What to do when life twists in ways you don't expect

From Saturday's Briefing:

A dear friend and I met at a park last week, sat at a picnic table in the shade and discussed her cancer treatment options.

This mom of two children never anticipated making these kinds of decisions. She never planned to spend this winter, spring and now summer at medical appointments and in hospitals. She never expected to take on life-and-death worries at such a young age.

Life often twists in ways we don't expect. We can't totally prepare.

As we continued to visit, I shared with her a story that I'm not proud of.

It was the summer of 2006. Our family of four was halfway through a weeklong vacation.

We had flown from Dallas to Milwaukee, rented a minivan and drove north to Calumet, a tiny town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. We spent a couple of days exploring my grandfather's hometown, learning about copper mining, eating pasties, walking the same streets he'd walked decades before.

Then we drove east, to St. Ignace, to catch a ferry to Mackinac Island, a charming resort area with no motorized vehicles.

The trip was unfolding exactly as I had planned it. We'd eaten at the restaurants I'd researched. We'd arrived at all of our destinations within 30 minutes of my estimation. In the back of the van were carefully packed bags — suitcases for the island and suitcases we could leave behind.

We pulled in to a ticket office, purchased fares for the next ferry and piled back in the van to drive to the docks.

Steve waited for an opportunity to turn left on a busy four-lane road. A car on his left stopped and motioned him through. Steve didn't see a car in the second lane, a car that wasn't stopped, a car that hit the minivan on the driver's side.

The minivan was totaled. We were not. Steve suffered some cuts from the airbag that deployed. We were all a little achy. Mercifully, we walked away from the accident.

We did not make the next ferry. We talked with the rental car company (that was an unpleasant phone call). We talked with our insurance agent at home. We gathered all those bags — even the ones I had carefully packed to stay behind — and climbed in a police officer's SUV. He drove us to the docks, and we made a later sailing.

I should have been thankful that we weren't seriously injured, that the other driver wasn't injured, that we had a place to stay that night. And though deep down I was thankful for all of those things, I am embarrassed to say that I was mostly angry.

Angry that my plans were disrupted, that we had to lug all of our stuff on that boat, that we'd lost sight-seeing time, that we'd have to arrange for another rental car when it was time to leave the island.

My plans allowed no room for variables.

Six months later, we were hit with the devastating news of my husband's cancer. When I had time on my own to process his grim diagnosis, I reflected on that summer vacation, our accident and my crummy attitude — and I was grateful for the lesson, a harbinger of much tougher circumstances to come.

Our family's short-term and long-term plans did not allow room for a tumor and all its associated baggage. But rogue cells pay no attention to human plans. I realized that I could spend energy on anger, or I could spend energy on seeking solutions and recognizing blessings along the way.

I still need reminders to leave room in my plans for unexpected twists — both the welcome and the uninvited. I don't always succeed, but experience has offered perspective that tempers my frustration.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Arch Rock, a natural limestone formation,
on the back side of Mackinac Island, July 2007

It's time to widen our circles, because no one can afford to be trapped in isolation

From Saturday's Briefing:

I live in isolated worlds at times. We all do.

My past week has felt paradoxically isolated and connected, with hours spent with education colleagues, writing curriculum for the next school year, and a few more hours spent with United Methodists, celebrating and dreaming for our church.

School people — these are my people. We speak the same language: power standards, TEKS, formative assessments, rubrics, SAMR and vertical alignment.

Students have barely settled into summer routines, and here we teachers are, evaluating last year's learning and creating new lessons. (Take note: Only 66 days until school begins again.)

We try to anticipate student needs and misconceptions, relying on experience and data. We are devoted to our content and our students — so much so that sometimes we bicker over processes or word choice or document formatting. (Chocolate is often the solution for smoothing discontent.)

This community of educators fuels my passion for learning and for teaching. I am thankful for each one of them. At the same time, I am wary of becoming too attached - and therefore detached from the reason we started teaching in the first place.

I need this circle of teachers to help me become a better teacher. I also need connection with other communities to help me become a better learner. I need to understand pop culture and demands on children's time. I need to live in their world so that I better grasp their background knowledge. I need to live in our world so I know what I'm preparing them for.

Church people — these are my people, too. We not only speak the same language, we sing the same songs, with verses passed down through generations.

Clergy and laity from the United Methodist Church in North Texas gathered for our annual conference, with voting, awards, meetings, meals, keynote speakers, workshops and worship services.

Just like in public schools, there's some inside-baseball work in the church. The content is crucial to the people doing the work. The difference between a deacon and an elder, for example, means everything within the organization — but not so much to the outside.

When we church folks are together, we're working toward a common cause. Our conversations revolve around how to serve the hungry and the poor, the grieving and the oppressed.

This community of like-minded believers fuels my passion for listening and for serving. I am thankful for each one of them. And yet, I am wary of becoming so isolated within this group that I forget the larger purpose.

I need my circle of church friends to help me live my faith with integrity. I also need connection with other communities to help me become a better neighbor. I need to recognize my own privileges and be aware of what others lack. I need to be less attached to the security of a building and more open to going where called.

When I reflect on the mass shootings and suicides that plague our country, I'm struck by a common theme — isolation.

The men who open fire on crowds of people often seem to have no connection to a community. They lack a group to hold them accountable.

Suicide, meanwhile, is the 10th-leading cause of death in the country, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. There's no question that many of these weary souls experience debilitating desolation.

While the nation continues to debate appropriate levels of gun control, security in public spaces and access to mental health care, we have the opportunity to take a more personal approach.

Who can we invite into our communities? Who needs our love?

The better question: Who doesn't need our love?

One of the worship services last week featured three choirs singing together the words of Mark Miller, a professor of church music and beloved composer: "Draw the circle wide. Draw it wider still. Let this be our song. No one stands alone!"

We can't afford to live in isolation. We need community. We need wider circles that overlap to take in every single soul.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Choirs from Hamilton Park UMC and Highland Park UMC
joined together to sing "Draw the Circle Wide."