Core memory?

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I am absolutely fascinated by how the brain – my brain – works. By how one tiniest little thing can trigger memories that are so vivid and strong. Memories that seem so minute and even trivial can be conjured up by the smallest thought about something else.

This morning I was going through my normal Saturday morning routine. I had journaled and completed my devotional and was moving on to my first task of the day – meal planning and groceries. It’s something I do every Saturday morning. Since I have conferences this week, Chris is going to cook two nights this week. Thankfully he’s cooking a meal he and the girls love – and I won’t be home to eat it, because honestly I hate it. He lists all the ingredients he needs for his Swedish meatballs and I add them to my list. While ordering all of my groceries I came to one of his items – French Onion Soup. The instant I typed those words into my Kroger search bar, I was flooded with a memory from my childhood. A fond memory (that had nothing to do with Swedish meatballs!) I was transported back to my parents kitchen. My sister and I were sitting at the table and my daddy was doing the cooking. I could smell the goodness coming from the stove where he worked. When he turned around to bring the food to the table, we were so excited. Daddy had made French Onion soup – like the real deal – in individual crocks for us. The cheese on top was slightly browned and bubbling. As we dug into it we came to the next layer – the crusty bread – that was hiding in a rich, onion-filled broth. It was the first time I had ever had French Onion soup and I have loved it ever since. I can still see those brown crocks that held our soup. I can still feel the slight sting of the hot cheese as it strung from my bowl, over my spoon and messily landing on my chin. This dinner was not a special occasion dinner. It was just a random weeknight when, for some reason, my daddy was cooking. There was nothing memorable about this date on the calendar.

I have not thought about that meal made by my daddy in a very long time. But the simple act of ordering a can of soup today brought that dinner to my mind in an instant. And I’m so thankful it did. I don’t know why that meal, those moments have stuck with me, and why they came back in a rush today. Perhaps that is, for some reason, a core memory that I have held onto. I’m just in awe of how the brain stores memories and then releases them when a hint of them comes to mind. Because today, that memory turned a mundane task that often I gripe about into a few quiet moments to soak in a happy moment from my childhood. Totally unexpected, but so so appreciated.

Edit to add: I understand that “core memories” are not rooted in science, and that the term actually became popular from a Pixar movie. However, I do think that for some reason, this particular memory held some sort of special emotional value to me for it to re-surface in the way that it did. With such vividness and clarity. With so much emotion attached to it. So, yeah, Pixar or not, science or not, for me this was a core memory.

Finding my Voice…again

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It’s been almost a year since my last post on this blog. I’m honestly not sure why it has been so long since I sat down to write. Part of it is probably just that life is so busy…but that’s really a lousy excuse when I really think about it. Life is busy, but we make time for our priorities or for the things that bring us joy. Maybe it’s just the doubts and insecurities have taken over and I think “Nobody really cares about what I have to say.” But, I never really intended to write things for other people, but rather I always wrote for myself – to reflect on this crazy life and to process all the things that happen on a day to day basis. Perhaps the real reason that I haven’t taken the time to blog is just that it’s hard. The last year of life has been hard and I have been having an incredibly hard time understanding the “whys” of life. One of the last blog posts I wrote was shortly after my brother died. It was one of the hardest posts that I have ever written and I remember agonizing about finding the words to express my feelings and to honor him and his life that was cut way too short. Writing has always come so easy for me, but capturing the loss of my brother and sharing that pain in such a raw way was a huge challenge, but also something I truly felt I had to do.

We had dinner with some friends tonight and the wife asked me if I had been blogging lately, because she hadn’t remembered seeing anything I had written. She spoke about how beautiful my blog after my brother’s passing was and how it really touched her. Her words meant so much to me and it made me realize that I truly have missed this platform to share my thoughts. My brother was always so encouraging and supportive of my blog. Often I struggle with the doubts of sharing my writing because I really don’t think that any thoughts or feelings I have are worthy of putting them out there. And so, as we drove home from dinner I thought about all of it and although I felt the urge to sit down and write, I also felt a big emptiness knowing that my brother is not around to read my words. Even typing that just now, it feels weird to have that thought. But that is what is on my heart and mind. I think if I am really honest with myself, I believe there is a bit of guilt in that I get to go on and do the things that I have always done – the things that bring me joy – and he doesn’t. He doesn’t get to sit and paint, or play his guitar and sing his favorite songs.

But…I know that he would want the rest of us left behind to experience all the joy that life has to give…to go on living and loving. And so, I am going to do that. I am going to find my voice again and write what is on my heart as often as I can. Not for the views. Not for the follows. Perhaps not even for myself. I’m going to write again for my brother. I hope that finding my voice again and seeking joy in the little things will make him proud of me. I hope you come along for the ride.

Much love

J

See ya, love ya, Bye

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At the end of the day today I sat in my quiet classroom, thinking about my ever-growing list of things to do. The list was so overwhelming that rather than trying to accomplish at least one or two things before I went home, I just sat there. Exhausted from the day’s events. But today’s tired was a good tired. And today, rather than letting the stress and anxiety of this job get to me, I focused on how grateful I am for the way I get to spend my days. I absolutely love making connections with my students. Every year I tell people that I get to make 50 new best friends. They make me smile with their stories. They slay me with their silliness. At times they make me want to pull my hair from its roots – but even in those moments, I love them.

As I looked at the large calendar next to my desk and added that task to my “Wednesday – am to do list” I felt sadness creeping in. It’s already March. I only have three more months with these kids, and I am not ready to let them go. We have built such a great community this year in room 214. This group of kids is just a “nice” group. They help each other out. They are constantly asking me for jobs around the room to help me out. I’m not ready for this year to be over with these amazing kids.

Each day at dismissal as my students leave the room I tell them “See ya, love ya, bye!” Every day. Every student. I started that on the very first day of school. It didn’t take long for them to pick up on it and now they say it right back to me. It just makes my heart so happy! And the further we get into the school year, they truly understand that those aren’t just words from Mrs. Taylor. They know that when I say “love ya” that I mean it! I am honored and blessed that I get to spend my days pouring into the lives of these ten year olds. I want them to know that no matter what kind of day we had, no matter what mistakes they made, no matter how frustrated I may have gotten with them during the school day that I love them. It’s the last thing they hear from me before they head home.

I didn’t end up crossing anything off of my lengthy to-do list today. When I walked turned off the lights and shut the door of my classroom today, my list was still full – but so was my heart.

Annie’s Song

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Do you ever hear a song that stops you in your tracks and in an instant floods you with memories and an ocean of memories?

I was driving home from school one day this week when I was completely overcome by a song. Being with twenty-six ten year olds all day long is pretty noisy and chaotic, so most days I prefer to travel home in glorious silence. But this day, I decided to play my “Momma Chill” playlist to try and center myself and reflect on the day. As I crept up to the traffic light, the familiar guitar chords began.

It was Annie’s song by John Denver. One of my all time favorite songs ever. It is one of the first songs I ever really remember my brother singing and playing on his guitar. As I listened, the tears came in a torrent down my cheeks. I hadn’t heard this song in such a very long time. I had honestly forgotten it was even a part of this playlist.

The tears turned into violent sobs as I proceeded through the intersection. I even considered pulling over to calm down. I missed my brother. I kept thinking how desperately I wanted to hear him sing, just one more time. I wanted to remember the last time that I had heard him sing this song, and I was angry at myself that I couldn’t find that memory. When was the last time he sang it? I’m certain that when I heard it, I had no idea that it would be the last time. None of us knew or understood that we would be facing a lot of those “last times” when he found out he was sick. The yearning in my chest to go back and appreciate his music was smothering.

But here’s the thing, I can’t go back. None of us can, and none of us know when we share moments together that they could be the last time.

I am still wading through the grief of my brother’s death. Somedays I can smile about the memories and other days I can’t stop the tears. Some days I can sit in my memories of times with him, and other days a mere picture of him brings me to my knees. That’s grief, I guess.

I have thought a lot about this idea of “the last time…” watching my brother battle cancer and eventually succumb to it. I don’t understand for a minute why it was him that had to die so young. I have asked God a hundred times why our family has had to endure such a significant loss. I may never know why. But here is what I do know…I may never know when a moment with a loved one may be the last time. I believe that the best way I can honor my brother is to savor every chance I get to spend with family and friends. To be so present, and to treat every moment like it could be the last time.

Thank you for my love of music, and for that lesson, Todd.

Family is Everything

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Jodie, Janette, mom, and I had been planning for weeks for the big party for Papa. We had shared multiple messages about the decorations, the guest list, and of course, the food. We were all super excited that the baby, Janette, was able to fly down to be with us to celebrate. The anticipation for the big event was building.

On the Friday before the party we had planned a shopping trip to Costco to buy all of the food we needed for the party. Carty joined us for our girls’ day, and the five of us set out early to run all of the errands together. I cannot remember the last time we were all able to spend an entire day together like that. We laughed, cried, bickered, and teased ourselves through the morning as we loaded up with way more food than we really needed. The plan was to shop early and then spend the afternoon prepping food. Jodie had found our grandmother’s recipe for Waikiki Meatballs and the plan was to attempt to make them just like Edith used to. We followed her hand written recipe to the letter. As we worked through each step, we shared stories of our sweet Grandma, and teased each other that “that’s not how Edith would have done it.”

As we sat at the table rolling dozens and dozens of meatballs, we tried to remember the last time Grandma had made them for us. We decided it had been over seventeen years! Every Christmas Eve we would gather at Grandma’s house. She would have her house decorated beautifully. The table would be set with flowers and candles. And every year, in addition to a wide variety of finger foods, Grandma would always serve up a big batch of her Waikiki Meatballs. I can remember it like it was yesterday. She would serve us on her small, delicate, crystal plates. Matching crystal cups surrounded a large punch bowl. I remember thinking how “fancy” it all was.

The smell of them flooded the room, and my senses as my sister Jodie cooked. It is amazing to me how the brain works. As they cooked up, I was taken back to all of those Christmas Eve celebrations in an instant. All of us remarked how they smelled just like when Grandma made them. But the anticipation for whether they would taste the same continued to grow. Finally we couldn’t wait a minute longer. As soon as the taste filled my mouth, tears began to spill from my eyes. They tasted exactly like my Grandma had made them. It filled me with so much nostalgia. I felt joy as I remembered what an amazing woman my Grandmother was. I felt so sad that she was no longer around to share life with. I felt excitement that we had the recipe and could continue making it for our families.

As we carried on our work of preparing for the party, we shared so many memories. Memories of our Grandmother. Stories about our childhood and trips we had taken together. And it all started with that recipe. We were enjoying our time together so much that we turned it into a slumber party. We perused through hundreds of pictures. We shared storied. We snacked (occasionally sneaking a meatball or two when Jodie wasn’t looking). We decorated. We stayed up way into the way laughing and talking.

This time with my mom and sisters is priceless and I will never forget this weekend. The party was amazing and it was so good to see all of the people who came out to love on my daddy. But if I’m being completely honest, the unexpected highlight of the weekend was the time spend and memories created with my sisters and mom. I will cherish those forever. Our family has been through a really rough time over the last year. Even though we are so very different and at times those differences cause us to bicker and fuss, we are still family. And family is everything. I’m so thankful that my daddy is still around to celebrate his eightieth birthday. I’m thankful that his birthday created a weekend for my sisters and mom to be together. And I’m even more thankful for Grandma’s Waikiki Meatballs, and that old handwritten recipe.

It Should Be Five

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We gathered yesterday to celebrate my Daddy’s 80th birthday. My sisters, mom, and I had spent weeks and weeks planning this celebration for everyone’s favorite Papa. We had cooked a huge variety of party food, ordered an amazing cake, decorated with balloons and banners, and were ready to host a huge invite list of family and friends. I had been so focused on crossing items off of our lengthy to do list for that day that I hadn’t really thought about the date. Of course, I knew the date – February 18th – but there was more significance to this date above and beyond my daddy’s birthday. Yesterday marked the two month mark since our brother had passed.

Two months. It has taken me two months to even try to write about my brother’s passing – and I’m certain that I will not be able to articulate all that I need and want to say in one post. My brother battled cancer for almost two years. Throughout that fight, he never lost his positivity. When I would go to visit him, I would feel anxious – not because I didn’t want to see him or spend time with him – but because I truly felt like I did not know what to say to convey what I was feeling. I would go to comfort him, but he would end up comforting me with the strength and grace in the way he battled. I am still walking through his death. I don’t think there is ever a timeline or roadmap for what an individual’s grief looks like, and sometimes I ask myself if this it really what it looks and feels like. I find myself smiling one moment about happy memories, and crying the next because he is no longer on this earth.

So yesterday, as we gathered for pictures to celebrate our daddy’s birthday, I was not expecting it to hit me so hard. My oldest brother, and two younger sisters posed wearing our new t-shirts with our favorite daddy sayings on them. Even as we had spent the morning choosing which quote we each wanted on our shirt, it didn’t hit me. Even as we smiled for the camera, it didn’t hit me. But later, as I sat scrolling through the hundreds of pictures from earlier in the day, it hit me hard. The four of us stood with our arms wrapped around each other, smiling and laughing. It should be five. He should have been here with us with his very own Daddy-saying across the front of his shirt. Five of us should have gathered with our parents for pictures at the end of the night. Five of us should have been singing happy birthday and watching daddy blow out his candles.

The day was filled with so much laughter and love. So many family and friends came with cards and gifts. We looked through old pictures of my daddy. We ate and drank and just spent time together. It really was a fun day. But just under the surface of all of those happy emotions, sadness and tears were dwelling. Yes, it was great to see everyone and be together, but we weren’t really all together. And we never will be again. We are so blessed to have our daddy still with us and going strong at eighty years old. But right next to that thankfulness lives sadness and anger about the fact that our brother is not here with us.

I am learning through my grieving process that there will always be these conflicting emotions. And that is okay. It’s okay to smile and laugh and enjoy life and be sad and angry that my brother is not here to enjoy life with us. I stepped out on the back patio yesterday during the chaos of the party to catch my breath and settle my tears. Perched on the railing of the fence surrounding our pool was a red cardinal. In my heart, my brother was with us yesterday, and that cardinal was my sign that it’s going to be okay. That I’m going to be okay. That its okay for me to feel all of the things I am feeling in every moment.

There are so many more thoughts and memories that I have to share about my big brother, Todd. Today was the first step in that process. I look forward to being able to process all of those emotions through my writing. Stay with me!

The Gift of Encouragement

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I have written before about how important music is to me. Worship music is at the top of that list. I love shutting out the entire world and spending time worshipping God through music. It is a time I cherish – especially in the midst of the challenging time my family is walking through right now. There is nothing else but me and God during those times, and I feel so close to God as I sing to him.

This morning was no different. I walked through the doors feeling anxious and distracted. I was carrying a heavy weight that only God understands. My prayer as I entered the sanctuary was to leave all of the burden outside and to spend an hour close to God.

Service started and I was instantly lighter. The words of the songs it seemed had been chosen just for me. Music is truly a part of who I am. From my earliest days music was a family thing, and as our family faces our challenges, it has become more and more precious. I was lost in singing praise to the God who is in control. My comforter. My ever-present father. My peace-giver.

The message brought today was an amazing reminder of the resurrection and what that means to those of us who have accepted Jesus as our savior. He has conquered death. He rose from the dead, and so will we some day…because of him. Today was also baptism Sunday. A celebration and public declaration of those who have made the choice to follow Jesus. As the baptisms continued and songs of praise were lifted up, I was completely overcome with emotion. Emotion of the enormity of the sacrifice that Jesus made for ME! I let the music heal me in that moment.

At the end of service, I felt at peace. I was leaving with a renewed spirit and was no longer carrying such a heavy burden. I stood to leave, and the couple in front of me turned around and stopped me. The man said “Thank you for blessing us with your beautiful voice this morning. Sitting here in front of you was a blessing to us this morning.” I was stunned. I did not know this couple. They did not know me, nor could they have known the burden and the weight that I came in with today. But they took the time to share the gift of encouragement with me. I don’t think they have any idea what their words meant to me today.

I don’t share this encounter to bring myself any recognition or to toot my own horn. I share it to remind each of us that our words are powerful. Taking a small moment to encourage someone can completely change their day. How many times have I thought something positive or encouraging about someone, but didn’t take the time or the chance to share it? Following the prompting of the spirit and speaking life into someone else is truly a gift.

I’m so thankful for this couple who were led to share their words of encouragement with me. Had they not, I would have walked out of that service not ever knowing that I was a blessing to someone else today. I feel like I have been walking in a fog through the last several months of life. I have not only not felt like a blessing, but have barely felt like I was surviving each day.

I hope that my point is not lost in all of this. What I’m really trying to say is this…listen for those gentle promptings. And act on them. Share the gift of encouragement with someone in your world today. You may never truly understand the impact that it could have on someone.

Change of Season

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Today brought us the surprise of our first snowfall of the season. I love the feeling of childlike excitement that snow brings. I am a summer lover. I enjoy hot, lazy days by the pool. I love the blue skies and sunny days. But when winter rolls around, I find that I also love the chill in the air, cold mornings by the fire, and light snowflakes that float in the air.

I don’t think that I can pick a favorite season. There is so much newness and promise on the first warm(ish) day of spring. Watching flowers bloom and planting seeds in the ground with the hope and promise of harvest is a hard feeling to beat. And then there are the days where summer slowly gives way to cool nights, crunchy leaves and the first frost. No, I don’t have a favorite season. What I love most about each and all of them is the change. The surrender of one to the next. It’s a given every year, yet each time the seasons change, I feel excited. Almost relieved for the change.

My family and I are walking through an incredibly difficult season right now. We are weary. We are sad. Our hearts are heavy. The road ahead is not one that we want to travel, and the journey seems endless. But here’s the thing….it’s just a season, and seasons bring the promise of change. We will walk through each day of this season with the promise of renewal and growth and change. But we will also cherish each day of the season we are in – even though somedays we don’t know how. I pray that we are able to find the beauty in these days, even as our hearts are breaking. Because there truly is beauty in every season.

While may some may only see today’s unexpected snowfall as a nuisance, I am so thankful for it. Today’s winter surprise was such a gift to me. The season we are in is hard…but there is still beauty in it. I just need to really look for it and appreciate it. I need to stop wishing and begging for change, but rather accept the place that God has for me right now and take it in, knowing that change will come and there will be beauty in that next season too.

Even when I don’t see it

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During worship at church this morning I was moved to tears. Not just a pretty little tear traveling down my cheek. I mean tears upon tears. I’m talking make up streaking, snot slinging, ugly crying. I was so overcome with the presence of God in that time and place. Worship is how I most often hear from God – when I am open and listening for him. Worship for me is not just about singing a few songs. For me it is a time to lay my burdens down, open up my heart, praise my God, and listen for what he has for me.

Right now life is really heavy. I am bone tired and soul weary. I have been mad at God. I have argued and yelled at him as I asked him “WHY?!” (as if He owes me any answers). I have then changed to crying out to him and begging him to “fix” it. I have pleaded for a miracle from him. I have tried to turn it all over to him…casting all my cares…but in all reality I was not truly turning them over. I was sharing them with him and then trying to tell him what outcome I would like.

Today God used a song that I have sung a million times to still my spirit and to remind me of his love for me. The song was “Way Maker” by Leeland. During the pandemic, when this song came out I listened to it on repeat. I loved the timing of it as it helped me navigate the fears that came along with the lockdown. I wore that song out! It really spoke to me then. I honestly had not heard the song in a while until today, and I guess God just knew I needed to hear from him!

Even when I don’t see it, you’re working
Even when I don’t feel it, you’re working.
You never stop, you never stop working.
You never stop, you never stop working.

Way maker by Leeland

Regardless of how I feel about all of the troubles around me, God is at work. When I feel that he just isn’t hearing my cries for a miracle, he does, and he is at work. When I can’t feel his presence, he’s still there. He is working it all out. God is in control and he never stops. He knows. He sees. He has the answers.

I think the entire song shares a powerful message about all that God does for us day in and day out. But today, I think God really wanted me to open up, listen, and believe that he has not gone anywhere. Rather he’s been waiting for me to fully trust and listen to his voice. Even though I may not see what he is doing and how he is working, he is still at work. God will never stop working – and for that I am grateful beyond measure. I know that God’s answers may not be the ones that I am desperate for, but I also know that he is in control and no matter what, he is at work. That is who he is.

I’m so thankful that when I get mad at God, or doubt his presence in my life, he still loves me and is at work in my life. And he will never stop. He never stops.

“Teachers don’t poop…”

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I just started my 14th year in the classroom. Even in that time, teaching has changed so very much. I work, on average, 10-12 hours a day. I’m typically buried in paperwork. The requirements and demands coming down from the state are endless, and often make no sense. The academic, physical, and emotional needs of my students are draining and more often than not keep me awake at night. This career is exhausting.

But…then there are the kids. My absolute favorite part about my job is the kids! There is never a dull moment when you are working with tiny humans. They tell me jokes that crack me up. They wow me with their creativity. My students shower me with daily hugs and stories about all the things that are important to them.

They get crayons stuck in their ears. I have heard myself say, more than once in my career, “Please don’t lick the windows.” They are squirrely and sassy at times but also have moments that melt my heart. Some days they will NOT stop talking, and others they are the most captive audience around. They are certain that ice from the nurse can cure anything. They will crawl on the floor picking up every little speck of dirt for the promise of a piece of candy.

I love the energy that they bound into school with. I love that they can still leave me speechless with the things they come up with. Today was one of the conversations that I will probably never forget. While standing in the hallway taking a whole class bathroom break, I asked one of my “responsible” students to monitor the class and hand out Dojo points so that I could go to the end of the hall and use the restroom. When I returned approximately 37 seconds later (as a teacher you have to go fast) one of my students said “Mrs. Taylor, what do you do when you go to the end of the hallway?” I replied, “Ummm…I use the bathroom.” Another student chimed in and said “D’uh…teachers pee too!” A third student chimed in, rather loudly, “And poop!” By this time the whole class is mesmerized by the topic of my bodily functions. A fourth student jumps into the conversation to proclaim, “NO! Teachers don’t poop!”

I didn’t really want to explore my bathroom habits with twenty-five nine and ten year olds…so I just quietly shook my head (as I often do) and went on. I mean really, what is there even to say at that point. Just move on. Did I even for a moment to expect that we would be discussing my bathroom habits today? Nope… Tomorrow I am sure there will be something else that catches me by total surprise.

I love these kids so much – already. We are building a classroom family and they bring me more joy than I could ever express. Even when I’m sending one to the nurse for jamming a crayon in his ear. Even when I have to try to explain to one why “No, I will NOT smell your hand.” And even when I have seen my thirty-second wiggly tooth of the day (and my stomach is lurching).

So yes, teachers work really hard and often feel underpaid and disrespected. We sometimes feel we are being tasked with the impossible. We are tired and overwhelmed and burned out. BUT, we do love the kids, and we are so blessed to get to do what we do! We can be frustrated and still love our jobs all at the same time!