The Day Everything Changed

It was at this time, 3:40 p.m., December 15, the winter sun beginning to lose its brightness, when I got the call. Seven years ago today.

Everything changed in that single moment.

“Are you Chandler Espinoza's mother?"

"Yes."

"He's been hit by a car. You need to get to the hospital right away."

Chandler was a BMX biker, a golfer, a hiker, a body surfer, a snow boarder, a runner when he decided to be. Truth be told, he could master pretty much any physical feat he decided to undertake. It is not an exaggeration to call my son a defier of gravity.

He was an adventurer.

And he was a philosopher at heart. "Mom, we don't have Jesus in our hearts. Jesus has us in his heart," said four-year-old Chandler.

His leather-bound journal entries reveal a depth greater than one might assume based on his youthful, sometimes questionable, exploits. Does one really need to do a back flip off his friend's kitchen counter or jump off another friend's roof into a pool? There are plenty more, but I digress.

What mattered most to Chandler was how he inhabited life. If life were a peach, Chandler didn't nibble politely. He bit in fully, juice running down his hands, savoring the sweetness and the mess of it. He lived with appetite, presence, and abandon. As if life were to be tasted, not analyzed or rationed.

And then, that moment.

It was the first of countless new moments—moments shaped by fear, confusion, sadness...and hope. Eighteen days of moments that felt suspended, unreal, like perhaps a good shaking and a, "Wake up, you're having a nightmare!" might just end it all.

It is impossible to land on December 15 and not feel the weight.

So how do you go about your ordinary day when it marks the day when everything, literally everything, changed?

Well, here's how I did it. First, I cried. Then I obsessed over choosing the perfect rug and lampshades for the sitting room. I made a protein shake and an iced matcha. I cried some more.

I distracted myself with some necessary work tasks.

And finally, I sat down to do what was on my heart to do—though my body just wanted to keep moving. To avoid feeling it all.

I cried some more.

I cried for what Chandler went through. I cried for the pain his brothers and sister will carry forever. I cried for me and for Chip. We are parents who have lost a child. It is an unspeakable loss.

This day feels like waiting. Remembering.

Not losing — not quite yet.

Every cell in me remembers the agony of the waiting.

Today feels unfinished.

Chandler Espinoza BMX biker

How to Keep Going When Life Hurts -- Lessons Learned After Rotator Cuff Surgery

I'd like to start by saying I wrecked my shoulder smacking the winning point in a championship pickleball game, thereby ending my rise to pickleball stardom. I'd like to say that. The truth, however, is far less sexy.

I’m out…
Back in spring 2020, I was taking a beginners pickleball clinic with my friend Steph when I reared back to whack the ball and felt something pop in my right shoulder. That pop was the straw that broke the camel's shoulder, so to speak. Through the years, I had pushed tires up hills at bootcamp, lifted weights over my head at Les Mills body pump (if you know you know), done countless chaturangas (yoga pushups) with poor form, and hoisted various babies above my head to hear them belly laugh. Pinches and pains were ever present, and that fateful pickleball move was my shoulder's way of uttering the infamous Shark Tank line, "I'm out."

An ugly picture…
After x-rays, two rounds of physical therapy, and years of nagging shoulder pain, the elusive MRI was at last ordered. It turned out to be a lovely image of a bicep tendon torn from the labrum, partial tears of two other muscles in the rotator cuff, and apparently an abundance of miscellany that needed to be cleaned up. The choice -- continue cohabitating with a shoulder that was constantly mad at me OR allow drills, screws, and anchors to instigate its full-blown fury in order to fix the whole mess. If all went according to the orthopedic surgeon’s prediction, post-op shoulder fury would, with time, morph into a blissful, pain-free relationship with my expertly repaired rotator cuff.

Now 12 weeks post-op, here's what I've learned from rotator cuff surgery.

• Wiping one's butt efficiently with a non-dominant hand is a finely honed skill not to be taken for granted.

• Binge-worthy shows like Prison Brides and Bridgerton were most assuredly created for folks stuck on a couch after surgery with no bandwidth for reading a book or thinking too hard.

• Watching your spouse carefully cut up your food for you is pretty hot.

• Chronic pain shrinks your world. I've not experienced a great deal of physical pain in my life. And certainly none of the nagging, chronic, severe variety. The post-op shoulder pain, while severe for the first week or so, let up a bit and then came in waves, mostly when it was time to go to bed. It became not as much about pain severity but about pain persistence, leaving me to wonder, "Will this pain ever go away?" It knocked me on my butt--physically and emotionally. I mean I was DOWN.

Both pain and restricted mobility prevented me from engaging in the physical activities that typically keep me feeling sane and strong like yoga, Pilates, a jog, a HIIT workout, or weights. I couldn't even hold my grandbabies, y'all!!!

Chronic pain shrunk my world.

That said, please know that I am fully aware my situation was and is a temporary one. This experience has given me just a fleeting glimpse into the world of those who suffer with the kind of chronic physical and emotional pain that shrinks their world for weeks or months or years on end. My heart goes out to everyone who is sailing in that boat.

• Sometimes the bare minimum is exactly enough.

I hated the sling, the pain, the lack of mobility, having to figure out how to do everything with my left hand. I hated feeling like I didn't have access to my normal life, and I hated wondering how long before I would feel like myself again. The physical and emotional challenges drastically narrowed my bandwidth. I knew I had to whittle down my expectations for myself to get through this. I could only manage the bare minimum for a while. I had to give myself permission and grace to do just that. The bare minimum had to be enough.

• Figure out your non-negotiables and guard them.

After a week living on the couch, binge watching Bridgerton, icing my shoulder, and being waited on hand and foot by my husband, I decided I needed to reintroduce some easily digestible bites of normal. First, I slapped on my Apple Watch that had been on my bedside table since the night before surgery and determined to close my rings every day. Since walking was the sole physical activity available to me, I charged my air pods, downloaded a juicy book-on-tape (I guess the kids these days call them audiobooks), slipped on my pre-tied walking shoes and headed out the front door. Every day for six weeks, me and my sweaty shoulder sling walked between 2 1/2 and 4 miles. Moving my body, being in nature, enjoying a good mystery...this became my daily "happy" place, a win all the way around. Good for my body to walk and breathe the fresh air. Good for my mind and imagination to get sucked into a compelling mystery novel. Good for my soul to be surrounded by the greens, blues, and earth tones of nature. Good to feel like I'd shown up for myself and accomplished something each day.

A daily walk was my first non-negotiable. I had four. The other three were: making sure I ate healthy food to nourish my healing body, working just a handful of hours each day, and spending my evenings binge watching Surface with Chip. These four activities were all that my limited physical and emotional bandwidth could manage. I granted myself the grace, not always perfectly, to be absolutely OK with that.

When you find yourself hunkered down in a shrunken world, what are your non-negotiables? What are the things you absolutely must incorporate into your day in order to keep your head above water?

• Find yourself some people who "get it."

Before surgery, I talked with a couple of friends (including pickleball Steph) who'd had the same repair done. I joined a couple of rotator cuff surgery FB groups. These conversations helped me feel more prepared for what was to come, both physically (buying a pump bottle for my mouthwash and stocking up on button-up shirts) and emotionally. The best advice --"This will be a slow recovery process. It'll be a while before you'll be glad you had the surgery, but you will be glad eventually." This helped me set realistic expectations and has proven to be quite true.

Whatever you're going through, there are others in the same boat. Find them. You can help each other row.

• Celebrate small wins.

This is important in every context -- work, personal life, recovery, relationships.

In my shoulder surgery FB group, we frequently read posts like - "I just washed my hair with both hands!" or "I just slept in my bed instead of the recliner!" To anyone else, those proclamations may mean nothing. To the people living it with you, it's Snoopy-dance worthy.

Hope this helps…

So, my friend, if you're feeling like your world has shrunk, if you're going through a hard spell of any sort, I hope these lessons from rotator cuff surgery can lend some practical help and encouragement to you today.

It's Time. The Part We Never Told.

On January 2, 2019, the day after Chandler died, I wrote in my daily blog post, "So many thoughts and emotions I want to share, and also some things I'm pissed off about, but my body, mind, and soul are spent."

The next day, I resumed writing about everything...as if wringing the grief from my heart into a jar that I could pick up and hold whenever I wanted. A jar that would ultimately sit on my shelf in the form of a book chronicling my first year without Chandler. But that middle part...the part about being "pissed off." That part was never shared.

 Today my son Chance released "Change of Heart," a song about his brother Chandler's last day. His song and the words he wrote on his Instagram post were my clear mandate -- the time has come for me to tell my story of Chandler's last day. That part about being pissed off.

 From that day on December 15, 2018, when Chandler was hit by a car, throughout his time in the hospital, until today, I have been an open book about our story, about his story. Literally. I wrote a book about it. The one chapter of the story I did not tell is, arguably, the chapter that will be indelibly imprinted in our minds like a lingering scar from a white-hot torch. And what makes it so? It was entirely preventable.

 It is one kind of nightmare to see your son lying paralyzed, coursing with tubes, surrounded by a forest of machines, inhabited by breath from a respirator. The result of an accident. It is another kind of nightmare to see your son suffer in the worst way imaginable. The result of deliberate action. And inaction.

 I will endeavor to use "I" rather than "we" when it seems appropriate, since I don't presume to be an accurate historian on behalf of Chip, Charli, Chance, and Chase. We each have our own internal landscape that was laid down that day.

 The story of Chandler's accident, his 18 days in the hospital, and the first year of my own day-by-day processing of life without Chandler after his passing on January 1, 2019, are detailed in my book First, Brush Your Teeth--Grief and Hope in Real Time.  I am ready to release the part of the story that I have never told publicly, a dark cave in my internal landscape accessed only by those I have chosen to allow entry.

 I ask myself why I want, or need, to tell this story. Is it because I hope for some sense of catharsis? Yes. Is it to try and prevent this from happening to another family? 100% yes. Is it to bring awareness to the importance of organ donorship? Yes. Is it because I hope and pray to God that somehow those who caused Chandler's suffering will read this and face, possibly for the first time, the reality that what they did was unconscionable? Hell. Yes.

 At Christmastime 2018, we had just gotten home from the hospital and were about to go to bed when we received a call from Chandler's neurosurgeon. He said he had hoped to deliver better news, but the latest imaging showed severe diffuse axonal injury, carrying the worst possible prognosis. He told us that comfort care would be an appropriate choice to consider. Comfort care, sometimes known as end-of-life care, aims to control pain and other symptoms so the patient can be as comfortable as possible.

Our family agreed without reservation that Chandler would not want to simply exist. We also agreed without reservation that he would want someone else to be given the gift of life because of his healthy organ donation.

 The next day we had the necessary conversations at the hospital. The staff, the nurses, and Chandler's doctors appeared supportive and compassionate.

 Chip and I endured the long, painful interview with One Legacy, the organ donor organization brought in by the hospital. I had no idea how grueling the process would be. But we knew this is what Chandler would want.

 The hospital worked with One Legacy to coordinate staffing and scheduling of the operating room where Chandler would be taken at the appropriate time. The day was set. January 1, 2019.

 The morning of December 31, 2018, as I was driving to the hospital, I received a call. It was the hospital's spiritual care director. "Everyone is talking about your decision and disagrees with it. Do you know that Chandler will die alone on a cold, steel operating table?"

This woman, this spiritual care director, had the audacity to speak these cruel words to me in an attempt to manipulate my emotions and change my mind about a decision that was made by Chandler’s family. The people who truly know him. Adore him. Would move heaven and earth to see him wake up and take life by the horns like he did during his 25 vibrant Chandler years.

 I learned later that she had called Chip first. Having made no headway with him, she then called me.

 When we arrived at the hospital, one of the doctors who had been part of Chandler's care since the night of the accident called us into the conference room on the Surgical ICU floor, our home for the past 16 days. She told us she had to recuse herself from the case as she had a conscientious objection to our decision. She urged us to trach him, PEG him, and put him in a long-term acute care facility, a common protocol for patients with severe brain injury, wherein the patient is dependent on tubes inserted for feeding and breathing. At one point in the conversation, she asked, "If Chandler were born like this, would you be doing this?"

Just let that sink in for a minute.

 My resolve collapsed. I was confused, terrified, angry, distraught.

I called One Legacy, sobbing, and told them I didn't know if I could go through with this. I recounted what was said to us. They told me that this was absolutely not true. Chandler would not be alone -- if I wanted to be with him in the operating room, I certainly could be. Chandler's aunt, there with us the whole time in between her duties at Cedars-Sinai as a physician, said that she would be honored to be with Chandler. The person from One Legacy also informed me that what the doctor had done in having a meeting with us to recuse herself was completely unnecessary and uncalled for. She could have quietly stepped aside from the case. Shame on her.

 January 1, 2019. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the New Year's Day parade on TV.…just as the organ donor float was passing. It was like a sign, a glimmer of light on the darkest of days. We are losing Chandler. And in our loss, someone else, maybe more than one individual, will live.

We entered the conference room, once again, for our first, and only, meeting with the doctor who would step in for the doctor who had recused herself. He sat down at the table in the conference room where we had sat multiple times before to hear news that never got any better. He flippantly remarked, "It's really not that bad."

Let that one sink in.

It appears he had not even seen Chandler. He had no idea whether or not Chandler had been "trach-ed and PEG-ed.” He went on to say that Chandler was young and strong and encouraged us to consider, and here we go again, that we "trach him, PEG him, and put him in a long-term acute care facility" to see if he would improve. Because, of course this doctor who just breezily popped into the conference room knew Chandler's situation better than the neurosurgeon who had watched Chandler repeatedly fail to respond to stimulus and who had read the latest imaging, informing us as gently as he could, "Chandler's injury is diffuse throughout his brain and brainstem -- it's like someone took a paint brush and splattered paint onto a canvas."

The Struggle
Shortly after noon,we wereinstructed to say our goodbyes to Chandler.  We left the room knowing that the next news we would hear would be that Chandler had passed peacefully and his organs were on their way to their recipients. We did not get our Christmas miracle. Someone else would.  

The process for preparing for organ donorship would be to remove medications that would hinder the harvesting protocol and replace them with a different medication to keep the patient comfortable. In order to avoid a gap in pain control, a calculation must be made to start the new medication at a dosage that will afford equal pain control as the current medication. This did not happen. I'm saying this in simple layman's terms, but Chandler’s aunt, who remained in the room to accompany her nephew to the OR, witnessed everything and knows exactly what went down. She watched Chandler begin to be in distress.

 As Chandler lay there struggling, his physical body reacting to pain, the doctor at the helm instructed the nurse, "Go get the family...when they see how strong he is, maybe they'll have a change of heart."

 A change of heart.

We surrounded Chandler's bed. Confused. Terrified. This was not at all what we were told would happen. He would be kept comfortable.

The minutes ticked by, and he continued to struggle despite our begging for something to be done. The doctor was long gone. The nurses had to text him to give him updates.

At one point, we —his family—were told to hold him down so he would not rip out his tubes.

We watched Chandler suffer. Struggle. Choke on yellow mucous. The sounds.

 We. Will. Never. Forget.

Never unsee.

At some point, it was determined by the doctor, present for perhaps a total of 10 minutes the entire day, that they could not go through with the organ donor process.

Now there was only one objective. Stop his suffering.

I had to chase down the doctor and beg him to please make Chandler comfortable. He had instructed the nurses that they could only titrate up the medication every 10 minutes. So I watched the clock and implored the nurse at every 10-minute mark to please increase the medication.

Chandler passed on January 1, 2019, late in the afternoon. His last hours were spent in needless suffering.

I watched my mom pass in the hospital from lung cancer. It was peaceful. I watched my father pass in the hospital after a broken hip. It was peaceful. They were not in pain or agony. When we talked with the doctors at the hospital, we were assured that Chandler would be kept comfortable. That, and knowing his vital organs would give life to others, provided us some semblance of strength moving through those last days and hours. Until it didn't.

I now know that there is a thing called a Hero Walk. As organ donors are wheeled to the OR, staff and family line the hallway to honor that individual. Chandler was deprived of his Hero Walk. Instead, his last hours were marked by agony and suffering. We, his family, were deprived of a meaningful point of redemption as we said goodbye to Chandler. And someone, maybe more than one person, was told they would be getting a new, healthy organ on January 1. They were deprived of that gift of life. I hope they ultimately received the organ they needed. If they did not, that is on shoulders of the man at the helm of Chandler's care that day. Shame on him.

Now What?
And so, as we began putting the pieces of our lives back together after Chandler, we did not speak publicly about the details of his last day. We did not share about the egregious efforts of the staff to persuade us not to do what we knew full well Chandler would want done.

 In the summer of 2021, after much back-and-forth and bringing in others who had more "pull" than the Espinoza family, we were finally granted a meeting with the CEO and the head of the ethics department at the hospital. We spoke the words to them that had been said to us — by the doctor who had recused herself, by the spiritual care director, and by the doctor directing Chandler's care on his last day. As we recounted our story, they were visibly shocked. They assured us that nothing like this had ever happened at the hospital and that they are in full support of the organ donor program.

The meeting ended with the CEO saying, "If there's anything else you need, please let us know." I was naive enough to believe he meant it.

After the meeting and having some time to process the discussion, we wrote the following email to the CEO:
___________________________________
Chip and I want to extend our deepest appreciation for the time you took to meet with us regarding our experience at ****** Hospital with our son Chandler Espinoza. We truly felt heard and understood, and we accept your sincere apology that the hospital let our family down in the worst situation imaginable. We also believe that had you been at the helm in December of 2018, our story would have been different. We left our meeting with an assurance that there is no policy or procedure in place that would lead to another family experiencing what we experienced. As you said, it was a "person-specific" situation. Which leads to my next point.

You had graciously expressed that if we wanted or needed to address anything more, we could contact you. Our family would like you to know that there is a significant unfinished piece of business for us and, in reality, for the hospital.

Since Chandler's suffering on January 1, 2019, was tied to specific persons (and specifically executed at the hands of Dr. --------), this individual should be held to account. This doctor's words, attitude, and actions were egregious and should not go without notice and correction by your institution. This doctor must be confronted with the reality of his actions on January 1, 2019, and the life-altering impact they had on our family. We not only have to live with missing Chandler, we also have to live with horrific images of Chandler suffering in his last hours unnecessarily. Chandler was robbed of a peaceful passing; our family was robbed of the ability to sit with him and see him pass peacefully; Chandler was robbed of the opportunity to give life to others with his vital organs; our family was robbed of knowing Chandler's legacy lives on through his organ recipients; and donors waiting for his organs were robbed of precious life-giving gifts on January 1, 2019.  All at the hands of Dr. ---------.

Therefore, the Espinoza family is asking that Dr. --------  be subject to whatever in-house peer review process the hospital has in place. In reality, we would like to see this doctor dismissed from his duties at ----------- Hospital as he is a stain on the institution. But we are aware that such action must be precipitated by thorough investigation and review of his actions. We assume that this doctor is not immune to such a review.

We assert that either Dr. --------- 1) Was incompetent in knowing how to provide adequate comfort care to alleviate suffering, or 2) Had an agenda that was counter to what our family knew Chandler would want and, therefore, refused to administer the appropriate drug protocol in order to keep our son comfortable and eligible for organ donation. Either way, it does not bode well for this doctor, and it is imperative that he be held to account.

I am including an account from Chandler's aunt, who is an OB/GYN and critical care doctor. She witnessed all of this firsthand from the standpoint of being Chandler's aunt, knowing him from birth, and also from a medical standpoint, knowing the end-of-life protocols she had enacted as a physician. She stated to me that even in South Sudan where she had volunteered her services, she had never seen anything like what she saw happen with Chandler.
_________________________________________
The letter from Chandler’s aunt documented in concise medical terminology what she witnessed that day, in particular the actions of the doctor directing Chandler's care. I will not include it here.

Like I said, I was naive enough to think the CEO of the hospital meant what he said when he told us to contact him if there was anything else we needed. Multiple follow-ups. No response. I even emailed just before the anniversary of Chandler's death, imploring him that it would bring some sense of healing or release to know that the person who caused Chandler's suffering was at least confronted, reviewed, reprimanded….something!.

No response.

So this is it. The part of the story we never told.

Honestly, I can't even venture a guess as to what, if anything, will come of releasing our story. Here is what we would we like to see as a result of bringing this story out into the light.

1) Hospitals will communicate clearly and in a timely manner their policy and protocol with regard to end-of-life or comfort care. If there is any conflict with a family's wishes, the family is then able to transfer care to a different facility. We did not know what we didn't know until it was too late.

2) Doctors who cannot support a family's end-of-life wishes will remove themselves from the case or be held accountable by the hospital for their actions that result in undue suffering for the patient and the family.

3) Staff members will honor a family's decision for end-of-life care by withholding manipulative language aimed at forcing a counter agenda.

4) People will become aware of the power of organ donorship. Yes, it is a difficult process for a family, but it is a pinpoint of light and hope in a dark time. Chip is alive today because he received a healthy liver from a donor whose family endured the pain of the process.

5) Families who, God forbid, are facing a situation such as ours will be empowered to ask questions regarding all aspects of end-of-life care and make decisions they are comfortable with.

6) The doctor who directed Chandler's care on January 1, 2019, will be reviewed, and he will reap appropriate consequences for his actions.

This story is not just our story. I spoke with a social worker who has seen it happen as well. I know there are countless others who carry with them images they will never be able to erase, memories of their loved ones suffering, because an institution, or an individual, was either incompetent or committed to an agenda in opposition to that of the family and the patient.

Please share this story. Our voice is louder together.  

And Now for the Year of Dancing

On July 12, I turned 59. You could say 58 was an eventful year. It was a lot.

My 58th year was one of the most difficult to date. Even so, what rises to the top like grease on cold gravy are the items on my gratitude list.

I'm grateful for soul-nourishing times with my family. They are my heart. My best thing. And Nora Chandler...well...now I understand why grandparents become crazy and delusional, certain that everyone is dying to see a video of their grandbaby eating a banana or 10 virtually identical pics of him or her propped up in the corner of the couch.  

We celebrate birthdays and holidays together, always mindful of the one who is missing. We love you Chandler. Thank you for serenading me on July 12, 2018, with a "happy birthday" voice message. I listen to it every year and long for a Chandler hug.

I'm grateful for my friends. They are my flying buttresses -- the anchors that lend stability and strength to my walls when it feels like they would crumble otherwise.

I'm grateful for my health. For multiple clear scans this past year.

I'm grateful that Chip is healthy again after a liver transplant in May.

I'm grateful for nature--my happy place. Last year, I found serenity gazing up at the red, towering rocks of Sedona with my Adventure Sisters. My soul was refreshed strolling or running around the RSM lake with my pain-in-the-butt dogs. Except when I had to pull various items out of Blu's butt. That was not refreshing.  The water, trees, mountains, and big sky of Washington enjoyed with my lifelong friend Carole were a huge dose of medicine for my heart and soul. In the fall of my 58th year, I journeyed to New England for leaf peeping with four dear friends, two of whom were celebrating their 60th birthdays. If we had a dollar for every "WOW" while marveling at the stunning shades of rust, red, brown, and gold covering the countryside, we would have had enough to pay for a tank of gas. Maybe even two. This collective bucket list item far surpassed our lofty expectations.

Quite often in year 58, I took myself to the beach and sat staring out at the ocean, reminded each time of God's vastness--his infinite love, mercy, goodness, and grace. And his constant presence. He will never leave me. That makes all the difference, and I am deeply grateful.

I'm grateful for learning and growth in my 58th year. The lessons were not always welcome at the time. Are they ever really?

• I learned to seek and embrace clarity. Clarity is sanity.

• I grew in my understanding and appreciation of why physical activity keeps me sane. It gets me out of my head and into my body. My body can only exist in the here and now. This means I am not ruminating over the past or speculating about the future--both my specialties.

• I found a reset for my frazzled nervous system in meditation and prayer--often silent or through yoga movement.

• I realized I can do really hard things. Again and again. But never alone.

• I excavated some buried beliefs about myself and accepted the clarity (there it is) and grace to move forward with a more helpful narrative.

• I leaned into my faith in ways I couldn't have imagined. When everything is shaken, Emmanuel--God WITH me--remains constant.

So now on to year 59.

I have resolved that 59 will be the year of dancing.

I got a bit of a head start in June, dancing to Straight 78, a jammin' SoCal band (I can say jammin' cuz I'm 59), at the Tustin Annual Chili Cookoff with my friend Kim. Then came the 4th of July concert at the Huntington Beach Pier, then a fly-by at Perqs in downtown HB to get jiggy with local band Those Guys.

The day after my birthday, two of my Adventure Sisters braved a line dancing club with me. It was indeed an adventure. Apparently, the Achy Breaky, the Cotton Eye Joe, and the Electric Slide are no longer in vogue. At least not at The Ranch in Anaheim. BOO!

We arrived early for lessons. Didn't help at all. The two dances we learned, and I can't even remember the names, were obscure and complicated. Just like the other gazillion line dances everyone else seemed to be well acquainted with all night. Even those who appeared to have been tragically born without the rhythm gene knew all the steps!

We had not a single opportunity to Tush Push or Boot Scootin' Boogie. We did our best, and for that, I give us major kudos. I, for one, don't mind looking goofy while I'm joyfully spinning to the right while everyone else is heading left, straight toward me. The problem is, these people are serious about their line dancing. We were on the receiving end of not a few annoyed glances as our boot tips ventured dangerously close to those of our fellow dancers who were kicking in the opposite direction.

Alice and I broke out in freestyle moves when a danceable pop song came on. Note: it is only legal to freestyle at The Ranch when the DJ calls it. It's literally one of the rules of the club. The DJ never called it. So we made our own call.  

In this year of dance, I want to take salsa and hip hop lessons. And I'm gonna find the best local spots where I can shake my groove thing--FREESTYLE!

Dancing makes me happy. Maybe it makes you stressed and the opposite of happy. I hope whatever your "dance" is--your happy place--that you will resolve to make more of it happen for yourself.

Whether literally or metaphorically, in this year of life--I hope you join me in the dance.

Breast Cancer -- I'm Aware

Four Sundays ago, I stepped up to the cash register to pay for a cute burgundy sports bra. The cashier asked, "Would you like to donate to Breast Cancer Awareness month?"

I wanted to respond, "Oh, believe me, I'm very aware of breast cancer." Instead, I just said, "Yes."

I've been asked to donate multiple times during past Octobers when pink ribbons, pink jewelry and t-shirts, pink everything abounds, marking Breast Cancer Awareness month. This was the first time I've been asked since January 6 when I heard the words, "You have breast cancer."

Stepping outside the store to stroll through the breezeway of the San Clemente Outlets, I was greeted by a large promotional banner touting a local hospital's breast cancer center, complete with the smiling face of a breast cancer survivor.

It settled into untouched crevices of my brain -- I am one of them now. I can never again say, "I've never had cancer." I will always be a breast cancer survivor. I will always have to check that damn box when I fill out basic medical forms.

I am very...very...very aware of breast cancer.

Since January 6, I have undergone a lumpectomy and four weeks of radiation followed by the beginning of a hormone blocker since my cancer was estrogen/progesterone positive. I will have to take the aromatase inhibitor (AI) for five to ten years. I also underwent a follow-up mammogram in June. After several calls back to the room to get a clearer view of this or that, I finally got the ALL CLEAR!

There's nothing simple, NOTHING, about a breast cancer diagnosis. Each necessary decision leads to potential side effects and outcomes, some relatively inconsequential, others life-changing, mostly in the ways you don't want your life to be changed.

Since starting the hormone blocker, I carry with me my own personal heat wave, coming and going at the most random times. Like when my face suddenly glistens with sweat during a tour for a potential new family at my school. It's hard to nonchalantly wipe the drops off your nose, but you don't want them to sit there like the dew on a morning lily either. Since I am the person who runs her heater even in the summer, you can imagine that the extremes of temperature change necessitate a well-thought-out wardrobe consisting of layers that can be stripped off and quickly pulled back on after the heat wave subsides.

The worst is when it happens at night. Sleep is my thing. I've never had trouble sleeping, and it's a good thing. I'm evil when my sleep is interrupted. Now, on the hormone blocker, I kick off the covers, turn on the fan, turn off the fan, pull the covers back on...and, repeat.

Other lovely changes have come along with the commencement of the hormone blocker, but I will save that diatribe for another day.

Radiation was a piece of cake for me. But in the past two or three months I have begun to feel tightness along my left side and along the front of my shoulder. I'm told that's due to radiation and is normal. Just started physical therapy to see if we can loosen things up a bit.

Cosmetically, nothing much has changed. Before lumpectomy and radiation, my boobs looked like they had nursed four babies. Which is appropriate, since that's exactly what they did. After lumpectomy and radiation, my boobs look like they have nursed four babies. And then somehow got in a knife fight, sustaining one perfect slice on top and one in the armpit. Even those scars are fading with time.

By far, the most difficult part of this breast cancer journey lies in the thoughts and emotions. There is a keen attentiveness to any new aches, pains or sensations. When commercials come on TV for medications for metastatic breast cancer, a voice inside says, "That could be you someday." In the dark of night, when sleep eludes you like a toddler running away with a peanut butter sandwich, you feel a pang of sadness. The concept of your own mortality has presented itself and refuses to be ignored. Life will never be the same. In the ways that count most, it can be better.

I'm pretty honest about the crappy things that have come along with a breast cancer diagnosis and treatment. I'm also pretty darn grateful! I'm grateful for medical advances. Grateful for my health. Grateful for my family and friends. Grateful for a comfortable home. Grateful for two crazy dogs. Grateful for the gorgeousness (yeah, I'm using that word) of nature that fills me up! Grateful for my books, my new kamasutra chai tea blend, my ugly, cushy Oofos sandals. Grateful that my plantar fasciitis, after FIVE long years, is finally gone! I could go on and on and on with my gratitude list. I would never complete it because there are new things to add at the end of every day.

My sister, if you are traveling down this road with me, may I offer you some words of encouragement and, if I may be so presumptuous, wisdom?

• Let go of your usual expectations for yourself. This is not the time to religiously check off items on your to- do list or cling to inflexibility in any form. Self-compassion and grace are the order of the day for you, my friend. This is a lot.

• Every day, do at least ONE KIND thing for yourself. A cup of your favorite tea, a movie on the couch, a conversation with a bestie. Do something that feeds your soul. And for you perfectionists following the letter of the law -- I said at LEAST one, not JUST one!

• When thoughts of your mortality arise, feel the sadness or fear--feel whatever comes up.  And then allow this reality to move you forward into a daily embracing of THE PRESENT MOMENT. This moment is the only one any of us have. It is the time for us to hug, to laugh, to cry, to paint, to work, to dance, to hike, to snuggle on the couch, to eat mouth-watering food, to read a good book.

• Ask for what you need, and let people help you! Whether you have just been diagnosed or are months or years past the diagnosis, there will be times when you need help. You may need someone to watch your kids or your dogs while you go in for a routine checkup. Or you may need a listening ear so you can cry, cuss, or ask for advice. People WANT to help. Let them.

• Carve out time whenever you can, even just five minutes, for meditation. It does wonders for anxiety. There are so many options these days -- just Google it. Right now, I'm loving an app called Second Breath, a Christian meditation app.

Since learning I had breast cancer at the start of 2022, I have learned a lot about myself. I have gained clarity like never before about some important matters. And I have once again found Emmanuel--God WITH ME--to be the ground beneath my feet, the comfort soothing my soul, and the strength moving me forward. Christ is my joy. My stability. My hope.  

Here's to all of us who need no Breast Cancer Awareness month to make us aware. And to all who love us and show up for us.

Divine Appointment

A couple of weeks ago, I went for a hike along the Will Abell Memorial Trail at Arrowhead Ridge near Lake Arrowhead.

OK, correction...I attempted to go for a hike along the Will Abell Memorial Trail. Who knows what trails I actually ended up on. Despite the apparently clear-as-day trailhead signs and a handful of people trying to give me directions, I made three unsuccessful attempts at hitting the Abell trail that was supposed to lead up to a beautiful vista.

On my first try, I saw this young couple headed toward what I thought was the trailhead and started to follow them for two reasons. One, I didn't want to get lost. And two, if there was a bear, at least I would be one of three menu options.

I had to run back to the car for something, and by the time I got back, I'd lost sight of them. Then, I saw them in the distance headed up the mountain and decided I could catch up by skipping the first part of the trail and running straight up, hurdling over logs, sustaining a nice deep scratch on my leg in the process. When I got to where I thought I'd spotted them, they were nowhere in sight.

I decided to go back to the parking lot and try it again. A man with a French bulldog got out of his car, looking like he might be about to hike the trail with his pooch.

I asked, "Have you hiked this trail before?"

"Yes, a lot."

"Is it OK to hike alone?"

"Are you worried about getting kidnapped or bears?"

I hadn't even considered the kidnapping possibility, but now that he mentioned it...

"Bears," I responded.

"Oh, we've hiked it a lot, and the only time we've had any trouble was when we got chased by some coyotes...but that was close to sunset."

That last part didn't put me at ease.

He told me to keep right for the trail. That's where I'd gone wrong the first time.

I headed up into the towering pine trees watching for a trail that veered right. I couldn't forget the man asking if I was afraid of being kidnapped. Is he gonna put Frenchie in the car and come kidnap me?

I went right as far as I could, and there was definitely no vista point as advertised. Once again, wrong trail.

I descended for the second time, went straight to my car, pulled up my GPS, and started driving to Hortencia's restaurant, a dinner spot that would afford me a guaranteed view with no chance of my getting lost.

As I started to leave the parking lot, I saw this young family starting up a wide paved path--a dad and three kids along with their dog Flash. I decided to try one more time.

I asked the dad about the elusive Will Abell trail, lamenting that this would be my third "at bat." He told me when I got up the hill to go to the left. Not trying to throw anyone under the bus, but someone in this scenario was not fully clear on the meaning of "left" and "right."

So, left I went. And ended up in someone's driveway. A heavily wooded driveway. But a driveway nonetheless.

This nice family saw me coming back down and asked about the hike. I told them where I'd ended up, and the dad, amused, said, "Yeah, that's someone's backyard."

This time, having surmised that the woman he was giving directions to was challenged in the worst way, he pointed directly to a trail above that seemed to circle up into the trees and said, "That's where you want to go."

Like a dog running for a bone, I immediately began scrambling straight up. I created my own route through trees and underbrush to where he pointed, not willing to stumble onto yet another circuitous path away from my destination or into someone's living room. For a couple of days, the pine resin remained on my fingers from grabbing onto pine branches to help hoist myself up the steep hill, slipping and sliding in my cross trainers that offered as much traction as a greased skillet.

I hiked the trail for a while, never seeing another soul. When I heard what sounded like a low growl, I decided the rumored vista just wasn't worth the trouble and took off running back down the mountain. Was it my sought-after Will Abell Trail? I have no idea. I just know I won't be attempting that trail again without a sherpa.

I jumped in my car and headed off to Hortencia's.

The view from my table did not disappoint. I looked out over the mountains and the valley below feeling grateful for my day in nature and now for good food enjoyed against this panoramic backdrop.

As I was eating, I heard the man at the table behind me say a blessing over their food. It was a beautiful, heartfelt prayer. I wanted to turn around and tell him his prayer blessed me. Instead, I just kept eating.

Then I heard one of the two ladies at the table crying. I could tell she was talking about having lost someone she loved. I couldn't stay in my chair. I had to say something.

I walked over to their table and said, "I'm sorry, I promise I was not eavesdropping, but I heard your prayer, sir, and it blessed me. It was a beautiful prayer."

I turned to the lady who had been crying
"And ma'am, again, I wasn't eavesdropping, but I couldn't help but hear that you've lost someone you love, and I just want to tell you — God loves you and he sees you."

Her eyes filled with tears. She responded, "I lost my daughter last year."

Two hearts immediately connected in a way no one ever wants to be able to connect.

We hugged and cried.

I told her, “It doesn’t seem like it, but it is possible to have joy again, even after losing a child.”

She responded, "My daughter's name was Joy."

More tears.

We talked a few more minutes, then I excused myself to my table.

They came over to say goodbye when they were ready to leave. We hugged again, and I sat back down. After a few minutes and hitting level 205 out of 5000 on the WordScapes game on my phone, I asked for the check.

"That man paid for your dinner," said the server.

The phrase "divine appointment" comes to mind. Had I driven to Hortencia's after my first, second, or even third attempt at finding that imaginary trail, I would have missed meeting Joy's mom. Following try number four was the right time. Four tries was just the right number.

Dear God, I don't understand why you seem to nudge us to act in certain ways at certain times, leading us to encounters that can only be described as divine appointments. And at other times, you seem uninvolved, allowing the worst losses and pain to break our hearts. I don't understand. And yet...I continue to believe you are good and loving and present. You are WITH us. You keep showing up. Mostly through people. The balm of human compassion on a hurting soul quells, at least for a time, the theological quandaries that keep us in constant pursuit of answers to questions too big, too hard, too mysterious. Mystery. That is who you are. Knowable. Intimate. And yet, mysterious. Let our hearts find peace...find rest...find strength...find joy..even in the mystery.

Amen.

Revelation

Sometimes revelation is a long process. Sometimes it happens in a moment.

Sitting on the puffy green leather couch in our townhome in Irvine, CA, nursing newborn Chandler, with curly-haired two-year-old Chance right beside us, and Chase at Meadow Park Elementary kicking butt in first grade, I experienced a moment of revelation that would reshape not only my mothering, but also how I approach my life.

I have always been driven to achieve. In school, I had to get all As. In college, only a 4.0 would do. When I entered the world of adulting, the achievements took on a form less quantifiable than a GPA -- full-time job, helping with our youth ministry and my own drama ministry, keeping a clean, orderly home, and eventually mothering three little boys. There were micro and macro achievements of various kinds along the way, and I took pride in answering the question, "How are you doing?"

"Busy, really busy."

Followed by a list of all I was doing (READ: accomplishing) with my days.

Becoming a mother of three didn't dampen my drive to accomplish things, to get stuff done. I had added three kids and failed to renegotiate my expectations of myself. I was physically tired, yes. But more than that, I was mentally and emotionally flailing about, trying to figure out what I should do (again READ: accomplish) next.

I'm not saying anything new here. You can find a million books under "self help" with some variation of this theme:  When your sense of worth is tied primarily to the things you do, you lose sight of WHO you ARE.

I want to be clear here — it is healthy to have goals and strive to accomplish those goals. It is a good thing to take pride in your accomplishments and conquering to-do lists. The question is, do you equate your accomplishments with who you are?

I realized I at one point that my answer to the question "How are you doing?" always consisted of what I was doing...accomplishing. Not in a grand way, like I'd just earned an Oscar or discovered the cure for plantar warts. It could just be something about the drama team I was coaching or that I was doing sign language interpreting for the concerts at the fair.

OR...

As a young mom, a consistent and admirable goal that I relished accomplishing was — brush your teeth, get a shower, and change into some clean clothes that will, by day's end, be covered in spit-up, Oreos, and smooshed Play-Dough.

It wasn't as easy to get stuff done with a newborn, a toddler and a six-year-old. And getting stuff done, well, that's what I did. The solution — set some goals that fit with the realities of my life. My hunger for answers felt urgent, like if I didn't figure something out quick, I would lose time getting things done. I would lose...myself.

So, sitting on that couch that sunny weekday, tears streaming down my cheeks, I prayed for answers.

"What am I supposed to do? What do I pursue next?"

I am often suspicious when people say, "God told me..." But I would be lying if I said anything other than this:

God spoke clearly to my heart, "Pursue me. Enjoy your family. And I'll show you what's next."

My perspective shifted suddenly, dramatically. I gave myself permission to just play with my kids and to really BE there.  To engage my mind and soul as much my body in pushing the swing at the park instead of mentally reviewing all the other things I needed to get done that day.

I discovered that my children were not an obstacle in my spiritual journey toward God. God was with me and loving me through my children. God was in my children. Though at times, I was convinced it was the devil, not God, inhabiting my beloved offspring.

I discovered the sheer joy of making play my best accomplishment of the day.

I let go of the need to rattle off a list of things I was doing when people would ask, "How are you doing?" Instead, I could simply answer, "Doing really well." Sometimes, if I knew it was more than an obligatory greeting, I would share what God was doing in my heart. The more I talked about it, the more my passion grew for encouraging other young moms struggling to find meaning in snotty noses and poopy diapers.

My pursuit of God took on a different shape. It was no longer confined to a journal, a Bible and a contemporary popular devotional. I discovered ancient writers who spoke to my soul. I began to understand prayer in a new way...that there is no failure in prayer. Prayer is simply opening myself to the mystery of one who is bigger than me, who is loving, and who wants me to know He is present.

I learned that the care of my soul is not a luxury. It is the grounding, centering, strengthening, life-giving axis around which everything else turns.

I gave myself permission to be fully present with my kids instead of looping the message, "You should be accomplishing something more. What are you even doing with your life?"

I may regret some choices I've made. But I will never live with the regret of skipping over the surface of the precious years I had with my little boys...and then with our amazing bonus, Charli. There is nothing on earth I would trade for sweaty, sandy, dirty days at the beach, at Wild Rivers, at the mud park. For grilled cheese and hot chocolate by the fireplace. Or for bedtime prayers and kisses.

As for the "I'll show you what's next" part...I helped start a MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) group at our church, began speaking to moms groups across the country, recorded an album for moms called Candy Kisses, Muddy Hugs and wrote a book called Days of Whine and Noses--Pep Talks for Tuckered Out Moms. All of this happened because I leaned into the first two parts -- "Pursue me. Enjoy your family." These accomplishments were simply the overflow of my desire to encourage moms as a result of what I was learning on my own motherhood journey.

I would like to paraphrase the message that changed my life so many years ago into a prayer of blessing for you, dear reader.

May you pursue God in the ways that most feed your soul.

May you live into the moments with your loved ones —fully present heart, body, and mind.

May you watch with expectant gratitude for your next simple or grand adventure.

Amen.

And Now We Dance

On Saturday, April 9, Chance Espinoza married Lauren Strick, the love of his life.

It was a perfectly magical day.

The backdrop of Big Sur’s white foamy waves, beside a lush carpet of green grass, surrounded by towering trees swaying in the breeze was the most glorious chapel imaginable. The blue sky above and the warmth of the sun announced their pleasure at Chance and Lauren's special day.

Watching Chance and Lauren together is always pure joy. And this weekend, the joy was spilling out all over! With open hearts and open arms, they basked in the love of family and of the most incredible friends you could ever hope for.

The common theme from everyone who shared at the rehearsal dinner and at the wedding dinner was this: Chance and Lauren somehow come together with each of their own amazing attributes to form a relationship in which each becomes even more fully themselves--in the very best way.

As I shared in my toast to Lauren and Chance, from the time someone becomes a parent, the constant prayer is for that child to be happy and to be a good human being. Well, I've never seen my son happier. And he is a good human. Now with a wife who is also a good human. Caring, warm, inclusive, funny, smart, deep--just for starters.

And they dance. Whether on a dance floor, in a grocery store, or in their kitchen. They dance. As if no one is watching.

In January when I met with my breast surgeon after finding out I had breast cancer, I asked two questions. "When can I hold my grandbaby after surgery?" and "Will I be able to dance at my son's wedding?" I did both this weekend. There are only so many ways to say, "I'm grateful." I wish there were more, because I can't seem to find enough words.

Chance chose "I Hope You Dance" for our dance together. It was one of the most beautiful, treasured moments of my life. I cried tears of joy and gratitude there on the dance floor, held tightly by the grown man who used to look up at me as a toddler, throw his arms in the air, and say, "I hold you!"

As is the universal truth of life, beauty and joy co-exist with sorrow and pain. We all knew it and felt it and even spoke it out. Chandler should have been at the rehearsal dinner telling stories about growing up with his brother and saying to Chance, "Dude, Lauren's awesome--you did so good!" He should have been standing there beside Chase and Charli in the wedding party as they watched Lauren walk down the aisle to meet Chance. He should have been on the dance floor throwing his signature Chandler moves alongside his siblings. He should have been there. Celebrating with us. It hurt like hell to envision the empty spaces he should have occupied.

Yet, we chose to miss Chandler and laugh. To miss Chandler and celebrate. To miss Chandler and dance. In our missing, and in our dancing...we honored Chandler.

And so begins a new chapter in the love story of Chance and Lauren Espinoza. May each chapter to come be marked with the same playfulness, tenderness, consideration, and devotion that has made you an inspiration to those of us privileged to watch your story unfold.

Surgery Tomorrow - Pre-Game Blog

Today I begin my active treatment for breast cancer. Here on day 6 of my 40-ish Days of Being Human endeavor, I am feeling quite human. Quite vulnerable. Quite dependent.

I am also feeling very, very grateful.

I am deeply grateful for the 3D mammography and ultrasound technologies that were not around years ago -- yielding much clearer images of breast tissue that, for me, has forever been characterized as "dense.” I am profoundly grateful for Dr. Samantha Kubaska and Dr. Angelique Floerke who spotted the tiny, less-than-7 mm, white dot on a mammogram amidst a kaleidoscope of snowy patterns. Against a black background of normal fatty breast tissue, suspicious architecture like a miniscule tumor stands out like a sore thumb. Why can’t I have fatty boobs? Thank you, doctors, for your eagle-eye examination of my wintery wonderland films.

I am grateful for the medical advances that make it possible to track any potential stray cancer cells through a procedure called sentinel node biopsy. Today I get to have radioactive dye injected into my breast (I won't say exactly where for the sake of those who get queasy). I will say that my prep will involve lidocaine, saran wrap, and a Xanax. Tomorrow the surgeon will see the first few nodes in that pathway using a gamma detector (I may glow in the dark tonight after my radioactive injection -- could be fun to watch!). Those nodes will be checked for any possible cancer cells. This is a potentially life-saving procedure which, again, was not around until after 1991.

I am grateful for the wire placement in the morning that will guide the breast surgeon to the specific areas that will need to be removed.

I am grateful for the hands of Dr. Amy Bremner, a skilled breast surgeon, who tomorrow will remove the cancer from my left breast and the radial scarring from my right. Oh, by the way, I decided instead of double mastectomy with reconstruction to do lumpectomy with radiation instead. After thinking and praying and discussing with people in the know, I decided that given my particular situation, mastectomy would be like killing a fly with a sledgehammer instead of a rolled-up newspaper. There is no absolute right or wrong here. You just have to do what feels right for you, and I can say this decision feels like a fit.

I am grateful for the radiologist, Dr. Chan, who will work with her team to create a 3D image of my breast so that the upcoming radiation sessions will target the exact areas necessary to clean up any leftover vestiges of cancer.

I am grateful for the hormone blocker that I will likely have to take in order to starve any cancer cells in my body of the estrogen and progesterone they like to feast on in order to grow.

OK, so now let's get down to brass tacks. I do NOT want needles inserted into my breasts today or tomorrow...or EVER!!! I do NOT want wires to be poked into me at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow and then bandaged down, awaiting with me my 12:30 surgery. I do NOT want to take hormone blockers. I won't even get into the potential side effects. I just hope I don't experience the worst of them. I do NOT want to have my left breast irradiated. I do NOT want to do any of this. I WANT to go back to a pre-cancer diagnosis when I didn't have to think about all of this and make these weighty decisions.

Today I choose to accept what is, not what if or what I wish could be. God meets me in THIS moment. He is enough. The people who love me are enough. The only moment any of us have is this one. Every moment thereafter makes up this hour and this day and this week. But they all start with moments. The best we can do is take it a moment, a day, a week at a time and choose to live fully right here and now.

By living fully, I don't mean jumping out of planes or climbing Mt. Everest, though those may be part of your plan. I mean snuggling with your significant other before work. Or taking your dogs for an unhurried walk to enjoy the sunshine. Or making chocolate chip cookies and licking the bowl. Do what feeds your soul. And whatever it is you are doing, BE there.

So, you wanna know what I'm most upset about right now? I just read that you can't have nail polish on for surgery. WT*? I went to all the trouble to clip and file and paint my gross toenails and fingernails last night. I fired off an email to my surgeon and am awaiting an answer. I'm sure she's thinking -- "She's undergoing breast surgery tomorrow, and she's in a tizzy about her nail polish?" To that, I would respond--PRIORITIES.

Adding, not Subtracting

Today brought a new perspective on this Lent season. Yesterday I shared how I don’t want to give up anything for Lent. I just don’t. Not this year. At least not today. I don’t want to subtract something, anything, that is marginally comforting or pleasurable for me right now. I just don’t want to subtract.

Today a couple of friends suggested that rather than giving up or subtracting something, I add something. One friend shared with me some spiritual practices she has added to her daily or weekly routine in the past for Lent. She reminded me that the point of any spiritual practice during Lent is to orient myself in a way that allows me to draw closer to Christ.

She reminded me of Jesus’ words in Matthew 11:28-30:

Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” (the Message)

I’m thinking I will try to get to the beach or the lake — someplace in nature — once a week during Lent. God speaks to me in nature. Daily, I’m going to shoot for reading my Jesus Calling devotional. Always a voracious learner and avid reader, I’m astounded by my need for simple and less right now.

This isn’t like me. I’m usually pretty disciplined. When I decided to read the Bible-in-a-Year, I did it. When I decided to read the One-Year Chronological Bible, I did it. Now it’s different. Maybe in this season it’s less about discipline and more about surrender.

Back in my former life (before starting to work full time), I used to do a lot of speaking for moms’ groups. One of the things I always said was, “There is a special grace for moms with little ones. The Lord knows the season you’re in. He gave you these little ones, and He knows the time and energy it takes to care for them. Allow yourself the grace to experience God in the moments of your mothering…to engage in spiritual practices that fit with this crazy season of life.”

I need to practice what I preach. God knows the season I’m in.

For today, adding, not subtracting. In the unforced rhythms of grace.

Giving Up for Lent

The religious season of Lent began on Wednesday. This is a time of preparation for the celebration of Easter marked by prayer and fasting in some form. It is customary for people who observe Lent to give up something as a sacrifice. In the past, some of the things I’ve given up have included chocolate, sugar, TV, wine, and social media.

Charli gave up junk food this year. So I probably shouldn’t have kept asking her to try the amazing green chile peanut brittle Chip brought back from New Mexico yesterday.

I’m going to be honest about my struggle right now — I don’t want to give up anything this year. On any given day, I’m afraid the very thing I’ve given up could be the thing that I’ve looked forward to or that will provide some semblance of comfort.

Yes, I know that my ultimate comfort is in the Lord. And probably if I gave up something that is important to me, I would draw closer to God during this season. I’m not trying to be selfish or rebellious or entitled. I just can’t wrap my mind around giving something up for 40 days. I will fast during Lent, just not for 40 days. Right now, 40 days seems like forever to me.

I thought about giving up shopping — another thing I’ve given up in the past. But right now, one of my simple pleasures is finding the right pillow for the reading chair or the right paint color for the bathroom.

In the deepest recesses of my soul, maybe I feel like God took my son, so I don’t want to give up anything for Him during Lent. I don’t think that’s the case, but I’m not above it.

I could give up something that I don’t even care about — that would be easy. No steamed vegetables and liver. No pre-dawn 5-mile runs. No binge-watching Baywatch.

Maybe during the next 36 days, it will come clear to me something I need to give up, to sacrifice. I pray for the ears to hear and the grace to carry it out.

I’m just going to keep doing my best — this moment, this hour, this day. I trust that in the Lord’s grace and compassion, He will let me know if I need a course correction.

Maybe in a way, I’m giving up the need to do something to earn God’s grace. Just a thought.

Freedom from Shame

I'm listening to The Soul of Shame by Curt Thompson. I've never thought of myself as a person who struggles with shame. But as I'm taking in Dr. Thompson's ideas, based on the study of interpersonal neurobiology, I realize much of the suffering I have caused myself (and others) is due to unrecognized shame.

Example: I was on hormone replacement for hot flashes for six years and also enjoyed my wine and hard kombucha. Did I set myself up for breast cancer? Why didn't I just tough out the hot flashes? Why did I think I needed alcohol? Why didn't I do enough to prevent myself from getting breast cancer?

See what I mean. That is shame.

As Thompson says, shame is not just a feeling. It is an embodied reality that becomes woven into the stories we tell ourselves about who we are.

It's not enough to look at past actions and say, "Hmmm, maybe I could have made different choices for a different outcome." Shame says quite literally--"Shame on you! You SHOULD have done better. What's wrong with you?"

In the first days after my breast cancer diagnosis, I felt shame for letting my kids down. I never want to be a cause of worry for them due to health issues. I know the fear and pain of watching my mom smoke all my life, somehow knowing even as a young child that it was making her sick, and ultimately watching her die of lung cancer. So I do all the things -- exercise, eat nutritious foods, meditate, try to get enough sleep (that's a tough one for a natural-born night owl!). And yet, I've given them a reason to worry. Shame on me!

Let's talk puppy training. I have tried all the methods for leash pulling and jumping. Yet we still have some jumping and leash pulling. I can't just say, "Oh, well, I just wasn't consistent enough, but that's ok. This is good enough." Instead -- shame on me for not being more consistent and training my dogs better.

Let's go back to the publishing of my first book Days of Whine and Noses--Pep Talks for Tuckered Out Moms. My book was in Target, Barnes & Noble, and other stores across the country. I SHOULD have done more to capitalize on that opportunity. I had three boys and a toddler to raise, but in my mind, I SHOULD have been able to do it all and make it look easy. What's wrong with me that I couldn't make that happen? Shame on me.

As a human, I come by shame honestly. It's just built into us, some of us more than others. My upbringing in a very conservative evangelical tradition helped reinforce a foundation of shame that kept me in line and ensured I would be a good girl. There's nothing wrong with making choices that are congruent with your values and beliefs. That is a good thing. Where things go sideways is when you begin to tell yourself that no matter what you do, you're probably doing something wrong, could do something better, or are certainly not living up to whatever subconscious (or conscious) standard you've set for yourself. That is shame.

Decades after the fact, I can still remember vividly a couple of scenarios that laid down some pretty solid groundwork for shame in my life.

I was a young teenager enjoying a week at church camp. The girls and boys had to swim separately because, you know, one minute you're in the pool together, the next you're raising twins. I was waiting outside the boys' cabin for the boy I liked to come out so we could walk together to his pool session. The coordinator of the camp approached me, and with all sincerity, said, "Young lady, this is a good way to lose your Christian testimony." If I knew then what I know now, I would have laughed and said...well, I won't say what I would have said. But back then, as a young girl who loved Jesus, took my faith seriously, and cared deeply about pleasing God, I took his words to heart. I really liked boys. And by that I mean, I was boy crazy! In the most innocent of ways, but still. There must be something wrong with me. I shouldn't be waiting for this boy outside his cabin. I shouldn't be liking boys this much at all!

One Sunday evening, I was set to sing a "special" at church. Yes, back in the day, I went to church on Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, and Wednesday evenings for youth group. And, for good measure, about once a month, I went to a youth group "rap session/prayer meeting" or a CA (Christ Ambassadors) rally. I showed up that Sunday night, loving Jesus, grateful for the opportunity to sing about His love, and praying I could be a blessing to someone. There was just one problem. The music director, again, with all sincerity, informed me I would need to stand behind the piano to sing because I was wearing slacks. Today, I would offer some choice words in response to his correction. Back then, I had a sinking feeling. I had done something wrong. How could I have worn pants to church when I knew I was going to sing for Jesus? What is wrong with me?

That is shame.

I hate to say it, but I'm sure I have unknowingly shamed my kids and my husband through the years. Shame on me for that!

See, the shame cycle never ends. Or does it?

This is where grace steps in. Grace is the antidote for shame.

Grace is a hard pill for us to swallow. I'm not talking about grace just for the choices we make that we know are flat out wrong. I'm talking about grace for being human. For making human mistakes. For doing dumb things when we didn't mean to do those dumb things, but we couldn't do better until we knew better. For all the ways we judge ourselves harshly for not measuring up. For not being...perfect.

As Brene' Brown says, "Where perfectionism exists, shame is always lurking."

I like to think in pragmatic terms. What can I do to rid myself of this pervasive sense of shame?

First, acknowledgment.

I have known forever that I tend to feel guilty for things -- not returning a library book on time, hitting a parked car (even though I always leave a note), wearing pants to sing for Jesus. But it wasn't until I was listening to The Soul of Shame that I was able to excavate the roots of this pattern. When I pulled them up and examined them in the light of day, it became clear -- this is shame at work.

Second, shine a light on the truth.

Shame is mostly counterproductive (there is a place for healthy shame, but that's not the context I'm talking about here) and not at all in line with what I believe about Christ---the embodiment of love and grace. How must his heart be grieved when I beat myself up for being human? My core belief is that God is good, loving, merciful, gracious, present, and FOR me! That is not at all congruent with pervasive shame.

Third, practice patience.

A lifelong framework of shame won't be disassembled overnight. I will be patient with myself along the way. When I experience that feeling of shame in a given situation, I will ask myself, "Is there a legitimate reason for me to feel this way? Have I done something that has hurt someone and merits an apology or amends?" If not, if I'm just beating myself up for being human, I will label shame for what it is and invite grace into the process. Actually, either way, I will invite grace to do its deep work. I will pray. I may journal. I may do some meditation. I will read scripture and other inspirational material. I will remember that I'm doing the best I can.

How has shame shown up in your life? Is it a pervasive pattern? How has it affected your health? Your relationships?

Today can be fresh start. Recognize shame for what it is. Shine the light of truth on it, and be patient with yourself as you invite grace into the process. Show shame the door, and rest in God's unconditional love for you.

The Day I Blogged About Boobs

WARNING: If the word "boobs" is offensive to you, stop reading right now.

On December 11, as I prepared to slip off the ever-flattering one-size-fits-none mauve mammogram blouse they provide you, I posted on social media--- "Ladies, get your mammograms." This gaping, single-tie closure top is really just a formality since your boobs are hanging out for the whole procedure, and who cares if the other folks in the hallway on the way to the procedure room sneak a peek. Once you've bared your boobs to be manipulated like play dough and squished between two plates of steal, the modesty bar drops right to the floor, along with your shirt and your bra, without a second thought. After my routine yearly mammogram, Charli and I proceeded to enjoy a great day of Christmas shopping and lunch at Olive Garden.

A few days later, I got a call that they needed to get some more images to clarify a couple of things that showed up on the routine mammogram. This was nothing new. I've been called back before for more pictures and even ultrasound followed by a biopsy three years ago. This is part and parcel with having what they call "dense" breast tissue. (Why can't dense translate practically into perky and voluminous?) Instead of showing up mostly black on a mammogram, dense breast tissue shows all shapes, sizes and configurations of white on a black background.

I was nervous about the biopsy, but it turns out, my anxiety was far out of proportion to the level of discomfort I actually experienced during the procedure. I had to lay on my belly with my boobs hanging through holes in the table. The left one was clamped firmly into a vice grip of some sort and injected with local anesthesia to numb me up, after which the doctor and assistant left the room for a couple of minutes. The peak of my fear came right then as I imagined an earthquake occurring and me having to chew off my left boob in order to escape the building. Thankfully, no earthquake, and I walked away from that biopsy, which turned out to be nothing, with a little gift -- metal markers to watch the area on future imaging.

After further imaging on December 21, I received a call at work on Thursday, January 6, informing me that I have cancer in my left breast and a high-risk area in the right breast. Both will need to come out.

Every woman knows she may hear those words at some point in her life. When it happened to me, it set my brain to spinning in my head and my pulse rate soaring. Within half an hour of the doctor's phone call to me, my patient advocate , Jackie, called to explain next steps.

The phrases that stuck in my mind were -- "very early;" "stage 1;" "less than 7 mm." And the sentence that I grabbed onto and recall verbatim -- "This is a nasty bump in your road. It's not the end of your road."

The next day, I had an MRI with contrast. It confirmed what had been shown on the ultrasound and mammograms and, further, indicated no cancer in the lymph nodes.

By this point, I knew I had some difficult decisions to make. Typically an avid (aka OCD) researcher, I chose to limit my research to medical journals and to "lumpectomy versus mastectomy." This was not the time to do a Google search and read about Aunt Marge's nightmare mastectomy or how Tina cured her breast cancer eating wheatgrass and bathing in bat guano. (No offense if that has worked for you.) I needed to know what the evidence says about breast cancer treatment. I also needed to talk to someone else who had been down this road and could offer not only relevant information but also hope and encouragement. I texted my friend Kimberly. She has become everyone's go-to when they learn they have breast cancer. She immediately confirmed a couple of things I'd found in my research and alerted me to a couple of things I hadn't known that I would want to ask my breast surgeon about.

I could write pages about the emotions and thoughts that occupied my mind and heart, even settling into my body from Thursday to Monday. First and foremost -- what do I need to do to be around to see my grandkids grow up and to see my beautiful kids live their lives and to keep exploring all the simple and monumental wonders this world has to offer?

I was nervous about meeting the breast surgeon that Monday and had already planned to set up a second opinion, just to cover all my bases. After meeting Dr. Bremner that afternoon¬—no need for a second opinion. She knows her stuff, has great bedside manner, and is the right person to be on my "kick cancer's ass" (KCA) team.

I am profoundly grateful for her reassurance that this is a very early cancer, very small, and totally curable. I am grateful that there appears to be no need for chemotherapy. I am grateful that I have options to consider.

Still...it is a shitty decision to make. Do I have them strategically cut out just the bad parts followed by six weeks of radiation. Or do I have them remove my breasts along with the cancer and the high-risk area?

They're just breasts, right? They're not anything magnificent, resembling small ski slopes after having nursed four babies and being subject to gravity for 45 years. (Yes, I'm 57, but puberty didn't hit until 12.) But they're mine. I like them. I actually love them. They nourished four babies. They are part of me. But now...they're mad at me.

After weighing the evidence before me, on March 8, I will undergo a double mastectomy with reconstruction. There is no right or wrong choice. Each woman has to make her own decision based on solid evidence and what makes sense for her.

Even as I write, "There is no right or wrong choice," I wonder if I'm making the "right" choice. I won't go into the details of how I came to this decision, but as Charli said, "From a strictly cerebral standpoint, it makes logical sense to do the double mastectomy." I love her mind. And her heart. And, really, just everything about her.

Last week, I met my plastic surgeon who will build me some perky, beautiful new boobs at the same time the breast surgeon removes my grouchy ones. He comes highly recommended from friends who have been down this road. Between Dr. Smith and Dr. Bremner, I have great confidence in my KCA team. I meet my oncologist next Friday. She looks about 14 years old from the online pictures I've seen. Here's hoping she proves to be on par with my other two team members.

Today and every day leading up to March 8, my plan is to do what I've been attempting to do for many years–to live into the moments of THIS day. None of us are promised tomorrow, or even tonight. That's not to say I will sit in my outdoor swing gazing at my navel and meditating 24/7. I...we...still have to go about our work and our household chores and all the mundane routines that make up our lives. And here's the thing. The work and the chores and the routines–they all matter. They are the moments that make up our lives. The vacation-in-Maui moments and the just-got-a-promotion moments are wonderful and worthy of celebration. But what happens in between, the daily stuff of life, is where we settle in and learn the art of being in the moment. Truly present. Right now.

At times it's not easy for me to live into this moment. While I never used to get notifications on MyChart (my health portal), I've gotten multiple notifications of upcoming appointments and procedures since December 6, the day I heard the "c" word. For someone who takes my health seriously and does everything I can to STAY healthy, this is unnerving.

On any given day, I will be tooling along as if everything were normal–working, playing with my dogs, reading–then I remember. There's cancer in my body. I have to stop my thoughts in their tracks because they lead to -- "Oh, my God! I want that cancer out right now!" Fear. Panic.

I remember what Chip told me a few days ago. "There's a difference between 'living' and 'living.'" Living, as in surviving, is one thing. Living, as in breathing deeply, enjoying a walk in the sunshine, reading a good book, diving headlong into work that you love, is something completely different. That is the living I want to do.

I choose to LIVE today. I will tackle this thing one day at a time. I certainly won't...CAN'T...do it alone. God is WITH me. And I have the most amazing family and friends who will support me...as always.

I am pretty hard-headed, which serves me well most of the time, and may prove to be an invaluable trait in the weeks to come. I'm not naive. I know cancer is a formidable foe. I know the surgery and recovery will be difficult, and that's a gross understatement. There's a much better word I typically use (starts with b, ends with ch) to describe what's to come, but since I've likely scandalized some readers with multiple uses of the word "boobs" and a couple of other colorful words, I'll refrain for the moment. I've done hard things before. This will be one of the hardest. But on the other side of it, I will say with all due respect -- I kicked cancer's ass.

Now for my soap box:
If you are a woman in the age group for which routine mammograms are recommended (usually starting about age 40 depending on family history), please, just DO it. Getting your boobs squished once a year is SUCH a small thing when you consider the tremendous benefits of early detection. Dr. Bremner told me, "Kudos to your radiologist. This is so small, it could have easily been missed."

Do what you need to do to take care of YOU! Your people want you around and healthy!

That Is Life

Talking with a friend yesterday, I said, "Part of me wants to jump up and down and be excited that my book is finally coming out this month. But the other part of me feels like — how can I be excited...it's a book that wouldn't exist if I hadn't lost my son." She replied, "That's life, isn't it."

That is life indeed. It is messy. And beautiful. And painful. All at the same time.

Life is an ever-evolving tapestry of all colors and textures, intricately woven together. You can't pull out all the colors and textures you don’t like and just leave the ones that are smooth to the touch and pleasing to the eye. That's just not how this works. Because I've been around for a while, I've had lots of opportunities to learn to accept this reality.

In my younger days, I used to draw neat lines around the positive and negative, the good and the bad, the desirable and the undesirable. When things all leaned toward the positive, the good, and the desirable, that's when life could really be enjoyed. Then somewhere along the way, I discovered that if I waited for everything to be as I perceived it should be to fully enjoy my life, I'd be waiting a long time.

Having kids was a masterclass in learning to embrace the whole darn mess. You are sleep-deprived, zombie-like in your demeanor and cognitive abilities. Your mind may snap if they scream one more time. Then they smile at you. Or fall asleep in your arms. You get excited because they sleep through the night for the first time!!! It’s a monumental occasion! Then they start teething, and it's back to zombie-land.

Fast forward -- after years of serving as unpaid chauffeur, you're off the hook when they get their driver's license. And you realize how much you miss that time in the car with them. Then...they go to college. You are proud and happy for them. And it hurts like hell to let go a little more. Or really…a lot more.

That is life. There is joy. There is pain. There is birth. There is death. There is laughter. There are tears. And it's all together. One expansive, intricate, complex tapestry.

It has been a long, heavy process reliving and reviewing everything over and over since receiving the publishing contract -- a labor of love, emerging from profound pain. So, yes, I am excited to finally see First, Brush Your Teeth in print on January 21. AND, I am ever mindful that it only came into existence because a boy named Chandler whose beautiful presence in my life left me no other choice than to write every single day the year I lost him.

That is life.

Today...December 15

Today is the day.

December 15. Three years ago. Everything changed.

Starting with a late-afternoon phone call asking, "Are you Chandler Espinoza's mother?"

So many thoughts and emotions and memories. My mind is pulled toward what happened at Via Honesto and Antonio as Chandler, in his Santa hat, biked to work that brisk December day. That's one of the problems with having a brain like mine that wants to understand everything, to fill in all the blanks. Sometimes knowing and understanding all the details just causes deeper anguish. So today, I am choosing to steer my mind in a different direction. Any way I steer it, I just miss Chandler. Three years ago today, I heard his voice for the last time. “I have to get to work, Mom. I love you.”

Today I am sad. And yet I feel deep joy mingled in with the sadness. Wonderful things are happening. And also…today is awful.

And it is beautiful.

FAMILY...
We welcomed Nora Chandler into the world on October 11. Only a couple of weeks after she was born, Chase said the words every parent hopes they will someday hear -- "Mom, thanks for keeping me." He and Karen are crazy in love with Nora, of course. Even so, those first days and weeks are just plain grueling! When a friend asked me a few days after Chase was born if I just loved being a mom, I replied, "I'll get back to you on that." Like her dad before her, Nora has opinions about a lot of things, and she is quite vocal about them. Plus, she has reflux, so who wouldn't cry about that!? Just about the time we thought she was never gonna earn her keep, she started smiling at us!

We are looking forward to Chance and Lauren's wedding in April. They were absolutely made for each other. It makes my heart smile to see them loving life together.

Charli is home from UCLA for the holidays. We've gone Christmas shopping a couple of times and often hang out at night with the pups watching TV.

Today is Pepper's birthday. Charli and I took her and Blu for a walk around the lake followed by Pepper's first pupaccino from Starbucks. Puppy life now as compared to when we first got them early this year is night and day. They are still a LOT, but now they let me sleep in if I want (and I always want), snuggle with me on the couch while I watch TV, chill during the day (amidst bouts of wrestling, barking, and sprinting around the house), and seem to have stopped eating the drywall and baseboards. I still have to pull various items out of Blu's butt on a regular basis because if it's on the floor or the ground, she will eat it. If we wanted to name them both in accordance with their true natures, we would have called them Roomba and Swiper. A couple of weeks ago, I found little ceramic baby Jesus on the couch. Thankfully, I rescued him before Pepper made a meal of him. 

GRATEFUL…..
My family is my heart. To say that I'm grateful for them wouldn't do justice to how I feel. I have so much to be thankful for. As I think back on just one week of my life--the week of Thanksgiving--our family gathered around the table together for dinner; I got to take care of Nora so Chase and Karen could go on a date night; Chance and Lauren came over to hang out; I went Christmas shopping with Charli; and Chip and I caught up on Yellowstone.

It's the simplest things that make my heart happiest. Peppermint latte with my girl. Dinner with my tribe. A smile from Nora. Puppy snuggles on the couch. I'm grateful that these moments are not few and far between.

THE BOOK...
I had no idea three years ago today that in December 2021 I would be preparing to release a book about losing my son. It's been quite a journey of writing and reviewing and editing and reviewing again. It has been different than any other writing I've ever done. Usually, I can plow through and meet deadlines. Not so this time. It has been emotionally heavy. Every time I needed to review the manuscript again, I engaged in avoidant behavior. It has been a labor of intense love and intense pain. I hesitate to employ the over-used analogy, but it has been quite like giving birth.

We had anticipated a much earlier due date, but the process of obtaining rights to use the lyrics to I Like It, I Love It took over six months rather than the stated six weeks. Even this week, we had a hiccup, and I was left unsure if we were going to be able to use the lyrics after all. TODAY I got an email stating there was an oversight and that in fact we would be able to use all the lyrics as I have them in the book. So we are now back on track.

Very soon, I will be announcing a release date for First, Brush Your Teeth--Grief and Hope in Real Time. My hope is that my book can be an encouragement and a source of hope to others experiencing loss.

LOVING LIKE CHANDLER WOULD...
Many people have expressed to me that they have come to realize through Chandler's story that the most important thing is love.

I've been praying about and researching causes that I know Chandler would have been passionate about. When he came home from his trip to India, he said he would like to start a business selling lungis (traditional Indian wraps). He loved his bright orange lungi (it hangs as a tapestry in his room), and he wanted to pair his love for lungis with the love he had for the gracious people he met in India. His desire was to help enrich their lives by providing a means of steady income.

As I've been sitting with that idea, other possibilities have surfaced. For example, there is a non-profit called Uniforms for Hope that provides uniforms for poor students in countries such as Lebanon and Kenya where students must wear uniforms to be able to attend public school. Just this week, the organization received its very first request for help from a school in India!

THIS CHRISTMAS...
Three years ago, the truth that God is WITH us gripped me like never before. It was the life-raft that kept me afloat that Christmas.

 How does it feel three years later? It still hurts like hell. I don't know if these anniversaries get any easier. And still.....as we move toward this Christmas, I cling to that same truth. I am more convinced than ever of the goodness, love, grace, and PRESENCE of Christ.

 May your family experience the love and presence of Christ this season. See his love right beside you in your spouse, your kids, your pups, your dear friends. See it in the blue expanse above, the carpet of green grass below , the snow-covered peaks, the wind and the rain.  Christ is as close as your very breath. This is the truth that matters most. God is with us. And God is love.

Full -- and Empty after 34 Years

Today is the first day.

The first day in 34 years I don't have a kid living at home.

Yesterday, Chase, Chance, Lauren and I took Charli to UCLA, the trip that should have happened last year, but was pre-empted by COVID craziness. Not gonna lie. Even though I wish Charli could have had her freshman experience on campus instead of in our living room, I cherished every bonus minute I got with her at home this past year. Plus, we got two puppies! That is directly attributable to Charli's being home and willing to pull night-time duty.

I know I harp on this, but I can't help it -- I am so in love with my kids. They made yesterday beautiful and bearable. Full of love. And hugs. And so full of laughter.

We caravaned up and ate at Lemonade near the campus. We all got, you guessed it, lemonade. It was meh. Way too sweet for my taste. But I digress.

After some time spent negotiating parking logistics (UCLA is bigger than most small towns I grew up in), we ended up at Charli's room, filled with the stuff she and Chase had unloaded from her packed-to-the-gills car. We were sure the dorm room came with a bed. But where was it? We all got to work unpacking trash bags, boxes, and a bulging duffel bag. At some point, a twin-size bed began to appear, complete with mattress protector. I guess you're never too old to have an accident. Chase said, "I think that's more to protect Charli from the mattress than the mattress from Charli." He's probably right.

The primary reason I did not completely lose my ish when we left -- Charli's roommate is one of her best friends. They've known each other since they both played on the Peach Panthers soccer team at six years old. They had shopped for dorm stuff together. Jess even brought pictures of her dogs and our pups and made a cute little heart design with them on the wall above her bed.

Their room is an eclectic mix of a neon green light-up dinosaur, stuffed animals, hand-painted art from friends, and a tie dye trash can all anchored by a space theme -- a glow-in-the-dark space clock, hanging spacemen multi-colored light string, picture of the planets, and comforters splattered with moons and stars.

So there we were, the eight of us -- the Espinozas along with Jess and her mom and dad busily folding, hanging, storing, trashing...and pretending that six of us weren't about to walk out of that dorm room holding back a flood tears.

None of these big days pass without plenty of references to Chandler in our conversations. The unspoken sentiment yesterday -- Chandler would be right here with us sporting those hallmark dimples, buttons bursting (if he was wearing a shirt) with pride for his little sister.  And also...asking her to keep an eye out for any hot single professors.

The first day without Charli here, I sit at my kitchen table reaching for the first tool I always grab to process my emotions. Writing. First, I wrote in my journal. Now I'm at my computer.

Loss isn't a single event. It is cumulative. Every loss up to this point is somehow connected to leaving Charli at UCLA and coming home to an empty house. It's all here right now. And I'm feeling all of it.

This is a good loss. A natural progression. An exciting new season for Charli. But it is a loss.

Two weeks ago at about 2 am, I heard the dogs barking and Charli yelling, "Shut up!" She'd been sleeping downstairs with the pups, and when she got up to go to bed, they decided to have a party. I remember muttering something like, "Those dogs need to shut up."

Then it hit me. I thought to myself, "I only have two more weeks left to hear Charli tell the dogs to shut up in the middle of the night." A dam broke. I sobbed harder than I've sobbed in a long time. I went to my closet with my journal and pen and cried and wrote and wrote and wrote and cried. I sat in my chair and looked out over the backyard. And cried.

In my journal, I scrawled:

I know how to be a mom. A mom with kids at home. I don't know how to be a mom with no kids at home. I know how to be an imperfect mom, not a perfect one. But I don't know how to do it with no kids at home. I don't know what it's like to not mentally keep track of someone coming through the door, safe for the night. I don't know how to not have at least one that I need to get the right groceries for. And I don't know how to say goodbye to the last one when one of the other three left without my blessing.

Losing Chandler and losing Charli -- so very different, and yet the feelings converge, and I am left in tears, wondering how I'm going to do this. 

But I will do it. I will do it because I am in the hands of boundless love and provision. Because I have friends who will help carry me. Because I have a grandbaby coming who will bring a new spark of life to our family. Because I have important work to do in the world.

Although my heart feels like it will crumble on September 18 when I take Charli to UCLA, I will keep moving forward. I will thrive, not just survive. That is my DNA.

And then yesterday came. The day I had been looking forward to for Charli's sake and dreading for mine. My mantra -- I have done hard things before. I can do this.

 And I did it. Well, not me. Our family did it. Together. WE can do hard things. Together.

 Now, baby girl, it's your time rock it at UCLA. We are cheering you on. Along with your neon green dinosaur.

28 Today--Rethinking Some Things

Chandler would have been 28 today.

Happy birthday, son.

I don't know how birthdays work after you leave here. Do they start over at year one? Does the concept of a birthday even exist if there's no measurable time as we know it? Will they tell Chandler that so many people are missing him today and wishing him a "happy heavenly birthday"?

Reflecting on Chandler's life, and the process of forging some new sense of normal since his death, has lead me to rethink a lot of things.

For one, I've come to realize that for all our supposed certainties about what the next life looks like, we really cannot comprehend or imagine what it will be. I am comforted by the idea that it is all in the hands of a loving, creative, generous, and kind creator.

For another, I realize as a parent, I have been far too preoccupied with the right boxes.  Chandler lived life big and in ways that often prevented me from checking the right boxes -- "my child has never" or "my child always." After losing Chandler, I came to believe that whether my son, or anyone else, checks the right boxes, that's not the highest concern. Do they love others well? Do they honor their life and their creator by living into each moment as the gift that it is? Chandler did that.

 And finally, I realize that, although I'm supposed to be the "older, wiser" one here, Chandler is teaching me. I always knew my son was a deep thinker. But when I recently read through the beautiful leatherbound journal he kept on his three-month trip to India in 2013, it became clear to me that in many ways, Chandler's level of spiritual attunement and maturity far surpassed my own. He articulated beautifully an idea that has just come to me in my 50s. He was in his early 20s when his wrote this: "I have been told that I must hold onto what I know to be true. If I carefully analyze that command, what it really requests of me is to remain arrogant and static in my spiritual journey for truth."

 Chandler, my sweet boy, the missing just doesn't let up. I wish we were about to sit down to your birthday dinner -- us all wearing shirts and you shirtless -- after which we would hug you and send you off to celebrate with your friends who miss you like crazy too. But the hugs and kisses will have to wait. Not forever. Just for now.

 I don't know what it is about my Chandler Man's lovin', but I like it. I love it. I want some more of it.

38

Thirty-eight years is a long time.

Long enough to get matching perms and parachute pants. Long enough to cheer one another on through great jobs, bad bosses, and long hours studying for degrees. Long enough to say goodbye to parents. Long enough to have four absolutely astonishing children you wish could have had those grandparents in their lives. Long enough to wish you'd known how to do some things a lot better early on. Long enough to know some things only come with time. Long enough to sit silently together on a car ride knowing words are unnecessary (OK, that is rarely me). Long enough to have jokes that only the two of you get. Long enough to know how sexy it is for your partner to do a potty dance for your toddler or pull a sock out of your puppy's butt. Long enough to struggle and fight and disappoint. And long enough to keep making up. Long enough to hold one another together when your souls are ripped apart by the loss of a child. Long enough to forge a partnership that is tested and tried and yet remains intact through some of the worst. Long enough to know you have been blessed to experience some of the very best together on this side of heaven. Long enough to know that, "I love you," goes deeper and wider than you ever imagined possible.

And there's more to come.

In October, we will welcome Chase and Karen's baby into the world -- we will be grandparents! Next spring, we will celebrate the marriage of Chance and Lauren. This summer we will get to see Charli play soccer again with the Women's Premier Soccer League.

But here, now, today..... we celebrated by exchanging cards, taking the pups to the dog park, and having lunch together at a new local Italian restaurant. Tonight we are having dinner at home and watching Netflix. "Netflix and chill," I think is how the kids put it. A simple, beautiful day.

 Here's to Chip and Lisa’s 38. That’s a long time.

Enjoy Saturday

Taking a cue from Chandler today.

 I wrote about this before, but it's worth repeating. Over and over.

 One Saturday when the kids were young, I wrote out on a whiteboard in the kitchen everyone's designated chores. When I came downstairs to check on their progress, Chandler had erased his assignment and replaced it with "Enjoy Saterday."

 I woke up today with essentially a blank slate.  This state of affairs tends to be anxiety-provoking rather than invigorating for me. I have to make the right choices about what to do today or else I will face one of two undesirable outcomes. 1) I will miss the chance to mark some things off my "list of things to do when I get the time." OR 2) Even worse, I will miss the opportunity to accomplish something that could change the course of my life and all civilization because I made a poor choice on May 1, 2021.

 Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that's how my mind works. The dialogue never ends. It is exhausting.

 The one thing I must do today is make sure Blu, who was spayed yesterday, doesn't lick or bite her incisions. The bigger issue is turning out to be her zest for life. The anesthesia wore off during the night, and I awoke to Charli yelling, "Mom, Blu won't stop jumping!" I'll admit, anesthesia definitely made Blu a more well-behaved pup. Maybe I could just sprinkle a tad bit on her food each morning?

 So that means we won't be going to the dog park or for a long walk today.

 And I won't be working on my book First, Brush Your Teeth today because I'm waiting for some specific feedback from my publisher before proceeding.

 Chip is out of town, and Charli is coaching all day.

 I could spend the day sitting outside on my swing watching the pups doze and play while I am entertained by my friends Audible and Kindle.

 It would probably be a good idea to clean house. So there's that.

 I'm going to follow the Chandler way.

 Today I choose to stop overthinking and just enjoy the moments of this day, whatever they bring.

 I'm thinking I may turn on my very danceable housecleaning playlist and scrub toilets and hug puppies and have homemade leftover vegetable soup and search the internet for silly things like "best eyeshadow for mature eyes" and hop on my Pilates reformer for a workout. After throwing my last cleaning rag in the laundry room at the end of the day, I will probably crack open an ice-cold kombucha.

 And if something comes up that thwarts my loosely laid plans, I will go with it.

 I think Chandler would approve.

ENJOY your Saturday!!!

Termites, Ear Mites, and Good Friday

On this Friday before Easter, it seems almost sacrilegious to write about anything other than the events we remember on Good Friday. But really...it all belongs.

Since January, my days and nights have been mostly dictated by, or let's use a gentler term 'guided,' by one thing -- puppies. There's puppies, work, puppies, eat, puppies, hopefully squeeze in a workout, puppies...and if the stars align and the good Lord willing...a good night's sleep.

 We've actually come a long way in the past few weeks. Pepper, the whopping 5-pound wiener dog, is now sleeping through the night along with Blu, the 35-pound goldendoodle. In fact, Pepper has been known to sleep from 9 pm until 8 am! Why? Because we gave in and let her sleep in our bed! There. I said it. A 5-pound wienie dog won. Actually, it was a win-win. We wake up to puppy kisses every morning, PLUS we get a full night's sleep because Pepper is a big fan of sleeping if she's snuggled up next to her people.

Blu would like to sleep upstairs with us, but the former head of the class has fallen in the ranks. Our obedient, eager-to-please little puppy is now 35 pounds of adolescent exuberance (to use the positive term from our trainer Gretchen). Practically speaking, that means she has trouble settling down in our room to sleep, especially if her sister is there. And she excited piddles when anyone comes to visit. And she makes me nuts with her jumping even though I've tried ALL the things to get her to stop. And she gets too wild and crazy with her teeny sister Pepper....although innocent little Pepper constantly ambushes Blu and pulls her hair while Blu is lying quietly on her bed. All that to say...Blu sleeps downstairs in the kitchen with access to the doggie door which she faithfully uses to go outside to potty -- YAY BLU!!! For that, we are ever so grateful. One pup that has to be ushered enthusiastically to the dog run every hour or so is quite enough.

 The next big hurdle I'm looking forward to clearing is TV. Yes, I'm that shallow. I miss the ability to sit down after dinner and watch something mindless. I recall with fondness when D'Marcus would snuggle on the couch and Maddie at our feet in the living room while we binge watched Handmaid's Tale or Breaking Bad. Having Pepper and Blu with us in the living room at night is like being at the Kentucky Derby, the horses running across your feet with every lap. They chase each other around the coffee table, Pepper ducking underneath at times just to tick off her sister Blu who can't fit underneath. We give them time outs in their crates, but it is just so exhausting! Can you give Benadryl to puppies?

Along with puppies has come...wait for it...ear mites. FUN! Pepper has been flapping her ears and scratching at night. So I decided to clean her ears.  When I Googled the description of the grossness I discovered in her right ear, I came to the fairly sound conclusion that she has ear mites. Drops are coming tomorrow, so hopefully the stench and the scratching and the flapping will cease.

But wait, there's more. While brushing my teeth one night this week, I spied a black winged creature on my sink. And one on my mirror. I squished them quickly and humanely and went to bed, Pepper under my arm. Tucked into bed, Pepper snuggled up close to my side, I noticed another bug on my bedside table. Then one on the wall behind my bed. Then one on my comforter!!! It is not easy to calmly deal with a bug invasion while keeping your puppy asleep at your side. I texted Charli, "Please bring up the flying bug spray."

I went to sleep with ear plugs, lest I awake with flying bug eggs in my ears, and the scent of Raid in the air. My Facebook friends and an exterminator confirmed the next day -- it's termites. He told me I could use Windex to kill them instead of having to inhale Raid until he could come and take care of the problem. So last night when I went to bed, it was reminiscent of a scene from My Big Fat Greek Wedding -- Windex everywhere.

 And I've been thinking a lot about Chandler. I miss him so damn much. I still find myself thinking, "This can't be real. It's not possible that my son could be here one day and gone the next." The pain and the missing is always right there. There are distractions. Like puppies. And work. And getting together with friends. And holidays. And termites. But it is always there.

Jesus didn't live his life in compartments. He just lived. Congruent. Consistent. Whole. He turned things upside down and refused to be co-opted by the religious leaders of his day. He wasn't concerned with impressing people or making sure what he said aligned with their narrative so he would be accepted. He loved people. All people.

 And I don't care what anyone says, Jesus is not easy to figure out. The Bible is not easy to figure out. If you think it is, you haven't really read it. I've probably read the Bible cover to cover four or five times in  my life. I love God, and I wanted to read the Bible to know God more deeply. But not only because of that. I have read the Bible over and over because I've always tried so hard to do the right thing. And to do the right thing, I have to know what the right thing is. I have to believe the right things in order to please God. I have tried SO hard. I've taken notes, attended Bible studies, highlighted, exegeted, and wrestled with passages that were hard to stomach or that contradicted other passages. As author and scholar Peter Enns says, the Bible simply doesn't "behave" like we want it to.

This Good Friday 2021 is different for me than any of the other 45-some-odd Good Fridays since I've had any awareness of what this day meant for people of the Christian faith -- which has basically been since flannelgraphs in Sunday School at Moss Hill First Pentecostal Church in Texas where every answer to the teacher's question was, "Jesus."

My faith has expanded, not contracted, though I admit to knowing far less answers now than ever before. I think God cares more about how I accept his love for me and demonstrate his love in the world than whether I embrace the correct set of beliefs. People can profess a "correct" set of doctrinal statements and still hate people who are different from them or use their resources to oppress others or refuse to help the poor -- all of which grieve the heart of God.

Of all the Sunday School lessons and sermons and Bible studies I've internalized throughout my decades of life in the church, today it boils down to three things I cling to and believe in the depths of my being. God is real. God loves me. God is WITH me.

Today, this Good Friday when I reflect on Christ's death on a cross, it just happens that cleaning ear mites out of my pup's ear and doing laundry and spraying termites is what I get to do while the meaning of this day hovers around my heart and mind. I'm grateful that Jesus showed us that it all belongs. And that God is with us in the midst of it all.