Mary

11 books to read this summer

Even though my kids go back to school in less than a month, I feel like summer is just getting started. The days are still hot and sticky, the idea of cooler weather and fall leaves seems impossible.

So here are eleven books you should read this endless summer. You have plenty of time.

People We Meet on Vacation by Emily Henry
I listen to a lot of audiobook in the summer. Between afternoon walks, hours on the lawn mower, and working in the garden, I have a lot of time to listen to stuff. People We Meet on Vacation was such a fun way to fill some time. Henry is great at writing dialogue which, I think, can make or break a story, and even though you know this love story will work out in the end (it has to! that’s the way the genre works!), it’s still engaging and interesting. Emily Henry writes good beach reads so she has to be on a summer reading list.

Nobody Will Tell You This But Me by Bess Kalb
I finished this book on the way back from a camping trip and sobbed as we rolled down the highway. At one point, Chris asked if I wanted him to pull over. Why would I tell you to read a book that gutted me in the end? Because you have to meet Kalb’s grandma. You have to learn about her family. You have to listen to her stories. You have to. And in some powerful-yet-inexplicable way, you learn about your own family in the process.

Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows by Balli Kaur Jaswal
Okay, so I know it says “erotic” in the title, but I assumed it wasn’t literal because it’s followed by “for Punjabi Widows” but I was kinda wrong. This one is a little spicy so if that’s not your thing, go ahead and skip this one. But for everyone still reading, this book about women living in an oppressive culture who find their own footing and change their community is beautiful to read.

The Lowlands by Jhumpa Lahiri
Don’t judge a book by its cover or you’ll assume this one is boring. I picked it for book club a few months ago and someone said it was probably going to be lame because it had some fiction prizes noted on the cover. But they were wrong and this book was really good. Definitely not one I’d normally be drawn to, but Lahiri’s story of two brothers born in Calcutta in the 1960s. Their relationship and family life is, like most peoples, complicated. When obligation and secrets make them unknown to each other, one brother spends the rest of his life wondering who his brother really was and how he still has so much impact on his life. (I listened to the audiobook version of this and it helped with all the names and places; I think I would have struggled a little more with it if I had read it.)

Our house was under construction this spring as we added a new front porch and now that it’s (mostly) done, we spend hours reading and rocking and talking on our new favorite spot.

Early mornings while camping are best for coffee, good books, and freshly picked blueberries from the bushes near our campsite.

Grown by Tiffany D. Jackson
So this one is labeled young adult, but it’s definitely something I’d want to read with older teens because there is so much to talk about. Grown is loosely based on the R. Kelly child abuse cases and follows the story of Enchanted Jones as she’s groomed and abused by a hip hop star. This one is hard to read in parts because you can see the danger and abuse, but Enchanted is a naive teenage girl who doesn’t understand what’s happening. Grown is a powerful story about a topic we can’t shy away from because it could literally save young women.

The Guest List by Lucy Foley
Foley writes modern Agatha Christie books and I’m here for the thrills and mystery. There’s a creepy island, a wedding with lots of strangers, and so many secrets. I read this one in less than 24 hours—it’s a great stay-up-late story for vacation, a long weekend, or a Tuesday night.

The Bookish Life of Nina Hill by Abbi Waxman
You could probably read The Bookish Life of Nina Hill if you’re really committed and don’t want to leave the couch this weekend. I liked this story of a quirky woman obsessed with books who doesn’t see how her mother’s death has made her lonely and unable to trust people. Of course, a cute guy shows up to help her see the error of her ways. But in the end, she saves herself, which is really the only way. (This one gave me about five other books I wanted to read too; she references so many books and they all sound good. So have your reading list handy while reading this one.)

The Henna Artist by Alka Joshi
Set in 1950’s India, The Henna Artist follows the story of a women who flees her marriage to live on her own in a new city. At a time when women were only as important as the men they were married to, she learns a trade and become self-sufficient while refusing to become attached to a man. Eventually, some people from her past arrive to the remind her of who she is and things start to fall apart. I loved this immersion into Indian culture, food, and clothing. The descriptions are wonderful and vivid. This book comes with a big dose of the travel bug. Just a heads up, there is a storyline that involves babies and loss, so if those are tender spots for you, this is one you might want to skip. (I listened to the audiobook version of this one, and it helped with names and places I would have stumbled over.)

The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah
Hi, this one will make you cry. But it’s so beautiful and well written and lovely that you should read it even though you know it’s gonna break your heart. The Nightingale is set in France during World War II and follows the story of two sisters and their very different, but still heroic responses to German occupation. Hannah is a master storyteller and, while some of her books feel like they’re made to manipulate our emotions, this one feels different.

Evie Drake Starts Over by Lunda Holmes
Evie Drake was loading the car to leave her abusive husband when she gets the call that he’s died in a car wreck. A year later, she’s still playing the grieving spouse while keeping the secret of her unhealthy marriage when Dean, a baseball player who lost his magic, comes back to town. Of course, they fall in love. But—and here’s the best part—the way she handles her pain and secrets to make things right before going forward is why I loved this book. I’ve had enough therapy to no longer enjoy codependent romances where all the problems “suddenly” go away because people are in love and being healthy has ruined a lot of chick lit for me. But this one holds up.

One to Watch by Kate Stayman-London
I don’t watch reality TV and I’ve never seen the Bachelorette or the Bachelor (I know, *gasp*), but I really liked One to Watch, a book about a plus-size blogger going on a reality dating show. The story is fun, but also addresses body images, the lies we tell ourselves about fat people, and the confusing/icky way we have turned love into an entertaining game. I read this one on vacation this winter and it was a perfect vacation read.

What are you reading right now? Anything I need to add to my list for this endless summer? Lemme know!

DISCLOSURE: Affiliate links used

The first to stop jumping

I serenaded my family on the way in. Somehow we ended up listening to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack as we rolled through Ohio, and I performed “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” and “Hungry Eyes” to my horrified captive audience.

What I didn’t realize was we were heading toward the movie set.

Austin Lake Park opened in 1946. It’s still owned by the same family; the current president swims laps in the lake every afternoon. He greeted us late Friday night as we pulled in, barefoot and smiling. The camp has a PA system that chimes four times before an announcement about the rabbit petting zoo or the bingo game that’s getting ready to start. (Do you remember the announcements from the school office in Grease? Every time the PA system chimed, I expected the Pink Ladies to appear.)

The park is huge. Nestled in the Ohio River Valley, in the hills of the Appalachian Mountain range, there’s no cell service or nearby restaurants. You’re in the middle of nowhere with endless things to do.

The lake alone could keep you busy for a week. There are pedal boats and pontoons, obstacle courses and fishing. There’s a beach to build sandcastles on and a dam you can ride an inner tube down. There are canoes and kayaks, paddle boards and tubing. There’s a raised platform in the middle of the lake where you can pick your poison: a five foot jump, a ten foot jump, or a twenty foot jump.

We sat on the beach and watched as a man jumped off the tower for hours.

Climb the ladder.
Walk across the platform.
Remove his hat.
Hold it in his gloved hand.
Walk off the ledge.
Fall eighteen feet.
Near the surface of the water, jerk his feet out.
Plunge into the water.
A pause underwater.
Break the surface.
Put his khaki hat back on his head.
Swim to the ladder.

Again and again and again.

The first day we spent at the beach, we watched as he climbed and jumped for over two hours. He was still jumping when we left.

The next time we saw him, Chris said, “I wonder what he’s paying penance for.”

We all know that feeling, when the demons and the guilt get too loud and you do whatever you can to quiet things: Drink. Shop. Control. Run. Avoid. Jump.

We all want to punish ourselves, to make the stuff that happened go away if we just do the thing often enough. It’s a score—a balance sheet—and if we just do enough, the scales will be tipped back in our favor. We’ll forgive ourselves. We’ll forgive others. Others will forgive us.

“Maybe I should ask him if he’s okay,” Chris said eventually.

My husband knows the ache of wanting someone to ask if he’s okay. When he was a kid. When he was drinking.

Yesterday.
Today.

Sometimes it’s easier if someone asks. It helps us tell the truth. We can’t just say it first. Going first means we may never go at all.

I was at the lake that day with men who went first. First in their family to say no more drinking, no more secrets, no more quiet at all cost, no more hiding, no more pretending everything is fine when it is all on fire.

Austin Lake Park opened in 1946, when our grandparents were young, when the rest of their lives were in front of them, when their foundations were being laid. I think about those beginnings a lot. How they led us here—both in good ways and not so good ways. How we carry family legacies, whether it’s the slow walking or the flaring nostrils or the trauma. How we keep repeating the past until we turn back to look at it and say no more, until we learn better ways. Until we see we don’t have to keep jumping off the same tower and expecting different results.

At some point, we learn we have to stop jumping.

I’m not sure there’s any other way

She said: I find myself falling apart and angry as my husband is confronting childhood trauma and addiction issues—it’s been so much stress on me and I’m barely hanging on.

I know it feels like all your time and resources are being directed at his stuff, but, if you can, please find a therapist. You were not made to handle this on your own. If you want to survive this too, you need your own help. I would not have survived without therapy. Our relationship would not have survived without me in therapy.

It feels infuriating that early sobriety (from anything) is five years. Because it is so long and exhausting. But it’s true. Addiction layers go deep and the minute you feel like you’re making progress, something else comes to the surface.

Remember this is a marathon, not a sprint. Also, addicted brains have coped with trauma and pain and abuse by hiding it. Addiction is a way for us to avoid looking at the things that are screaming for our attention. The longer someone is clean and sober, the more our brains remember. It takes time. Healing takes so much time.

And you never know what will trigger things that were hidden.

Recently, Chris’ maternal grandpa died. Chris hasn’t been in contacting with his mom since November 2017. I’ve written—in some general ways—about his childhood, but let’s just say it was awful. He grew up in a home full of abuse, secrets, mental illness, and shame. He no longer speaks to either of his parents. In the beginning on his estrangement from his mom, there was hope she would get the help she needed. Unfortunately, as time passes, she seems to be getting worse instead of better. (We’re still in relationship with his brother and sister and families; this isn’t the time, but it’s also important to say that when one sibling leaves a family full of abuse, the guilt about leaving the others behind and unprotected—no matter how old you are—is real.)

The bottom line is Chris’ sobriety is more important than keeping his parents happy. He is not required to ruin his own life to be in theirs. (And plot twist: they are never happy; they are victims always and forever. So even in relationship with them, they would be unhappy. They do not have the ability to be happy or the self-awareness to get the help to figure out why that is, so any guilt Chris has about their unhappiness is a catch-22. He is not the answer to their problems, but it’s easier to say that than take responsibility for their own actions and lives.)

ANYWAY. Chris’ grandpa died and we were talking about the funeral. Chris decided we wouldn’t go because he didn’t want to see his mom. Drawing any attention to himself at his grandpa’s funeral felt gross. We sent flowers and he called his grandma instead.

He doesn’t call his grandma often because she refuses to respect the boundary he’s set around their conversations. He doesn’t want to talk about his mom with her. No matter how many times he explains that, she insists on trying to guilt and shame him into calling his mom. She can’t have a normal conversation with him, she’s so intent on manipulating him.

(There are two reasons this could be happening: 1. She hasn’t been told the truth about why Chris is no longer in relationship with his mom. This is a bad sign because it means his mom is not taking responsibility for her dangerous actions. To change, heal, and reconcile, you first have to admit what you’ve done. 2. She knows the truth and doesn’t care. That’s a bad sign because, well, child abuse and secrets and the things that went on in that house were not okay. She should not be okay with them.)

So Chris can’t call his grandma very often. He has stated his boundary, she keeps ignoring it, and so he doesn’t call. It’s madness to keep allowing people to overstep a necessary, life-saving boundary you’ve made. People tell you who they are. We’ve got to stop pretending we don’t see it.

So death and family communication happens and, as always, it kicks up the dirt in Chris’ life. Some things shift and poke out, some things re-emerge. And his almost-four-years-sober brain lets some new stuff tumble out.

He tells me new things he’s remembering, things that have been haunting him when he’s awake and showing up in his nightmares.

And they are horrible.

I hate his parents all over again. Hate what they did. Hate what they allowed. Hate what they hid.

But he doesn’t hate them. He’s resigned and sad and grieves his childhood. But he’s not angry anymore. He’s thankful he survived. He’s thankful he doesn’t have to worry about them anymore. He’s thankful he can say the things out loud and not be immediately overwhelmed with shame. He’s thankful he doesn’t need to handle the memories with alcohol or drugs or hiding.

And, truthfully, I hate his parents only briefly. My anger doesn’t stick around like it used to. At some point, nothing shocks you, but also, I’m tired of being angry. Anger is a heavy weight to carry.

Chris is safe now.
He is loved.
He is cared for.
He is seen.
He is safe.
He is safe.
He is safe.
And he is clean and sober.

It took years to get here. And he is not done. This work will be for the rest of his life. But there are more good days than bad now.

But we had to get through a string of about 700 bad days to get here.

So what I want to tell you is keep going. As long as you are seeing progress and healing and change, keep going. It will not always be like this. It will not always feel like this. It will not always hurt so much.

But you can’t skip this pet either. You have to go through it—feel all of it—get angry and sad at every single part. Then you slowly come out the other side.

But do not avoid it. You’ll need it for the days—four years later—when a new heartbreaking secret tumbles out. You’ll need it because then you’ll have firmer ground to stand on, better coping mechanisms, and a more tender heart.

I am sorry it hurts so much right now. It will not be like this forever even though it’s hard to imagine anything else. Please take care of yourself. Find a therapist. Be patient and kind with yourself.

It’s okay if you’re falling apart. I’m not sure there’s any other way.

Shawnee National Forest

It felt late to set out on our first camping trip of the season at the end of May, but we’ve been spending all our time and money on a construction project at home, spring softball and track schedules, and getting the gardens planted.
We were doing things we loved, but it was time to leave those behind for a long weekend in the woods.

We made the six hour drive to Shawnee National Forest for Memorial Day weekend. It’s located in southern Illinois, in the middle of absolutely nowhere. And that’s saying something, because we live outside Indianapolis in the middle of nowhere. But this is even more in-the-middle-of-nowhere.

Shawnee National Forest is 280,000 acres of forest in the Ozark and Shawnee Hills between the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. It seems close to home yet the terrain is foreign, like something that should be out west with the mountains.

We camped at Dixon Springs State Park which is in the national forest. The park had a great pool and waterslides, but the weekend we were there it was too chilly to swim. I didn’t think the campground was that great. I wouldn’t stay there again; some sites seemed to be okay, but site 7 (where we stayed for four days) was horrible. We were on a pull-through site that dropped off after the parking pad. The designated fire pits were built on concrete blocks and the rain water had washed away the surrounding land which meant it was just this concrete block holding a grate surrounded by a valley. We could maybe put one chair near the fire. You couldn’t roast marshmallows or hot dogs, couldn’t sit near it in the evening, couldn’t drink coffee in the early morning while the fire smoldered.

Like most people, a fire is a big part of our camping experience. The weather was chilly and perfect for fires—yet here we were in a campsite with a fire pit we couldn’t access. It was super frustrating. Thankfully, we don’t really rely on the fire for meal prep, but evenings without a fire while camping feel weird.

I would not recommend camping there.

Our days were spent away from the campground. We spent the first full day exploring Garden of the Gods. It was a 45-minute drive from the campground to the trailhead. The Garden of the Gods loop is 1/4 mile and should take 30 minutes. We spent over 3 hours hiking, climbing, and exploring. It’s really beautiful and fun to explore. We got there early to make sure we found a parking spot. We wanted to hike before it got too busy. It was a Saturday on a holiday weekend, so by the time we were done it was packed and parking was a mess.

I’m always entertained by what people wear and bring for hiking. This trail is moderately difficult. I’d wear tennis shoes or hiking boots. It’s fine for small kids, but don’t try to bring a stroller. We passed families in flip flops and other families loaded down with hiking backpacks filled with extra clothes, snacks, and med kits, carrying hiking sticks, and wearing camelbacks. It’s a great place to spend a morning, but you’re never more than 15 minutes away from the car so you don’t need much with you. Even if you’re a Boy Scout.

After lunch, we headed to the Outpost for ice cream, souvenirs, and Bigfoot pictures. Apparently, Shawnee National Forest has some pretty regular Sasquatch sightings. You know Chris Graham was on board and on the lookout. A local guy installed a large Bigfoot statue across the road from the Outpost that’s fun for pictures. Then on the other side of the road is a family of Sasquatch walking and eating ice cream. As Sasquatch are known to do.

My dad’s family is from southern Illinois, and I grew up hearing stories of the crime families and shady characters that ran the area. The Outpost has some neat books written by descendants of those people so I picked them up for my dad. I can’t wait to read about the southern Illinois crime lords who rivaled Al Capone in the mid 1900s. I’ll let you know how it goes.

After ice cream and Bigfoot, we drove to Cave-in-Rock State Park. It was a 30 minute drive to the Ohio River where we played at the shore, explored the cave (in a rock, duh), and hiked a few trails.

From Cave-in-Rock, it was 45 minutes back to our campsite.

The next day, we made the trek to Rim Rock National Rec Area. It was 40 minutes from our campsite. We got there early again (early = 10:30 AM) and the parking lot was already beginning to fill up. We did the Ox-Lot Cave trail loop. It was about 1.25 miles total, but we took the jaunt off to Pounds Hollow. It was about 1/2 mile to the water and worth the hike. It was too chilly to swim (although some crazy people were); if it had been warmer, I’d have packed towels and swimsuits. It’s a nice beach and beautiful lake. Their bathrooms were clean and nice so changing into swimsuits and spending an hour or two swimming before hiking back would be fun. The girls waded into the freezing cold hollow as long as they could stand it and then we headed back. We spent about 3 hours total on the trail.

From Rim Rock we headed to the nearest small town that had outside dining. We ate at E-Town River Restaurant in Elizabethtown. It sounds fancier than it was, but when you’re in the middle of nowhere, it works. We were hungry after hiking, the sun was shining, and we ate on a patio floating on the Ohio River. No food can taste bad at that point.

Then we headed back to the campsite for the evening. We made a stop at the Dollar General to rent a Redbox movie and spent the evening watching movies and reading. We love a movie night in the camper when it’s raining, but it felt kind of weird to do that when the weather was nice.

I guess that’s what happens when you have a crappy campsite with no real way to have a fire.

We spent a lazy Monday morning walking around the park, riding bikes, and packing up. Then we headed home. It was an odd trip to start the camping season, and I’d like to never camp at Dixon Springs again, but the day trips were worth the weird campsite and it’s officially summer so, really, nothing can be that bad. If you’re planning a trip, I’d fill up on gas before you head into the forest, be ready to drive each day to see the sights and trails, and pack all the food you need before you go.

________

[P.S. Have I been MIA from the blog for a while? Yes. Writing full time as a job means I’m less likely to write after work because, well, that’s a lot of writing. But I’m not complaining. Most writers write their whole lives and never make it a career. I’m living the dream. But the blog is suffering. I think of a million things to write but never want to sit down and write them. I’m trying to change that this summer, if nothing more than to document our trips. I get a lot of questions and requests for recommendations because we travel so much and everything is starting to blend together. I’m forgetting too many things. It’s a good problem to have, but I don’t want to forget this summer, the trips, the friends, the beginning again. So I hope to show up here more, not just to talk about camping and traveling, but to talk about life and books and growing and grief. We’ll see how that goes.]

We’re still falling for the same tricks

Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally got retweeted by InfoWars and featured on conspiracy theory websites?

Well, do I have a story for you.

We lived in Beech Grove, Indiana, for ten years. Beech Grove is a small, incorporated city inside Indianapolis, just south of downtown. The city was originally a company town, built around a railroad repair facility.

St. Francis Hospital was built in Beech Grove in 1914. Actor Steve McQueen was born there in 1930. My friend Jessi was born there in 1981.

It was a happening place, obviously.

Even President Harry S. Truman visited Beech Grove once.

In 2012, the hospital closed. Services were transferred to the newer, more modern hospital a few miles down the road. I remember the giant red signs they put up over the ambulance entrance ramp. It felt sad to turn away people, but the hospital was just too old.

After it closed, we used the hospital’s massive parking lot for family walks, scooter races with the girls, and backgrounds for blog photo shoots. (Still very sorry for the years I tried to be a fashion blogger; please forgive me.)

After the hospital closed, it sat vacant. There were rumors of buyers, big plans, new owners, but they always fell through.

The hospital sat empty for years.

We lived about two blocks from the hospital. You could see the towering building easily from our yard. It was—by far—the biggest thing in town. Often when describing to someone where you lived, you used the hospital as your compass.

I live just east of the hospital.

I’m about three minutes from the hospital.

Beech Grove is a small town inside of a big city.

One night in May 2016, we went to bed like normal. The girls were snuggled into their bunk beds. Our dog was burrowed into a blanket at my feet. Everything was calm.

Until it wasn’t.

Around midnight, Chris and I woke to loud helicopters circling above our house and gunfire.

It sounded like our street was under attack.

I peeked cautiously out the window and saw red lights in the sky.

Slowly, neighbors came pouring out of their houses. We hesitantly wandered to the middle of the street in our pajamas and bathrobes. We stood in small groups, a few people called 911.

By this time, most of the noise was coming from the hospital. We could see flashing lights and what looked and sounded like explosions through the windows on the top floors. Gunfire, men yelling, helicopters overhead. It was loud and disorienting and we could not stop watching.

I had my phone with me. I got on Twitter to see if anyone was talking about what was happening or if the news was reporting anything.

About five minutes later, the sounds died down. The helicopters left. It was silent again.

Everyone stood on the street, stunned and staring at each other. It felt like a dream: no one really understood what had happened, but it was exciting and a nice night to stand on the street in our sweatpants talking to our neighbors.

After a few more minutes, word began to spread: 911 operators and some neighbors had been told ahead of time. There was going to be some police or military practice at the hospital that night. Don’t be alarmed. It was just a drill.

Except we were alarmed. No one had told us. No one felt unsafe—we were just confused, just startled out of bed in the middle of the night.

We slowly made our way back to our houses and back to bed.

The next morning, I woke up, got ready for work, sent the kids to school and daycare, got on with my day.

Then I got a text message from a friend, did I know I was on the news?

That’s when my middle-of-the-night sarcastic tweet started showing up everywhere.

Local news stations used a screenshot of my tweet in their stories about the commotion. Online media quoted my tweets in their articles.

It was—as we had first heard murmuring of the night before—a training exercise for the military.

Here’s a local news station’s coverage of the events: https://www.wrtv.com/news/call-6-investigators/beech-grove-residents-awoken-by-booms-gunshots

And then the conspiracy theory people showed up.

They started responding to my tweets, sharing them, using them on their websites.

In 2016, I wasn’t yet aware of the level of government mistrust and rampant misinformation floating around the dark corners of the internet. I knew InfoWars was extreme right-wing media, but I had no idea the level of darkness and lies I was being thrust into.

What was to me (and anyone who knew me or followed me) a joke, was treated as factual, fear-based information to other people. The websites took others’ tweets and used them too.

https://www.zerohedge.com/news/2016-05-25/did-we-go-war-terrified-indiana-residents-woken-unannounced-military-exercise

http://themillenniumreport.com/2016/05/beech-grove-indiana-wakes-up-to-a-military-drill-unannounced/

We weren’t under attack. There was no helicopter shot down. While we were startled, no one was scared or in danger. The best way I can describe it is it felt like we were in a movie: it was surreal. We were watching something that looked violent, but we weren’t scared. We were confused yet we all stood calmly on the street in our bathrobes casually chatting. I was mostly concerned the loud noises were going to wake my sleeping children, because THEN someone was going to be in trouble.

But the conspiracy theory people were just getting warmed up. Eventually, I stopped reading the tweets or conversations on Twitter. It was entertaining and silly and kinda unbelievable, but it was also boring and I wanted to move on.

Conspiracy theory media did not want to move on.

And then a FEMA camp got rolled into the story.

A FEMA CAMP. In my small city, in the middle of Indianapolis. That no one but very smart, in-the-know right-wing extremists knew about. The screenshot in green above is a picture of the railroad repair station I mentioned in the introduction. It’s now run by Amtrak and services hundreds of trains a year. St. Francis Hospital is about a mile from the train station. Nothing happened that night at the train station, but that doesn’t matter at all to the “news” reporter sharing this story. If you’d like to watch the whole 6-minute video, here’s the link: https://newsvideo.su/video/4330931

(Notes on the video: Glenn Beck apparently “investigated” and then de-bunked this theory. The video shows where the FEMA camp supposedly is, but it’s just a video of old Amtrak cars at the back of the train’s property. We would drive by these all the time on our way to church. Also, please be delighted with how he says my name as he credits the tweet. And finally, I know people who work here—at the Amtrak station—like normal guys who go to work and fix trains. This is not a FEMA camp. It feels ridiculous to even type that.)

Here’s why I share this story:

Because misinformation and half-truths and manipulated stories are rampant on the internet. And more and more people are believing them. I’ve lost friends and family members to the cult of conspiracy theories. It’s confusing and sad to watch.

But it’s real to them. They “did the research,” figured out the clues, got caught up in the mysteries that confirmed all the stories hinted at. They fell for all the tricks. They ignored confirmation bias, credible sources, and boundaries about Christ-like behavior. And we lost them.

For a while, I was dumbfounded by this. Then I moved to shock and embarrassment. Now I’m just sad. It all makes me so sad; people took advantage of them and they fell for it and now they’re in too deep. Things are falling apart and instead of understanding that NOTHING they’ve assured us would happen actually happened, they just double down with new predictions, new theories, new stories.

And none of it makes sense. None of it is rational. It’s become a sick obsession.

I read a great article by a game designer who explains all the alternative reality and theories behind the QAnon playmakers (because it’s not just a guy and definitely not a guy in a high-level government job). The article said:

The implications in the Q prompts are one-sided and designed to cast doubt, not offer proof. Once doubt is cast, it is incredibly hard to dispel.

It’s very hard to prove something doesn’t exist. You can’t prove there are no aliens for example. Aliens scientifically could exist so you will never be able to prove that they don’t. You can’t prove someone isn’t in a cult either. No matter what they say. Doubt can not be dispelled easily. It can be grown easily, however.

Conspiracy theories thrive on doubt. I saw it firsthand when the military showed up in the middle of the night on my street to do some exercises. The real explanation made perfect sense. We weren’t in danger. It started and stopped pretty quickly which makes sense for a training activity. A lot of people (just not us!) knew about it ahead of time.

But we cannot prove without a shadow of a doubt it wasn’t military practice to prepare for the FEMA camps getting ready to move in. Don’t pay attention to the details about Amtrak and the people who work there, that it’s been years and there is no FEMA camps, that the middle of the capital of Indiana is not a reasonable location to put a FEMA camp, or that the people spreading this “news” get half the information wrong.

Ignore all of that. Let it just create a *little* doubt in your mind.

And that’s all you need to get roped in to a conspiracy theory. It’s that simple. Doubt, like the article said, can be grown easily.

Being raised in the church, I was taught to guard my heart and mind. Mostly this was in relationship to the opposite sex and pornography. It was used to talk about sex and produce shame and help control things that felt dangerous (female bodies, for example).

But I think we raised a generation that didn’t understand “guarding your mind” could mean others things too. That you don’t dabble in lies and doubt. That you don’t spend time reading half-truths and poorly constructed stories meant to create fear and division. That we don’t share and promote things that “might” be true. That we don’t gossip or manipulate reality. That we don’t want to encourage a mistrust in others—others made in God’s image just like us.

Because when we do, it dulls our senses. We get away from God’s truth and decide we know our own. We mingle half-facts and Jesus, secrets and God. And what we get is anger, self-righteousness, pride, violence, condemnation, and isolation.

We didn’t guard our hearts and our minds, and we lost God in the research.

Jesus shows us what to do with doubt. In Matthew 4, Jesus is tempted in the wilderness. Satan whispers in his ear, lies meant to make him question what He knows, make Him question his Father, make him act in ways outside of God’s will.

And Jesus rebukes Satan. He tells him to leave. He doesn’t give him room to wiggle into His heart and mind. Jesus doesn’t allow for the entertainment of such things.

But what our conspiracy theory friends said was, “Tell me more.”

And along the way, we lost our integrity. Integrity says we don’t share information we aren’t sure is true. We don’t gossip or spread lies. So if we—as Jesus followers—aren’t 100% certain something is true, we shouldn’t be sharing it with others. Having doubts about something (a common conspiracy theory intro tactic) and knowing something is true are two very different things.

We didn’t guard our hearts or minds, and we lost our integrity.

We’re called to live “peaceful and quiet lives” (1 Timothy 2:2) and instead we got into the middle of violence and destruction and division and lies.

One day on the internet, I got pulled into some conspiracy theories on accident. And when I realized what was happening, I walked away. Turned off the notifications. Stopped checking my phone. Didn’t feed the beast.

But some of us went in on purpose. We kept asking for more and more and more and then we couldn’t stop. Addiction in its truest form, cloaked in the name of Jesus. We heard the whispers of doubt and instead of rebuking and turning away, we opened our hearts and minds for the sowing of deceit and deception.

And now some of us are so sick we can’t find our way out of it. The devil doesn’t need new tricks—we’re still falling for all his old ones.

others are in on the secret now

Across from our house is a cemetery.

My desk faces the window and sometimes, while I’m working, I watch grave diggers prepare the ground for a burial. I see families slowly work their way up the long drive. I observe people gather under a blue tent to say goodbye to someone they love.

Today I watched another funeral.

There were about fifteen people present: funeral home employees, a minister, and the family. The size of the procession leads me to believe the person who died was older.

There were only two people in attendance not wearing masks, the minister and the man who rode with him. Everyone else—family and friends saying goodbye, workers from the mortuary—was wearing masks.

I watched the minister walk around hugging people. He knelt down to get in the face of an elderly woman sitting graveside.

It reminded me of what my friend Shannon said on the internet last week: the American church is not under attack, it is being examined.

And what’s showing up under examination is ugly and fake and flimsy. What’s showing up is pride and self centeredness, superiority and ignorance.

Things of the church are falling apart, because they weren’t built well to begin with. That’s not God’s fault. That’s not the fault of someone who would rather you say “Happy Holidays” than “Merry Christmas.”

It’s our fault.

We read the Bible, said we wanted to follow Jesus, then created our own rules and work-arounds. We believed the lie that America is a Christian nation without trying to be very Christian-y. We thought the name and Sunday morning attendance and the Bible verse framed on the wall covered us.

But when the world began to notice our words and actions didn’t often line up, we got angry. We were quick to say how dare you. We made excuses and twisted scripture and said God has already numbered our days so who needs a mask?

Imagine driving drunk. We know the consequences of driving intoxicated. It could hurt us and others. It could kill people.

But instead of choosing to not drive drunk, we say God’s in control and we get behind the wheel anyway. Because—of course—God has numbered our days. Then when horrible things happen, we just call it God’s will. God’s plan. God knew, obviously. He knew before we were even born.

Knowing something and planning something are two very different things. God doesn’t plan death. He literally sent His son to conquer death. He sent His son so the grave was not the final answer.

But we can still get to death quicker by our actions. And we can take others with us if we desire. Free will is still ours for the taking.

If I decide to drive drunk, it’s not God’s fault or plan when people die. He gave us the choice. He lets us choose, always. We always, always have a choice. We have a choice of obedience or death. We have a choice of others before ourselves or me first always.

St. Teresa of Kolkata said, “When a poor person dies of hunger, it has happened not because God did not take care of him or her. It has happened because neither you nor I wanted to give that person what he or she needed.”

We’re not giving our neighbors what they need right now. On so many levels.

I don’t care if you believe COVID-19 came from the Democrats to win the election. I don’t care if you think China did this on purpose. I don’t care if you think it’s only as serious as the common flu.

Putting others before ourselves is our calling as Christians. Sacrifice and kindness to others is the way of Jesus. We don’t get to call ourselves Christians and then pick and choose what parts of Jesus’ message we want to follow.

Picking up His cross acknowledged His ways are better than ours. And His ways always elevate our neighbor above ourselves.

Right now, our neighbors are watching us. Imagine the damage we’re doing to people who know we follow Jesus. That we say their health doesn’t matter. That we say they’re worth the risk for our pride.

I’d want none of that Jesus you’re selling me. Not one bit.

Can you imagine being a minister in the middle of a pandemic, showing up to serve people who have lost someone, and not caring enough about those people to wear a mask?

Words don’t matter here. It doesn’t matter what you claim, it doesn’t matter what hope you try to share as you stand behind the casket of our loved one. It doesn’t matter who you say you follow or what label you give yourself. If your words (I follow Jesus!) and your actions (Your health and safety don’t matter enough for me to be inconvenienced!) don’t match up, it’s not your actions that are lying, it’s your words.

I want none of that Jesus you’re selling me. Not one bit.

And neither do all the people watching you.

Shannon is right, the American church is being examined. And what’s being uncovered is sin and death.

And look at us: instead of repentance, instead of asking for forgiveness, instead of caring for our neighbors, we’re doubling down. We’re hiding more, screaming louder, making more excuses, demanding more from people.

God didn’t make COVID-19 happen. God didn’t create it or plan it. But He is calling us to show the world how well we show up in crisis. And I think—for a lot of us—He’s not surprised with our actions because He knew what was in our hearts the whole time. He’s just letting others in on the secret now too.

in the mountains of North Carolina

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: we don’t take for granted that during a pandemic we’ve able to still travel and explore with our camper.

COVID-19 changed the way we travel: no wandering around a gas station to stretch our legs or buy junk food, restroom breaks in the camper, no eating inside restaurants even though we really want to. We skip touristy things we might have visited in the past.

We are a pretty self-contained little caravan. Camp in the forest, hike with masks in case we pass others, and bring our own food.

Even with all the changes, fall break in the North Carolina mountains was perfect.

We arrived Saturday afternoon to Lazy J Campground. Over five years of camping with a travel trailer has brought us a wide variety of campground experiences. We tend to stay away from places that have long-term camping; we’ve learned those places aren’t where we like to be. Truthfully, if I had seen Lazy J ahead of time, I wouldn’t have made a reservation. I’m so glad I didn’t see it though, because we would have missed out on some pretty great rustic camping.

Our lot was wooded and secluded; we could hear the French Broad River as we sat outside; we were near all the places we wanted to be. If you wanted a weekend in a tent, this would be a pretty great spot too. This is a low-frills campground; don’t expect nice bathrooms, wifi, or a place to do laundry. You’re paying for a spot and that’s it. (It’s $30/night for full hookups which is crazy cheap. We’re used to paying around $60/night for most places.) The lack of amenities was fine for us since we shower in our camper, but we only packed enough clothes for six days, because I normally do a load or two of laundry if we’re gone for more than a week. Probably more information than you need, but the socks and underpants situation got dire near the end of our trip because I didn’t do laundry as planned.

Sunday we spent the day exploring the Pisgah National Forest. Our campground was right on the border of the forest and driving through the park for trails was fun. The Cradle of Forestry was worth the $6/person visit. We got to see the nation’s first forestry school and the grounds where the foundations for America’s forestry programs were laid. The CoF also has paved walking trails on 1-3 mile loops if accessibility is a concern.

After exploring all day, we had a movie night at home. A Redbox and boxes of movie candy and popcorn with the windows open as the cool mountain air blew through was the best way to end the day.

Monday was my birthday. We took a 3-hour morning hike to a waterfall we never found. Happy birthday to meeeee. It was fine; it was a beautiful hike even if Harper cried for most of it.

We drove the Blue Ridge Parkway and stopped at lookouts as long as others weren’t around. I know I’m not the first person to say this, but the BRP is breathtaking. The fall leaves were unbelievable. It feels like you’re driving in a movie that never ends.

We got sushi takeout for an early dinner. We rely on Yelp a lot when we travel; we try to eat local when visiting a place and Yelp said Sora Japanese was a good stop. I agree. First time eating sushi on a picnic table at the camper; we so fancy.

After dinner, we had a game night. I bought two new games for the trip: Uno Flip and Monopoly Deal. The girls loved Uno Flip so much we never even opened Monopoly Deal. They played it every day, multiple times a day.

Tuesday we drove into Asheville. It was about a 45-minute drive from the campground. The girls shopped at Dancing Bear Toys, we walked around the downtown shops, we picked out treats for the dogs at Patton Ave. Pet Co., and Chris Graham bought a new pipe and tobacco at the Carolina Cigar Company. There were a few stores downtown that had signs restricting out-of-state customers. One was a bookstore we really wanted to visit, but I understand the majority of people traveling right now might also be the people who aren’t making choices to keep others safe. This was the first trip we’ve ever taken without a bookstore stop. Sad trombone.

On our way out of Asheville, we stopped for a late lunch at Moe’s BBQ. It was our 14th wedding anniversary, and we knew we wanted to eat some Carolina BBQ to celebrate. We ordered Moe’s to go then sat on their patio. The weather was sunny and perfect, the BBQ was amazing, and Harper declared Moe’s her second favorite restaurant of all time. (First favorite is City BBQ.)

Once our bellies were full, we left the city and headed to DuPont State Forest. We did the Triple Falls Loop to see where they filmed part of the first Hunger Games movie. This late afternoon hike was full of stuff to see, places to get into the cold water, and not a lot of people.

Wednesday we spent a lazy morning at the camper. Chris slept in, I drank lots of coffee, and the girls played on the dangerous old slides the campground had. Mid-morning we left the girls on iPads and took the dogs on a hike a few miles up the road. They loved it; Mac has boundless energy and no fear. Blue is more timid and cautious. They both traipsed through the river and swam in the cold, cold water.

After lunch, we drove a few minutes down the road to Headwaters Outfitters. We rented kayaks, and they dropped us off on the French Broad River for a 3-hour trip. The river was cold and clear. We made reservations for Wednesday, knowing it would be the warmest day all week, so we enjoyed mid-70s and clear skies as we manned the river. The section we were on is Class A, so it was a pretty calm, manageable trip. There was enough current to keep you going without too much effort. I’m not sure we could have asked for a better afternoon on the river.

We finished up the day with more rounds of Uno Flip and Gin Rummy. (I won, thank you.)

Thursday we spent the day at the Biltmore Estate. This was the most peopley part of our trip, and I was a little anxious it would feel too crowded and unsafe. But the Biltmore was ready: limiting attendance, hand sanitizer stations everywhere, constantly reminding people to leave space between groups, and firmly telling every person wearing a mask below their nose to cover up or leave. (This is my dream, to be able to tell people how dumb they look wearing a mask that doesn’t cover their nose. I’m not saying it’s a good dream, but it’s a dream.)

If you’re going, especially in the fall, buy tickets in advance. I bought them a few weeks before we left and tour times were already slim. Nine and under are free, so don’t buy your nine year old a ticket like I did. (They gave me a refund at will call when I picked them up, but they didn’t have to. It’s all over the website that refunds and transfers are not allowed. It was very kind of them to do it anyway.) We knew we were going to visit the Biltmore so I was prepared for the ridiculous tickets even though it still killed me to buy them. We spent all day touring the grounds, house, and buildings. I don’t regret spending the money, but I understand how it also feels really crazy to spend that much money on tickets. We packed a lunch and ate there; you could spend hundreds of dollars eating a nice meal at one of their farm-to-table restaurants, but we chose to spend $30 on three ice cream cones instead.

Whew.

Friday we slept in, had biscuits and gravy, and packed up the campsite. Around noon we headed toward home. We made it to Norris Lake in Tennessee and stayed the night at Mountain Lake Marina and Campground. It was just a place to sleep, but I’m not sure I’d pick that campground again. It was full of long-term campers, you had to walk ten minutes to the dumpster to get rid of trash, and our view was crappy. Obviously, we don’t own a boat and so a marina campground isn’t the place for us anyway. But Norris Lake is amazing; we camped there years ago with friends and loved the long weekend.

Saturday afternoon we pulled into home dirty, tired, and happy. I love traveling and exploring, but I really love coming home too. On this trip, we reminded the girls a few times how this fall and winter might be hard with the pandemic so we were grateful for the traveling we got to do and the things we got to experience. Infection rates in Indiana (and many other states) are spiking so we’re mentally preparing for schools to be shut down again. We’re not trick-or-treating this year; the girls are okay with it, and I’ve promised to make the 31st a day full of fun, but it still stinks that so much of what we’re experiencing now could have been avoided.

I think it’s time to winterize the camper. We thought about camping a few times in November, but we’ve got a summer porch project to wrap up, a few more trees to cut down in our yard, and a garden to ready for winter. This was probably the last trip of 2020 for the Grahams. Definitely ending on a high note.

DISCLOSURE: AFFILIATE LINKS USED.

I’m always looking for food ideas when we camp. Below is the meal plan for the trip. We were gone 9 days and I planned food for 6 days. With leftovers and a few meals out, 6 days worth of food was more than enough food. (We don’t cook too much over the fire; no one has time for that. We have a grill and an electric skillet. I do most of the cooking outside on a table, but the fire is mostly for warmth, hot dogs, and s’mores.)

Breakfast:
-cereal x2
-waffles/French toast sticks
-bacon, eggs, and fruit
-biscuits and gravy
-banana bread and yogurt with granola
-Poptarts

Lunch:
-charcuterie board x2
-sub sandwiches
-salads
-dinner leftovers x2

Dinner:
-tomato soup and grilled cheese
-chili dogs
-Crockpot pulled pork sliders
-grilled hamburgers
-walking tacos
-broccoli cheddar soup and grilled turkey sandwiches

It changes the way you vote

My dad told me he regretted paying for my college. He said this because he saw my college education at a secular school as the gateway to political beliefs that no longer match up with his.

He’s never had a real conversation with me about what I believe or why. Or how much my faith–not my college degrees–has to do with how I vote the way I do.

It’s really not a conversation we can ever have, it’s not safe or respectful. It will do more damage than good so I’m not interested in having it with him.
But I would like to have it with you.

I entered undergrad and exited undergrad voting the exact same way. If I didn’t know anything about a candidate on the ticket–normally for a local election– I left it blank. I understood the importance of carefully voting after research, but I voted similar to my parents.

After college, I interviewed at a few schools for a teaching position. I interviewed at a private, Lutheran high school where the principal called me later and said he thought I was meant to work with a different type of population than his private school kids.

I agreed.

I found my way to a school district less than 15 minutes from where I grew up. It was close to my White community, but not very White. Kids came from government housing and apartments. We had a high rate of free and reduced lunches, a term I didn’t know as a student, but knew well as a teacher.

Here’s what happened when I spent ten years teaching kids who, for the most part, lived and looked very different from me:

I started to learn that many of my political views directly hurt my students and their families. I saw firsthand how lack of medical care influenced their learning. How costly childcare meant they often cared for siblings in the evenings instead of doing my homework. I witnessed kids in foster homes that hurt them more than helped them. I had more than one student miss first period, because they needed to use the locker room showers to bathe and brush their teeth. I had parents skip parent-teacher conferences because they couldn’t miss work, no matter how much they cared about their child’s education. I learned some kids don’t celebrate Christmas in December; they celebrate it when the tax return comes in February because that’s the only time they have extra money.

Teaching kids who didn’t live the same life I did made me start questioning a lot of my beliefs. It didn’t make me more confident in the way I was taught, it made me start to realize something in my thinking was wrong.

I see the need for some people, especially Christians, to want their kids to go to Christian colleges. On the surface, it sounds safe and insular. Christians are taught to fear the big bad world outside their door. They’re taught people who don’t think like them were made specifically to trip them up.

This isn’t an actual Biblical principle—the Bible doesn’t mention college or higher learning once. It also doesn’t mention sticking to the people and places we feel most comfortable with. But we’ve been able to twist His words enough to make it sound like being around people only like us can keep us the safest. We’ve disregarded the parts of the Bible that tell us to be salt and light and latched onto the lie that safe and comfortable is the reward for following Christ. A reward we should reap in the here and now.

I went to a secular college and somehow managed to not sleep with 400 people, get pregnant, do drugs, or become a prostitute. I know this might shock the church people. My husband spent a semester at a Christian college, dropped out, then came home to begin a 15 year+ drug and alcohol addiction.

Plot twist.

I’d say our responses to college have more to do with family life, trauma, support systems, and mental health than the “good” or “bad” college we went to.

That’s the same with so many of my students. Their responses to their environments weren’t based on their education or lack of, it was based on their family life, trauma, support systems, and mental health.

Because when we don’t have to worry about basic needs like food, shelter, and safety, we are able to do more things, able to make better choices, able to be more successful in relationships and careers.

So I began to vote in a way that matched with my evolving belief: if we want better citizens, maybe we should create better lives.

That means I vote for:

Healthcare for all
Affordable mental health access
Fair wages
Abolishment of the death penalty
More taxes on the wealthy
A more equal distribution of wealth
Freedom to make choices about my body
Affordable childcare
Care for immigrants
Legislation guided by science and data
An end to privatized prisons and mass incarceration

If I believe all humans are created in the image of God—imago Dei—I vote for their respect and care and benefit.

I was trying to educate kids in an environment set up to fail. We expect schools to fix all of society’s problems instead of understanding school is just a reflect of society. If we want healthier, engaged kids to show up at school every day, we have to start by fixing things outside of school.
Schools reflect their community, not the other way around.

My college degrees didn’t change my voting habits, getting to know people who were different than me did. Suffering and injustice is easy to ignore when you don’t know anyone who doesn’t have the exact same problems as you. If you’ve never been hungry, you don’t understand what someone will do for food. If you’ve never experienced housing instability, you don’t know how far someone would go to have a safe place to sleep.

These are not character flaws. They are basic human needs we all have. And we are failing large, vulnerable groups of people by the way some of us vote.

I’ve had lots of conversations with people who can’t imagine giving people something they didn’t earn. “I work for my things and so should everyone else.”

If we all started on a level playing field, that might make sense. If we all started off in safe homes with plenty of food to eat and clean clothes to wear, maybe that would work. If we all had loving, healthy parents to protect us and guide us. If we all had homes where drugs weren’t present, where addiction wasn’t lurking, where we learn healthy self-esteem instead of how to carry our parents wounds.

If only.

And until that happens, we look for the people who need help and we help them. Will there always be the people who take advantage of the help? Of course. But we help anyway. We can’t control what other people do, but we can also not actively make choices to hurt them more.

Last year, my Thursday morning Bible study girls and I read through the Gospels. We learned a lot about Jesus, obviously. Sometimes we read the same story repeatedly and that was a little annoying, but that’s just my need for efficiency getting in the way. Reading the same stories, especially from different perspectives, often taught us new things about Jesus and following him. The point was the story-—of course—but the point was also the different perspectives. We saw new or different things when we read the same event from a different author. We saw different details, different parts of the same truth.

We have to have different perspectives, different points of view, different accounts. We have to have people who live differently than us, who grew up differently, who see life differently. Because it changes us. It makes us kinder and more aware and more merciful and more generous. We have to know how others live, what they struggle with, what hurts their hearts, and what keeps them up at night.

We have to know things outside our bubbles. It’s the way Jesus lived, and it’s the way his followers have to also. When we sit with the woman at the well, dine with the tax collector, or touch the sick, it changes us. It shapes our hearts to be more like his in a way surrounding ourselves with people who only look and live like us doesn’t.

We lead sheltered lives because we believe it keeps us safe, but really it just keeps us away from the suffering of others. We tithe our ten percent and trust the church to do some charity work instead of finding people who are worth being friends with and then meeting needs when you see them. (And realizing others can help meet our needs too; we are all needy in one way or another.) We sweep into situations trying to save people instead of just being with them. And we do it while failing to acknowledge we also need saving.

I’ve spent a lot of my thirties around addicts and alcoholics. I sleep in the same bed as one; I’ve sat at tables with them during rehab visits; I meet them in the stories my husband shares; I shake hands with them at AA meetings; I welcome them into my home. This is a world very different from the one in my twenties. I got pushed out of that comfort zone kicking and screaming when I realized the issues Chris had brought to our marriage. Learning about addiction showed me programs and laws and rules and facilities set up to help some people and punish others. I got to witness firsthand how the world handles sick people we don’t deem worthy of grace, mercy, or respect because of their disease.

I got to see hurting people who have to rely on the help and support of others to survive. I got to be a hurting person who had to rely on the help and support of others to survive. That changes your heart, your understanding of what mercy is, your awareness of who God is.

And it changes the way you vote.

My college education didn’t make me more liberal, as my father has inferred. It didn’t teach me to vote for socialism or Marxism or any of the other terms people like to throw around but don’t really understand. What changed my political views was Jesus and relationships and compassion and hurting people and reading the Bible to learn better ways as opposed to find support for the ways I already believed. What changed my heart was praying “Lord, break my heart for what breaks yours” then following that pain to people.

If we are Christians, the goal of wisdom and maturity tells us we will continue to get uncomfortable with our beliefs, continually be changed and challenged to be more like Jesus, and continually see areas of our dark hearts that need Jesus. If instead, in aging, we’ve found hard hearts, a political home with no wiggle room, and easy answers to every question, we have failed our God, we have left Him behind. We have created a new god, one who closely mirrors us.

Reading about the life of Jesus can be frustrating because so often he answered peoples’ questions with other questions. JESUS, JUST TELL US THE ANSWER, I want to scream during my morning quiet time. Give me black and white so I can feel secure and doubtless in my faith.

Time and time again, I’m reminded Jesus is often found in the gray, in the questions not the answers, in the faith to continue for the next moment, not the next five years. He is found in loving people well even when it doesn’t make sense, when they don’t deserve it. He is found on the other side of fear and scarcity. He is found in generosity and open hands and trusting that He will take care of all of us, not just some of us. He is found in the places the world tells us we shouldn’t go and with people the world says aren’t important.

And if that’s where I find Jesus, that’s how I vote too.

1096 days

Thanks for taking me to the hospital three years ago, he said as we sat on the couch.

He was watching football. I was reading a book with my feet in his lap.

You’re welcome, I said as I turned back to my book, and he turned back to the TV.

Today is the three-year anniversary of my husband being clean and sober. Three years of therapy, AA meetings, growing, healing, and learning. This is the first anniversary that hasn’t felt precarious. The first time in years it hasn’t felt like a bittersweet celebration, with excitement and fear, hope and reservations.

I’ve been trying to work out what I wanted to say about this milestone, but I don’t have a clear post for you. I guess I just have snippets.

Last week I was on my morning walk when I passed an empty Coca-Cola can on the side of the road. Bright red against the drying grass in the ditch, I knew it wasn’t there yesterday. This was fresh litter. My very first thought was should I pick this up and smell it for alcohol? My first thought was it was Chris’. My first thought was he’d thrown it out on his way home the day before.

Trauma is weird, because it bombards you with thoughts and feelings and emotions before you even have time to know what’s happening, before you know it’s there.

I knew I wasn’t going to pick up that can. Gross. I knew hundreds of people drove this road, not just Chris. I knew lots of people drink Coke, not just my husband.

My thoughts weren’t rational. I didn’t have other things happening at home that made this discarded can confirm my suspicions. It was just a can and my mind—without my consent—went to the scariest story.

Healing is slow for Chris. It is slow for me.

Last winter Chris’ counselor suggested he do brainspotting. Brainspotting is “a treatment method that identifies, processes, and releases core neurophysiological sources of emotional/body pain, [and] trauma…” The idea is you can go back to the memories your brain has stored–maybe some you can’t even access completely–and rewire your response to them. For Chris, it meant going back to the abuse he suffered as a child and handled with his child-brain. Using the safety and security his adult-brain now has, he gets to use better coping mechanisms and heal from the situations.

Adult you goes back to kid you and tells you you’re okay, that the things happening to you aren’t your fault.

It sounds crazy, but it’s not. God, in His infinite wisdom, made our brains to keep us safe. It’s where fight, flight, or freeze comes from. It’s also why sometimes our brains hide things from us; our well-designed brains know we are not equipped (for whatever reason) to handle what we’ve experienced.

But our bodies and brains don’t forget what has happened. We live in the response and consequence of those things. And one day—if we’re lucky—we’ll have healthy, patient people who help us handle the things that shouldn’t have happened to us.

For the first time in years—as Chris went through brainspotting—he wanted to drink again. The farther way he gets from his drinking, the less appeal it has. But looking directly at the moments and places that broke your little kid self is exhausting. For Chris, it brought back intense feelings of loneliness. And loneliness is what caused him to drink. When you grow up in a home that doesn’t tell you you’re important or valued or worth keeping safe, it’s hard to learn a different story when you’re older. So every time Adult Chris had a negative experience (things we all have every day), it reinforced the lie that he wasn’t wanted or worth anything.

And if you believe you’re not worth anything, you can’t make good choices for your body, your future, or your life.

Working through months of brainspotting and painful childhood memories sober was challenging. Addicts and alcoholics don’t like to feel their feelings (that’s the whole point of using), so feeling everything that came up and not muting it was some of the hardest work I’ve seen Chris do.

But he did it. He remembered the things done to him. He remembered the people who covered it up. He remembered the loneliness.

And he stayed sober.

I’m just checking on you, man, because we’re a bunch of liars, Chris said into his phone this weekend. He was talking to a fellow drunk, someone he’s sponsoring in AA.

A few years ago, this would have made me cringe. Telling the truth is so foundational to my being, it feels like a personal attack to know someone has lied. I tell the truth even when it’s to my own detriment.

I know lying says more about the liar than the listener. The lies tell others what we want to protect. They tell others about the secrets we have, about the shame.

I am remembering that more easily now, with less internal crisis, than I was a few years ago.

Lies always have benefits for someone. An old friend lied about me to others, because it sowed division and made others less likely to ask me about the stories she was creating. Liars manipulate people to control the narrative. Chris’ mom lied to family and friends, because it kept people from realizing the truth of what she was allowing at home, the dangerous environment she was helping to protect. Lies keep selfish people safe. A friend’s husband admitted to making up things I’d said to save his marriage. He apologized to me, but said he wasn’t going to stop telling those stories. Liars love stories to save themselves no matter what the cost. Addicts and alcoholics lie. They lie to keep their secrets secret, to keep their needs hidden, to keep their pain covered up.

Recovery is freedom from lies.

It’s amazing the time and energy you have to do other things when you’re not so wrapped up in keeping all your stories straight, making sure your victims don’t cross paths and share stories, living a life you don’t have to hide from people.

Chris walks lighter these days. He still drags his feet like a child. He still ignores me when I tell him to pick them up. But the walk is lighter nonetheless.

After Chris came home from rehab, I asked my therapist when things would get easier. His recovery, learning boundaries, removing the dangerous people in our lives: how long does it feel so overwhelming and hard?

It takes a few years, she said.

Absolutely not, I thought. This is not sustainable. We will not survive at this level of upheaval for so long. Maybe giving up is easier.

But here we are at the three year mark, after a quiet, amazingly easy summer. This was the first summer we didn’t live so fully in the consequences of Chris’ bad choices. This was the first summer we weren’t taking two steps forward and one step back. Recovery is slow. So is building a new life.

I get asked a lot how I knew to stay. What made me not give up?

My answer has two parts:
1. I stayed, because Chris stopped drinking. If he was going to continue numbing his life using drugs or alcohol, I wasn’t going to.
2. I stayed, because we were slowly-but-surely always moving forward. We were (and are) inching toward healing and honesty and better conversations and less co-dependency. I stayed, because he kept up his part of the bargain. The minute Chris got comfortable with where he was, I knew he’d start using again. When he got lazy in his recovery, he was going to get lazy in his choices.

And, of course, Jesus. The AA mantra is “one day at a time,” but I think they stole it from Jesus. He constantly re-centers me: I cannot fix the past, I cannot control the future, but I can make wise, loving choices right here and now.

And so I do.

And so does Chris.

And here we are.

end-of-summer yard

We’re sleeping with the windows open now, crisp air coming in through the screens and complaints from my daughters that it’s too cool in the mornings going out.

I thought the outside construction and building and staining would be most loved in the summer. I sat under the new porch and worked while the girls swam and played. I spent mornings underneath the kitchen window, checking the cushions for frogs before I sat down. In the evening, after dinner, I’d find my way back outside while Chris cleaned up dinner.

But fall is here and outside is still my favorite; maybe fall is best for porches.

The new roof we built sits under the girls’ windows. They climbed out that first day it was up, excited to sit as people added roofing paper and shingles around them. In my head, I thought this might be a bad idea in a few years.

I hope they don’t make me regret my new porch.

I’ve started dragging a blanket outside after I wake up. Hot coffee and crickets to greet the morning.

My garden has begun browning, the tomatillos slowly sinking to the ground and tomatoes trying to eek out one last hoorah. I planted a fall garden for the first time ever: snow peas and bush beans. I’m only mildly committed to their growth. My freezers are full; my friends are tired of getting deliveries from me; I could not eat another cucumber if my life depended on it.

We are mostly still staying home and staying away. Chris goes to work. The girls go to school. I go downstairs to my office to write. We haven’t stepped foot in a restaurant since early March. I miss coffee shops for writing and people watching. I miss lunch with friends and stopping for Mexican food on the way home from camping trips.

I have never been more thankful for our camper, for the easy, safe way we can go without coming in contact with others.

We’re still taking the pandemic very serious. I can’t imagine future generations asking me what we did in 2020 and answering that it didn’t really impact our daily lives much. We are mourning and grieving and angry about so many things.

We have hammocks in the backyard for Sunday afternoon naps. We ended up with a pool this summer, and it has saved us many times. I have sun-kissed girls running around the yard barefoot. They are best friends one minute, mortal enemies the next.

It’s dark when I get up now. I tiptoe downstairs each morning even though the dogs stomp down behind me and if anyone was going to wake up, it’s not going to be because of my footsteps. I still tiptoe.

Sometimes Chris has to be at work at 5 AM, but there is still coffee waiting for me when I come into the kitchen. He makes it even though I say he doesn’t have to. I think at the end of my life, if you ask me how I knew Chris Graham loved me, the answer will be: coffee when he didn’t have to.

I drained the pool last weekend. I tried to funnel the water to the line of hostas I planted along the field, begging them to stay green and full just a little bit longer.

Our apple trees–dying since we moved here–have officially given up. In the coming weeks, we’ll cut them down and have apple wood for fires. I don’t know if I need to walk across the street to the cemetery and give my grandpa a heads up that we’re cutting down his apple trees. It feels courteous.

In the spring, my husband built a bird feeder with scrap wood from the garage. He’s lovingly filled it all season, excited to see birds enjoying the condo he designed for them. This isn’t an important story except to say we have a little squirrel friend who also enjoys the bird feeder. He’s very small. I bet he could fit in the palm of my hand. Chris despises him. The squirrel and my husband are at war.

I don’t make the squirrel leave when I see him snacking. I tell him he’s welcome to eat here.

I wonder, at the end of his life, if you ask Chris how he knew I loved him, the answer will be: she didn’t, remember that squirrel?

The fields behind our house had beans this year. I always forget what it’s time for until the crop starts growing. I like corn years better, it makes our backyard feel like a cocoon. But beans are okay, too, I guess. They’re drying out, turning yellow. Soon, the field will be empty, and we’ll see deer on the hills.

Someone asked me this summer if I’m still writing.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I am writing all the time. I am writing and gathering.

This summer, in my head, I’ve written about:
what my compost bin is teaching me
why you shouldn’t watch the news
the prisms we hung in the living room windows
how to get rid of “friends” on facebook you really don’t like
a story about the bees coming to the flowers I planted for them
peoples’ houses I go by each morning on my walk
the best roasted tomatillo salsa recipe in the world
anxiety and anger
what healing feels like
why bookshelves should be filled with books and not decor
‘Somebody Feed Phil’
fallen heroes
a drama about the hummingbirds outside the kitchen door

And that was just last week.

Yes, I’m still writing.

For me, there are seasons for writing and there are seasons for preparing to write. I’ve been preparing to write for a while now.

Maybe I’ll be writing again soon.

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