Dear reader,

At 7 a.m. Jack shoots up out of bed to declare, “I go to school today!”

“That’s right, my love,” I reply, striding into his room to give him a hug. This will be his first day at school since March 2020, when COVID-19 upended everything. “It’s an exciting day," I add, opening his curtains. "A big day! Your first day of preschool.” 

Jack dresses in his brand new Paw Patrol sweatsuit, I pour us two bowls of Rice Krispies with soy milk, and we sit at the dining room table, peering out the window. Jack’s cereal pop-crackle-fizzles and deflates. I ask, "What’s wrong, buddy?”

He puts his head down next to the bowl and whimpers into the table. “Sce-rred."

“Oh... that’s understandable. This is a big change. But remember, your friend Deven's in your class, and that will make it much easier.”

“And,” my husband interjects, sliding me a steaming mug of coffee. “You can’t be brave without being scared."

I turn to Jay, eyes wide. I mouth, Where did you hear that? before taking the first comforting sip. But he just shrugs and smiles. Jack lifts his head so his eyes appear to be hovering at the edge of his cereal bowl. “Dad, were you ever scared of school?”

Jay chuckles and leans forward. “All the time, bud. All the time.” 

I am still thinking of this conversation when Jack and I enter the play lot at his preschool. His feet begin to drag while my arm tugs him onward. “I’m shy,” he protests. “I don’t wanna go.” 

“It's OK, it's OK,” I say, squeezing his hand. I wish I had more to say here but the truth is, I’m scared, too. 10 months have passed since our boy went to school here. The time we spent at home was both grueling and a gift of grace. Fear clenches in my stomach. Did we ruin him? Will he be safe here? Are we making a mistake? 

Outside the doorway, I crouch down to Jack's level while we wait to go inside. These next words I speak are for me and him: “Remember what Daddy said? You can't be brave without being scared."

“Yeah,” he whispers, leaning his head against mine.

“I love you, Jack,” I say, brushing my masked lips against his covered cheek.

“I love you, too, Mommy,” he returns, gripping me hard. This love, this daunting, tremendous motherly love, is a sacred waltz of pulling close and stepping apart, of endings and beginnings, of giving and receiving and trusting our children, and we, can dance on our own.

This February, may we know that, when we pour love into people or ourselves, we are doing something powerful. Something brave.

Jack safely inside with his new class, I turn toward the car and exhale, my breath swirling and vanishing in the crisp winter air.

Valentine’s Day is often equated with romantic love, but we know that there are myriad expressions of life-giving love. For people of faith, the most important is God’s unconditional love for us. This year, my friend Kimberly Knowle-Zeller and I teamed up to create a Feb. 10-17 email devotional on this very topic, Abundant Love, and we'd love for you to join us!

Here’s how it works: Each morning you’ll find an email from us containing a Bible verse, reflection, questions for pondering and a spiritual practice to try. We’ll explore 1 Corinthians 13 and share stories with the hope that we might illuminate God’s abundant love for you and all of humanity. We pray you’ll walk away from your devotional feeling refreshed, loved and inspired to share love with others. It all starts tomorrow, Feb. 10. Sign up here.

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A coworker recently shared an article about “hitting the pandemic wall.” In it, the author names the burnout many of us are feeling as we approach the one-year mark of grappling with COVID-19. Sure, hope is here in the form of vaccines, but there’s no clear end in sight. Yet. Years ago, when I trained for half marathons, my strategy for pushing through the “wall” of fatigue I felt around the 9-mile mark was to pop a strawberry GU bite. They are pure sugar, but when you’re running on empty, they taste divine.

What I’m learning is that small bursts of sweetness are propelling me through these long days. They’re not a solution to burnout, but naming and savoring them is helping me cope. Some sweet things I'm loving: Starbucks oatmilk honey lattes, gentle yoga sessions before bed and the comforting glow of candles (here's a new fave). What little burst of sweetness do you need to feel calm? Perhaps a hot cup of tea, a juicy conversation with a friend or an enthralling novel? Make time to nourish your weary soul and encounter rest.

We celebrated my son's fourth birthday last month and I'm still not over it. Here's an excerpt from a piece I wrote recalling who he is at four:

He is the leap of faith,
the spark of curiosity,
“Who is God?” and “Where is Jesus?”

He is scaling a sand dune,
chasing the tide,
pointing me to beauty.

Speaking of poetry, I, like many others, was overcome with emotion as I watched National Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman speak poetry and hope over our hurting country at the inauguration. You can read the full text of "The Hill We Climb" here, but this Black History Month, I'm especially mindful of the lines:

"It's because being American is more than a pride we inherit,
it's the past we step into
and how we repair it."

Wrote Danté Stewart for Religion News Service, "Amanda was a theologian in the truest sense of the word — she was making divine possibilities intelligible and offering an alternative world of love, freedom, hope and joy. Theology is not just speaking or wrestling; it is also helping us dream a little bit of the future God has for us."

Another person who's relentlessly spreading hope is Dayvin Hallmon. I had the honor of speaking with him last December for an assignment with Living Lutheran. Dayvin is director of the Black String Triage Ensemble, an all-volunteer ensemble of Black and Latinx string musicians from Milwaukee who deliver healing music to souls numb to neighborhood gun violence. I hope you'll take a moment to read their inspiring story, which is my favorite piece I've ever reported.

Katie and Alex Blackburn's vulnerable essay on marriage and mental health made me gasp when I finished reading it. It's beautiful, grace-filled and a piece in which many couples will find themselves.

This essay, which I first heard on the Modern Love podcast, has stayed with me, and it's what I want to leave you with as we consider the how our love influences others over a lifetime: “The pandemic distracts me. I sit alone, unable to be with my children. But I’m not thinking I would rather die than live without him. Instead, I am thinking after all that life, I hope I don’t die. I want to see what comes next. And I believe that is what a lifetime of good loving can do.”