Vacation Refresh

I don't know why it's happened and I don't know how long it will last, so I need to commemorate it to maximize the effect:

I feel refreshed after vacation. 

And there is no special reason I should feel so zen -- my baby is sick, my toddler was a handful, we are jetlagged and therefore sleep-deprived, and work remains stressful. And yet -- zen I do indeed feel. 

I read the Bible and prayed this morning. Not just as an emergency bandaid for a saddened heart. Not just to prep for Sunday school. Not just in devotional from my feed. But intentionally and exploratorily, with open hands. 

I let laundry languish. I skipped cooking. I haven't make a shopping list. I haven't vacuumed the floor or wiped down the toilet or plugged my overgrown eyebrows. I am doing only the essentials. Which is not to say I won't ever do these things again! But I don't feel a frantic buzziness to do everything all at once. Everything will be done in its own time. 

Before I left, I was thinking daily of The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry and the struggle of implementation. I was flooded with cortisol. I couldn't tolerate my own impatience. And to be sure, I have things to address. Fallow ground to break. 

But now I have slack in my muscles. Space in my ribcage. Room to relax and resist the triggers. Clearance to be self-aware. And I am very, very thankful. 

On doing enough

I am the kind of person who perpetually feels they are never doing enough. (Mostly because it's just accurate.) 

With my clients--I see some of my colleagues providing far more release coordination support than I do, or are enduringly picky about small formatting or stylistic errors, or enthusiastically assent to client requests for tangential advocacy, things I feel I do not have the bandwidth for, and I worry I am wrong for that. 

With my kid--I let him look at screens, I let him eat sugar, ( I let him eat dirt!), I am inconsistent in my application of my chosen discipline method, I have him in daycare, and the older he gets the more I am overwhelmed by the volume of things I have not yet taught him. 

With my husband--I always click into the threads in my due date group polling women on how often they are having sex with their partners, looking for reassurance that my lack of libido isn't inflicting cruel and unusual deprivation of my sweet, uncomplaining husband. 

With my ideals--a friend asked me recently if I was an environmentalist, and, you know, I do really want to be, but making choices that steward the earth is a complicated and nuanced task. Yes, I use a bamboo toothbrush, but sometimes I also just really need to use a Ziploc bag. 

With my faith--ohhh, but this is tricky one. What is the interplay between our commitment to growth and reliance on the Holy Spirit to catalyze that growth in our lives? Grace does not mean we are free to live mindlessly and without discipline, but also, His burden is easy and His yoke is light. 

There is a furniture flipper I follow who likes says, "If we're not doing the most, what are we doing?" I heard her voice in my head as I twice sanded the cabinet doors I was refinishing, hoping and praying that this was not empty labor and would actually make the finish nicer. (But also, let's be honest, this is a lipstick on a pig situation.) 

But this is where nothing is a greater encouragement to me than my faith. The Pharisee prays in front of the synagogue, "Lord, thank you that I have done better than all of these people," while the tax collector prays in the back of the synagogue, "Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner." And who is justified? Those of us who are humble, who are empty, who grieve that we have not done enough, who accept that we could never do enough. 

God gives a glimpse of how right and just and bright and good and kind and free the world could be. And it is good and right to have a hunger for that world. But attaining it does not rest solely on our shoulders. If it did, how could I get out of bed in the morning, how could I look myself in the mirror, knowing I am not doing enough? 

And so I pray, "Give me the desire and ability to do the most in You," trusting in the mystical power of a God who restores in ways that are slow to me, invisible to me, confusing to me, but He is always doing more than enough, and that is enough for me. 

I thought the deluge of friends leaving the faith might slow down in my thirties, but it has not. Whereas in my twenties I felt a conviction that many of these souls would return after some time in the desert, in my thirties I am less sure. 

I don't wish to generalize about people's reasons for leaving. There are many. They are painful. I think I can even say they are legitimate. It is a little bit like hearing about your friend's divorce; you don't wish it for them, but when it happens, it is not your job to comment on how it happened, only to comfort. (Also like hearing about your friend's divorce, privately you look at your own life and wonder, will it happen to me?) 

One of my favorite praise songs when I was a youth was Hillsong's "None But Jesus." It echos the sentiment of Peter in John 6:68, a verse that has been my source of faith for many years, "To whom shall we go? Only You have the words of life." Truthfully, I don't usually enjoy the worship sets at the church we attend, but I was surprised this Sunday when we sang "None But Jesus" and the corporate participation brought me to tears. 

Singing that song I remembered praise nights in the sanctuary of my church growing up, I remembered kneeling at a wooden cross at the YWAM base in San Francisco, I remembered lifting hands in a stadium of 16,000 other people at Urbana, I remembered crying myself to sleep in my bed as a teen. So many flashes of what my faith meant to me then, and how Jesus was near to my heart. 

For many of my peers who have since let go of their faith, these kinds of flashbacks are bitter for them. Things look different for them looking back without the filter of faith. They remember feeling controlled, manipulated. The words are dry. The music is parched. I can understand a little, I think, because I have had seasons where I have felt something similar. 

But in that moment, for me, I was struck by what a gift it is to have these memories to minister to my heart. The investments of my parents, my youth leaders, ministry leaders, prayer warriors, my own investments, they were deposits in my bank of faith that are continuing to nourish my heart in times of sadness, frustration, and distance. What mercy this is! 

Baby Names

A few weeks before Val was born my dad finalized his 70s music playlist for my husband (who sadly missed out on the golden era of Americana). In Val's first days home from the hospital, Peter had this playlist on repeat (all hours of the day and night, because, newborns). As I nursed my baby and changed his diapers, I heard Jim Croce's "Rapid Roy" on repeat and thought to myself what a devilishly cute little brother Roy could be to Val. That song brought me a lot of pep and joy during those tiring first weeks. 

I wanted to get pregnant again immediately. I wanted Val and his sibling to be close in age and to enjoy the togetherness me and my Irish twin enjoyed. I wanted to have more children while my body and mind had the benefit of all this preparation at the ready. On the last day of 2024, Peter, my mom, and I sat discussing things we would have changed about this past year. Peter and I agreed, we would have wished that Val already had a sibling. 

But of course, God has His own timing. 

When we learned we were pregnant again, I was immediately hopeful it would be another boy. Immediately my mind was on names to make this theoretical baby feel more real. Where did it come from? I can't actually pinpoint the genesis. But I have been obsessed with the name Lee. A baby boy named after his mama. A gender-ambiguous but still fairly manly name like his brother has. Joining the ranks of many prestigious Lees. Lee Pace, Lee Strobel, Lee Corso, Lee . . . Harvey Oswald? Robert E. Lee? Well, okay. 

 

Unlike Valor, it doesn't mean anything particularly noble. This was always my sadness with my own name. Lee in the dictionary means "the sheltered side," which I suppose is nice. In old English, it meant field. Meh. Possibly "plum tree" in Cantonese, Mandarin, and Hokkien. The most common surname in Macau, so no points for originality, either. 

This is how Val came not to be named Bear, despite lobbying for that name the majority of the pregnancy. I found myself explaining out loud to a friend why I wanted to name my child that, despite the clunky animal associations, and I suddenly found (mostly thanks to Cocaine Bear), that those unpleasant associations overpowered my affection. Similarly, I struggle to articulate my affinity for Lee. But the affinity persists! 

Then the other day we were doing some housework and Peter turned on my dad's 70s playlist, leading inevitably to Jim Croce. I rushed to find Peter and exclaimed, "What about Roy?!" Peter just stared at me. "From The Office?" And it is hard to imagine how I could give my son the same name as Pam's boorish fiancé (even though it feels like an homage, since we watch The Office nearly nightly). 

Time will tell how our children come to appreciate our reasoning (or lack thereof) in naming them. I hope we make them proud! 

20 Weeks

It's starting to feel more real! Here we are, more or less halfway to meeting our newest member. Seeing him at the anatomy scan, having his gender confirmed, and also receiving reassurances that he is moving well, measuring well, and sporting a textbook heart rate, all these things were giant gifts. 

Since that appointment, I have been able to feel his little kicks, another reassuring milestone that my little baby is in there! (Although unlike Val, he is presently breech, and I could do without those kicks to my cervix.) I can't wait for Val to feel his brother's movements, but for now it still makes my heart melt when he lifts my shirt up and pats my belly going, "Hiiiii bebe!" 

Val is Peter's mini-me in almost every respect. This is something I have historically enjoyed, but now in my pregnancy perseverations I worry that we are setting up our sons to be Esau and Jacob--one favorite for each partner. Val's toughness, athleticism, problem-solving ability, and interest in how things work are all things I love about Peter, and things I want baby boy #2 to have, too. Where will we be if baby boy #2 turns out to be a neurotic, poetry-loving, homebody like me??? 

It is exciting to day dream about who he will be. How he and Val will be together. How our family will change. Peter and I joke that since Val was such a tolerant travel baby, baby boy #2 will see it fit to put his foot down and call us on these shenanigans. I try to anticipate other ways that he will be different--but how can I do it? Part of the fun is we will just have to wait and see. 

Doing my best to treasure all these little moments and not waste any enjoyment of this little baby's existence. 

I love you, little boy

If the kisses and cuddles and constant "I love you"s are not enough, here is a quasi-public declaration:

I love you so much, little boy. 

When I drop you at daycare and the tears erupt, I daily question why I choose to spend those 8 hours away from you. While I work I am watching you from the sky cam, laughing at your gestures and antics. When I get up from my desk to use the toilet, I imagine you running away from your potty seat. When I return, I see you in my mind's eye stationed at the windowsill watching the trucks in the parking lot. You're on my mind all the time. 

This morning you took your little bowl of kiwi slices and placed it on your baseball tee, gave it a whack with your bat, and sent the pieces flying. You looked to me immediately, searching for a reaction. I hate wasted food, I am not thrilled that throwing food on the ground is your new favorite hobby, but in that moment I felt joy--my baby is trying new things and he wants to see what I think of it. 

It is such a gift to be the witness to all your joy and wonder and silliness and discovery. It is such a fearsome responsibility to be your teacher and your caretaker and your guide. I pray every day for enough gratitude, wisdom, and stewardship to be the mother you deserve. 

I love you so much, little boy. 

Most of the time I love my job. On Friday, I signed off for the weekend with a feeling of great satisfaction. Big progress on three big projects. One of those projects, an automatic stay of removal for a deeply sympathetic case. I worked efficiently, effectively, and purposefully. 

So why, then, signing on again after the long weekend, am I filled with dread? Fear that my motion to reopen will be denied and my sympathetic case deported after all? Fear that I didn't do enough for my other two projects? Sadness at the politically motivated firing of 20 immigration judges, including the chief immigration judge at our local court? 

Many times I cope with the stress of the high stakes of my job by telling myself that I am mostly trying to do damage control from my client's prior bad decisions. The system is unjust, it's true, but with the detained population, there were a few bad choices that brought my clients into the auspices of the system. It doesn't mean they deserve what's happening, but it does mean that they understand, we all understand, it won't be a shock if things don't work out the way that we want. 

I know that's not right. 

And it makes coping even harder when I have a client with no "excuse" to serve as the origin for their unfortunate position, only the bald reality of a unfair, racist, and deeply broken system. 

It is a gift to be in a position to be raging against the machine. To be on the beach throwing to throw starfish back into the ocean. But there are still moments when I want to look away. 

Nothing is Promised

Crying on my couch reading stories of mothers who have lost their children. Nothing is promised. 

Watching the news and seeing world leaders falling and fleeing, reports of UFOs in the sky, natural disasters, unspeakable tragedies. Nothing is promised. 

The gifts we have today might not be there tomorrow. The way we live today might not carry on the next day. We can hope for but not expect a rosy future. 

NOW we must be thankful, NOW we must rejoice, NOW we must serve and love and live, because now is the only moment we really possess (and even then, only for a moment). 

You don't know when the last moment will be, so you have to treasure every moment. May I never stop seeking to have a grateful heart. 

Summer-Lover

Growing up I didn't much care for the summer. I hated being hot, sweaty, and sticky. I was convinced my sweat glands were clinically overactive. I felt self-conscious in warm weather clothes that didn't fit quite right. I saw less of my friends from school. I didn't like the beach. Summer was merely the precursor to the best season of them all: fall.

Now I am realizing I am a summer-lover. Long days full of sunshine. Sarah home visiting. Cheap produce and sticky sweet cherries and blueberries and peaches in season. My husband and my baby's birthdays. Knocking off work early on a Friday. Trips to the beach, which I now enjoy. 

This September was tinged with sadness as the leaves on Bedford Street started to turn yellow and fall. The gory Halloween decorations and scary movie trailers took over public spaces. I lost Peter to endless football (and somehow also baseball??) on the television--something I used to enjoy watching with him, but now it reminded that summer was gone. 

I was thrilled to escape to Rio de Janeiro during October. For a week I had summer back. The shorts and crop tops and sandals that hadn't seen use since August were back in the rotation. I got a tan. The days were still relatively short compared to summer in New England, but we stayed up late eating dinner on a Brazilian schedule. I went to the beach every day. 

Now I am back in Connecticut and the fall foliage is at its peak. It is chilly enough for me to dig out my ankle booties and slouchy tops. There is a smoky crispness in the air. Our first day back, I made Debie Peck's pumpkin chocolate chip muffins, which my mom used to make and freeze every fall. Coming out of the oven, the scent of nutmeg and ginger confirmed that fall is here and I am okay with that. 

A Year of Val

More than ever before in my life, time has flown. The cliches make me cringe, but also I can't stop repeating them because they are so completely true. Val has been on the outside for a year now and I have such mixed feelings on concluding this chapter of his life! My baby! 

Having a toddler--not an infant, but a toddler!--on my hands is surreal. I am not sure I am mentally or emotionally prepared to set and enforce boundaries. Today I went to go lift him out of his highchair, but he was fixated on the buckle and he shrieked and squirmed in protest until I assented and placed him back in the chair for him to continue his buckle examination. (I stood there and watched him and questioned, "Am I being too permissive???") Up until this point I have really only had to love him and keep him alive, but now I have to teach him how to behave. I am worried I am not up for the task! 

The shrieking and protesting when he doesn't get his way is a problem and something we will just have to work through with consistent boundaries, but I confess I am absolutely tickled to see him asserting his sense of self. When he sees us eating with forks, he wants to eat with a fork. When we get into the elevator, he has to press the button. My heart melted when my mom plopped Val on the counter and had him "help" her make a batch of biscuits--he was thrilled to dump the measuring cups and stir the batter. 

The older he gets the more fun he gets. Yesterday I threw a blanket over his head and called out, "Val! Where are you? I don't see you?" He pushed the blankets off and laughed uproariously at this game. He was never big into peekaboo, but apparently he loves hide and seek! Making him laugh is one of my favorite things. Having these moments of fun with him makes my heart feel like it's filling my whole chest. It is that delicious combination of delight and affection. 

Seeing my sisters with their babies does give me a little ache in my heart, remembering when Val was that age and that size. Peter and I compulsively watch videos from the past year. Val wriggling his arms out of his swaddle. Val protesting tummy time. Val waking up from a nap. Val trying blueberries for the first time. I felt nostalgic for newborn Val when Val was 8 months. Now I am nostalgic even for 8-month-old Val! I am thankful for all photos and videos we have--I have thousands and honestly I wish I had more. We can't put time in a bottle. But these images are little bit like that. Like a perfume, a whiff brings me back to that moment. 

An acquaintance of mine lost her daughter to cancer last fall. She was 16 months old. My acquaintance shared openly on social media about the treatment process, prognosis, and grieving, and I followed their story with my heart in my throat. It is a strange thing to ache so much for someone you don't know very well, but I hope sharing in their pain and grief was in a small way a comfort to them. I was blessed by their story, because it is good to remember that tomorrow is not guaranteed. It is good to celebrate often. 

Bodily Function TMI

I have the tiniest bit of boob leaking. Not a big deal at all. Some of the ladies in my due date Facebook group have been stashing colostrum for weeks, lots of other ladies haven't seen a drop. There is a continuum of human experience. 

Still, I found it to be very, very exciting! I did absolutely nothing to make that happen. It happened on its own. My body is doing its own set of preparations while my conscious mind is just out here living my life as normal (or worse, to be honest, my nutrition has a little bit, um, lapsed recently). 

Then I had a few dribbles of fluid down my leg. I mean, could be anything. Pee, vaginal discharge, bath water, or . . . amniotic fluid??? Once the thought had arisen, my conscious mind was playing things out. WHAT IF THIS WAS IT???

On the one hand, I would be so happy to have him in my arms tomorrow. I worry about him in there. I wish there was a portal that I could peek into his space to check on him. Part of me wants him to exit ASAP because I have it in my head that I will worry about him less when he is on the outside--but of course that is a fallacy. I can't keep him alive; God sustains him. 

The other hand, the wiser part of me acknowledges how much easier he is to care for on the inside: no crying, no diapers, no feedings. He deserves the warm, comforting enclosure of his womb for as many more weeks as I can give him. And I am in no hurry for the trial of labor. 

But this is what the leaking and the dribbling taught me--first the dribble. It made me imagine with sincerity, for the first time, that moment when my water actually does break. And I realized I am sooooo not mentally ready. (Well, of course not, I am 34 weeks, after all.) My prevailing emotion was panic. 

Then I remembered the leaking, and it made me realize, my body can do all kinds of things without me. When I read in my birth book that pushing is quite involuntary, I have to suppress the impulse to scoff at that--it can't be true, right? But the leaky nips really reassured me--some things really can happen on their own. 

That is not to say there isn't corruption in our DNA. There is a reason I struggle to trust my body. It has let me down before. In His mercy to humanity, He gave us science and medicine and hospitals, because there is a need for them. But the fallenness of the world does not mean it is good or right or true to assume that my body will wholly stop functioning as it was designed. 

On nights that I don't sleep well, I wake up with the overwhelming fear that my baby died in the middle of the night. That I slept too long on my back and the restricted blood flow suffocated him. That all of the meds I took all these times I got sick during the pregnancy created a developmental abnormality not detectable on the ultrasounds. Or that it's just a freak tragedy. I woke up on Sunday feeling that way. 

I focused on my womb willing him to move, and while the briefest rustle confirmed he was still in there, it was not robust enough to clear the cobwebs. I was so tired and feeling nauseated from being so tired, Peter questioned whether I felt up for going to church. The entire ride I perseverated over my morbid anxiety--what could I do to get some relief? We arrived a little late, but we were in time to join the congregation in the hymn that closed out the worship set:

'Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus

Just to take Him at His Word

Just to rest upon His promise

Just to know, "Thus saith the Lord"

O for grace to trust Him more

In a rush I felt a release, a comfort, a peace. It's not that God has said to me that my baby will live. We are not promised our earthly preservation, although I think I have permission to expect that! But I felt the anxiety drop away. Because whatever happens, it cannot change who Jesus is and what He has promised. 

The pastor taught on the passage where, after Lot was kidnapped and Abraham rescued him, Abraham gave a tithe to Melchizedek, and how Melchizedek is a Christ figure from the Old Testament. While the exposition was interesting, I wasn't sure how the tithe connected until the very end, when the pastor gently reminded us--every single thing we have is from God and we are freed so that we can give it back to God. 

He is Your baby, God. I feel so responsible, because my body is hosting him for a time and my actions and choices affect him. But my responsibility does not change the prevailing truth that his fate is more in Your hands than in mine. You designed human reproduction. You put the blueprint for growth in his DNA. You placed his soul in his cells and You have already seen his whole life. 

My hands feel more open. My heart is comforted. 

Toughening Up

Last night Peter and I watched a sample birthing class where the instructor taught a hypnobirthing technique for pain management. I am considering a natural birth because of my fear of needles (and forget about needles in my freaking spine!), so I have been watching a lot of birthing stories and reading a lot of blog posts about how to cope with a natural birth. Ironically, what I have found has not inspired a lot of self-confidence. 

On Sunday, Peter and I also attempted a 60 second cold shower on the advice of Dr. Andrew Huberman and I was appalled by how challenging that was for me. I joked before I got in that this would be a coaching tool for natural birth, practicing relaxing through discomfort for the approximate duration of a contraction. I regretted drawing the comparison almost immediately. I finished the 60 seconds feeling demoralized. It was so hard! And that was only cold! Not pain! 

So when our birthing class instructor told us to grab some ice, I knew what was coming. As I squeezed the ice cube in my palm, I did my best to go to Station 18 1/2 at Sullivan's Island beach. I tried to remember dodging the jellyfish as I ran, I tried to remember watching the freight coming in and out of the harbor, I tried to remember sitting in the shallows while it thundered and lightning, I tried to remember hiding my frose in the sand . . . but I couldn't go there. I was sitting on my couch with little stabs of cold shooting up my arm. Meanwhile Peter was on the side of me radiating bliss. "I'm in Hawaii!" 

It's been a while since I have embraced physical discomfort. Marathon training is a well I go back to as I try to hype myself up for what my body can do, but the truth is that it's been months since I've been on a really good run. Even the road race we did last spring was a struggle, not triumphant. The nausea of the first trimester felt intolerable, unbearable--I slept during the day, something I hate doing, just to get some escape from it. I even stopped taking the stairs! (I am back on my stairs-only wagon now, but it is so much harder than it once was!) 

I feel like a weaker, softer version of myself. I don't think of myself as a mentally tough or particularly disciplined person, but I thought I was stronger than this! I thought I could power through the feeling of my body quitting on me, but I remember that it took two marathons, not one, and hours and hours of training to be fit enough to do that, and it was still really, really hard. I used to be able to smell the salt coming off Shem's Creek and the sugar drifting out of the praline shop, but now when I need those memories, they are out of reach and all that is in front of me is the unpleasantness, discomfort, and pain.

And if you are thinking I sound dramatic right now, I would tell you I am not being dramatic enough. If I feel this way now, how am I supposed to handle it when I actually do feel like my insides are being ripped apart??? Feels like it might be more realistic to mentally train to cope with an epidural than mentally train to cope with a natural labor. 

The one thing that comforts me: I still have time to prepare. I have time to prepare my body physically with walking, and stairs, and strength training, and endurance training, and raspberry leaf tea. I have time to prepare my mind to focus on the beach instead of the contractions. I can learn all the Lamaze breaths and the other hypnobirthing strategies and maybe even successfully meditate. I think I have a lot of cold showers ahead of me. (Today I cheated and only put my legs and arms in, and it STILL hurt!) 

I tell myself this decision is about my fear of needles, but I think it is also about my desire to challenge myself, to feel accomplished. Of course, I think I will feel accomplished whichever way this baby gets out of me. I already feel accomplished. Hayley 10 years ago thought she would never be able to tolerate the discomfort and indignities of hosting a person inside her body. Yet here I am. And Hayley of 10 years ago is still with me in this ethos of chose the hard thing. 

Finally getting pregnant after one miscarriage and 30 months of trying does not cancel out or somehow negate the pain of those experiences. Even standing in my doctor's office with a sonogram photo after just being reassured that, yes, my baby had a heartbeat, even then I cried for the baby I never got to meet. 

Thinking now about who we want to tell and how we want to tell them, I remember how others' pregnancy announcements landed. My sister-in-law's birth announcement came on the day I started my period after our first month of trying. Now I am embarrassed that I could even be so hopeful and expectant after just one month, but in that moment her happy news felt like an exclamation point on my empty womb. 

We learned of another friend's pregnancy just a month before we got out own first positive pregnancy test. She had been very careful about talking about it because she had had a miscarriage just a few months prior. I thought of her and so many other friends when we learned our baby had died--I was comforted in a small way by the knowledge of how common miscarriage is. There are many of us who have walked through this grief. 

I took a break from Instagram about a year ago because I felt so much guilt and anxiety about what I knew and didn't know about people's lives. I feel like I can enter a social interaction now and ask with sincerity, "Tell me what's been going on!" and not feel the temptation to pretend I know what's been going on since I saw it on the socials. 

I also feel that I can share the happy things and the sad things with more trust. It is lovely to receive affirmation and encouragement from strangers and acquaintances. But something like a pregnancy announcement, I know from my own reactions how fraught it can be. As much joy as I felt for my friends, I felt an equal proportion of sadness, loss, and maybe a little envy. And as much encouragement as I received from hearing my friends' struggles with fertility, I am not sure I have sufficiently processed my sadness to share such personal information for mass consumption. 

The people who love me can hold their happiness for my happiness in tension with their own complicated feelings on this topic. The people who love me can suspend judgment about my journey and engage with my dual grief and joy. The people who love me want to know these Big Life Updates. And I am so thankful to have people in my life who readily carry that mantle for me; I hope I can do the same for them.  

Loss

It is good to remember: 

This is common

This is not your fault

This is making life in a fall world

This is God's design for our bodies

This is painful--and you should not deny yourself the pain

It is good to grieve:

I hope you will not feel ashamed of your sadness

Or ashamed of your hopefulness which made this news such a surprise

The brevity of this life does not mean its loss is without consequence

And your hopefulness to try again does not dishonor the loss

Somehow it feels good to have the tender parts of your heart be tested

It was true before and it is true now: I have gifts all around me

30 Books

One of my goals for 2021 was to get back into reading. It's strange to me how reading used to be such a regular part of my life and an activity I defined my identity by back when. But mid-way through my twenties the punishing reading schedule of law school combined with the siren song of television stamped out any appetite I had for recreational reading. 

But in actuality, my mom had resolved to become "a reader" (although her delineation did puzzle me, since I have always considered my mom to be a reader) and in sharing her Audible password with me, she opened the door for many mini book discussions on my weekends home. Then, my sisters plus an honorary sister successfully launched a more formal book discussion group, which has successfully selected three titles in 2021. We are getting it done the way that works for us. 

For attribution purposes, many of these titles were recommended by the Modern Mrs. Darcy book club; this is not my own curation. 

It has been life-enriching to be consuming books again. Many selections have assisted me in considering certain topics anew. The Cold Millions, for example, read just before the George Floyd protests broke out, forced me to reexamine the role of direct action and peaceful protest. Codependent No More gifted me so much wisdom about why I struggle in certain ways in certain relationships. I listened to Americanah while I worked on a Nigerian asylum case and I listened to Sparks Like Stars while Kabbul fell to the Taliban.

I noticed when reviewing the ground I had covered this year was how each title evoked memories from when I had been reading that book. Even though the vast majority were consumed while driving, I remember those trips: stopping for Chick-fil-A in Virginia while listening to The Silver Chair; getting a speeding ticket in Roscoe while listening to The Other Black Girl; blushing through Beach Read on a flight back from Mexico; hunting for the Mercer Williams House in Savannah before starting Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Usually my memories feel very slippery to me, but sharing these books with other people (Peter, my mom, our book discussion group, our travel companions) has helped me hang onto not only the stories themselves, but also the slices of life that was happening while I encountered these stories. 

This is the full list of books I finished in 2021:

• Station Eleven by Emily Mandel
• Killers of the Flower Moon by David Grann
• Silver Sparrow by Tayari Jones
• The Jane Austen Society by Natalie Jenner
• I'll Be Seeing You by Elizabeth Berg
• The Poet X by Elizabeth Acevedo
• The Great Sex Rescue by Sheila Wrap Gregorie
• The Cold Millions by Jess Walter
• This Tender Land by William Kent Krueger
• The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis
• The Downstairs Girl by Stacey Lee
• The Making of Biblical Womanhood by Beth Allison Barr
• Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt
• Writers & Lovers by Lily King
• People We Meet on Vacation by Emily Henry
• Dream Big by Bob Goff
• Americanah by  Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
• Liturgy of the Ordinary by Tish Harrison Warren
• Sparks Like Stars by Nadia Hashimi
• The Other Black Girl by Zakiya Dalila Harris
• The River by Peter Heller
• Out of the Pocket by Kirk Herbstreit
• The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
• The Good House by Ann Leary
• Beach Read by Emily Henry
• Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler
• It's Better to Be Feared by Seth Wickersham
• Evicted by Matthew Desmond
• Codependent No More by Melody Beattie
• The Last Watchman of Old Cairo by Michael David Lucas

I warned my husband, "I am becoming radicalized!" Between watching The Trial of the Chicago 7, reading The Cold Millions, watching the news, and being an immigration attorney, I have sensed my simmering rage begin to bubble at the reckless, repeated, callous, and unrestrained violation of rights by governments. 

In particularly, I have been considering an Instagram post by @literally.noam.chomsky that articulated the following observation about inducing political change:

Many people seem to think that the process of political change through peaceful protest looks something like this: (1) People peacefully protest, (2) ?????, (3) Political change happens. In reality, it looks something closer to this: (1) People protest in a way the government is unable to ignore, (2) Protestors are unjustly beaten, teargassed, and shot at in a public setting by the government, (3) The general population witnesses the violence, becomes outraged, and sides with the protestors, (4) The government gives in to the people's demands on the threat of mass revolt.

The post concludes that emphasis on peaceful protests is really requesting that people become martyrs for their causes. This is partly the goal of one of the protagonists of The Cold Millions, a young pregnant labor organizer is distressed to receive bail, because she had intended that her imprisonment would galvanize respectable people to care about Spokane's anti-speech law. This is what Tom Hayden meant when he spoke about blood running in the streets--let America see the brutality! I guess this is what I mean that I cam becoming radicalized, that I am increasingly comfortable with sacrificing my safety or blood for what is right. 

But I don't know if that really works, you know? I want to raise awareness. I want people to know about famine in Yemen, about gang rule in the northern Central American triangle, about political prisoners in Senegal, about the injustices of the immigration system, about how scary and inhumane jail is. There is plenty of outrage and awareness out there already, but what has it done? I think about Pete Coones and Derek Chauvin, and I wonder what I'm doing with my law degree. There is just so much that is broken, and I feel really powerless. 

There are no answers inside myself. In church the pastor reads Psalm 2:1, "Why do the nations rage and the peoples plot in vain?" To my surprise I saw I had highlighted this verse, it must have been at least 3 years ago, but still I'm asking this, why? The psalm goes on to say, "He who sits in heaven laughs, then he will speak to them in his wrath." That same morning we sang, "Shake the mountains, break the walls apart, open the Heavens, Almighty God, You are Overcomer, by Your power, the oceans open wide, Your fire falls down, Heaven and Earth collide, Your power and Your presence break strongholds, when You speak, mountains move." The pastor asks us, "Have we lost our reverent fear of the power of God?"

I felt sobered but comforted leaving church. Awed by the reminder that my God decimates kingdoms. Convicted by the reminder that my God has already sacrificed his body to make broken systems righteous. 

Bits and bobs accomplished this Saturday. 

I had ordered some hydraulic hinges for the bed frame on Amazon, and we had attempted to install them last week, but it was bumpy going. I was concerned that the ones I had chose just wouldn't work with our space and set up, but Peter is the ultimate problem-solver! He got those bad boys installed all by his selfie, and our bed opens (practically!) on its own now! Very sturdy. He shaved some more wood off the edges of the frame so they are not scraping against any of the walls. He also added trim along the edges of the frame so the mattress won't slide out. 

In the bathroom, Peter attached quarter round in the shower wall seams. He added faux tile board to the side of the bench seat that meets the shelf under the window. And he started building the shelf under the window! Shower needs to be caulked and the drain secured, but it is really looking like a real shower. 

We got the missing female elbow joint for finishing the plumbing for the shower distribution, and Peter finished installing that. He carved out some of the stud with the multitool so the elbow can sit securely in there. Reattached the outer wall and put wood putty over the screws, sanded, and it's ready for paint! 

We tried to install the bathroom light. It is a 120v fixture, but we attempted to convert according to the instructions and, no dice. The wires are live, and the fixture worked when we tested it at my parents' house, so perhaps the problem is the bulb? 

I busied myself with sanding: the last window frame is ready for its paint, and I patched some holes with Bondo now that it is warm enough for that. I took the knobs off of the window lifts so I can get the paint off those and get them shiny again. I opened up the Capt'n Tolley's to try sealing some rivets. Might try treating the windows with it, too. Weatherstripping and scouring the aluminum might be my next little project. Peter is the woodworking Michelangelo, so I need to find little prettiness projects. 

We are going to try to get it inspected next week, so next Saturday will be for getting it up to snuff, e.g., attaching the belly pan in the back, checking the license plate light, tightening the lug nuts. I am hoping the inspection station will be able to give me a checklist. Once it passes inspection we should be able to get it registered! We are looking to move it to my parents' house by March 15. 

Lawyers on the Beach

Some days, I think about having my own law firm. 

There is plenty that I don't love about this idea. Actually, most of it I don't love. You carry all of the responsibility, all of the liability, all of the work on your head. You aren't just doing legal work, you're also running a business. You have to be organized and disciplined. You have to take cases you don't want because you need the fees. There is no one else to help carry the load; you are completely alone. 

That scares me because I know I am not good enough on my own, all by myself, and in every role I've ever had, I have enjoyed working with teammates and I have leaned heavily on them for their strengths. It is invaluable to have someone to bounce ideas off of, to get a second opinion from, to help you draft something when you are pulled in several different directions. Teamwork makes the dream work! 

But the one advantage of hanging my shingle is significant enough that it keeps me coming back to this ill-advised cockamamy idea. Implicit in self-employment is freedom. You make your schedule. You choose your cases. You set the culture and the standards for your practice. You can do your work from the beach, if you want, and if that work is drafting and not a confidential client call. I could escape from the geographical difficulties that Peter and I are trying to puzzle through at the moment. I could replace the stress of this decision with a different kind of stress. Ah, freedom. 

Tomorrow is my one year workiversary with my small private practice firm. I didn't think I would make it this long, so it's exciting to reach that milestone. When I started I thought that private practice would be hard for me because we wouldn't be able to help every person who came to us for help--but actually what has been hard is justifying taking people's money and not returning to them high quality work. 

Before, I thought that self-employment was completely unattainable for me--I simply didn't have the skillset to make it work, and I had no interested in trying. But after seeing a little bit how managing one's own firm actually works, the hubris in me is like, um, hey, I could probably do this. And even if I can't do it well I could probably do it better, right? I'm embarrassed of my arrogance even as I write that, but it is the reason why I still toy with this scary idea. 

But still, I call it a scary idea because I have seen self-employment turn into a prison, too. How free are you, really? You answer to clients, to judges, to clerks, to the bar, to your colleagues, all the little demands on your time that fill a day until you don't have any time left to sit in peace. With people counting on you and you alone, once you get on the treadmill, it can be hard to jump off when it gets too be too much. 

What reason is a good reason for making such a big and expensive and scary decision? And how can you know how it will pan out before you try? And would I survive failing? 

I miss your tea

I think about my former clients all the time. What is really fun about being a public defender in a rural county is you get to know people, not just the frequent fliers but also the places they go, the people they associate with, and the other things happening in their lives besides their court cases. It makes me feel like a townie in the best sense. 

A few weeks before I left, I paid bond on a case where I felt the bond determination was especially unfair. This was a kid who had never been to jail before, and a case with a high likelihood of dismissal, and so even though the clerk scoffed at my naïveté, I didn't lose sleep over it. After he was released from holding, he came to my office and sat at ALR's desk and cried and cried, and I worried about what would become of him. 

After I left the public defender's office, I checked in on the case once or twice, along with at least a dozen more, but eventually I forgot their names. Whenever I learned of a not-guilty in that county through the listserve, I would text my replacement congratulations, cheering for the outcomes he had been able to secure for my clients which I had not. I never learned what became of my sad sap, but I hoped he was safe.  

Well, today I got his bond payment back in the mail! His case number was printed on the check, but the case was not in the court portal. I spent a few minutes searching for the case but eventually gave up, presuming from the fact that the bond was even returned signaled that this was was dismissed and sealed like I expected it would be. But in the time spent perusing the names of defendants who came after I left, I found myself so saddened by how many names I recognized. This kid may have dodged a bullet, but many of my other frequent fliers had not. 

On our evening walk last night we saw a fist fight break out. There was a gaggle of adolescent boys, maybe 14 years old, huddled out front of the McDonalds. One of them ran a few paces away, turned back and squared up, and no word of a lie, the rest of them pig-piled on him. They were pulling his hair, yanking on his clothes, punching his chest and head. I watched helplessly, torn between wanting to intervene and not wanting to be responsible for escalation. 

Because we had been out walking, we knew there were two cops just 300 feet down the road, and as a car laid on its horn at the kids, I willed these dum-dums to break it out before they caught the attention of the police. I realized that was probably a perverted reaction--I should have wanted some kind of intervention for the poor kid getting wailed on, but I was worried about his assailants, too. 

I don't know why I root for the wrongdoers. Why it's easier for me to have compassion on the struggling criminals than the meritorious innocents. In my rural county it was a revolving door of people hurting people, one week a domestic violence victim, the next week a pants thief. All people unable to get out of their own way because of myriad factors, but most likely because of poverty, and most fundamentally because of sin. 

We are all sinners. We keep passing through the revolving door, of hurting others and being hurt. And strangely, that's not necessarily bad news, because it means we have (for now) escaped the ultimate accounting for our sin. Our God is slow to anger and withholding judgement to just give us a fighting chance at hope, redemption, righteousness, that we might be healed despite the brokenness we sustain. 

My clients, they suffer. Life has broken them even more than the criminal justice system might. I cheer when they avoid judgement for their actions not because I condone their wrongdoing but because I feel in their frustration and desperation that the natural consequences of brokenness in this world are already taking them to task. We sinners are getting what we deserve and also not getting what we deserve every day. And it's perverted to think that our communal suffering is a form of grace in motion, but also I want us all to know grace. 

(P.S. That bond payments are returned to payors via mail months after a case has been resolved does a terrible disservice to those who have no disposable income to be bailing out. I used to think bail bondsman were a scam, but now I get that it's better to be parted from your money forever for less than to shell out beaucoup bucks but have that money enslaved to the bureaucracy.)