A Golden Afternoon

For the first 6 ½ years of our marriage, my husband and I lived in Memphis. The majority of that time was spent in a modest, brick house built in the 1950’s on a sidewalk-lined street shaded by dozens of towering, deep-rooted trees. As is often the case in older neighborhoods, many of the homes were inhabited by elderly people—some couples but mostly widows. It was a quiet street nestled in the heart of such a busy city and we loved it.

 

Beside the fact that our best friends lived across the street, the main reason I look back on that home so fondly is because it was the place we brought home our newborn twin daughters. Our girls lived there until the weekend they turned 2, when we moved to Murfreesboro.

 

Next door to us lived an older woman named Golden Crenshaw. The first time we met, I was playing with my barely crawling babies on a blanket in the front yard. Ms. Golden walked over and invited us to her house to meet her housemate. I nervously entered with a baby in each arm, eyeing all of the breakable knickknacks in the warm living room which seemed to tremble in the presence of such small and possibly destructive children.

 

Ms. Golden introduced me to her late husband’s aunt. She was a tiny, frail woman well into her 90’s and I was instructed to call her “Aunt” (I have no idea what her name actually was). The women asked me about the girls—their names and age. They asked me where I was from and what brought us to Memphis.

 

Ms. Golden inquired about my name. “Abby? Is it short for Abigail?” she asked.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered politely as a wrangled my restless babies. “But no one really calls me that.”

 

“Well, we shall call you Abigail,” responded Ms. Golden. “Won’t we, Aunt?” She said a little louder.

 

And that’s just what they did. In all the universe—other than the person who calls me back to see the doctor while I’m waiting in the waiting room, only Ms. Golden and Aunt called me Abigail. In spite of their precise attention to decorum, they exuded warmth and acceptance and a genuine interest in a fairly exhausted young mom. It’s like how some people can wear the color yellow while others just can’t. They could pull off the Formal Southern Thing without seeming stiff or snobbish.

 

Ms. Golden did most of the talking with Aunt chiming in every once in a while to answer her niece-in-law’s question. Aunt would mostly stroke my daughter’s baby soft hair with her worn fingers and smile. They told me about Ms. Golden’s late husband and her daughters, one of which had also passed away. That first afternoon, they shared their stories and asked me mine.

 

Over the next year or so before we moved away, we’d visit from time to time. They gave the girls matching dolls for Christmas which the girls would eventually take on many walks down those lovely, shaded sidewalks in their miniature pink doll strollers.

 

I recently found one of those baby dolls, abandoned and unused lying face down in a dark corner of the play room closet. I picked it up and thought about that hot afternoon with Ms. Golden and Aunt. Then I thought about the other women who early in my marriage encouraged me and valued my thoughts: our church’s custodian who told me I was beautiful even though I was nearly 9 months pregnant with twins and ridiculously swollen. The scores of women who brought us meals after the girls were born. The doctor’s office receptionist who gave me diapers from her own baby’s diaper bag when I ran out during a long day of appointments for my 18-month old who had a broken arm. Women who were there for me just when I needed them and others who were there the rest of the time.

 

When it seems that the world tries to convince us that we should tear each other down to make ourselves look better, I will think of these women. As Helen Keller—the inspirational author and speaker who had to rely on others to be her eyes and ears said, “Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much.”

Biker wave

While vacationing in Florida and visiting a couple of amusement parks during Fall Break, I came to a realization: We parents need our own biker wave. You know what I’m talking about—a motorcyclist passing a fellow motorcyclist takes his left hand off the handlebar and does a peace sign with two fingers pointing to the ground.

 

It’s a show of camaraderie. It’s a way of saying, “Hey there, fellow human with similar life experiences! I understand a little about you and I think you’re cool!” (Or something like that. I’m not a motorcyclist so I couldn’t say for sure what that small hand gesture means, but it seems positive. All I know is it doesn’t work as well with minivans.)

 

I had this epiphany while watching a mom, dad and two young sons at Sea World. The dad had hit his limit. His older son was whining to the point that he had apparently lost his ability to walk normally. The dad was attempting to move him forward through the crowd and the boy was floppily walking like he was the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Ozbeing forcefully removed from a sit-in against Munchkin oppression.

 

Once they made it to a short brick wall that served the dual purpose of creating a flower bed and providing seating to all of the hot and weary park attendees, the dad roughly sat the son down and told him not to get up. The boy began to cry, maybe from physical hurt but mostly from having his father lose his cool and aim it in his direction, while the dad looked at the Sea World map in his hands.

 

I couldn’t stop watching this scene. It just felt so familiar. Your kids, those darlings you would lay down in front of a bus for, can make you straight up crazy. I noticed right away that this particular family was comprised of adopted children with mom and dad of one skin color and sons of another. So from my own experience, I knew there were so many layers to what was playing out in front of me.

 

The crying son stood and tried to grab his dad around the middle, but the dad peeled him off and told him to sit back down. The mom who had been talking to the younger son sitting in the stroller calmly stepped in and said, “Let him hug you.” But the dad wasn’t ready to receive affection. He was mad. The mom hugged the son instead, and in a few moments they were on the move again, in search of rides or treats or shows.

 

Before we left the park, I saw this same family and the dad was holding the older son in his arms while the boy slept, his face cradled in the dad’s neck and his little arm slung across the dad’s strong shoulder. They had made their peace.

 

I wanted to reach out to this family and say something encouraging. I wouldn’t offer advice or try to show them how to parent their boys. I just wanted to flash that biker wave as if to say, “This is really hard, isn’t it? I’m sorry you guys had that moment of tension and separation, but I bet you get more things right than you get wrong, so keep on going. I understand a little about you and I think you’re cool.”

Sudoku

In a house with 4 kids who go to 3 different schools, weekday mornings can be hectic. Breakfast must be eaten. Backpacks must be packed. Lunches must be made. Pajamas must be traded for school clothes. The majority of my kids are relatively self-sufficient, but I still need to be available to monitor the morning progress if I want everyone out the door and to school on time. So the busyness of the morning makes completing the newspaper puzzles fairly difficult.

 

Since my older sister homeschools her 4 kids, her mornings are a little less hectic (but the rest of the day is pretty busy!). Therefore, she prioritizes her morning time and her newspaper puzzles. She has told me, “I do the top left scramble, then the sudoku, the bottom scramble, the crossword and then the cryptoquote. Brain work!!” She said that the first 4 puzzles are her prep work for the tricky and often perplexing code-breaking exercise of the cryptoquote.

 

If I do get around to completing any puzzles, I usually only do the sudoku puzzles on Mondays and Tuesdays. This is not because those are our less crazy days of the week. It’s actually because I’m aware of my limitations. The difficulty of each sudoku puzzle is noted with a number of stars. Monday is usually a 1-star and Tuesday is a 2-star. I’m just not willing to devote the amount of effort to a puzzle that’s more difficult than that. Call it lazy or call it self-awareness, but it’s true.

 

According to sudokudragon.com, the name sudokuis “abbreviated from the Japanese suuji wa dokushin ni kagiru, which means ‘the numbers must occur only once.’” Because of its name, many might assume the sudoku puzzle is a Japanese invention, but there’s a lot more to its origin story.

 

It started out as the invention of a Swiss mathematician named Leonhard Euler in the late 1700’s. It eventually made its way to French newspapers between 1890-1920. Then the puzzle showed up in an American magazine in 1979. By the 1980’s, Japan started printed the eventually-named Sudoku puzzles in their magazines and newspapers. The Japanese people love a good puzzle as much as anyone but found that the structure of their language and lettering made it difficult to construct a Japanese crossword puzzle. A number puzzle worked much better for them.

 

For those who don’t really care for newspaper puzzles, the history of the sudoku might seem as mind-numbingly boring as actually completing a sudoku puzzle, but there’s an interesting evolution to its existence and popularity. This grid made up of 81 boxes and a few well-placed numbers, has changed over the last 250+ years as it was altered by various cultures. Instead of keeping it just so, when a new group discovered it, they would look to make it better or more challenging or more universally appealing.

 

Though the name Su Dokumeans “number single,” its persistence in so many diverse places shows its multiplicity. It’s an excellent example of the melting pot theory. Learning from and sharing what we love with others can create some pretty amazing things.

My favorite teens

For as long as I can remember, I knew I wanted to be a mom, partly because I always enjoyed being around younger kids. I transitioned from playing with baby dolls to babysitting to working at an after-school care program to working as a certified teacher. The natural next step was becoming a mom.

 

When your kids are little, well-meaning people will say things like, “Just wait until she’s a teenager,” as if those early, harrowing years of keeping a newborn alive or surviving toddler tantrums weren’t bad enough. This kind of mentality—the dreading of parenting teens—would seep into my thoughts as I anxiously awaited the day that my precious babies would morph into hideous creatures bent on my destruction. I gravitated toward preschoolers, not high schoolers. Then my daughters reached that pinnacle age that made them teenagers.

 

I’m not going to say it’s been easy. Hell hath no fury like a 7th grade girl who’s having a bad day. Their moods were erratic. They suffered through the highest highs and the lowest lows. But we’ve survived middle school and nearly half of high school, so now I can say that I truly love teens. And not just mine.

 

This weekend I was a chaperone of 55 or so teen girls on a church retreat. We drove up the side of a mountain and made our beds in cobwebby cabins full of Asian beetles tapping at the windows. It wasn’t luxurious or especially comfortable, but that’s not why we went up the mountain. The five other “chaper-moms” (and two sweet college girls) and I were there for those girls. We cooked for them and prayed with them. We helped them find misplaced sweatshirts and enthusiastically played card games with them. We laughed with them and shared with them. A deep sisterhood developed.

 

The chaperones told the girls stories about dating our husbands and giving birth to our kids. We frankly answered questions and explained how we didn’t always get everything right. Hopefully, we showed these already loved girls that there are other women who care about them, too, casting that net of safety and protection just a little bit wider.

 

But the beauty of weekends like these go beyond just a few days. When you reach the heart of someone who is at such a midway place like those teen years, you can see the effects and after-effects for years to come. I’ve already seen it in my daughters. They were once those younger teens, watching and following the lead of the older girls. Now they, along with their friends, are being watched and studied. They are setting the bar for how to treat others.

 

And I know they are watching us moms, too. They are seeing how we laugh together and cry together and share our icky stuff without judgment or an ultimate need to fix everything.

 

So when I came home and sorted through the mail, setting aside a pile of graduation invitations, I knew without a doubt that I no longer consider teens “hideous creatures bent on my destruction.”

These sisters are my people.

No Fair!

This morning my 6-year old Ezra woke up on the grumpy side of the bottom bunk. In his defense, it was a dark, rainy Monday, and none of us were really thrilled about the 6:30 am wake-up call. But as the morning progressed, there was a definite theme to his dialogue.

 

When I grabbed a pair of socks to give to his older brother Knox (Knox has a broken ankle, otherwise he’d be getting his own socks), Ezra said, “No fair! Knox has undies and socks in the same drawer! Why can’t my socks and undies be together?”

 

I mostly ignored this question due to its absurdity and hustled Ezra to the kitchen. I saw my husband eating what I assumed was a bowl of cereal, and I said, “I thought I used up all the milk last night,” and my husband answered, “This is yogurt.” Then Ezra said, “No fair! Me want milk!” To which I replied, “But you don’t like milk.” Ezra stomped back to his room in a huff.

 

After he eventually returned to the kitchen, Ezra overheard me talking to Knox (you know, the favorite child whose undies and socks get to hang out together in the same drawer) asking him if he wanted to bring leftovers in his lunch and warm them up in the cafeteria microwave. “No fair!” Ezra cried, “Why Knox get to use the microwave? Why me no have microwave at my school?!”

 

And so forth and so on went the morning.

 

It’s comical to think of his lamenting over such trivial stuff because he’s six and most likely forgot the whole exchange by the time he stepped into his classroom. I wish I could say that 6-year olds were the only ones who flew the “Unfair” banner so carelessly.

 

As adults, we may not whine over the same topics as children do, but the whining does happen. Claiming “No Fair” often occurs after we unnecessarily compare ourselves to others. “Why does she have that ___________ (insert house, car, weight, clothes, marriage, etc.) and I don’t?! It’s not fair!” Talk about feeling as gloomy as a rainy Monday morning–that line of questioning will ruin anyone’s day.

 

Other than the negativity these comparisons create, the other travesty is that there really is rampant unfairness in the world. And the people who cry “No Fair” aren’t usually the ones with the most valid reason to say it.

 

So instead of concentrating on the inconsequential issues that threaten to spoil what could turn out to be the most blessed day you’ll spend on this planet, take advice from the Book of Isaiah and look for ways to help those whose lives truly are unfair.

 

“Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows.” (NLT) Isaiah 1:17

I Pledge

One of the first lengthy English paragraphs that our African-born son (sort of) memorized was the Pledge of Allegiance. All last schoolyear, his preschool teacher (me) recited it with the class each time we met.

 

Ezra’s rendition gets a little garbled in places. “And to the public, witches stand…” You get the idea. If you listen to the literal telling of it, a room full of 4-year olds may unintentionally pledge their allegiances to any number of things so don’t hold them to it.

 

Saying the Pledge is one of those activities that’s easy to do without a lot of meaning behind it. I can guarantee that Ezra couldn’t define many of the 31 words but he somehow understands the gravity of them. Before he and his brother and his dad start a basement soccer game, Ezra pauses and—in lieu of “The Star-Spangled Banner”—he puts his hand on his heart and says, “I peg legions to the flag…” before they start the soccer match.

 

This week Ezra took his Pledge skills to the next level. He was asked to lead the Pledge of Allegiance at the school board meeting. Since Ezra became an official U.S. citizen this summer, this was an especially poignant moment for us. As the day progressed, he grew more nervous about his role in the evening meeting. I told him that if he would just get it started by saying, “I pledge…” then everyone there would join in and he could say just about anything for the remaining 29 words.

 

Ezra completed his assigned task, and we drove home to dive into an authentically American supper of Sloppy Joe sandwiches.

 

Our participation in the event brought up a lot of questions for Ezra: What’s a school board? (Um, they make decisions for our schools.) Why are their meetings on TV? (So people can watch it at home and see what they decide.) Why did you draw a star on my hand? (So you would remember which was your right hand when it was time to cover your heart.) And so on.

 

I’m guessing that when it comes to educating the kids in our city, there’s often more questions than answers: How do we improve the scores? How do we afford these programs? What’s best for these kids?

 

I am so grateful there are people willing to meet on a Tuesday night to make plans for our schools. I’m also grateful that Ezra receives this education freely offered to him. He has loving teachers and administrators who make school a wonderful place to be. Most of all, with this education he has opportunities and endless possibilities. Education helps society live up to the promise of liberty and justice for all.

Sad

There are times when this thought runs through my mind: “I am killing it at this Mom Thing.” I make healthy meals. I sign up for PTO requests. I remember to move wet clothes from the washer to the dryer. I give wise, poignant, balanced lectures to my children about exhibiting sibling love and showing respectfulness to their parents, and my children respond by saying, “You’re right, mom. I’m sorry.” (Okay, just kidding about that last one.)

 

Then there are times when this thought runs through my mind: “This Mom Thing is killing me.” No one likes what I make for supper. I forget to send in money or snacks or permission slips for school. I sit on the laundry room floor against the closed door and play Candy Crush on my phone, hoping the whirring and thudding of the washer/dryer will drown out the sound of my crying. (I wish I was kidding about that last one.)

 

At those moments, I can’t necessarily point to one particular thing that pushes me over the edge and directly into the Pit of Despair. It’s usually a final sass at the end of a string of smart mouth remarks.

 

Maybe I’m especially tired or maybe I’m ridiculously hormonal or maybe there’s been some fresh, new atrocity against human nature about which the world is talking. Maybe this is the collateral damage for someone who feels all the feels. Maybe I’m overwhelmed that on the same day that I start teaching my daughter to drive I buy my first adult incontinence product and it’s just too much. Or maybe it’s just Tuesday, and I can’t explain why, but I’m sad.

 

I tell myself that I have no right—NO RIGHT!—to be this down. Look at all the things you’ve got, you big baby! What’s the matter with you? But that kind of guilt trip self-talk doesn’t help. At least for me, it actually makes it worse.

 

There should be a Bat Signal for this kind of feeling. Some kind of call-to-action that tells people to come around but be careful and don’t really ask what’s going on unless you want to get your head bit off. Just keep moving and act normal and not like your mom has suddenly turned into a werewolf.

 

Once the sad feeling has passed, there’s a residual “blah” that remains. And I notice that my family is tiptoeing around and suddenly concerned about my feelings, so I’m not in a big hurry to start a dance party in the living room. The sulking feels good, in a weird way, until it doesn’t. I try to move on, eventually sleeping it off like a grouchy hangover. In the morning I’m usually back to normal.

 

I say this as a sort of confession and an attempt at transparency. I think we’re all capable of getting to that yucky, dismal place and not just moms. If you have relationships with other humans, you are susceptible to feeling sad. If you want more relationships with other humans, you are susceptible to feeling sad. I think that covers everyone.

 

There are people who need medical care to overcome these moments, and there are people who need time and a few people who care to overcome these moments. Either way, going it all alone shouldn’t be an option.

 

In lieu of sending out a Bat Signal, find a way to let someone know if you’re in a place where you need attention. And while we’re at it, find a way to be someone who can give others attention when they need it. Let’s help each other.

Directions to connect

I’m not sure if I have a superpower, but I’m pretty certain among my superflaws—like Kryptonite to Superman—would be my abysmal lack of direction skills. I think the politically correct term is directionally-challenged.

 

Many a time has a friend given me directions containing the words: north, south, east, or west and received my signature blank stare and perfunctory nod. What do I look like, a compass? I want to say in response. Do I have to go and look at a tree now to find which side is growing moss so I’ll know which way is north? Give me information I can use, for Heaven’s sake! Left? Right? Drive towards the water tower? Anything!!

 

Please tell me this has happened to you before: You use the restroom in a restaurant. After you’ve finished and you’re doing that awkward dance to open the door with a paper towel then wedging your foot in the door while throwing away the paper towel in the trashcan, you then step out the door and walk towards the restaurant kitchen, the opposite direction from your table in the dining area.

 

Or how about this one: When we spend the night away from home, I can never remember which side of the bed is mine and which is my husband Brent’s. I have to pretend I’m back in our bedroom, closing my eyes and attempting to orient myself to the unfamiliar bed that is in a different position. Sad but true.

 

The parietal lobe of the brain, the part that handles spatial reasoning, just seems to take a nap when it’s time for me to drive somewhere out of my daily routine. My husband, a whiz when it comes to directions—Thank the Lord!—thinks of the world around him like a map connected by a variety of routes. He’s all about shortcuts and “Let’s see what’s down this street,” and other nonsense that never crosses my mind.

 

Conversely, I think of the world as a series of snapshots: Point A (my house), Point B (my church). There are numerous ways to get from Point A to Point B but I don’t think about those imaginary dotted lines highlighting possible routes. I start up the engine and drive the same way every time. Don’t confuse me with variety!

 

I so wish my parietal lobe was better at revealing the spatial connections around me but connections go beyond driving skills and not getting lost in restaurants.

 

If we can see the world as a connected space, history as a continual wave of time, and each person as a twig on the giant tree of humanity, we could more quickly make relationships and establish networks. Associations reveal context which creates empathy and discourages isolation and exclusion.

 

If given the chance and a willingness to put in the work necessary to find common ground, we can find a Point A (me) to every Point B (each person on God’s green earth).

Mind Reader

When my sisters and I would come from school in the afternoons, we liked to do what a lot of kids in the 1980’s did: we watched reruns on TV. We mostly watched classic shows from the 1950’s and 1960’s like The Brady Bunch, Leave It to Beaver, and I Love Lucy.

One of my favorites was Gilligan’s Island. Even though it’s been a couple of decades since I watched an episode, I can still conjure up scenes of the Skipper hitting Gilligan with his captain’s hat as easily as if I just saw it yesterday. My sisters and I were lured in by the suspense of the story. We always wondered if the 7 castaways would ever get off the island where they had been shipwrecked after what was supposed to be “a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour.” (I know you’re singing the theme song right now.)

We enjoyed the show so much that we used to pretend to watch episodes of Gilligan’s Island on the back of our parents’ seats in the station wagon during long car trips. We’d ask, “How many more Gilligan’s Islands until we’re there?”

One particular episode has been popping up in my mind a lot lately. In the episode called “Seer Gilligan” our man in the red rugby shirt finds a bush growing special seeds. Gilligan eats some of these seeds and he’s able to read the thoughts of everyone around him. He eventually shares the seeds with the other castaways. At first everything is fine and dandy as long as the thoughts they are thinking are kind. Then it gets ugly. They eat the seeds and read each other’s minds and think hurtful things. By the end of the show, Gilligan burns the seeds and the bush to restore peace to the island (at least until the next head hunter invasion or cosmonaut landing).

I find it interesting that the castaways are so surprised by what each other are thinking. How was Ginger so surprised that MaryAnn thought she was lazy? Was Skipper really shocked to learn that they all blamed him for the shipwreck? But sometimes, we can’t explain the thoughts and actions of another person. Having the ability to read another’s thoughts only gives us insight into that moment. We lack context.

Context is what I see lacking lately. My Facebook newsfeed is full of people fuming about something—candidates and elections, marches and interviews, speeches and nominations. People post angry rants and are answered by a string of widely varying comments. Then they seem surprised that there are so many differing opinions.

Sometimes I read these posts and comments and I’m amazed, too. Who are these people who think this way? How could he/she feel like this when he/she has had this advantage/disadvantage or life experience? And why would he/she post that in such a public place?

Context.

Regardless of how you voted in November, speak to others from a place of kindness.

Regardless of how you feel about free speech or gun rights or prayer in schools, pause before you resort to calling names.

Regardless of your nationality, gender, race, or religion, practice Jesus’ admonition to His Apostles. He said, “When you knock on a door, be courteous in your greeting. If they welcome you, be gentle in your conversation. If they don’t welcome you, quietly withdraw. Don’t make a scene. Shrug your shoulders and be on your way.” (The Message)

Jesus didn’t tell them to go to the temple steps and publicly ridicule those who live there. This is a face-to-face interaction. If you aren’t brave enough or skilled enough to lovingly disagree in person, then maybe the comment section of Facebook isn’t the place either. Check your motivation. Do you want to be right for your sake only or for the revelation of God’s glory?

Unless you can not only read the minds of others but also see all the places they’ve been hurt and mistreated in their lives, don’t respond from the lofty heights of righteous indignation. Instead, obey Micah 6: “And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”

I’m grateful Gilligan destroyed those seeds because I don’t really want to read anyone’s mind. That’s the easy way out. Let’s do the hard work of restoration and peace-making.

Olympics Withdrawal

I’m suffering from Olympics Withdrawal. For those two precious weeks, my family sat around the TV like it was the 1950’s. We marveled at the swimmers and the gymnasts. We asked lots of questions, like is trampoline jumping really a sport (answer: yes) and where is the nation of Grenada (answer: the Caribbean) and what is “dressage” anyway (answer: horse dancing, I think)?

I teared up during medal ceremonies and full-out cried when they showed the back stories of some of the athletes who beat the odds just to make it to the games. The addition of the Refugee Team was a heartbreaking reminder of how so much of the world suffers in order to survive and find a home. For instance, Yusra Mardini, the Syrian athlete who, along with her sister, swam/pushed a boat for 3 hours towards land saving the 18 people onboard who were escaping from Syria. She showed strength enough to win a hundred gold medals in my book.

 

There were extraordinary moments of kindness during the games, too. When U.S. runner Abbey D’Agostino and New Zealand runner Nikki Hamblin collided during the women’s 5000m race, they stopped and helped each other to the finish line. Selflessness replaced competitiveness. The drive to help won over the drive to win.

Now that the medals have been awarded and all the athletes have gone home, I’ll look to other athletes (like my kids’ teams) to find more examples of good sportsmanship:

One of my favorite things about school swim meets is watching swimmers from competing teams cheer each other on. I love the notion that the swimmers who have finished should stay in their lanes, remaining in the water until everyone is done. Such a simple yet profound act of courtesy. And even if the last swimmer has been lapped by his opponents three times over, when he finally reaches the wall the swimmers and the crowd cheer as if he had won.

There is so much to learn from team sports and soccer is a favorite in my family. One phrase that pops up a lot, especially with younger soccer players is: “Same team!” When players stop talking to each other on the field—letting each other know they’re available or in need of assistance—and start thinking only in terms of themselves they forget to act like a team. Then everything falls apart. They inadvertently take the ball from a teammate or attempt a shot even if they could pass the ball to someone in a better position for scoring. That’s when you start to hear the parents and coaches remind the players, “Same team!”

Even though the Olympics creates a country versus country situation, I like that it also gives us a “Same team!” vibe. People from all over the globe who might not share a lot of common experiences find a place to compete. We find that though we may be different, in the end—as when the athletes file into the closing ceremonies, waving and smiling and joining the large throng of people—we’re all on the same team.