Favorite Books of 2020

Last year, one of my quiet goals was to read more. I grew up a voracious reader but motherhood + adulthood (+ endless TV streaming options) meant that, as of late, I could count the number of books I read in a year on my fingers. I didn’t like that, and I wanted to change it.

Then a global pandemic happened and between spending WAY more time at home than ever before and a bone-deep need to retreat from reality, I found myself reading and reading and re-reading everything I could get my hands on.

Not all of it was noteworthy and some of it’s downright embarrassing (by December I was averaging roughly one romance novel every 36 hours). But, I read enough keepers to warrant a round up of my favorites by genre.

YA Fiction

Tell Me Three Things, Julie Buxbaum
Jessie moves from Chicago to LA when her widowed father remarries. She’s dropped in a fancy school with social rules that overwhelm her … until an anonymous student reaches out via email to show her the ropes. It’s a sweet book with a sweet ending that works in some surprisingly deft revelations about how grief and loss change us.

The Scorpio Races, Maggie Stiefvater
Fantasy isn’t usually my genre of choice, but honestly the world Stiefvater weaves in this story feels so real that you forget it can’t be. On an unnamed island, men race on water horses in an annual event that often leaves more than one person dead. Now, Puck Connolly aims to be the first woman to compete and win, but she’s not doing it to make a point—she’s doing it for survival.

Goodbye Stranger, Rebecca Stead
Stead writes about a trio of 13-year-old girls who have a pact to never argue—but anyone who’s ever lived through 7th grade knows that’s about to be put to the test. Stead captures the awkwardness of this phase in a way that feels honest and authentic but never overwrought.

Adult Fiction

Red at the Bone, Jacqueline Woodson
It’s rare that I wish that a book was longer, but Woodson’s intergenerational time hopping story is captivating. I wanted more time with these characters when I was done.

The Mothers, Brit Bennett
A love triangle, a long-buried secret, and the weight of our choices all come to play in Bennett’s debut novel. I carried this story with me for a little bit after I was done with it.

Little Fires Everywhere, Celeste Ng
A suspenseful and incisive read, where no one is quite what they seem. Plus it’s set in the ‘90s so there are stellar style and culture references for dayz. Usually I’m a book-over-movie person, but in this case I thought the Hulu series was actually better. It chose to make Mia and Pearl black (they’re not in the book) and that adds an extra layer of tension to the story that makes everything hit just a little bit harder.

Romance

Love Lettering, Kate Clayborn
New York City is the third main character in this charming story of a handlettering pro named Meg and a quantitative analyst named Reid who have something to teach each other about being honest and how to stay. There are a couple of moderately steamy scenes but it’s not chockfull of dirty deeds.

The Hating Game, Sally Thorne
Lucy hates her colleague Joshua and the feeling is for sure mutual … or is it? If you like a good verbal sparring match or three, this is your book. Slow burning steaminess through the back 2/3 of the book, but nothing over the top.

The Idea of You, Robinne Lee
A 39-year-old divorcee ends up in a relationship with a 20-year-old boy band member (and the object of her preteen daughter’s affections). It shouldn’t work, but it does—and it’s also a fascinating glimpse into the pitfalls of celebrity and the “invisible after a certain age” fear that any woman past 30 is familiar with. This is the steamiest book of the three and be warned that, unlike a typical romance novel, there’s no HEA (happily ever after).

Other

What Kind of Woman, Kate Baer (poetry)
Every woman needs this collection. Buy it for yourself, for your girlfriends, for your sister. It’s just magic.

The Poetry Remedy, William Sieghart (anthology)
Sieghart has organized this collection by pain point—so if you’re grieving, or you feel directionless, or you’re just having a rough day … there’s a poem for that. And it’s easily indexed. Let’s just say it came in real handy in 2020.

You Think It, I’ll Say It, Curtis Sittenfeld (short story collection)
I’ve long-loved essay collections because they’re so easy to pick up and put down, making them a perfect fit for the distracted reading style of the average mom. But for some reason it took until now for me to dive into the world of short stories. This round up from Sittenfeld (author of American Wife + Rodham) was a great place to start.

DNF (Books everyone else loved that I couldn’t even finish)

Where the Crawdads Sing, Delia Owens
Maybe it was just a case of impossibly high expectations combined with a ridiculously long waitlist at the library, but I think I made it two chapters in before I abandoned ship on this one. I just … didn’t get the fuss.

The Book of Longings, Sue Monk Kidd
This story imagines that Jesus had a wife, and while that didn’t bother me, plenty of other things did. Like of course Ana is wildly feminist for her era and of course Jesus is supportive of that in a way no other first century man would’ve been and of course Ana is conveniently sidetracked during the recorded years of Jesus’ ministry and of course there’s a link between Ana and Judas. It reads like a Francine Rivers novel, and I don’t mean that as a compliment.

Untamed, Glennon Doyle
I’ve read Glennon’s other two books, and I also went and heard her speak once in Nashville. I like her. And this book was fine, but if you follow her on Instagram then you’ve already read more than half of it.

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*note: this post contains affiliate links. I may make several whole pennies from Amazon if you make a purchase, at no additional cost to you.

30 Days of Gratitude Challenge, Day 3: Homemade

For the first time in seven months, I put on a dress last month. Curled my hair—makeup, too. I even wore heels.

I did it for a funeral.

The easiest answer to the question “who died?” is that he was an old family friend. The longer answer is the better story though.

(It almost always is.)

You know the people in your life who are immovable fixtures? The ones who’ve been there from the beginning—not necessarily front and center, like your family, but early on something in you recognized something kindred in them.

That’s who Mr. Doug was.

I’m a poor fit for most people. Too sarcastic and salty and direct for some. Too reserved and cautious for others.

Mr. Doug wasn’t the only person who ever made me feel completely okay when operating at my factory default settings, but he was the first. He was a little gruff and opinionated sometimes, but so am I. He was also softer than he seemed … and so am I. He could dish out a good round of teasing, but his eyes really lit up when you were able to volley back.

There are few things in life I love more than a good verbal volley.

We also shared a love of homemade baked goods. He brought me a cinnamon swirl coffee cake when my grandmother died. I made him a chocolate meringue pie (his granddaughter’s recipe) on his birthday.

We exchanged handwritten thank you notes for the baked goods.

When I heard he was dying, I was sad for his family, whom I’ve loved like my own my whole life. I was sad for my grandfather, who was losing his best friend of 60 years.

But it took me days to be sad for me, and when it finally hit, I crumpled with a sob.

He was one of the ones who lets me be all the things I am.

The weekend before Mr. Doug passed, it was my grandfather’s 88th birthday. I had made a chocolate meringue pie for the celebration, and my granddad said he would take a leftover slice to Mr. Doug the next day.

At the funeral visitation a week later, I hugged Mr. Doug’s daughter and told her how sorry I was for her family’s loss and how much I would miss him.

“He was able to enjoy a bite of your pie,” she told me. “It made him smile.”

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This post was inspired by Callie Feyen’s 30 Days of Grateful Writing Challenge. Learn more here.

30 Days of Gratitude Challenge, Day 2: A Mistake

“Take the kayak out,” she said. “It’s a one seater, but you’ll both definitely fit.”

She was mistaken. Two grown women definitely do not fit in a one-seat blow up kayak. But we rowed around the little lagoon of the AirBnB anyway, playing Katy Perry on a waterproof iPhone, soaked from the waist down and laughing our heads off the whole time.

It was a disaster from start to finish, and it ended up being one of the best moments in my last eight months.

In summary:

• things that are a mistake: expecting to stay dry when you exceed the seating capacity of a kayak.

• things that are not: flying across the country for time spent carving a few more laugh lines with a good friend in golden light.

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This post was inspired by Callie Feyen’s 30 Days of Grateful Writing Challenge. Learn more here.

For Jon, On His Birthday

We met in 1995, when you were 14. I decided—quietly and from a distance—you were the most effortlessly cool person I’d ever been around and all kinds of cute. I wasn’t the only one with this revelation; Jon Batchelor was a hot commodity at City Road UMC’s youth group gatherings. I was shy and awkward though so I just ... watched.

You were my brother’s friend. For years, I saw you at swim parties and movie nights and playing video games. It was the best part of those nights for me, seeing you. I told no one. Because you’ve always been braver than me, I’d learn later that you started asking “so, will Jennifer be there?” somewhere around 1999.

We didn’t see each other for awhile. I met another boy and planned to move to Michigan and you came to my farewell party. I found myself standing next to you at the food table and, as you leaned over me to grab some chips, you said, “I don’t think you should go.” I brushed you off because I didn’t think you meant it the way I wanted you to mean it.

I would’ve stayed if I’d known how you meant it, I think.

Six months later, I was back home. Alone. On a Saturday night in February, you called my parents’ landline and invited me to come over and watch a movie with you and a couple friends. It was the first time you ever called that number and asked for me. I sat next to you on the couch watching Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and you held my hand all night long and all I could think was, “Jon Batchelor is touching me.”

Two and a half months later, we all went dancing for a friend’s birthday. I danced with you for hours that night. You’re a really great dancer and I’m not, but it didn’t matter. You walked me to my car at 2 a.m., and kissed me goodnight. And all I could think was, “Jon Batchelor is kissing me.”

Falling in love with you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Staying in love with you is my most enjoyable work. Building a life with you feels like coming home, over and over.

We’ve celebrated your birthday in bars and at home with new babies. But whether we are dressed up in a nice restaurant or in our sweats, on a porch swing at the lake, sipping coffee because everything is canceled in the midst of the most unexpected year, it doesn’t matter.

Because 25 years worth of road led to this moment. And whether there are presents or not or parties or not, there is always this: me beside you.

Happy birthday, my love. You are my favorite and my best yes. 39 looks good on you.

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This post was inspired in part by the 30 Days of Grateful Writing Challenge by Callie Feyen through Exhale Creativity. Learn more here.

On Loving Our Neighbors

We early voted today. Normally I’m partial to the excitement of election day, but this year it seemed wiser not to wait and so we found ourselves in line on the first day of early voting.

I say “we” because I had my children with me. I always have my children with me—it’s 2020 and we’re homeschooling and nothing is normal and a big part of that is a level of togetherness with my offspring that I haven’t experienced since I was their sole source of sustenance. For fourteen-odd hours every single day—from the time they wake up until they finally, blessedly fall asleep, we are together.

This degree of familial unity has dispelled a lot of the mystery that used to exist around our days spent apart. Mainly, this means they watch me go about my day—hours that I used to have all to myself—and ask endless questions. Why do I go to spin class at the Y? What am I working at on my computer? Have I decided what we’re having for dinner yet? Is there time to make cookies? Most of the time this is annoying, because I’m a regular, human person who doesn’t enjoy explaining my every waking choice and movement. But sometimes, I’m better about remembering—that they ask because they’re learning how to exist in the world, that it’s my job to teach them, that they just want to know me, that it’s nice to be known.

This morning, when Nathan asked me who I was voting for and why, I remembered.

“That’s a good question, Bud,” I said. “Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you a story to help you understand.”

Nathan and Ellie sat down on the couch, and I read them the story of The Good Samaritan. I explained that Samaritans were the enemies of the Jewish people during Jesus’ time—they didn’t talk to each other, didn’t spend time together, and didn’t get along.

“Kind of like the Slytherins and the Gryffindors?” Nathan asked. (He’s knee-deep in his second reading of the Harry Potter series; everything gets an HP tie-back.)

“Sure,” I chuckled. “We can make them Gryffindors and Slytherins, instead of Jews and Samaritans.” So I told them there was a hurt Gryffindor on the side of the road—we decided it was definitely Neville Longbottom—and that two different Gryffindors walked by without helping him. But then, along came a Slytherin and—despite everything we think we know about Slytherins—he helped Neville. And not just in the moment either, but leaving enough money behind to make sure Neville would really and truly be okay.

“So, who acted like Neville’s neighbor?” I asked.

“The Slytherin,” Nathan said.

“Exactly,” I said. I explained that Jesus’ point with this story is that our neighbor isn’t just the person who looks like us or lives near us. It isn’t even just the people we like or want to help. Our neighbor is the person who needs us, and we love them by helping them, even if it costs us something.

“But what does this have to do with voting?” Nathan asked.

“For some people it doesn’t have anything to do with voting. Some people vote for the person who’s most likely to help them or who they like the best,” I said. “And that’s fine. Honestly, until recently that’s how I decided who to vote for, too.”

“What changed your mind, Mom?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it and praying about it and listening a lot. And I decided that it doesn’t matter a whole lot for me and your dad which political party is in charge—our rights and freedoms are well-protected and unlikely to shift much. We might pay a little more or a little less in taxes, but our day to day life isn’t significantly affected. But that’s not true for everyone. There are people for whom it matters very much. It affects how safe they are, how free they are, and how much opportunity they have. And just because they don’t look like me or agree with me or even believe what I believe doesn’t mean they aren’t my neighbor.”

“So when you choose who to vote for,” Nathan said, puzzling it out, “you’re trying to love your neighbor?”

“Yep,” I said. I told him that he doesn’t see much of it since we don’t watch live TV, but that there are usually lots of ads around voting time. And most of them are based in fear, because fear makes people want to do something. It’s a really good motivator, but an exhausting and divisive one. Casting a vote from love instead of fear feels like an act of rebellion.

“Rebellion?” Ellie piped up. “Like in Hamilton?” (Because if it’s not Harry Potter references, it’s Hamilton at the Batchelor house.)

“Ha, not quite, Els,” I said. “Loving our neighbor isn’t an act of war.”

Or maybe, in the only battle that matters, it is.

Maybe I'm Not Okay Today

I cried the other night during an episode of Schitt’s Creek. If you’ve never seen the show, just know it’s objectively unsad. Subjectively hilarious. A show we—my husband and I—specifically selected to start watching because it’s funny and light and distracting and basically perfect for a time such as this. Yet there I sat, in bed at 10:30 on a Thursday night with tears rolling down my cheeks and a lump in my throat because David was awkwardly sweet and kind to his boss’ stepdaughter.

That’s when I realized, huh, maybe I’m not okay today.

For 3/4ths of you, this probably seems baffling—that a person could literally have tears rolling down her cheeks as the first sign that something is amiss in the emotions department. But some of you know exactly what I mean. You know what it is to stuff down, to pivot, to give a wide berth to your feelings because we have things to do today and crying isn’t one of them. The yawn of the emotional abyss is too threatening—feeling anything seems like a gateway to feeling everything, so we’ll feel nothing, please and thank you.

One question though: How’s that working for you in 2020? 

I’ll answer for myself and say not great. Oh, don’t get me wrong—I’m still pretty good at sidestepping my emotions. That’s what 37 years of practice will do for a girl. But things are … amiss. Like the fact that I’m not sleeping. I have trouble falling asleep and staying asleep and basically the whole sleep situation is not really a thing right now. I’m exercising and vitamining and drinking a little more water with no increase in REM hours, so I’m beginning to suspect The Feelings are to blame. 

As we’ve already discussed, I’m prone to inexplicable crying mid sitcom. I’m also snapping at my family when they don’t like the dinner I serve them, my weekly cocktail is now more like daily-ish, and sometimes I leave the house as soon as my husband gets home from work, drive my car to an empty parking lot, and just sit there, in the quiet, until I get a text letting me know the kids are in bed and the coast is clear.

I’m not an expert in human behavior, but I think maybe these things mean that I’m not entirely okay. And if I’m not okay, and we’re all living different versions of the same hellish year, then it seems like there’s a chance you’re not okay either?

We don’t have to talk about it, of course. If there’s one thing I’m sick to death of in 2020 it’s effing talking about it. We could never ever talk about it again, and that would be too soon. So just, I don’t know, blink twice or something if you’re not okay either.

Assuming you’ve blinked, we could sit shoulder to metaphorical shoulder. We could turn on a better crying conduit than Schitt’s Creek (I like Queer Eye or Steel Magnolias or Little Women, personally, but I’m open to suggestions). And—here’s where I get a little crazy—we could feel something. 

Not the whole of it, of course—God, could anyone handle the whole of it right now? But for the space of a makeover or the minutes in the graveyard with M’Lynn and Ouiser or the moment when Jo wonders if she made a horrible mistake by saying no to Laurie and now she’s going to be alone forever … we feel it, just a little. We let a few tears roll down our cheeks, and we don’t swallow the sob right away. It’s too much, too dangerous, too open-ended to be sad for us but to be sad for them? We can be a little sad for them. 

So we sit, you and I. And I know you’re crying and you know I’m crying, but we don’t have to talk about it. The knowing is enough. 

Because maybe I’m not okay today, and maybe you aren’t either. But I see you. And you see me. For all that I feel that I can’t name or know, there’s one emotion I note by its absence.

I don’t feel lonely. And that’s because I have you.

What I Tell My Children

We don’t watch the news. We haven’t in years—I subscribe to a couple of online newspapers, but there’s no TV in our house blaring the nightly news like there was when I was growing up. This means my children are shielded from a lot of the daily headlines, and that used to feel like a good choice.

But this weekend, my kids spent the night with their grandparents, who are nightly news watchers. And the next day, we’d been home less than an hour when Nathan told me he saw a white police officer kneel on the back of a black man’s neck and the news said he did that for eight minutes and that the black man died even though he kept saying he couldn’t breathe and why would anyone do that to a person but especially a police officer whose job it is to protect people?

I don’t have words for all of what I felt in that moment, but I am honest enough to say I was uncomfortable. With the baldness of the question. With the weight of the answer. And with my choice to vault my role as shield into one my top priorities as a mother. Like any mother, I have hopes that my children will be world-changers. But, if I want them to change it, first I need to be honest about the condition of the world we’re handing them.

Slowly and haltingly, I explained the story behind what Nathan had seen on TV. I reminded him of the stories we’ve read before and the things that have happened in history that we’ve talked about, and explained their connection to Mr. Floyd. Nathan’s eyes grew wide and his hand covered his mouth and when he learned the very worst we as humans are capable of, he shook his head in disappointment. 

“Is there anything we can do, Mom?” he wanted to know.

“There is,” I said. “We can do better.”

Right now, for me, better looks like listening. Listening to understand. To learn what I don’t know and unlearn some of what I think I do. To pay attention to my posture when I listen, and when I stiffen or recoil … that’s where I press in because I’m finding that where it’s most uncomfortable is where I need to do the most unpacking.

Better looks like pushing for the most honest version of reality. Not the one that sweeps the darkness under the rug—the one where we “don’t see race” or “raise our children to be colorblind.” But also not the cynical one—the one that shrugs as the world burns and says “it’s not like I can change it, anyway.”

The honest truth is that we’re capable of great and terrible things. But boil that down, and we’re capable. We can do something—we can listen, speak, act, love.

It is this way, but it doesn’t have to stay this way. 

Or at least, this is what I tell my children. 

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If you want to join me in listening, these are a few of the voices I’m paying attention to:
The Conscious Kid
Be The Bridge
Black Coffee with White Friends
Austin Channing Brown
Osheta Moore
Sam Collier
Tanorria Askew
Patricia A. Taylor
Luvvie Ajayi Jones
Layla F. Saad

The Day Jon Lost His Job

On Wednesday morning, Jon was laid off from his job. He worked for a design firm whose biggest clients are collegiate and professional athletics, and the pandemic has radically altered the industry in two short weeks. We had talked a few days ago about preparing for this possibility down the road, but neither of us expected it to come so quickly or harshly.

He was offered no severance. Our health insurance ends in five days. My freelance income has dried up to a trickle. Suddenly our savings, which seemed so robust last month, felt like so little.

It began as a very dark day.

But.

Our family and friends have been so generous with their love and support. It’s such a lonely time right now, being physically distanced from everyone except the people who live within our four walls. But we did not feel alone on Wednesday. All day long, emails and texts and phone calls flowed into our home.

And that was the first good thing.

Then, that afternoon the sun came out. And not just a peek or two through the clouds; true, blue sky sunniness. Jon had spent all day on the computer and phone, reaching out to every contact he could think of and lining up every possible lead. But the four of us headed outside and went for a ride on scooters and bikes, and Ellie made “flower soup” in a puddle in the driveway, and the warmth and brightness seemed to tangibly lift some of the weight from our shoulders.

And that was the second good thing.

But the best came last. Nathan usually uses our shower at night. There’s a waterproof notepad on the wall that Jon got me one Christmas after I complained about losing all my good ideas in the shower. Nathan uses it to write notes to us from time to time, and as I was putting him in bed last night, he let me know there was a new note for us.

And that was the third good thing.

It’s a tough time. But it’s not without goodness and hope.

Keep spreading kindness and light.

Three Good Things, Part Three

If yesterday was an embarrassment of riches where I had to work to whittle down my list of good things to only three, today was the opposite of that.

It’s been a hard day. Not for any particular reason, but rather the weight of a thousand different reasons simply became too much to carry for a bit. I think maybe we’re all having that happen from time to time right now—some days just feel heavier and we suddenly find ourselves sobbing in the shower for no reason and all the reasons, all at the same time.

Today was that day for me.

But tonight we had breakfast for supper, which is my favorite … and that’s the first good thing.

The second is that I listened to my 90s country playlist while I cooked and introduced the kids to George Strait and Travis Tritt and Tim McGraw and by the time the pancakes were golden and the bacon was crispy, I was smiling and singing at the top of my lungs. You can’t listen to “It’s A Great Day To Be Alive” and not feel at least a little better.

But there almost wasn’t a third, until five minutes ago when a friend texted me this poem by Wendell Berry:

“Stay Home”

I will wait here in the fields
to see how well the rain
brings on the grass.
In the labor of the fields
longer than a man's life
I am at home. Don't come with me.
You stay home too.

I will be standing in the woods
where the old trees
move only with the wind
and then with gravity.
In the stillness of the trees
I am at home. Don't come with me.
You stay home too.

And just like that, at 10 p.m., I have my three good things.

P.S. If you need more Wendell Berry (and I think we could all use more Wendell Berry right now), may I suggest “The Peace of Wild Things”?

Three Good Things, Part Two

1. Today was our first day attempting any sort of homeschool situation. I know the expectations are across the board depending on your school district; ours is pretty low-key. Nathan’s teacher sent a few links to some online learning options and we were encouraged to just spend a little time each day doing something academic. We spent 30 minutes this morning doing ELA activities and 30 more minutes this afternoon doing math, and everyone was happy and agreeable and might’ve even learned something? Marking that in the W column.
   

2. My co-host on The Medium Talk Podcast, Colleen, informed me that all past episodes of Full House are available for streaming on Hulu, so we fired up the pilot episode tonight and introduced the kids to the Tanner clan. Jon and I were talking about the complete dearth of “family viewing” options on TV these days, but this throwback fits the bill perfectly. The kids cackled through the whole episode, and the nostalgia factor is solid. We happened to noticed that Family Matters, Step by Step, and Perfect Strangers are also on Hulu, so we might just have to resurrect the whole TGIF lineup.
   

3. Once the kids were in bed, Jon and I caught Garth Brooks’ and Trisha Yearwood’s performance on Facebook Live and it was A WORD. I cried like a baby through the whole back half of the show, and it was very cathartic to finally let go of all the emotions I’ve been holding onto and stuffing down for the past couple of weeks. I’ve been reluctant to really let myself “go there” because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to resurface, but then Garth started crying while Trisha sang an a cappella version of Amazing Grace … and I figured if he could cry, I could, too. So I did, and now I feel better. Can we make this a weekly thing?

Not everything about this day was good. But it was a good day.

Three Good Things Today

I don’t have words yet for everything that’s going on right now, and I don’t know when I will; this is not a blog post of profound wisdom or insight. We are muddling through, the same as everyone else.

I’m tempted to say there are good days and bad days, but the truth is that the days are so long they each contain a dozen switchbacks from good to bad and back again. The underlying tenor of the days is one of anxiety and unsettledness though, and I’m worried that—God willing, someday soon—when this is all a distant memory, the tenor is all I’ll remember.

So starting now, I’m writing down three good things that happen every day. At first I just texted them to a couple of friends, but then I thought maybe I’d like to put them here, too. Not just for the someday version of me, but for tomorrow’s, too.

1. While we were eating lunch, some friends stopped by unexpectedly. They parked at the end of our driveway and their 10-year-old held a boombox over his head while we laughed and called greetings to each other over the music. Then we stood and visited for a bit from a government-mandated safe distance. Coincidentally (or not), it was the warmest I felt all day.

2. It took three stores and almost $200, but I managed to find every single item on my grocery list today, down to the very last loaf of the “right” kind of bread and the spinach tortillas Nathan requested.

3. While on the way home from store No. 3, I was behind a car with a dog hanging its head out the window. We were sitting at a red light when the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in … days? a week? And I swear that dog tilted his head up, closed his eyes, and sighed with pleasure.
   
   Me too, buddy. Me. Too.

A Bucket List Kind of Fall Break

Beginning in July, Jon had work travel for 10 straight weeks. Somewhere around week four or five, I told him that I needed a silver lining—something to plan for and anticipate and look forward to at the end of this interminable stretch of nontogetherness.

“Why don’t we take a trip for fall break?” I suggested, knowing that Jon was racking up mega Southwest and Hilton points.

He agreed, and I started researching options. I wanted somewhere we’d never gone before and something I would be super excited about planning. We kicked around a few ideas (Puerto Rico? Yosemite? The Keys?) before landing on Maine. I’d always wanted to visit New England in the fall, and while Jon had been in Providence, Rhode Island, for work last year, neither of us had spent much (or any, in my case) time north of NYC.

The bones of our itinerary were simple: fly in and out of Boston Logan Airport for cheap, direct flights; stay near Acadia National Park; take as much of the trip on points and perks as possible.

We used Southwest points for the flights (I fly free because Jon has the Companion Pass—did I mention he does a lot of work travel?) and I also discovered SWA points could be used for Hotels.com gift cards. We used a combination of Jon’s Hilton points and gift cards to completely cover our hotel stay, and we had five free rental days with National Car Rental. With the big ticket items covered, we were just on the hook for food and fun expenses.

(I disclose all of this because we are not Big Vacation Funds people. This trip was only possible because we had to pay actual dollars for such a small part of it. That’s not to discount the other, very real ways that Jon’s work travel costs our family, but being able to take a trip like this is the proverbial lemonade from lemons. We’d rather have him around all the time, but his work is his work, and we’re grateful for the chance to enjoy the fruits of all his long-distance labor.)

Here was our itinerary:

Sunday: Salem + Drive to Maine

We flew into Boston on Sunday morning. It’s a roughly four hour drive straight through to the Acadia area, and Jon and I had kicked around a few ideas on how to make our way up the coast. Since it’s October, we landed on spending the afternoon in Salem, Mass., which was about 45 minutes from the Boston airport along our route. We prepped the kids by ordering “What Were the Salem Witch Trials?” off Amazon, which Nathan read on the plane.

When we got to Salem, our first order of business: lunch at Turner’s Seafood at Lyceum Hall, which we found with the highly technical method of Googling “nearby lunch options.” It turned out to be a super cool historic spot (location of Alexander Bell’s first long distance phone call!) and the food was outstanding and reasonably priced. Plus, they had a handy supply of brochures listing all of Salem’s Halloween-oriented activities, which Nathan promptly devoured.

After lunch, we headed to the street festival that goes on every October weekend in Salem. We also explored the Town Hall and corresponding museum, and strolled past the cemetery and memorial of the Salem trial victims. The city was packed with tourists and visitors, but it was all super walkable and easy to navigate. The daytime activities had a family-friendly vibe, but most of the materials suggested things took a more adult turn after dark.

The Salem Public Library was a highlight—as was the table of free books in the kids’ area. Nathan and Ellie were pretty thrilled to bring home books stamped with “Salem Public Library.”

Ice cream break at Maria’s Sweet Somethings on Front Street. Jon and I refueled at the Front Street Coffeehouse next door.

We stayed in Salem until around 3 or so, then continued our drive north. The plan was to stop in Rockport or Camden, Maine for dinner. We ended up at Cuzzy’s in Camden (which we chose by virtue of it being a) open on a Sunday night and b) willing to seat us), where Jon and I split a lobster pizza that was excellent and the kids’ menus came with a whole basket of crayons for coloring and drawing. Camden looked like a super cute town, and we made a mental note to pass back through on our return trip during daylight hours.

After dinner, we headed for our hotel: the Hampton Inn in Ellsworth.

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Monday: Acadia National Park and Jordan Pond House

We woke to an overcast, windy day and by the time we finished breakfast it was raining steadily. We decided to drive the 30 minutes to Acadia National Park and play the day by ear. Our first stop was The Naturalist’s Notebook, equal parts shop and learning experience. We spent over an hour here exploring the different rooms and exhibits. It was such a fun spot that encourages kids to touch, play, and learn.

On the advice of my friend Sarah Hauser, we had secured a lunch reservation at The Jordan Pond House, the only restaurant inside ANP, where we put away hot popovers with strawberry jam at an alarming rate. (Pro tip: the sandwiches are so large, Jon and I easily split one!) By the time lunch was over the rain had stopped, so we decided to hike the trail around Jordan Pond and I’m so glad we did. It was absolutely stunning.

The view of Jordan Pond from the restaurant

Jordan Pond

Most of the trail was this boardwalk

We went to Bar Harbor after our hike and stopped in at The Coffee Hound (and took in a harbor view or two) before heading back to Ellsworth for dinner at Helen’s with a slice of homemade pie to go that we absolutely reheated in the hotel room microwave and savored quietly in bed once the kids were asleep at 10 p.m.

The harbor in Bar Harbor

Just a low key view between Bar Harbor and Ellsworth

She was obviously very impressed

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Tuesday: The Ocean Path Trail in Acadia National Park + Boat Tour

Tuesday promised clearing skies, so we stopped at a grocery store for lunch supplies and spent the first half of the day hiking the Ocean Path Trail—a four mile loop from Sandy Beach to Otter Cliff that hugs the ocean through Acadia National Park. We picked the trail because it’s an easy path with not one but TWO bathrooms along it and lots of places to take a break and enjoy the scenery.

Sandy Beach—we spent a good chunk of time at the beginning and end of the hike here.

The view from just past the Sandy Beach parking area, where we began

We stopped for lunch on some cliffs about halfway between Sandy Beach and Otter Cliff. This was Jon’s favorite part of the trip, and I think maybe mine too.

The view from the top of Otter Cliff.

When we first got to the cliff, people were repelling down that crevice. Ellie was, of course, very intrigued.

In addition to the Jordan Pond House reservation, I’d booked one other thing ahead of time: a boat tour. We did a 1 1/2 hour nature cruise with Acadian Boat Tours and saw harbor porpoises, harbor seals, and two bald eagles. The kids absolutely loved it and said it was their favorite part of the whole trip. Jon and I were relieved it was only 90 minutes and tried very hard not to get seasick.

The boat left from the Atlantic Harborside Hotel, and we made a note to check it out for our next trip to Bar Harbor—it’s right on the water, the room rates aren’t outrageous and a few of our fellow boat goers were staying there and had great things to say about it.

Four minutes in.

Twenty minutes in. She slept about half the time.

After the boat tour, we had a low key dinner at 59 Cottage … or rather, Jon had dinner and the kids and I had breakfast for supper (the lobster hash … so good) then walked to the Choco Latte cafe for coffee and dessert.

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Wednesday: Meandering Back to Boston

We took all of Wednesday to work our way back toward Boston. First up was Camden, where we had stopped for dinner on Sunday night. We made a beeline for the Owl & Turtle Bookshop and promptly set up camp in the children’s section.

I love a local bookstore, and this one was set up to make yourself comfy and stay awhile … so we did. (We also spent a ridiculous sum of money on books and t-shirts.) Eventually, our hunger dragged us away and we walked down to the Camden Deli where I had the best grilled cheese of my life. It was a bit windy, but they had an awesome deck overlooking the harbor that would be a perfect spot for a sunny day.

After a stop back in the Owl & Turtle for coffee (thank goodness our flights and hotel were paid for because we spent the rough equivalent on caffeine), we hit the road south again. I’d originally thought we’d stop in Kennebunk too, but after spending a little extra time in Camden we needed to keep driving to make it to Nubble Lighthouse before dark.

Luckily, the roadside views eased the disappointment. Seriously, New England. Your leaves are the prettiest.

Our very last stop in Maine was literally the last stop in Maine—Nubble Lighthouse in York, which is about as far south as you can get before you cross the state line into New Hampshire.

It was freezing cold and unbelievably windy on the cape, but we ended up staying for about a half hour as the kids scrambled over the rocks and generally made my heart leap into my throat repeatedly with their risky moves.

We had dinner at Petey’s in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Fun fact, there are two Petey’s in Portsmouth and this is not the one we were supposed to be having dinner at but it is the one Waze directed us to:

Fortunately, we found the right Petey’s, had dinner, and made it to the Hampton Inn in Cambridge for the night before catching our flight home the next morning.

And that’s it! It wasn’t all perfect scenery and crisp fall weather of course—both kids had colds and got tired and grumpy. Jon and I might’ve bickered once or twice about directions. But it really was mostly magical. I’ve looked forward to going to Maine for years, and it didn’t disappoint.

Now we’re back home again and Jon is gone for work again and I find myself trying to hold onto what it felt like when we were all together, seeing someplace new for the very first time, and marveling at what God assembled along the coast of Maine.

On Ten Years

We've been together since I was 20, but don't go giving 20-year-old-me too much credit. I was more focused on the dreamy brown eyes, great abs, and charm. I had no idea what I was looking for in a life partner then and couldn't possibly have planned and anticipated the kind of person I would need by my side. All I knew was the boy I'd had a crush on since I was 13 was kinda into me, so I was going to carpe the heck out of all the diems until he changed his mind. 

Except he didn't change his mind. And 16 years and a decade of marriage later, I still don't have words for what I need except to say, Jon. He's what I need. 

Jon makes me a better person for my benefit, not his. He could choose to make me feel guilty for how much time I need by myself. He could choose to focus on the mess I make when I cook dinner or my inability to close drawers or how I leave the clothes I try on piled on the closet floor. He could nag me and cajole me and try to manipulate me into being better at that stuff because it would be easier for him if I was. He could try to mold me into a better person by focusing on what a better Jennifer would look like for him.

Instead, this: he encourages me to take care of myself. He calls friends to come and help out when the kids are sick while he's out of town. He makes sure that I have the time, money, and space to write and dream and grow. He thanks me for cooking dinner every single time, even if I burn it or it tastes terrible or all we’re having is mac and cheese. He asks my advice and listens to my fears. And he does all of this while closing my drawers, cleaning up the kitchen, and hanging my clothes back up (facing to the left, of course). He molds me into a better person by already seeing me as that person.

I didn't know he'd do all of that at 20 when I said yes to being his girlfriend. I didn't know he'd do it at 26 when I said yes to being his wife. 

But now I know. And as someone who's almost always faster with a no, the power of that yes isn't lost on me.

I can’t tell you how to choose the right person to marry. I don't have a checklist or a roadmap, and if I wasn't a praying person I'd chalk up being with Jon to dumb, blind luck. And then of course, there's also the caveat that even a marriage to the right person is the hardest work you'll ever put in.

But I think choosing rightly has something to do with how they see you and our human tendency to meet expectation. The wrong person focuses your attention on your failures and shortcomings. Their dissatisfaction is what drives your improvement, and they have you forever chasing the ideal version of yourself, because that's the one who's worthy of love.

The right person pushes you toward betterment too, but not in a way that makes you feel like you're not enough as you are. It's more like becoming so convinced of your own value and worth that you expand into the person you were always meant to be. It's feeling safe enough to settle in and drop a few defenses and lean into your own potential. When you do that, there's a risk of failure, sure, but the certainty in the love that grounds you strengthens your resolve. When you feel safe, you stretch. You soften. You view life not from a place of scarcity, but one of abundance. There is enough. You are enough.

I knew none of that at 20. Or 26. Even now I think I only know enough to be grateful for it. To be grateful for Jon and the way he sees me and the way he never stops trying to get me to see myself.

Yes, marriage is hard work. But I've found that when we're putting in the most effort, it doesn't feel like work. It feels like rest.

It feels like home.

On Pictures, Perspectives, and Telling Stories Anyway

My junior year of college, I took a photojournalism class. At the risk of seriously dating myself, I’ll tell you this was right when DSLRs came on the scene. Rather than having to learn how to develop photos in a darkroom, we were one of the first classes to do all of our photo editing in a computer lab using Photoshop. The first project we were assigned that semester was to assemble five photos that represented our life. Our professor explained the photos would be due in one week’s time and that, in the class following the turn in day, he would select one photo from each of our submissions to critique in class.

It was toward the end of the critique class and we’d seen some really great pictures. Some of my classmates have gone on to be professional photographers, and their talents were apparent early on. Then Professor Heller put my picture up on the screen. It was one I’d taken of Jon, who, at the time, was my boyfriend of just over a year.

jonny b

“What do you all think of this picture?” he asked of the class, as he’d done for each of the previous pictures.

“The lighting isn’t very good,” one person offered.

“Her subject is centered,” said someone else.

“The background is too busy,” said another.

“You’re correct on all counts,” said Professor Heller. He spent several minutes detailing the ways I could’ve taken a better picture, and I slumped lower and lower in my chair. It was brutal; by far the most intense critique of the class.

“Where is Jennifer Manning?” he finally asked, and if I could’ve bolted out the door of the classroom I would’ve. Tentatively I raised my hand. I was certain he was about to kick me out, dismissing me as hopeless, beyond teaching.

“Who is this?” he asked, gesturing to Jon’s face, filling the projector screen behind him.

“Um, my boyfriend, Jon,” I said. My voice went up at the end so that it sounded as though I was asking a question rather than answering one. I cringed further.

“I thought so,” he said, smiling. “This is a great picture.” I nearly fell over in shock as he turned to the class and told them to look at Jon’s expression.

“You can tell he loves her, just by his face. She’s the only person in the world who could’ve taken this picture. Sometimes, it’s not just composition or lighting or angles that make your pictures great. Sometimes it’s because you’re the only one who could take them.”

I got better at taking pictures than that first fuzzy, poorly composed shot of Jon. I learned about shutter speed and aperture; I started paying more attention to lighting (and light poles). But I’m still not a great photographer. I have to take dozens and dozens of shots to get just one good one, and even my best photo isn’t anything special. But I take the pictures anyway. I snap and I snap and finally, the sheer volume works in my favor and I catch a little bit of magic.

***

It’s the same with our stories. Some people are really great at telling them because they’re artists. They're at the very top of their craft; they weave words and phrases and imagery in a way that feels transcendent. They are better than I could ever hope to be, and instead of letting them be an inspiration, I feel discouraged instead. Why bother at all, when there’s someone who’s already doing it better?

But these wildly talented writers can't tell my stories. The ones in my head and scribbled on looseleaf paper and living in Google Docs belong only to me. My perspectives and my truths will only be a part of the world if I choose to share them. Maybe I'm not the greatest, but that doesn't mean my stories aren't worth telling. If nothing else, they matter to me—I want to capture how it feels in this moment, right now, so that years from now I can look back and remember the details that will grow fuzzy with time. So I write and I write, and eventually the sheer volume works in my favor and I catch a bit of magic.

I can’t let my fear of not getting it perfect stop me from writing it down in the first place. There will always be someone better.

I’ll write anyway.

***

In June, I'm teaching a storytelling class with my Coffee + Crumbs teammate Anna Jordan. We'll be spending four weeks talking about finding the stories in our lives and how to write them down. As of today, we still have eight spots left in our class, and we'd love to have you join us. You can learn more and sign up here. (It would also make an excellent Mother's Day gift for the writer in your life if you've procrastinated.) Storytelling is the bread-and-butter of C+C, and we're excited to dive into what it looks like when it's done well.

A Recipe for Marriage

jeff-sheldon-264920-unsplash

Ingredients:4 C love 2 C devotion 2 C passion 1 C attraction 1/2 C (heaping) forgiveness 1/3 C patience 1/3 C determination 2 T encouragement 2 T plus 1 T honesty/gentleness blend ½ tsp shared values Endless amounts of grace

Directions: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine love, devotion, and attraction in the depths of your soul with paddle mixer. Add passion in ¼ cup increments, stirring thoroughly to incorporate. Never stop stirring.

In a separate bowl, sift forgiveness, patience, and determination, then add to mixer to serve as a binding agent. Note: if you omit these ingredients, your marriage will fall apart when exposed to the heat of the oven.

Transfer contents to baking dish. Sprinkle evenly with encouragement, shared values, and 2 T honesty/gentleness blend, reserving 1 T for the really hard conversations.

Bake at 350 for a lifetime. Sprinkle periodically with grace to keep hard edges from forming.

Best served with friendship, family, and adventure.

To store, wrap carefully and thoroughly to protect it from jealousy, comparison, and complacency. When stored properly, your marriage will remain fresh indefinitely.

Happy nine years, love. You're still my best yes.

On Books and Friendship

This is a picture from one of my favorite days ever, with some of my favorite women ever. But I wanna talk for just a second about that beautiful brunette on my right (your left) for a second.

That's Callie Feyen. She's on the writing team with me over at Coffee + Crumbs, which is how I met her and came to take this picture with her at the book launch party last April. Callie has taught me more about writing in the 18 months I've known her (like really known her, not just Internet-stalked-her-essays known her) than I learned in my previous 33 years combined. Why? Well, because she's a flatout brilliant storyteller and you learn how to do it by, I dunno, osmosis or something, when you spend time with her and soak up her words. But also, because she's a teacher through and through. Middle schoolers are her special gift (bless her) but she can't NOT teach. It's in her, and it spills out without even trying.

When I was working on a particularly hard essay last spring—hard because it was honest and vulnerable and costing me everything to work with the words—I knew I needed help. I also knew that help had to come from Callie. She came in with practical advice (like changing up the intro and ending on a bit of a cliffhanger) but it was also like therapy in a way, because of how she pushed me to just sit with the words and the feelings they brought me, to sift through and figure out the parts I wanted to hold onto and the ones I wanted to let go of. I am really proud of how that essay turned out, but I'm even prouder of the work in my heart it wrought, and that was all Callie.

Today is a big day. Callie has a written a book, The Teacher Diaries: Romeo & Juliet, and it's book launch day. If you like brilliant storytelling, you need to buy Callie's book. It's part memoir, part creative-non-fiction, and part masterclass in how to teach Romeo & Juliet to middle schoolers. She weaves the three together seamlessly and her way with words is ... impressive. I got to read the first two chapters last week, and let's just say I had to order it with one-day shipping from Amazon so I can read the rest of it as soon as possible.

I'm so proud of my friend.

Thirty Days of Gratitude

For the month of November, I decided to have Nathan and Ellie keep a gratitude journal. They're only six and three, but their "I want that's," I NEED that's," and "Mom, can't we please just get that's" were a little out of control. Jon and I felt like we were raising entitled, spoiled kids without even meaning to, so we decided to spend 30 days focusing on gratitude. I went to the craft store and bought a spiral bound journal and some leaves with the words “I am Thankful For:” printed on them. I think they were supposed to be place cards for Thanksgiving dinner, but they would do. Each night, after we brushed teeth and read books, both of them would name one thing they were grateful for.

Obviously this didn’t go quite as smoothly as I had orchestrated. Some nights we forgot, which meant we had to double, triple, and—once—quadruple up on our leaves. Occasionally one child would fuss at the other for “stealing” their thing they were grateful for (parenthood is a rich mine of ironic gems like that one).

But aside from the hiccups in scheduling and the squabbles, the leaves that filled our journal over the course of the month surprised me.

They were grateful for people. Their grandparents. Their cousins. Even, gasp, each other.

They were thankful for experiences. Math, art, and reading together each night.

They were grateful for God and Jesus. For our cat and Nana and Grandpa's horses. Even my three-year-old—an age which is not known for their deep sense of appreciation for their many blessings—talked about being thankful for her best friend at preschool and the pumpkins we had painted together as a family.

Glaringly absent from their leaves of gratitude? Stuff. I had expected an itemized list from Nathan of every Octonaut Gup vehicle he owns. From Ellie, I expected the same—because if there’s one thing she’s thankful for, it’s her big brother’s toys.

But that wasn’t the case. Nathan gave his toys one passing, all-encompassing mention on one day. The rest of the time they talked about how thankful they were for the realest, most lasting parts of their lives. As the month progressed, I realized maybe my worries were a little misplaced—sure, shiny toys grab their attention; they’re kids! But it’s feelings of love, acceptance, and togetherness that rule their hearts and minds.

I feel better about our prospects as we move into December, even though no matter how much of a “simple holiday season” I aim for, blind consumerism always crashes the party. Turns out the kids are all right. They know what matters most, and that’s something to be truly grateful for.

Road-Tested Recs

Every year, I feel like I'm scrambling to come up with solid gift suggestions for my kids at Christmas. Between Jon and me, Santa, and grandparents, it's a LOT of idea generating, and sometimes I just devolve to browsing the most-popular gifts on Target or Amazon, hoping for inspiration. In case you find yourself in a similar boat this year, here are a few Batchelor-house favorites. I tried to pick items that foster creativity or learning, don't play music or make noise of any kind, and aren't based on a TV show or movie.

1. 1. 1. 1. Picasso Tiles: If you're familiar with MagnaTiles, these are the same concept and quality—but half the price. We love them so much, they got their own dedicated suitcase to take them on vacation this year, where they occupied ages 2-13. Two sets are ideal for building elaborate towers ... or for keeping squabbling siblings separated.

      

      2. Zoo on the Loose: $30 is a lot for a game, I know. But my kids will play THIS game for a solid hour, multiple times a week ... which makes it worth it at our house. It comes with five small stuffed animals, a play mat, and two sets of cards: one set for play on the mat and one set that involves moving the animals around the house. If you have at least one child who can read, this is a great independent play game, but even the adults in our house have fun playing it.

3. Paint with Water: I am ALWAYS looking for a 30 minute activity that lets me get dinner on the table in relative peace. Arts and crafts usually fit that bill, but they're so darn messy ... and right on the table we're about to eat at. Enter Paint with Water books—all the fun, zero mess (other than wiping up a little water).  These make great stocking stuffers.

4. Shrinky Dinks: I'm an 80s child, so I have fond memories of coloring and baking shrinky dinks at my grandmother's kitchen table. I introduced my kids to them courtesy of a clearance pack that I scored at Hobby Lobby for $1.60, and they were a huge hit. So, I bought this dinosaur set as a Christmas gift.

5. Play Food Cutting Set: This was a gift for Nathan when he was 2 or 3, but both of my kids have logged countless hours playing with it—slicing, putting back together, and slicing again. It's one of my go-to gifts for other kids.

6. Three Questions Book: Okay, it's not a toy. But this is that rare book that our children love and we never get tired of reading. Beautiful illustrations, great moral, and just the right length for a bedtime story. If you do want/need/wear/read gifts, this is a perfect "read."

(please note: this post contains Amazon-affiliate links.)

When It Feels Like The World Is On Fire

When it feels like the world is on fire, you make meatloaf for dinner. Your mind reaches back to a moment when you felt safe and you didn’t know that bad things happened to good people, and the next thing you know, you’re chopping a green pepper and kneading meat and shaping comfort into a loaf pan.

I don’t watch the news anymore. I haven’t in years, actually. It’s a strange thing for an information junkie like myself to admit. My journalism professors would surely be dismayed by my declaration, but it’s a form of self-preservation.

I can’t watch the world bleed out anymore.

I don’t watch, but I do read. I read the New York Times and the Washington Post. I read the clickbait and the longform journalism. I consume and consume, because I mistakenly believe that if I can just digest enough information, everything will make sense again.

I just need to understand how it all started, and then I’ll know how to fix it.

That’s the thing about fires though. Sometimes we never see how they start, because we don’t notice until they’re raging out of control. We always want to find the person who struck the first match, because he’s to blame, right? And if we can blame someone, then everything will make sense again.

Even as earth turns to ash and what was once beautiful is laid barren.

Some people ask why I read the news instead of watching it. The only way I know how to explain it is that it’s the difference between reading the book and watching the movie. In the book, my mind can draw the pictures and fill in the gaps. Heroes and villains don’t look so dissimilar on the page; there’s room for gray. Watching it unfold in full technicolor, the nuance is gone.

Last fall, when Gatlinburg burned because two boys were playing with matches, the smoke reached all the way to Nashville. The acrid smell stung my eyes and nostrils in my own backyard, more than 200 miles from where the fire raged. That’s the thing about wildfires, though. The smoke always travels farther than the flames—sometimes even hundreds of miles away, depending on how the wind blows.

It’s the smoke that makes it hard to breathe, hard to see. It’s the smoke that will kill you, before the flames ever get a chance.

They say fires are necessary, sometimes, to bring unruly undergrowth to heel. You hear about “controlled burns” of swaths of land, but I wonder, how do you control something like fire? How do you keep it from growing too big and destroying something you never meant for it to?

And If Not, Is He Still Good? (On Her View from Home)

If all things work for good for those who love God, what does that mean when a child is dying? A childhood friend of mine has a son with serious heart defects. Three weeks ago, they headed up to Michigan for heart surgery with the only surgeon in the country willing to perform the procedure he needed to save his life. His recovery was precarious, and several days ago he went into cardiac arrest. He's been on life support ever since.

He's also the same age as my Ellie.

Throughout this, I've wrestled with the goodness of God, what it looks like when a prayer is answered, and why we live in a world where bad things happen. I'm still short on answers, but I did find a perspective that lets me hold space for both: God is good and sometimes bad things happen.

Read the full essay on Her View From Home.

As you can imagine, the Kelleys are facing substantial travel and medical costs during this time. If you'd like to contribute financially, you can do so here. And please keep them in your prayers.