Spring is coming. Look for the daffodils 🌼.

The signs of spring are hard for me to ignore. I have barely been able to contain myself over the past couple weeks as spring begins it's long and slow awakening from hibernation.  As a bona fide warm weather lover, I start looking for the signs right after Christmas...longer days, brighter sunshine, temperatures above the 40s, and specks of green popping through the dirt.

Over the weekend, I noticed daffodils starting to peek through my shabby, winter-worn grass. Then I noticed the buds on my neighbor's tulip tree and the little summer girl in me rejoiced and did back flips up and down the street.  During those mild and sunny days, I rode with my windows down and turned my radio up just a little louder than usual - embracing the sunshine and fresh air.

Today, I started my morning commute with a frown - dismayed by the cloudy sky and next few days' impending forecast of cool winter temperatures and precipitation.  I know that spring is coming. It always does, doesn't it? I know it's still winter. I just don't like going through it. For a moment, I let my mood turn sour - thinking of putting my heavy coat back on tomorrow and unhappy that I can't wear my cute new pink skirt to church and brunch on Sunday.

For a moment, I let myself settle into a funk - ignoring the signs that are still there. I didn't turn on my radio and didn't sing. But then I drove by a house and noticed the yellow heads of daffodils in all their brand new glory. I passed the middle school and saw random blades of green grass sticking out from a sea of brown. If I had let that sour mood overtake me, I would have missed all the reminders. I would have been so focused on winter that I would have missed the dress rehearsal for spring's grand entrance. So I rolled the windows down and embraced the morning's 60 degree air.

See, we get so engulfed by our situations...our right now...what we feel. If we we are not careful, we allow the negative to seep into our very bones. What we think, we are. What is in us, comes out of us. We are not our situation - just merely going through it. Spring is coming, but in order to get to it we must go THROUGH winter.

Don't be fooled. Your situation, your circumstances, your winter...they are all temporary. You must go through them to get to what is next. Go through with expectation, excitement, and readiness - believing, hoping, and trusting in that which is bigger than you.  God? Fate? The Universe?   Right now, your winter coat may be heavy. You may be upset that you have no one (but you) to shovel the snow or de-ice your car. You want to feel the sun on your face and wear flip flops.    Damn it, you want to do back flips!

I know. You are tired of going through.

Today at work I sat staring out the window, watching as the sky grew darker and the wind swirled the leaves and rattled the windows.  Everyone kept talking about the weather.  I guess, for a moment, they forgot too.  Winter is funny like that.  Sometimes you think it's over and you're finally going to get a break. Then it reminds you that it's not over.  You're not done going through it.

As I was leaving work tonight, I rolled down my window to say goodnight to the guard. Warm air hit my face and I noticed it was still almost 70 degrees. I drove away with my window down and saw something that wasn't there this morning. If I had been living in my head and my thoughts, I might have missed it. Instead, I was enjoying the air, the breeze, and the last few moments of light. That's when I saw a few specks of white and yellow on the hill across from the garage...daffodils.  They weren't there last night and I'm pretty sure they weren't there earlier today. There is always hope...proof of life...spring around the corner.

Get your rain jacket ready, rake your garden, and stand in expectation.

Make no mistake about it.

Spring is coming.

This is my son.

This is my son.

I pray that there will never come a day when he is reduced to a hashtag. I pray there will never come a day when he will look down a barrel of a gun or feel its tip pressed against his back while he is splayed on the ground with his empty hands at his side, or standing in a street with his hands in the air, or reaching for his identification. I pray that he won't ever have to feel the panic of knowing that his unpaid ticket, busted taillight, or mere presence in a neighborhood is potentially about to cost him his life. I pray that my son will never die alone on a street while passerby film and some people stand around having a conversation like nothing happened. I pray there will never come a day when some people will use every C on his old report cards, every bad day, every misstep, every mistake to justify why he is dead.

This is my son.

At 11 years old I introduced him to the cold hard truth. I told him that some people would not be able to see anything but the color of his skin and they would be afraid. I introduced him to the dangers that such fear could bring about. At 11 years old. I told him there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all. So when he was just 11 years old, I stripped some of my boy's childhood from him. I trampled on his rose colored glasses. I stole some of his innocence. To keep him safe.

This is my son.

12 years of private school, t-ball, church, band, lacrosse, karate, soccer, tutoring, summer camps, cross country, track, volunteering, internships, trips abroad, perfect enunciation, and a $60,000 per year college education.

My husband and I have made many sacrifices to give my son opportunities. But none of it makes him safer. It actually puts him at risk. We have watched over the years as my son fell into the comfortable lull of his life. As he wrapped himself in a false sense of safety and belonging. Every so often, we had to  strip him of that. Remind him. To keep him safe. It feel cruel. Like turning the bright lights on a sleeping person and spraying them with a strong burst of cold water. The truth is cruel, cold, and hard.

This is my son.

He doesn't deserve to die in the street for something that warrants a citation, a fine, a ticket, or worse yet - for doing nothing other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The truth is ugly. The truth is that the color of his skin puts him at a greater risk. Whether he sits on the curb like a good boy or whether he resists or questions...none of it matters. It's open season and there's no use in denying it. We've seen the pictures of men - men who aren't black - weapons in hand, being calmed  down, deescalated by officers. We know that Dylan Roof was brought Burger King by officers after walking into a black church and killing 9 people who were there praying. PRAYING. We know that Sandra and Freddy died in police custody.  We know that Trayvon had Skittles and Tamir had a plastic gun.  So I cry for Alton and Philando and countless other men and women. Every time one falls, my cries get louder and stronger. Every time one falls, they fall closer to my son.

I'm scared for him every single day.

This is my son.

Free to be me

For the most part, I take things in stride. I get it from my grandmother and my mother. You could tell them the sky is falling and they would say, "oh no...let's see what we can do about that".

My grandmother, "Mimi", died last year. Her battle with cancer (her third) was pretty hard, but she took it in stride. She drove herself to 20 radiation treatments, tried her best to maintain a positive attitude, and continued smiling right until the end. The year before, she lost her only son to cancer. She sat right there while my mom cared for him - watching her child wither away. I can't imagine. Right before the funeral home came to get my uncle from my mom's house, we told my grandmother she needed to say goodbye. Through his entire ordeal and even through her own sickness that was the only time I saw her cry. She went in and looked at him. She hugged him and sobbed. She looked at us and said, "he's going to be with Grampy (my grandfather) now". She walked away and went to my mom's kitchen, got herself comfy in her favorite chair and said, "I think I'd like some chicken salad".

My mom recently found out that she has cancer. Leave it to her to have some rare form -  neuro endocrine. Surgery is the answer and it will happen in the next couple of weeks. By now she's already made her lists of foods and snacks to keep at her house for my family while we are doctoring her. She's bought new patio furniture for her days of rest and recovery. And she has a list of things that have to get done.

So yeah, I come from the kind of stock that just rolls with the punches. I don't brag about it. That's just the way it is. Sometimes something will happen and a whole army of emotions goes to war inside me. While others are crying or getting angry, I'm thinking..."what's next?", "how do I fix this?", "what's the right thing to say?"...so I usually spring into take charge mode or do nothing - just wait.

I have my moments where I get a little loud or animated (that's when the blood of my father and grandfather kicks in). But I was raised to maintain a ladylike calm and to not act in haste. My grandmother used to say "don't be so loud".  Even when my grandfather died and I tried to get in the bed with him, my grandmother told me to be quiet so as not to wake the other patients in the hospital. My mom told me to calm down and let him have a peaceful journey. They were sitting there like it was an afternoon tea - well maybe not a tea. They were commenting how peaceful he looked, thank God no more pain...blah blah blah. I went in the bathroom and looked at myself.  "Oh no," I thought, "this just won't do". So I got myself together and by the time the next nurse came in we were all having tea (figuratively speaking of course) and comforting the nurse.

Because of this thing I've inherited from two extraordinary women, people tend to freak out when I'm showing anything other than mild forms of sadness, anger, frustration, grief, or any other emotion that makes folks uncomfortable. It drives me nuts! Don't  get me wrong, I appreciate the concern of others - truly I do. But it took me many years to grow to the place where I'm free to be me.

My husband and my kids are very good at "getting it". And even though they don't always understand the things that send me into a tailspin, they mostly sit by in silence watching me spin and then go on about their usual business once they are sure I don't need anything from them.

Last night my husband sat close by (but not too close) while I sulked, yelled, cried, and stared into space. He tiptoed out while I sat in the dark. I was feeling everything and nothing...work, autism, college tuition, my mother's upcoming surgery, aging...I needed a good cleansing release and I got it.

This morning I woke up feeling great! My husband gave me a quick once over, assessing whether my storm had passed, and we moved on to talk of food and and the rest of the day.

For a long time, I compared myself to others and wondered why I'm so different, so strange, so weird. Then God started sending me equally and wonderfully weird folks to fill my life and I realized weird is good.

And it's good to be free to be ME!