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Good Morning Waverly!

Dear Lyla,

Every year the faculty and staff in our department engage in professional development with our student organization leaders. This year we are focusing on happiness and cultivating hope and resilience in a busy world that has many demands on our time.  We are reading a book called “Happier No Matter What” by Tal Ben-Shahar. In this book the author discusses various types of well-being; spiritual, physical, intellectual, and emotional. As we work through the chapters in the book I find that sometimes those types of self-care are interrelated. Just the other day I was reflecting on how I navigate those steps myself right along with the students. I was struck by how my physical, intellectual, and spiritual well-being all coalesce on my early morning walks through our little town of Waverly.

Often I have remarked to friends and family members about how much I love living here. When I walk down the trail I marvel at how the trees create a canopy and one travels through a tunnel of green foliage set against the deep browns of the trunks, dotted with spots of color as birds dance from branch to branch.  It feels as if I am walking in a living storybook. I’ve always felt connected to nature, but I am specifically drawn to the woods and the river. The Waverly rail trail does not disappoint, when I walk or cycle down the trail, it truly is peaceful. There are so many little critters to see if you keep your eyes sharp. I have seen beavers, foxes, lots of deer, wild turkeys (they are the most ridiculous creatures to watch), squirrels, chipmunks, birds, and raccoons. Sometimes juvenile raccoons are a little aggressive and who knew that baby raccoons bark like dogs? I found that out the hard way a couple years ago when I was riding my bike.  It does not matter how many times I venture out on the trail; it is a new experience every time.  The trails around Waverly are calming and I have come to realize that I rely on my walks and my bike rides to center myself physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I do a lot of contemplating and soul searching during those long bike rides down the trail.

As you know, I walk every morning before the sun comes up. I do my little two-mile loop through the park, and it is a really great way to get myself ready for the day. There is so much to see before the sun comes up or when it’s just starting to peek over the tree line.  I always chuckle when I walk by the Nestle plant where there is a big sign of the Nestle Quik Bunny and, ironically, there are always little rabbits darting in and out of the fence by the Nestle plant (and the smell when they are making chocolate is delightful). One of my favorite views is when I walk across the wooden bridge when the river is still and you see all the lights from the church, civic center and park mirrored in the water, it is absolutely beautiful.  Of course, I have my favorite tree in the park, I think everybody should have a favorite tree. Part of my morning ritual is to take in the sights, sounds and smells of everything around me so that I can clear my mind and find a moment of grace.  

Often I solve my biggest conundrums on those walks. If I have something that is troubling me it provides time to focus and gain some perspective. For the last couple of years, I have taken a picture almost every morning on my walk.  Sometimes the photo is of the lights reflecting off the river, or a picture of the beautiful displays that are in the flowerpots that line Bremer Avenue, or my favorite tree and sometimes it is a gorgeous silhouette of the church through the trees right before you arrive at wooden bridge. I try to capture the breathtaking velvet colors of the pinks, oranges, purples, and blues that line the sky as the sun is rising just below the tree line in the eastern part of town, though photos can never really do it justice.  When I take these pictures, I post them to my Facebook account with the caption “Good Morning Waverly!” I have had people tell me that they look forward to those pictures and I am glad that they find Waverly as beautiful as I do. However, the reason I post my morning mantra is that it serves as an act of gratitude and an acknowledgement of how privileged I am to live in a community where the residents care for each other, preserve the natural beauty of the land, and embrace the symbiosis of the two. I think we are fortunate to live in such a space that not only allows us to grow and thrive in our personal pursuits and passions but provides room for peace and a sense of belonging.

I know that you enjoy your evening strolls just as much as I rejoice in my early morning treks through the streets of our picturesque little town, and I am so glad that you have the same connection to the wonders of the outdoors as I do. We are truly blessed.

Welcome Home

Dear Lyla,

The tradition of homecoming dates back over 100 years with the NCAA crediting the University of Missouri (my PhD alma mater) as the first official homecoming in 1911. At the time, the intent was to make sure that a big rival football game against the KU Jayhawks (still rivals to this day) was well attended. It was so successful a tradition was born. It is now part of the cultural fabric of American schools in the fall months. While most homecoming celebrations still center around a football game, the weeklong festivities focus on the institution as the common thread that ties alums together. Connections that are intergenerational, interdisciplinary, and international are forged and reinforced in an intense weekend of comradery and gaiety.

Wartburg’s homecoming is this weekend. The trees are decked with ribbons of black and orange, the fountain is flowing freely, windows are painted with messages of welcome to those who came before and, even though it is gloomy and rainy outside, the halls are buzzing with the excitement that only homecoming can generate. Shortly after lunchtime today I fully expect to see former students drop in to say hello; this will continue throughout the weekend, and it is my favorite thing about homecoming.

While you are my most important legacy, and I am so grateful that I have the title of mom as well as professor, education is my second calling right behind motherhood. You have been around the halls of Wartburg long enough to know that you have many student “siblings.”  I very much look forward to their return and hearing about what has been going on in their lives. I rejoice at their family and career milestones and give them a shoulder to cry on when life is sometimes cruel. I think that sometimes the lessons I teach about relationships and building community may be the most important one can learn. Human nature is so complex, so intricate, and its understanding so elusive that we are all lifelong students of the human condition. One day you will, I hope, be a student at Wartburg and your relationship with the campus will utterly change and I am thrilled at the prospect of watching that from a front row seat. I will observe how you will commune with the squirrels, lose your voice at Kastle Kapers, have so much orange and black in your wardrobe that you could open a Spirit Halloween franchise, and sing the loyalty song from memory as you sway with your friends to the rhythm of the melody. All these things that I wish for you are the same that I hope have stayed with those we will welcome home this week and, that Wartburg, as the song says, is the college of their brightest days.

A Storyteller’s Note

Dear Lyla,

As you know I am on my sabbatical this year with reduced class load and I’m trying to reignite some of the creativity and excitement that I had as a student and young academic. On my walk this morning I was thinking about the projects that I have embarked on this year. On the surface the projects that I have chosen are very different than the type of work I did in graduate school, or even the first seven years after my PhD program. During my graduate studies I focused on political communication, specifically comparative political advertising, and I really enjoyed that work. However, none of my sabbatical projects focus on that area of specialty. I’ve chosen to go in a different direction; my podcast with Kate and her experiences as an Iranian hostage, creating a film with some of my colleagues that focuses on the narrative of redemption, and my work on the leadership and branding workbook that I hope to do with Dr. Moore.

While these projects may seem disjointed as if they don’t have a common theme, at the end of the day they are all about storytelling. I think that is what drew me to the discipline to begin with. Communication is about telling the story of the human condition in all its various forms and mediums and that is what excites me about the discipline. Whether I am examining how a candidate creates their brand and persona to persuade voters to elect them to office, or the theater of comparative advertising between two diametrically opposed political figures, or the story of redemption shown through a visual medium, or a retrospective podcast told from a specific socio-political context to illustrate a journey of faith and reconciliation, it all boils down to telling a compelling story.

The best stories, I think, are the ones that find some universal connection between the creator and their audience.  I find it fascinating that people from very different walks of life can find community and shared emotion through storytelling. If you think about it, every major moment in our life centers around a narrative arc. The most important and pivotal life moments and news that we receive often come in the form of a conversation embedded in a descriptive context. That is what is so exciting to me about doing my projects this year!

Maybe no one will listen to the podcast, perhaps no one will ever see the short film that I make with my colleagues, and it is possible that the leadership and branding work I do may not resonate with anyone outside of the halls of Wartburg College. The point is, I am telling a story, and I am putting myself out there; and that is simultaneously the most exciting part of this creative journey as well as the most terrifying. Through this process I have already stumbled and made mistakes, but I learned from them. Those learning moments are a part of my personal story. I will always be a student of the human condition, I will always be a lifelong learner, and that comes with the risk of failure as well as the hope for success. One thing I know I have learned so far, for sure, is that there are quite a few stories left for me to tell.

Grace

Dear Lyla,

I was really struggling with the topic for this week’s blog post. Not because it’s been a bad week or a particularly difficult week…actually…it has been a great week! I have accomplished a good deal on my sabbatical projects and have done a plethora of creative work. It is the type of work that energizes me and so I am quite pleased. It has been a long time since I have solely focused on what I needed to do to keep pushing myself forward on my own academic and creative journey. I know in the end it will make me a better teacher, a better colleague, and hopefully a better mom. However, I must admit that I have felt a bit guilty about focusing so much on my own professional development this last week. As you know, I usually have an open-door policy here at Wartburg College.  My office has been a revolving door of students coming in, coming out, sitting on the couch, napping on the couch, sometimes drinking coffee, endless chatter, homework, deep discussions about personal issues, hugs for those who need it and reality checks for others.

While I am still having interactions with students, which I love, my available time has been intentionally limited so that I can benefit from what a sabbatical is supposed to encompass. A time of renewal, a time of rest, a time of newfound intellectual and creative opportunities; and I think I’m starting to get there. I have really enjoyed the writing that I have done this last week. I have been inspired and motivated by the preparation I am doing for the podcast series that I will begin to record shortly with Kate but, the office has been quiet.  I know my students are trying to honor my space, I know they respect me and my time, and I’m grateful for that; but I cannot help but feel just a little bit guilty that I cannot be there for them as much as I was last year and that’s a struggle for me.

I also know that I need to prioritize you and give you the attention you deserve, and I’m so grateful that we have our car rides in the morning (and sometimes at night). I love the time that we spend together, and it serves as an emotional balm for me. I love talking to you, whether it’s you telling me a funny story, or we talk about your music, or your teachers and their funny quirks, or honestly, sometimes even when you just want to vent. Those are special times for me because it means that you trust me, that I am a safe person for you, and that is a priority for me.

I have tried to give that same attention, love, and care to my students too and I think they appreciate it. I know I treasure the relationships that I have with them, but again, this feeling of guilt that arises from focusing on myself inwardly this year rather than giving of myself to others has rooted itself in my psyche. One of the toughest life lessons for me to learn is, if I deplete my own cup I have nothing left with which to fill others’ cups. I know all this intellectually but, as you know I was raised Lutheran, so I feel guilty. However, because I was brought up in the Lutheran tradition, I understand the concept of grace, or at least I think I did.

In my office I have this beautiful word art piece that Sam Pfab made for me a few years ago when she was involved in Dance Marathon here on campus, she gave it to me as a thank you gift. Sam and I had quite a few discussions about grace. I think I am fairly practiced at offering grace to others, but I might not always be so skilled at receiving it from others or extending it to myself. As you know, in the Lutheran tradition, we believe that there is nothing that we can do solely on our own to receive heavenly blessings, it is by grace that we are saved, it is the ultimate gift. Oftentimes I do not think I really believed that the gift was meant for me, even though I preach all the time everyone is deserving of grace. I have repeatedly told my students that there is always room for grace. It is ok if you struggle, it is normal to stumble, and sometimes fall, but all will be well because there is always room for grace. It struck me as I was finishing up some of my preparation work for the podcast with Kate that I have been blessed with people in my life that have extended that gift to me and exemplified what it means to live and walk a grace filled life. I was reminded of that poignantly yesterday afternoon when I had my phone conversation with Kate to coordinate her visit to campus to talk about her life experiences. She was so kind and so supportive, and, in a word, she was gracious in our conversation. She reassured me that I could do this work, that I could do it well, and that I should be proud of my work rather than shy away from it or doubt the talents that I have. I was grateful that in a moment when I needed grace, I received it. So, I guess the point of this letter is to remind you, and myself, that there is always room for grace no matter what. You don’t have to earn it; it is freely given.

Friday Night Cards

Dear Lyla,

Some of the most vivid memories from childhood feature the kitchen table after dinner during the cold winter months of Minnesota playing canasta with Bumpa, Grandma, and my sister. Back in the stone ages when I was young, we didn’t have cable or internet and the bunny ear antenna that we manipulated to get local television stations was constantly thwarted by the snow in the air, fuzzy lines, and an irritating buzz was all that would emanate from the boxy television in the corner of our living room. With limited entertainment choices and impassible roads because we lived in the country, we turned to reading or playing cards. Our home library and the four decks of cards used to play our nightly games were some of my most important teachers as a child. We started learning how to play when I was seven and Bumpa used it to teach us basic math skills. If you did not count correctly and melded when you didn’t have enough count, he would take 100 points off your score! Some of my earliest arithmetic lessons were learning to add up basic points and the points from the count. I was so little when I started playing, I could not shuffle the cards, I had to put them in front of me and swirl them around to mix them up. Grandma always had snacks for times in between hands and it is one of my fondest memories. I also learned at an early age that I do not like to lose and even the sweetest of personalities can be cutthroat when a game of canasta is at stake.

While you have grown up in a world of cable, internet and you live in a town where you are able to move around freely, not constrained by the chilly winter winds keeping your driveway closed for days on end, you have been given the gift of family card night. When grandma first suggested that she make dinner for us on Fridays followed by a rousing game of canasta I was delighted! You were reticent when we first started to play but it grew on you and now it is a rite of passage; Friday nights with the “Ladies.” I honestly thought as you went along in your teen years that you would be less interested in hanging out with me, your grandma, and your great aunt on Fridays. However, it seems that the opposite has happened. You look forward to those nights and we try to sneak a couple of hands in on weeknights when our busy schedules allow it.

You have clearly inherited the card shark gene, you HATE to lose, and I feel you, me too kid. Grandma and I joked that while you never knew your Bumpa he is ever present at those card games. Some of your expressions and your incredible luck at being dealt wildcards or drawing “just what you need” from the pile are so reminiscent of him. Sometimes even the lilt in your laugh is like hearing him in the room. Oh, and could he smack talk, well you inherited that too. Just a couple of weeks ago your great aunt suggested I replace your toothpaste with super glue. Publicly, I will say “please respect your elders,” privately your constant chatter throws them off and allows us to claim victory, so “well done!” We all become different characters when we play. You boss me around like you have been playing for decades longer than I have, Grandma’s little “tappity tap” on the cards is a dead give away she has a good hand, and when she is winning she makes jokes that only she thinks are funny and laughs so hard she cries. Debbie will lose her filter and say a few choice four letter words. Our walks back across the street to our house where we debrief the game are some of my favorite moments with you.

We are clearly blessed aren’t we, to have this time with each other and with Grandma and Aunt Debbie? To make those memories, to bring Bumpa back to life as the cheeky angel on your shoulder guiding you to card playing victory. And it’s all ours, our time to cherish, a secret language that others who are not privy to the Friday night experience cannot hope to understand. One facial expression or gesture at the card table communicates so much to the four of us as we wait in suspense to see if someone will grab the pile and deliver the final crushing blow to the other team. There is magic in the simplicity of sharing a meal with family, the fickleness of hands won and lost, the laughter so deep it brings tears and the feeling of love in the room and the knowledge that we have roots. Deep, messy, boisterous and strong roots that will live long after old branches wither and new limbs sprout.

I’m Back?

Dear Lyla,

Love,
Mom

Dear Lyla,

I have taught summer school at Wartburg for many years and during this time of the year campus has a very different look and feel to it. For one thing it is very quiet with fewer folks around in general. But the one thing I noticed years ago is that it is the best time to get to know our international students well; as many of them stay on campus during the summer and work on campus. I try to get to know as many students as I can and learn from them; about their pursuits, passions, cultures and the like. What I learned last summer was that the socio-political environment is of great concern to our international students in particular. Many of them are wary of travel outside of the United States or afraid to visit home while enrolled at school for fear of not getting back into the country. It is also important for them to make sure their documentation is up to date. That is where this story starts. One of my students needed to get his passport renewed. Adeboye is from Nigeria and the closest consulates are Atlanta, GA & Washington D.C. A friend of his had agreed to drive him to Atlanta as it was closer than D.C. The fastest route from Waverly, Iowa to Atlanta is to follow the Mississippi river to St. Louis and then head east through Indiana, then south through a bit of Kentucky on route to Georgia. Shortly before Adeboye left on his voyage south, the NAACP had released a travel advisory for minorities traveling through Missouri. After all of the racially motivated events that had taken prior in the months leading up to last summer this made me extremely fearful for Adeboye’s safety. Anyone who has ever met him knows he is a gentle giant; soft spoken with a wicked sense of humor. I was terrified, Adeboye is a tall and impressive figure and someone who would be easy to profile. I talked about my concerns with him. We talked strategy for safety, travel routes and most importantly I made him promise to text me at every stopping point along the way. This was early August and while he was in transit on his way back to Waverly the events in Charlottesville VA were unfolding. On Sunday, August 13th the events of the previous day became more clear and more gruesome and the level of vitriol surrounding the tragedy from those defending the KKK and those counter to those views reached a fever pitch. I was drained and worried for the safety and emotional well being of our students and when I got to my office on that Monday I was reading the news and just started to cry. That is when Adeboye walked into my office to show me in person that he was well and had no issues in updating his passport in Atlanta. Being a compassionate individual, he asked me what was wrong and I told him that I was spiritually exhausted by the hate and I was so angry because the silence from my own lips on these matters were deafening. As we talked through our concerns, and different perspectives, we came to the conclusion that we didn’t have to wait for anyone to make a statement that would capture what we were feeling; we could make a statement ourselves. A short, but important one, Hate Has No Place at Wartburg College. That phrase is not new, it has been used by many, but we could make it Wartburg specific. So we created an orange and black themed piece of art that boldly proclaimed our position in English and confidently reiterated that statement in several different languages on the post card sized sign itself. It wasn’t meant as a great manifesto or grand gesture; Adeboye and I were hurting and this provided some balm for our injured hearts.  Initially only 60 copies were printed and I went from office to office just asking folks if they wanted one to put up in a public space. We never shared the impetus for the cards or the co-creation story behind it. It was a quiet gesture but one that we thought was important. We quickly ran out of cards and I had more printed. It seemed like every office had one. We thought, let the healing and meaningful dialogues begin! And then this winter semester one of the vans outside of the student center was found with racist epithets etched into the frost. It seemed for us that the scab had been picked off the wound. However, we were approached by some amazing leaders on campus about using the Hate Has No Place Here design for a rally they wanted to have to begin the healing process and open up the lines of communication. Adeboye and I were quite adamant that no permission was needed. We had created something that we hoped would become part of the fabric at Wartburg; seamless as if it always belonged to the community and not to us. Since the rally, stickers, buttons and more cards have been made and it fills us with hope to see them around campus. We are not naive, we know that hate had found its way to Wartburg and we have to wrestle with that as a community. No poster, button or sticker will be an adequate substitute for difficult and meaningful dialogue; but we hope it serves as a reminder to make room for those difficult conversations and be ever vigilant so as not to give hate a permanent place at the table.

Two More Sleeps

Dear Lyla,

Only two sleeps until Christmas Day. Your Great-Aunt Debbie arrived last night and your boy cousins are due in a few hours.  Already Aunt Debbie, Grandma and I have consumed several pots of coffee this morning and have reminisced several decades in the span of a few hours. We were decked out in bathrobes and grubby clothes, having laughs and pumping our veins with caffeine; this is the way Christmas break is supposed to be.  When you are surrounded by loved ones, good conversation, tasty food and enough coffee grounds in the pantry to last until New Year’s; you are rich beyond measure. Nothing under the tree this year will last longer or be more important than the memories you will make in the next few days. You will carry them with you forever. I will tell you a secret Little One, they do not fade over time. If anything, they are more vibrant and accessible as you age. Along with the memories will come a sense of comfort, purpose and belonging. Today as you, Daddy, Grandma and Aunt Debbie are out shopping and I wait for the boys, my mind drifts to the Christmases of my past. I realized that it has been 19 Christmases since your Bumpa went to heaven. While you would think my memories of my father may fade with time, the memories  I have of him at Christmastime are so fresh it takes me by surprise. Your Bumpa loved Christmas, everything about it. Hanging up lights and swearing a blue streak when  a bulb would go out, watching us put up the tree, listening to Grandma’s Elvis album (Blue Christmas I think), decorating cookies and the games. I remember the games most of all. We would play cards or board games until we could barely keep our eyes open. What I do not remember were the presents. Oh, there were plenty under the tree but I simply cannot recall what Santa brought us. I have a feeling this will be your legacy as well; memories that are rich and warm, recollections of all of the people both present and past that you will carry with you for many years to come. Only two more sleeps my most beloved child, but until then there is much coffee, conversations and card games to be had.

Going to see the King

camera blackDear Lyla,
I must confess, school was difficult for me when I was young. The subjects I studied did not cause distress, rather the feeling that I never quite fit in was the cause of much anxiety. Often I felt like an observer, instead of an active participant in my life. High school was particularly brutal for me socially and emotionally; though perhaps those around me never would have guessed that was the case. We did not have social media back then, and for that I am somewhat grateful. Back then my world was very small, I had no idea how varied the human experience truly is. All I knew is that when it was time to leave high school I would never look back. For the most part, that is still true. I do not lament missing high school reunions nor do I feel a pull northward when homecoming season is in full bloom. However, with the advent of social media, I have been curious as to what happened to those who walked the halls of adolescence with me all those years ago. As you know, storytelling runs through my veins and my curiosity for new methods of communicating the narrative is endless. Although the written word and still photography are like old friends, film’s siren song is calling and I must answer. While you will always be my muse, ghosts from the past have been whispering. Social media has given me a glimpse into how the lives of old school mates might have taken shape, but online repositories are charlatans and convey only what we want others to see. Viewing sanitized profiles creates a haze and numbness around memories of teen angst and bruised feelings. In some measure it has been soothing to reconnect to those I left over 20 years ago. I admit to feeling surprised at some of the paths that my peers have taken, where they ended up and with whom. One journey that holds particular interest belongs to a man named Chris, he goes by the name “King” now and lives in San Francisco. I have been most intrigued by his story. How does a young man from a town of less than 200 from northern Minnesota end up becoming a cultural fixture in the Castro district? What is his story? How has he shaped and been shaped by others? Does he feel the pull of the past or does he live contentedly in the present? What will the story I tell about him reveal about me? These are questions that will soon be explored Little One. In less than two weeks I am going to see the King and listen to his tale. I am not sure what will happen when our narratives collide in the filmmaking process. What I do know is, when the time is right, each of us will have a story to share.

Snow Day

12418831_10156581337870105_1847855357891011100_oDear Lyla,

When I was little my sister and I would listen to the nightly weather with great interest and intensity during the winter months. We hoped to hear the words “nor’easter” or “white-out conditions.” Living in Minnesota meant that we almost always went to school unless a storm of apocalyptic proportions was making its way to the north central region of the state; even when severe predictions were made a snow day was never a guarantee and was never called the night before! Fast forward more years than I care to count, and here I am scouring the various weather outlets tracking “Winter Storm Kayla.” The discussions between Daddy and I are “will it pass us to the North,” “will it be as severe as they predicted or will it be a light dusting not worthy of all the angst we have seen televised, tweeted and texted over the past few days,” and “will Tuesday be a snow day?” Of all of these questions the last is of the utmost importance. Our contemplation of Tuesday’s forecast is not due to worry about missing a day of school, rather it means the three of us will be together with no classes, meetings or events to distract our family unit. When I was your age a snow day meant building forts, making snowmen and snow angels with my sister until we couldn’t feel our fingers and our scarves were crusted over with the ice. After frolicking in the snow my sister and I would waddle back into the house to be greeted by Grandma Jo with a hot cup of cocoa and a crackling fire. In retrospect it seems like it took forever for us to warm up again; we took great delight in snuggling deep into the blankets and spending the rest of the afternoon reading or playing board games. Snow days are the best! It was true then and it is still true today; a snow day can liberate a person in the most unexpected ways. So here’s to hoping the snow falls heavy tomorrow Little One; here’s to hoping for a bonus family day this week that is unencumbered by obligation and mundane distraction.

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