell her hair on the pillow beside me. She smells of everything that seven-year old little girls do- a jumble of all that makes her beautiful and sweet. And my heart is full. Filled with love.

She sleeps peacefully until the morning light- knowing that I care.
Knowing that I always will.