change

Four years ago my family and I joined thousands of others in a peaceful march on our state capitol.  I look back on this picture with softness in my heart.  How worried yet hopeful we were.  Here on this cold, cloudy day in Madison we joined our voices together with so many others willing to work for change, even in the face of so much adversity. Looking around us at the sea of colorful, smiling faces it was hard not to feel hope.  Hope that our girls could inherit a world of good, a world of strengh and compassion, of dignity and beauty.  Hope that Andy would defeat the cancer that was ravaging his body.  Hope that we could remain whole. 

Our girls were 7 and 10, and Andy had a year and a half left to live.

But on that day four years ago, while we held worry and hope, we really had no idea what was ahead of us.  

Andy's fight would end and he would leave us on a beautiful rainy morning in June of 2018.  His family would soon sustain the loss of his younger brother and our hearts would break again.  His girls would move on from homeschooling and join a community of loving students and educators. They would become young women with big feet and braces and social media accounts!  I would bumble my way through grief and single parenting and loving again.  Our nation would face another crisis of racial injustice, our world would face a pandemic of proportions not seeen in 100 years, and our people would come together in a tumultuous vote for change.  

Holy cow, that would have blown our minds.

So many times over the last two and half years I have thought about what Andy would think of all that is going on in our world.  He was passionate about history, interested in politics and an early morning news junkie (after he sat in meditation for awhile).  He was a Peace Corp Volunteer, a public school teacher and later, a stay-at-home father and educator of our girls.  He would not take credit for it, but he gave in service so much to his world.  And from his little seat at the table, he was really worried about where Trump might take this nation. He was concerned about how much the Trump administration would walk back the small progress made on climate change and on human rights.  He was worried about the kind of world our girls might be inheriting.  And while he watched our world with eyes of concern, he also worked so hard to hang on to this life he loved so much.  He wanted more than anything to fight along side us all.  

Today my heart hurts because Andy is not here to feel the relief and the hope with us as we watch the last four years come to an end and the first woman of color take the oath of office as Vice President of the United States. He's not here to listen to President Biden call for unity and healing, a man who also knows grief so deeply, and whose strength and resilience in the face of that, may be just what this country needs.  He's not here to see that his girls have grown into young woman who crave being educated about truth and fairness, who care deeply and are ever-so-eager to help bring change to their world.  

Last summer, as we lent our support to Black Lives Matter, we carried Andy's sign from the March on Madison four years ago, his choice of MLK quote as relevant as ever.  And today as Iris left for school (where she will watch the inauguration with her fellow 8th graders) I saw that she was wearing the ragged and well-loved sweater that her dad wore on that day four years ago while he held her hand in the crowds on State Street.  He's with us every day, quietly cheering us on.

Andy was no stranger to change, nor a stranger to hope.  He held them both in his big heart and embraced them with all his quiet strength.  Today he would be proud of where we've come, on shaky legs, as a nation, and as a little family.  And he would acknowledge all the work ahead.  And he'd dig in with that way he had of making everything feel like it would turn out all right.  We are ready to do the same.