This single mom's May survival kit: An organized calendar, a sense of humor and plenty of naps

From Saturday's Briefing:

Long weekends in springtime are dangerous, as they give children and their parents a hint of summer. Sunshine beckons and bedtimes lengthen.

Yet the freedom is fleeting, and soon real life looms again.

We enjoyed four days off in Frisco last week. I used one day to clean the house. Another to run errands and cook. Another to celebrate Easter with family. By Monday I was worn out. There were still more house projects (that list is long). There was a stack of papers to grade. There were meals to plan and prep.

My body and mind, though, told me to stop. To sit in the big green chair and do nothing. To watch the first 30 minutes of West Side Story before succumbing to a nap.

I felt a twinge of guilt and heard the murmur of unorganized closets and ungraded poems and unchopped vegetables.

Louder than those whispers of guilt, though, was the rolling thunder that announces May — that glorious season of celebration, the 31 days that give December competition for the title of Most Overbooked Month of the Year.

I'm no stranger to the bittersweet and exhausting demands of May. It's wise practice to conserve energy and strength in advance of this emotional rollercoaster.

This year's combination is the most powerful in the Damm house so far: single mom who's a teacher plus daughter finishing middle school plus son graduating from high school. There's not a moment I want to miss.

Our family's calendar includes but is not limited to multiple STAAR and AP exams, a band concert, two performances of Schoolhouse Rock Jr., booster club scholarship night, alumni receptions at elementary and middle schools, baccalaureate, senior Sunday at church, mentorship presentation night and the moment that Cooper has been working toward for 13 years of public school — graduation.

It's a moment that I've been working toward for almost 18 years, nurturing and pushing, cajoling and applauding my firstborn toward a finish line that's also a launching pad. All of the work and love leading to this moment feels like a lifetime and a blip all at once.

I have no intentions of bemoaning our celebrations, scorning our milestones or wishing away a single day. I've learned to embrace all that May represents, even when it makes me weepy or weary.

These events showcase individual progress and teamwork toward a common goal. They celebrate learning from mistakes, taking risks and persevering. They acknowledge that it's a community of family, friends, teachers and coaches who help to raise a child. They offer a tidy end to one season and invite a new season to begin. 

Experience tells me that the whole month of May is more joyful when you face it with a game plan that includes but is not limited to synchronized calendars, shortcuts for meals, a ready supply of Kleenex, a sense of humor and a whole bunch of grace for yourself and your people.

Katie and Cooper, Easter Sunday 2019

I've also learned to revel in whatever downtime presents itself. We'll share as many low-key meals together as possible. We'll recap our day and share plans for tomorrow. We'll ignore the chores that can wait in favor of needed breaks and the comfort of one another's company.

I'm ready for you, May — for your flashy shindigs and hushed moments, for your reminders of full lives and hard work, for your symbolic conclusions and convocations. (And please don't be offended if I take a nap or two.)

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

We need shared experiences to remain in community — so go outside and start living

From Saturday's Briefing:

It's easy, too easy, to live inside.

We're a click away from groceries, movies, paper towels. We can ask our artificially intelligent speakers to give us current weather conditions or play radio hits from 1989. In the comfort of our homes, we aren't forced to interact with anyone we don't know.

Yet there's untold value in living outside.

Our sofa cushions were lonely last weekend. The only entertainment we sought was out in the real world. We rooted for the home team and enjoyed two live stage performances, surrounded every time by like-minded strangers.

Friday night was devoted to a Frisco RoughRiders game. I am a fair-weather fan, preferring baseball in the glory of April. You're not sweaty by the time you walk from the parking garage to the entry gates. There are no heat-related tantrums in the park. No matter your team, there's still hope for a winning season.

A trip to the Frisco ballpark is inexpensive and social all at once. We always run into friends. We chat with folks seated nearby and in concession lines.

On this visit, a fan was wearing both an Auburn University T-shirt and a University of Alabama pullover. My son, who will attend Auburn beginning in the fall, was intrigued and struck up a conversation. We learned that he's a diehard Alabama fan first, the SEC second. He was ready to cheer for the Auburn Tigers in the Final Four and wished Cooper luck as he begins a new journey.

We all stood up and sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." I'm a terrible singer, I but I always belt that one with gusto, emboldened by the crowds.

The next night we settled in at a local theater to support one of my former students. Princess Whatsername offered mashed-up fairy tales performed by elementary- and middle-school children. They almost always remembered their cues and lines.

We were wowed by some of the singing voices (much better than mine) and smooth dance moves. We belly-laughed when the 5-year-old bear roared with ferocity. We knew almost no one on stage, but we cheered for each of them like they were our own.

And then the next day one of our dreams came true. We attended the Sunday matinee of Hamilton at the Music Hall at Fair Park.

This was a repeat watching; we lucked into tickets for a performance in Chicago in 2017 and have been reminiscing about it ever since, hoping for a chance to see the musical again. (I vowed to keep my own singing in my head.)

Photo by Joan Marcus
The Schuyler Sisters from Hamilton

There's something magical about being in the same space and experiencing similar emotions as 3,000 other people.

Chills when the first note hits.

Laughter when King George saunters on the stage.

Holding your breath when Eliza sings about her husband's affair.

Sobbing when she later mourns the death of their son.

Leaping to your feet when the last note ends, wishing you could stay for the next performance.

I'm thankful for Amazon Prime, high-speed internet access and on-demand viewing. There are evenings when I've had enough of other people, thank you very much, and want to retreat to my cozy home with only my own people.

Yet we need shared experiences to remain in community. We need to clap, cheer, groan, sing, dance, laugh and cry together — with people we know and people we may never see again.

Spring is the best time in North Texas for a festival. Get out and listen to some live music. Find a school performance nearby. Go to a game — any game — and enjoy the camaraderie of the crowd. Let's leave our cozy cocoons long enough to meet one another in the lobby, in the stands, in line for snacks and to celebrate living together.

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

In an increasingly virtual world, there's truly no substitute for nature's beauty

From Saturday's Briefing and in today's Dallas Morning News:

Cooper at Monument Valley

One of the great joys of travel is rediscovering the wonders of our earth and the complexity of our spirits.

Our recent spring break included a three-day tour of the Southwest, allowing us to explore land that we'd only ever seen on National Geographic calendars and computer screensavers.

Katie, Cooper & Tyra at the Grand Canyon

Cooper, Katie and I hiked along the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, sometimes in silence, sometimes talking nonstop about the colors, dusting of snow, unusual rock formations and incredible enormity of the park. We'd stop often to admire the scenery from different angles. We took dozens of photos.

We were excited to reach the entry to Bright Angel Trail, hoping to hike down a mile or so to fully appreciate the canyon's proportions. We were confident in our abilities and heartened when we passed older travelers returning from the trail. They were a sturdy bunch but at least 30 years older than me and 60 years older than my children — surely we could tackle Bright Angel.

One glance at the trail itself, though, and we were defeated. Recent snow had melted, frozen and turned to ice. The steep incline appeared treacherous. Unlike those senior citizens, we lacked ice cleats and walking sticks. We passed the trailhead and kept walking along the rim, impressed by the athleticism of those septuagenarians, humbled by our lack of preparation and awed by beauty at every turn.

Katie at Monument Valley

The next day we toured Monument Valley, an iconic region in the middle of the Navajo Nation, straddling Utah and Arizona. Sandstone buttes punctuate the landscape, made famous in the past century by cowboy movies and Forrest Gump.

Our Navajo guides drove us through the backcountry and stopped occasionally to let us roam. We scrambled up rock and slid through sand. We admired Moccasin Arch and Eye of the Sun, potholes high in the rock created by water erosion. We spied Anasazi petroglyphs on walls and remnants of pottery on the ground.

I couldn't have asked for more.

And then our guides surprised us with music.

One played a wooden flute, the notes echoing off rock walls. The other chanted a traditional Dine song while he played a small drum.

We were wowed by nature and humbled by humanity's own art.

Later that afternoon, we wandered through Antelope Canyon, a slot canyon in northern Arizona known for its curved walls, waves of color and peek-a-boo sunbeams. We were halfway through the tour, surrounded by gorgeous sandstone chiseled by millions of years of floodwaters, when angelic sound flooded the canyon.

A women's choir had burst into song, taking full advantage of the canyon's natural acoustics. Our tour group stopped, made room in the narrow passageway and listened as choir members shared their gifts with strangers.

The whole scene was like heaven on earth.

In an increasingly virtual world, there's truly no substitute for standing on the edge of a cliff at Lake Powell, studying the Colorado River as it winds around Horseshoe Bend. Or for hiking up a trail at Zion National Park to stand beneath Weeping Rock and rejoice in sprays of water.

There's also no substitute for making friends along trails or enjoying impromptu concerts in the wild. We don't have to leave the state or even the county to forge new adventures, but we do have to leave the comfort of our homes and our routines to discover fresh reminders of the breadth and depth of our planet and of our souls.

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

Most parents aren't guilty of buying our kids' way into college. But what else are we guilty of?

My column, also on DallasNews.com:

My son, like the majority of college-bound students, earned his acceptance to a university the honest way. He reported his high school grades, ACT scores and extracurricular activities. He wrote essays. He asked his counselor and teachers to write letters on his behalf.

Cooper was not accepted into every college he applied to. He was disappointed but not devastated. He has chosen an excellent school that offered him a partial scholarship and that seems to be an ideal fit for his interests and talents.

This is how most students make the transition from high school to college, and this is why many of us are upset by news that the Justice Department has charged 50 people with bribery related to an outrageous college entrance scheme. Wealthy parents reportedly paid bribes to ensure that their children received acceptance letters from elite universities (and took spots that should have gone to other students).

The majority of us play by the rules and don't have the money (or the lapsed ethics) to buy favor. We've taught our children to dream big and work hard. We're outraged — or at least concerned — that rich folks are buying admission for their kids.

Yet before we middle-class, rule-abiding parents get too smug, let's consider some questionable choices that many of us make, albeit on a less visible, less obnoxious scale.

First, too many of us have bought into the false premise that elite brands are always better and that association with prestigious names guarantees success.

The categories change, depending on your stage of life, but the snobbery remains. Baby stroller, preschool, sneakers, luxury handbag, watch, SUV, college — we're willing to spend more than we can afford on the most prestigious names in an effort to impress ourselves and others.

Yet we know, deep down, that our identities aren't defined by what we wear or what we drive or even where we go to school. Who do we love? How do we spend our time? How do we help others? We often don't spend enough time helping our children — and ourselves — answer these questions.

Second, we parents have invested too much time and energy in engineering our children's lives.

It is appropriate, for example, to arrange playdates for your children when they are in preschool and unable to schedule their own get-togethers. It is inappropriate, though, to coach your daughter on who she should or should not invite to her own middle-school party.

It is appropriate to help your child gather supplies for a school project. It is inappropriate to design, cut, color, assemble, glue and glitter the project for your child.

What does it say to our children when we orchestrate their social lives and take over their schoolwork? I'm guessing it sounds something like, "I don't trust you enough to take care of this the way I would. You won't do it correctly. Step aside."

Third, we sometimes insist on gaining entry to programs that aren't necessarily designed for our children.

I have a friend who, years ago, applied to a prestigious preschool for her child. The child did not get in. The next year, on advice from families already in, the mom arranged for an expensive item to be donated to the preschool's annual silent auction. Lo and behold, that child was accepted on the second try.

In fact, the preschool wasn't a good fit. The child didn't meet expectations, and the parents and school mutually agreed to not re-enroll.

Some parents force their children to study for cognitive tests to gain entry into gifted and talented programs. The ability to memorize test answers doesn't indicate academic giftedness, though, and if a student is accepted to the program, there's no guarantee that she will perform well with a curriculum that wasn't designed for her.

When a student earns admission to college based on his own merits, he's got a greater chance of success. Those chances are even greater when he's not concerned about arbitrary labels and when he's confident in his own abilities.

Those college cheaters, when found guilty, deserve justice. Universities must investigate and regulate their policies that allowed cheating. And parents — all of us — need to consider the smaller ways that we cheat our own children of independence and confidence.

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

Veganism, nuclear engineering and a mom trying to keep up with her teens' passions

From Saturday's Briefing:

Each stage of parenting creates new expertise.

Moms of infants are walking encyclopedias on car seats, diapers and sleep schedules (or lack thereof). Toddler parents know all the indoor and outdoor playgrounds within a 10-mile radius and which 30-minute television show is entertaining enough to buy you time to prepare dinner or fold laundry.

Elementary school moms and dads become go-to gurus of play dates and birthday parties, recreational sports leagues and art classes, spelling lists and multiplication tables, state capitals and summer camp options.

And then, with the advent of middle school, that smug sense of having it all under control starts to unravel. Those children we've nurtured and protected have more freedom. They've been developing their own interests, beyond what we've fed them. They choose their own clothes, their own books, their own TV shows, their own friends.

Suddenly it seems as if your child's interests are totally independent of your own — a natural evolution that nevertheless takes us expert parents by surprise.

Cooper was in middle school when he developed an interest in nuclear engineering. While I had a vague idea of the existence of nuclear engineers, I didn't know enough to even consider it as a possible career for my son.

He spent his junior year of high school researching the effects of small modular nuclear reactors in a community setting — words that I didn't know went together. This year he's devoting even more time to the field, creating original work related to nuclear engineering as part of an independent study. He's working with a mentor engineer from Comanche Peak Nuclear Power Plant, a partnership that he initiated after weeks of cold calls, emails, interviews and LinkedIn maneuvering.

Thanks to Cooper, I now know that nuclear power plants provide about 20 percent of the nation's electricity, that the production of nuclear energy is carbon-free, and that safely run plants offer nothing to fear. I am no expert in the field, but I'm happy to support my son as he tries to become one.

I offer a different kind of support for one of Katie's passions. She was in elementary school when she elected to become vegetarian. I adjusted her meals — and some of ours — accordingly. She's survived more than five years without meat. Now, in the middle of eighth grade and after extensive research, she has chosen a vegan diet.

This means she eats no animal-based products — no cheese, no eggs, no ice cream. It's not a lifestyle I would choose. I don't need steak, but I'm pretty sure I can't survive without chips and queso.

Katie isn't interested in converting me or her brother or anyone else, for that matter. She's not offended in the presence of a rack of ribs or a hunk of roast beef. But she is unwavering in her commitment to her choice, in support of her own health, the environment and the treatment of animals.

Together she and I are trying a new vegan recipe each week. Thai peanut noodles, toor dal with cumin, quinoa and black bean salad with lime dressing. I'm hovering, on the lookout for calorie count and adequate protein while teaching her to look for the same. Occasionally I remind her that she can choose to return to animal products or even meat without judgment.

I'm no expert in veganism, and I may never be, as long as I continue to embrace the inherent comfort in dairy. Yet I'll willingly root for Katie's choice and give her the freedom to become her own kind of expert.

Perhaps that's the real expertise we need to develop while parenting teens — stepping back, trusting those strong souls we've been nurturing from the very beginning and being open to what they can teach us.

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

Cooper's nuclear engineer mentor took us on a tour of Comanche Peak Nuclear Power Plant.

You might think raising young people helps you predict their next move. You're wrong

From Saturday's Briefing:

What does it mean to parent teenagers? It totally depends on the day.

There are routines, of course, not too different from infancy or toddlerhood or even elementary school. They need to eat and sleep. They need clean clothes. They thrive on unconditional love and affection.

And yet there are countless more variables as they get older. The routine is merely a skeleton upon which unpredictability runs wild. You might think that raising these young people gives you an advantage to understanding their next moves. You are often wrong.

I thought, for example, that I had modeled healthy, balanced meals for my children and that they, when left to their own devices, would do the same.

In between Saturday activities last week, Cooper took charge of his own lunch. He made himself a ham, cheese and pepperoni wrap. (I suggested that he include some fresh spinach or chopped tomatoes. He said those would interfere with the desired texture and flavor of his creation.)

He took one bite of his lunch then stared meaningfully at the toaster oven.

"If you want to heat it, I'd wrap it in foil first, and set the oven to bake," I counseled.

With his entree delayed, Cooper set his sights on an appetizer of sorts. I suggested some carrots or an apple. I was ignored.

He gathered two knives, two slices of bread, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of Nutella.

He spread more peanut butter on one slice than I thought was physically possible. He repeated the feat with Nutella on the other slice.

He smooshed the two sides together and polished it off just at the wrap was ready to come out of the oven. He proceeded to devour the wrap, then searched the refrigerator for something to wash it all down with. Mango juice. At least there was a semblance of fruit.

I've got a few more months to work on him before he leaves for college. Maybe he'll surprise me.

Katie and I have a few more years together. For the first 12 years of her life, she seemed content with me hanging around. Teenage Katie still likes me, but she also wants her space. (I, too, have been a teen. I totally understand.)

She wasn't thrilled to learn that I had volunteered to chaperone the eighth-grade semi-formal. I promised to make no unnecessary eye contact and to refrain from taking photos of her at the dance. (I made no such promise for photos before.)

I worked the sign-in table most of the night, far removed from the dance floor.

About 30 minutes before the event's end, Katie came looking for me -- an unexpected twist. Her motives weren't entirely pure, though. Her goal: Convince me to allow a group of girls to come home with us to watch a movie.

I did some quick calculations and determined that to host girls for an after-party would require that I remain in regular clothes — not pajamas — and be available for general parenting and maybe even driving for another three hours.

A universal truth of teaching is that every Friday night is a finishing line. We've reached our absolute limit of activity. The fact that I was still wearing publicly acceptable clothing — a dress and heels, no less — was a miracle.

I offered a compromise: I'd take the whole gaggle to Braum's for ice cream and drive them home.

So, on that Friday night after two hours in a middle school gym, I sat alone in a booth, nursing a scoop of cookies and cream.

In an unexpected twist, I didn't even mind. I enjoyed a few moments of solitude while hearing echoes of their giggles.

These girls will be in high school soon. Their schedules will be more complex. In a couple of years, some will be driving, and they won't need a mom to linger in the background.

No matter the day or the meal or the special occasion, I'm thankful for this opportunity to guide my children toward adulthood. Life would be routine without them.

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

Friday night at Braum's

If you don't know where to start with people, try a book first

My Dallas Morning News column, from Saturday's Briefing:

I'm convinced that we would all get along better if we all read more — and not just tweets and Facebook posts that make us comfortable or books that reflect our own experiences. We need to bury our noses in unexpected literature.

I've been helping a ninth-grader understand Harper Lee's classic To Kill a Mockingbird. She's enjoying the story and working hard to ferret out universal themes, the importance of setting and how the plot affects characterization. She's doing all that work with limited background knowledge. Her parents are non-Christian immigrants, which makes some of the 1930s Southern references particularly difficult to parse.

Consider, for example, when Miss Maudie talks about "foot-washing Baptists" and tells Scout, "Sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse than a whiskey bottle in the hand of oh, of your father." If you're not familiar with Christian doctrine and various denominations within the church, these are tough quotes to place in context. And the whole novel is full of allusions.

The analysis is worth the reward, of course. We're having important conversations about sibling rivalry, prejudice and standing up for what's right.

My own reading lately has leaned toward historical fiction, with valuable lessons from the past that can inform our attitudes and decisions.

The Alice Network by Kate Quinn, set in France during World War I and after World War II, describes risks taken by female spies and atrocities committed by the Germans and those who supported them. There's no pleasure in reading of torture, but we can't afford to forget the cruelty of regimes that allow it, either.

The Dollmaker of Krakow by R.M. Romero is part historical fiction and part fantasy, with a wooden doll come to life who helps to rescue children from the Krakow Ghetto. Holocaust stories are never easy to read, yet that discomfort is a necessary reminder of a past we can't repeat and heroic souls who resisted.

Refugee by Alan Gratz follows the harrowing journeys of three refugee children — one escaping Nazi Germany, one fleeing Cuba under Fidel Castro and another leaving 21st-century Syria. It's impossible to read these stories without gasping, weeping and wondering more than once, "What would I take if I had to leave my home behind?" and "Would my family and I survive this kind of uncertainty and violence?"

One of my favorites of the year so far is The Night Diary by Veera Hiranandani, named a Newbery Honor Book this week. My choices typically skew Western, and I lack sufficient knowledge of South Asia, especially given the number of my students whose parents were born there. This novel helps to build on my limited understanding of Indian foods, customs and beliefs.

The Night Diary takes place in India in 1947, as the country was establishing new borders and Pakistan was created. The narrator is a 12-year-old girl with a Hindu father and a Muslim mother (who died during childbirth) who must leave her comfortable life behind to emigrate from Pakistan to the new India.

The characters are fictional but plausible. Nisha and her family nearly die of starvation and dehydration. They witness and narrowly escape inhumane violence. According to Hiranandani, more than 14 million people crossed borders in the partition of India, and as many as 1 million died in the mass migration.

These are stories I didn't know, and now I need to know more. At the same time, I wonder what kind of historical fiction might eventually be written about 2019. What kind of fictional heroes will emerge? What themes will be remembered?

How can each one of us change the narrative now? How can we draw from history and literature to develop empathy that will then foster conversations, even when we disagree?

In these days of bitterness and turmoil, we'd be wise to consider the words of Atticus Finch. 

"If you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you'll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view ... until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

If you don't know where to start with people, try a book first.

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

Fellow suburban parents, it's time to talk to kids about appreciating what they have

From Saturday's Briefing:

If Katie takes a sliced apple to school for lunch, forgets to eat it and then throws it away at home after remembering it in her bag hours later, I'll remind her that it's like throwing out a couple of dollar bills. Organic apples are pricey, even when you buy them on sale.

If I hear Cooper chomping ice, I'll ask him to stop, citing "those $9,000 teeth." The $9,000 represents total orthodontia costs so far and doesn't include routine cleanings or recent wisdom teeth removal. And soon I'll have to call them his $10,200 teeth, as those impacted wisdom teeth caused a bit of trouble, and we're about to enter a third stage of braces.

These admonitions don't come easily, though. I often feel conflicted talking about expenses with my children. I don't want them to feel guilty for the costs associated with growing up, yet I want them to understand that most everything has a price. They need to be prepared for their own bill-paying future. They need to appreciate what they have and understand why they often don't get what they want.

It's the same kind of conflict that comes from living in our mostly affluent community. I'm thankful for access to new technology at new campuses, clean streets and responsive police. I'm grateful for the opportunities my children have in a school district that offers academic and career and technology classes that read more like college courses. I'm in awe — and even slightly embarrassed — that our football team plays games at the Dallas Cowboys' indoor practice facility. (When I'm at normal high school stadiums, I find myself wondering, "Where is the giant video board for replays?" and "Why is there no air-conditioning out here?")

We live in a modest home not far from much newer, more extravagant houses. I drive a 10-year-old minivan (keep on, trusty Odyssey!), while many of the cars around town have Bluetooth technology and touch screens.

Some families ski every spring break and spend at least a week of summer along Highway 30A in Florida — that is, when they can fit in vacations around select sports travel schedules.

I begrudge them nothing. These same families work hard, volunteer all over town, make wise decisions and share generously.

Our bubble isn't representative of the nation, though, or even our Denton County. Our community's affluence is an anomaly. Most people don't live in magazine-ready homes. Most children don't attend classes in brand-new buildings. There are school districts all around us in which the majority of students qualify for free or reduced lunch.

Not all children — despite what mine see — have access to braces. Many families would prefer to buy organic produce but simply can't justify the extra expense from their meager food budgets.

So, what is our responsibility in the middle of — or on the edges of — affluence?

At the Damm house, we're working on an awareness of both what we have and what others lack, plus responsible use of the resources we have — including donations when we can. We talk about how difficult it is to work out of poverty, and we consider historical and current policies that make life more difficult for low-income families.

When necessary, I remind my people that double reeds and private oboe lessons aren't free and that I won't replace lost or broken items that you can live without.

A few weeks ago, we were driving to meet family for dinner at Legacy West, one of the many swanky restaurant districts within 7 miles of our neighborhood. Cooper, who is months from graduating high school and moving on to college, was staring out the window and remarked, "Wherever I go to school, there probably won't be anyplace as fancy as this."

"Nope," I answered. "I'm thankful you realize that now."

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

Lincoln, MLK and our hope for the future

It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Abraham Lincoln, 1863

On Friday afternoon, a large group of young men encircled, taunted, mocked and harassed a Native American and Vietnam veteran.

Also on Friday, a group of young people sat in a circle and discussed the importance of the Gettysburg Address as well as parallel themes found in Lincoln's text and the classic novel A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle.

I'm disheartened and disgusted by the actions of those teens in Washington, D.C. -- actions that were recorded and shared millions of times. I'm praying that they each have a change of heart, that they take ownership for their individual actions in a mob setting, that the adults in their lives examine why those boys thought it was OK to display blatant racism.

It's important to remember that those young men in Washington, on a field trip from Kentucky, do not speak for all young people in the United States.

I find solace in the words of my sixth-graders, who spoke eloquently Friday about courage and freedom, faith and love, unity and civil rights. 

A student in my morning class pointed to the nonviolent leadership of Gandhi. A student in my afternoon class quoted John 3:16 as an example of sacrificial love. Students in both classes asked questions based on research, listened to one another and sometimes even disagreed, but always with civility.

These are 11- and 12-year-olds who together represent most every major world religion. Many speak a second or even third language at home. Their parents subscribe to varying worldviews. 

Yet they are able to come together with common goals -- to learn, to show what they've learned and to learn even more from one another.

My heart is heavy when I watch the video of the boys who surrounded Nathan Phillips. Yet I know that love is stronger than fear or hate or selfishness. I continue to place my faith in God, Christ and the Holy Spirit while respecting and honoring that not everyone does the same. 

I continue to pray that all of God's children acknowledge that we are not required to look alike, think alike, sound alike, pray alike or worship alike. We are called to love one another and protect one another without qualification.

My hope lies in the children who, regardless of and because of their differences, are able to share, listen and consider new points of view.

My morning class, discussing the Gettysburg Address and A Wrinkle in Time

The only normalcy that we will settle for is the normalcy that recognizes the dignity and worth of all of God’s children. The only normalcy that we will settle for is the normalcy that allows judgment to run down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream. The only normalcy that we will settle for is the normalcy of brotherhood, the normalcy of true peace, the normalcy of justice.

Martin Luther King Jr., 1965

I'm guided by possibility in the new year

From Saturday's Briefing:

I've never been successful with new year's resolutions. They feel so heavy, and I'm disappointed come late January, early February, when I haven't met my expectations.

Instead, I've found more peace by focusing on interim goals regardless of the calendar. Plus, every year since 2013, I've adopted a guiding word, inspired by Jon Gordon's book One Word That Will Change Your Life.

Joy. Content. Embrace. Each year the word changes, and I try to live with it as a clarifying reminder of what's most important.

As 2018 was waning, though, I was struggling to find my new word. I kept a running list, discarding more than accepting, never feeling devoted or committed to a single option.

In the midst of this silent search, I was reminded of both the miracle and fragility of life. Within just a few days, I celebrated an infant baptism and mourned an unexpected loss.

In a church sanctuary, a group of family members and friends gathered around baby Jude, praying for his future and vowing to lead by example. We sang hymns together and reaffirmed our own faith. We took turns cuddling him. We marveled at his tininess and good-naturedness. We celebrated the promise of a joyful life.

And then another group of family members and friends gathered before a casket holding the body of Kumar, giving thanks for his life. We hugged his wife and two children. We placed rose petals in his casket. We listened to loved ones recall endearing qualities — pride in his adopted United States, devotion to healthy habits, passion for education. We wept over a life cut short.

Jude and Kumar. Two souls from different centuries, from different continents, from different religions. Both pillars of light, both loved from the very beginning. One with a lifetime to explore and a community to build, the other with a journey complete and a community left behind.

How could I frame the new year to reflect my values with both Jude and Kumar in mind? I was still unsure, until New Year's Day, when I opened my new calendar and read the quote for January, from Emily Dickinson: I dwell in Possibility.

Possibility.

Of course.

Jude's options are staggering, almost overwhelming. Kumar's have already been realized.

Mine are somewhere in between.

Each day offers new possibility. Books to read, ideas to explore, prayers to voice. Recipes to try, music to sing, paths to walk. Hugs to give, laughs to share, friendship to receive.

I like to think that I don't need reminders to embrace each day as a gift, to revel in every single sunrise. And yet there are days when I spend more time worrying than being thankful, when I fall into routine without thinking, when I leave possibilities unexplored.

So for this Year of Possibility, I'm thinking of Jude and the hope he represents, and I'm thinking of Kumar and the impact he's left. I'm singing, "Early in the morning, our song shall rise to thee," and I'm envisioning red, white and pink petals scattered with respect.

How fortunate we are to embrace babies — and how fortunate we are to wake up each morning — even as we say goodbye to friends who leave too soon. Welcome, 2019, and all of your potential.

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