Remembering Todd

I’ve heard it said that sometimes God sends people into our lives for a specific season of our lives. Todd was my friend in one of the hardest seasons of mine. The Droegmillers moved to Griffin when I was seven or eight years old. I have this vague memory of their first Sunday at church. I had never seen a family full of redheads before. Well, except for Mr. Pete and Todd. Although there were a few kids older than me at St. John, Sally, Melissa and I were the only three around the same age. When Todd came, he turned our triangle into a square. 

I wish I had specific memories to share about our childhood together, but the truth is they are really all just a blur. The best thing about Todd was that he was always there. Always at worship on Sunday. Always at church camp. At all-state events. At Happening. Always with me at LYO. Todd was always there. Always willing to lend a helping hand.

We went through Confirmation together, wrestling with questions like: How do we really know God is real? Why does Jesus even matter? And the one that made a lasting impact on all of us: What does it mean to be saved by faith through grace?

Todd was a consistent presence in my life, especially in our teen years. When I struggled to put words around the many emotions I felt, Todd was there to make me laugh. He taught me that there are good men in the world. Men that are honest and kind. Men that believe God walks beside us in the good and the bad. When my parents got a divorce, he walked beside me through the hurt and the pain, and also the joy that I felt over beginning a new phase of life.

I hadn’t seen Todd since I was seventeen years old.  Now I’m forty-two. You can do the math on how long ago that was. It’s far too many years than I care to admit. My family moved away from Griffin my senior year of high school, and he went off to college. It was a time without cell phones or social media. A time when it wasn’t as easy to keep in touch. He grew up and lived his life, and I grew up and lived mine. 

I never have considered him my “best” friend. But Todd was one of those people who held space for me when life felt too hard to bear. Todd’s constant presence, his joy, and his love of life taught me more about God than I ever realized—until now.

When my friend Kate texted me with the news, my heart sank. No, it can’t be true, I thought. Someone has to be playing a cruel joke. Todd and I had connected over social media in the last several years. He worked in Boston occasionally and we promised to find a way to get together the next time he was here. Next time will never happen; we’ll have to meet up in heaven instead.

I can’t imagine a world without Todd in it. We may not have been close, but he made a lasting impact on my life. Time and again, he showed me glimpses of Jesus. There will forever be a Todd-shaped piece in my heart. As Ally Condie once said, “Growing apart doesn’t change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I’m glad for that.” 

To his family — Marilyn, Pete, Scott, Tami, and Keri — I wish I could be there to hug your necks. I wish I could whisper in your ear the promise of resurrection in the midst of pain the way you whispered in mine on my Confirmation day. As you grieve today and in the days, weeks, months and years to come, may you remember the vast impact Todd made in the world—far more vast than any of us will truly ever know.

To Harper and Aubrey—Your Daddy was a special person in this world. I know you will miss him every day of your life. Lean into those who love you. Let them help you carry your grief. I pray God sends you a constant friend the way God sent me Todd so many years ago.

Todd, I imagine you are in heaven looking down on us, wondering if you can play with the lights in a way that makes us all laugh. I bet you’re singing your favorite songs at the top of your lungs—you know, Backstreet Boys and Indigo Girls, and whatever else you listened to as you got old. I’d hope you’ve asked God all those hard questions we never had answers to, like why some people die young. Maybe you’re a little early to the party, but in some ways, you’re the lucky one—you get to experience just how good the Kingdom of God really is. 

May you rest in peace my dear friend. You will be deeply missed.

Until we meet again,
Crystal

---

I fly to Georgia today to celebrate this life that ended too soon. I struggled over whether or not to go—I hadn’t seen Todd in more than twenty years. But Todd was someone who played an integral part of my faith life as a child, and in the end, I couldn’t imagine not being there to celebrate his joining the saints in Heaven. Before I made the decision to go, I wrote this post as a way to process my grief over losing a childhood friend and also to honor Todd’s life.

I’m not sure there are any words that fully express how awesome Todd was, but you can read a little more about him here. I know his family would appreciate any prayers you say on their behalf.

Ten Best Things About 2022

Last year, I claimed DEEP as my word of intention for 2022. While the year was true to that word in a lot of ways, if I had to sum up 2022 in one word, it would be TRANSITION. We tackled several different transitions this year: getting a pet, exploring school options, embracing my call to write, just to name a few. Of course, those are the transitions we chose—the world threw us several others to tackle as well. Here’s a look at what I think are the ten best things about 2022.

1—Bringing Home the Puppy

The puppy was the hardest transition of our year. There were times when I thought bringing home a puppy was the biggest mistake we had ever made. There was even a moment when I wasn’t sure my marriage would survive the puppy. I had no idea raising a puppy would be harder than raising a child, but in so many ways it is. That being said, once D found the right training program for this little stuffed animal of ours, we turned a new corner. Leonardo ‘dawg Vinci Rowe is the very best thing that has happened to our little family of four.

2—The World Mostly Went Back to Normal

2022 began with retreats being cancelled, masks still required, and all of us wondering if life would ever return to the way it once was. But, by August, the four of us had all had Covid, we left home without masks, and we had calendars that were more full than we knew how to handle. David has even gone back to the office—on the train—several times a month. For better or worse, the world is back in full force. It’s been hard at times, but it also feels really good to be in person for meetings, go to yoga twice a week, occasionally eat out at restaurants, and not worry about whether or not I have a mask in the car before I walk out the front door.

3—Reaffirming Our Commitment to Homeschool

In April of last year, we thought the girls would be attending a hybrid school beginning in the Fall. Just a few weeks before classes were to begin, the school closed. We were heartbroken. And shellshocked. All of the hours I spent researching options seemed like nothing but a waste of time. I pivoted and replanned our school year, and it’s been a fantastic experience for all of us. We’ve found a few ways for the girls to regularly connect with other kids and teachers outside the home, they’ve gotten over their desire to “go to school”, and I realized it is possible to balance homeschooling and writing at the same time.

4—The Kids Went to Camp Gramma

Until 2022, my kids have never slept away from home without me. This summer, they stayed an entire week with my parents. One kid was even sick the whole time she was there. They had a blast anyway, they had endless playdates with cousins, they kayaked in the local lake, and learned that Gramma and Grandpa are even cooler than Mom and Dad. We’re hoping to make it an annual event.

5—I Claimed My Calling as Writer

Twelve years ago, I dreamed of this day. So many great things happened for my writing life in 2022. I took three overnight trips alone, where I had a chance to sleep in, breathe deep, and think deep thoughts without getting interrupted. I started getting paid to write, from two external publications and also through Substack. I began the early stages of writing a book. Those early stages have looked like a ton of drafting, reading old material, typing old journals, and a lot of random musings. It took me all year, but I think I finally have a good idea about the narrative direction I want to take. But perhaps most importantly, 2023 was the year I actually called myself a Writer on all those forms you have to fill out asking what your occupation is. There’s no going back now.

6—My Breast Exams Came Back Clear

After some weird discharge out of my right breast, I saw a breast specialist this year. After a mammogram, several exams, and even an MRI, I received confirmation that there’s nothing to be concerned about. My doctors have been incredible at taking me seriously and listening to my fears. Because of my family history with breast cancer, I’ve been moved to the “higher-risk” category so they can keep a closer eye on me. Early prevention is key, and I’m so grateful to have an excellent team of doctors in my court.

7—My Book Club

I’ve written about my book club before. 2023 was the first year since 2019 that we met without interruption. It is the very best part of every single month. They challenge me to read books I wouldn’t otherwise read. They open my mind to perspectives I wouldn’t otherwise have. We share food together. We drink wine, cocktails, and tea together. And through conversation about books and life in general, we share life together. Everyone needs a book club like mine.

8—I Began Tracking my Menstrual Cycle

This may be the single most life-changing thing that happened last year. Well, next to the dog. Since coming off of birth control after the birth of my second child, I have tried to get better in tune with my body. I’ve been reading about creativity and the menstrual cycle for several years now, so when I discovered Nicole Gulotta’s Writing Cycle e-course, I eagerly jumped all in. By paying attention to the time of month, I learned how my energy shifts and changes throughout the month. When I take the time to plan at the beginning of my cycle, and give myself the grace to go where the energy is, I feel less scattered and more creative as the month goes on.

9—I Ran a 5K!

Last year, I shared a little about how I wanted to be a runner. I continued my training, at what felt like a snail’s pace throughout the winter. When I learned my mom would be visiting in June, I asked if she wanted to run a 5K with me. When she said yes, I knew I was locked in and couldn’t get out of it. She was in far better shape than I, but she pushed me to do it. She ran beside me every step of the way. When my calf felt like it was locking up, she slowed down with me and walked a bit. And when we crossed over that finish line, I felt like I could tackle anything. I injured my calf during that run, and haven’t gotten back out on the trail ever since, but I will forever remember the day I ran a 5K with my mom as being one of the very best days of my life.

10—I Didn’t Give Up

In the 42 years that I’ve lived on this earth, discipline has always been my weakness. When things got hard or frustrating, I tended to walk away and started something new instead. 2022 taught me that while sometimes walking away is the best thing we can do, often we need to dig our heels in and keep on keeping on. Even when it feels harder than we can bear. Through schedule changes, injured body parts, more sickness than we’ve had in many years, too many rejections to count, and edits that brought me to tears, I didn’t give up. I kept running. I kept writing. I kept homeschooling. I called doctors. I argued for better care. I called on people to help when I needed it. I demanded time for myself. I dug my heels in.

Falling in Love: A Pandemic Story

“Let’s go for a hike in the snow!” I enthusiastically tell my girls one February morning in 2021. Opening the coat closet, I toss snowsuits onto the ground and urge them to bundle up. I button my snow pants. Zip up my coat. Grab the warmest hats we own, placing one on my head and throwing one to each of the girls. I help them get their gloves on before shoving my hands in David’s heavy-duty snow mittens. 

“Don’t forget a mask, in case we meet someone in the woods!” It feels odd that this has become a normal thing to say, but having something over our face has been nice protection from the cold and biting wind. A silver lining of the outdoor mask mandate, I suppose.

“Can you help me get these things on?” I say to David, as we walk out the door. I found a practically brand new pair of TSL Symbioz Elite snowshoes at the thrift store last week and the freshly fallen snow is enticing me to try them out. With my thrifted snowshoes in hand, I climb down the stairs of our front stoop. “I have no idea how to even work these things.” I titter, turning my head to look at him behind me.  

He laughs, smiling encouragingly. “You just put them on, and then you walk on the snow. Like magic.” He straps me in, shoving my foot harder than I’d like, but promising it will make the walk easier. He bids us goodbye and heads back inside to his newly designed basement office.

I pivot towards the girls, who are making snow angels in our front yard, eagerly awaiting the adventure that lies before us. “Okay, which way do we go?” They point to the path that veers to the right, towards the service road,  and I lead the way. David was right; it’s awfully easy to walk on the snow in my super fancy snowshoes. Walking on a foot of snow feels a little like walking on clouds. 

We take a hundred steps before stopping for the first picture. The trees are blanketed in white. The plow hasn’t been up the service road yet, so it’s nothing but a huge white field, just waiting to be trampled on. A blank canvas waiting for its footprints and snow angels. 

It takes an inordinate amount of time to get just to the edge of the forest. There’s so much beauty, too many photos to capture, too many shots to take. Eden starts to fidget. “Come ON! She says. I want to make it to the pond!”

We get to the trail and I stop in awe. “I have never seen anything quite like this - ever, in my whole entire life.” I look from left to right, soaking in the snow capped trees and the sun’s reflection, making the snow whiter than white. “This is just magical.” I say out loud to myself. I inhale deeply, the smell of winter filling my lungs. Autumn stops beside me and reaches her arms out wide, as if inviting the world into a hug. I continue my musings: “It’s stunning. It’s enchanted. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

She responds in a whispery voice. “I don’t even recognize this forest. It looks like a whole new world!” Together, we marvel over nature’s beauty for a few seconds before Eden yells at us to keep moving. Making our way through the forest, we stop occasionally to take slow-motion videos as Eden shakes the tree branches heavy with snow. The morning’s snowy stillness brings us all a sense of peace and curiosity.

******

I never saw snow growing up.  At least not more than an occasional inch. When I left for college in the midwest, my mom bought me extra layers and good boots to keep me warm. I remember the first time I walked to class in the snow. Staring at the snowflakes as they landed on my gloves, I was enamored by their shape; stunned that every snowflake was unique. I would investigate them on my dark colored mittens as I walked on the sidewalk, not caring that people stared at me as they drove by. I imagine they wondered what in the world I found so interesting about my gloves.

But as enamored as I was, I never really fell in love with snow back then. It was too cold. Too wet. I’d rather cozy up by the fire and read a good book. Or write a paper. Even back then I loved writing papers; reading and writing were my favorite things to do.

******

Four years ago, a friend asked me to join a nature club. Desperate for friends, and wanting to make sure my kids had friends too, I said yes without even thinking about what being in a nature club meant. We hiked once a week with ten kids in tow between the ages of newborn and seven. 

I mostly hated it. 

I didn’t love being outside. I didn’t love hiking. I didn’t love hearing kids whine about how tired or hungry they were. 

When it came time to discuss whether or not we would continue with Nature Club in the fall, I said no thanks. I didn’t want to hike every day. I didn’t want to have to put in the work to get my kids out the door. Packing snacks, and gear, and water, and good attitudes felt like too much to do once a week. I was not an outdoor mom. I didn’t want to be an outdoor mom. I wanted my kids to be outdoor kids without me having to be an outdoor mom. Can’t we just send them out to play while we sit inside and drink tea and talk about books? PUH-LEEZE?!

My friends let me off the hook. We agreed to do indoor activities twice a month and nature days twice a month. It felt like a good compromise. Until winter came.

One scheduled hiking day, there was snow in the forecast. Because we were hiking close by, we decided to hike anyway. If the weather turned bad, we’d head to someone’s house and let the kids play indoors the rest of the time. While my kids were excited to hike with friends no matter the weather, I begrudgingly put on my layers, grabbed my favorite hat and boots, and headed out the door. We had been told our backyard connected with the trails we were to hike that day, but we never took time to explore the map and figure out how they connected to our yard, so we drove a mile down the road and parked on the street. 

We were barely even on the trail before the snow started falling. Pulling my hood up over my beanie, I tried to grin and bear it, while sending a snarky text message and picture to my best friend who, like me, preferred to stay indoors by the fire.

Somewhere in the middle of that snowy hike four years ago, I began to fall in love. I just didn’t know it yet.

******

It wasn’t until Covid hit that I began to nurture my love affair with nature. The date is different for everyone, depending on where you lived at the time. For us, the world began to change on March 13, 2020. 

In the blink of an eye, libraries closed. The girls’ activities were canceled. Church went virtual. David began working from home every day, instead of just two days a week. With all four of us in the house all day every day, and emotions and anxiety at an all-time high, we were desperate to find a way to release some energy. 

The weather was mild for March in New England, so I made a list of trails to explore and we began hiking together several times a week. It seemed everyone had the same idea—when we tried to go to places we had been before, we found them packed with people looking for their own way out. 

So we made a new list. We found more obscure places—mostly hidden places—and had some grand adventures. But these adventures still felt like a lot of work. Packing up the car, making sure we had snacks, and water, and a backpack to carry all our things.

One morning I decided we would head to the road behind our house and see if we could find our way to the trails we had hiked with nature club so long ago. We discovered a boardwalk not far from our backyard, and several poorly marked trails. Those poorly marked trails became our refuge when there was nowhere else to go. 

We hiked all Spring. Headed to the beach all summer, when the trails were covered in mosquitos. When the temperatures began to drop, we returned to the forest behind our house. Several times a week we’d walk outside and head to the trails. In sunshine. In rain. And even in snow. The trails we once drove to were now our backyard home.

******

We hike to our fairy place, stopping for a break at the top of the hill. As we gaze out over the pond, the sun reflects off the trees, making shadow art all around us. I can’t help but think this is the stuff picture books are made of. 

There isn’t a cloud in the sky, making it bluer than I ever imagined. A large clump of snow hangs on to a leaf at the top of a young beech tree, holding on for dear life. The wind blows, snow falling from the treetop canopy, making us feel as though we are standing right in the middle of a snow globe. 

Not many people have discovered these woods behind our house. With not a soul in sight, it has become our own little paradise. I think I could sit here in the snow for hours. Except my stomach begins to rumble. And my children begin to whine that their fingers and toes are going numb.

We rise from our snow chairs and make our way back to the trail. As we walk, we chat about how the sun has risen higher in the sky, and how snow has begun to fall off the empty branches of the nearby hickory tree. As we approach the boardwalk leading back to our yard, I think back to that first snowy hike in these woods. I wonder if I’d be here now if it weren’t for that day. Would I have discovered these trails on my own?

Somewhere in the midst of the world falling apart, I fell in love.

Here we are, exactly two years later, and our days are full once again. The calendar is packed with dance lessons and competitions, gymnastics practices, and church activities. Doctor appointments, everyday chores, and dinner with friends. Part of me longs for those early days when there was nowhere to go. Sometimes I long for a blank calendar, full of open space. With nothing to do but explore.

If the pandemic gave me a gift, it was the gift of the great outdoors.

This post is part of a blog hop to share our pandemic stories. It's hosted by www.laurapbass.com and you can read the next post in the blog hop by clicking here.

When Home is Where You Are

I park on the street by the newest coffee shop in town and step out of my car, reminiscing about the house we tried to buy a few years ago just down the street. I notice the owner of the shop on the sidewalk talking to another customer. I hear him say he doesn’t want to compete with the Amazons of the world; he wants to be celebrated for what he is. He stops his conversation to say hello and offers me an elbow bump, telling me I’m looking especially fabulous today. That green of your shirt is so beautiful he says, and I say thanks, today just felt like a green day. I think to myself, “He is my people” and I open the door, catching a whiff of cardamom as I walk in.

The minute I enter, I’m reminded of my favorite coffee shop back in my beloved Grant Park. I would walk there a couple of times a week pushing the girls in our bright blue double Bumbleride stroller, treating myself to a coffee before taking them to the zoo to play for a few hours. I miss that neighborhood every single day now that we live in Massachusetts, but this new coffee shop reminds me that places like this exist everywhere. I just have to be on the lookout.

I order a cardamom bun and a latte, and add a loaf of focaccia at the last minute, thinking it will be a good surprise for lunch after I’ve picked the girls up from their pottery class.

My hands full with the goodies I’ve purchased, I head back outside and see the owner walking back towards the shop. He stops me to say hi again and asks how I’m doing on this beautiful day. The way he asks the question feels genuine, like if I wanted to tell him about really crappy things in my life, he would sit with me and listen for however long it took. I don’t, because in this moment, all is mostly right in my world. Just the fact that this stranger is genuinely interested in my answer makes me feel a little more at home. He asks what my plans are for the day and I tell him I’m not quite sure; my kids are in a pottery class, and I’m not usually alone. “Oh how fun!” he exclaims, “So you have some chill time. Go! Enjoy your chill.”

I’m smiling from ear to ear as I unlock the doors to my grey minivan and climb inside. It’s not often that I get time by myself, and this morning’s encounter feels like a gift. I drive down the street and see the ocean in front of me.  The sky is bright blue dotted with cottony white clouds. This view will never get old, I think to myself, and I continue my drive home.

I walk in the door and put the cardamom bun in the microwave before grabbing a notebook and a pen. “I’m going to the ocean!” I call out to my husband who is working downstairs. I share a bite of cardamom bun with him before I walk out the door and climb back in my grey minivan. As I back down the driveway, I open the sunroof and let the brisk air fill my lungs.

It takes six minutes to drive back to the ocean. I lived without the ocean for so long, but I can’t imagine a life without it now. I sit on the sand and watch the waves lap gently along the shore. I can feel the cool wind upon my neck and my troubles disappear into the water like tiny grains of sand. In these rare moments of solitude on the beach, I find myself praying prayers of gratitude that God always shows up in this place. 

I woke at 2:30 this morning, tossing and turning like a boat on rough ocean waves. The wind roared outside my bedroom window and as I lay there unsettled, my thoughts went to my Mom. It was November when I last saw her and my heart aches at the thought. It’s always in the middle of the night that I wake up thinking of my family. Three in the morning seems like the best time to wonder if we should do what it takes to move back home to be closer to my family. 

It’s always when I’m lying in complete darkness in the early morning hours, unable to fall back asleep, that I cry out to God wanting him to make a way for me to go home. It hasn’t happened in a while, but the last year has made me miss my family more than ever. It’s been a year of solitude, a year of sacrifice, a year of feeling alone. It’s been a year that could have been filled with so much more happiness if we had just been within driving distance of these dear people of mine. 

But just now, God has answered my prayers in a most unexpected way. An encounter with a new coffee shop owner who genuinely cares about his customers. The ability to drop my children off at a pottery class and catch a few moments of solitude on the beach. In the kind eyes of the coffee shop owner and the gentle lapping of the waves, God whispers to me, “Crystal, you are already home.” 

Cruisin' on a Saturday Night

It’s a crisp Saturday night in the Fall of ‘97. The windows are down, the wind whips through my hair, and the music blares. The bass is way up, the treble is way low, the music plays almost as loud as the speakers can go, and we sing even louder.

We cruise through the streets of our smallish town. There’s a loop we follow every week. We drive down to the light at the Wendy’s drive-thru and take a left into the Roses parking lot. We stop for a bit, leave our cars on—with the music blaring of course—as we get out to see our friends. We talk about the things that we, at the tender ages of sixteen and seventeen, think are so important.

Who is Joe taking to Military Ball?

Why wasn’t Suzy in class yesterday? Did you know Matt dumped her AT THE FOOTBALL game?!

Dude! Charlie got a new truck! Have you seen him out here tonight? It’s suh-weeeet!

He wraps his arms around me. “Hey there Smalfry. It’s good to see you out here tonight. Been wonderin’ if you’d show up!” I blush and turn around to give him a hug. It feels so natural to show such affection out here, free from the judgment that so often shows up in the hallways at school. 

We comment on the cars as we watch them drive by. It was on these weekend nights that I first fell in love with cars. I never drove. My friends had much better cars than I had, and it was much more fun to be the passenger. The gold 1988 Nissan Maxima was my favorite. It had dark tinted windows that made us feel so cool inside, like we were rockstars driving through a crowd of adoring fans. And then there was the teal Chevrolet Beretta - not a light teal color that feels so muted, but a bold, bright teal that makes you stop in your tracks the minute you see it and makes you want to paint your teenage room that very color, right this very instant. To this day, I can’t help but stop in my tracks when I see a car painted a bold, bright color or with dark tinted windows. 

After a few minutes of chatter, we say our goodbyes and get back in the car to continue our cruising parade. We take a right out of the parking lot, and head back up to the town square. When we get to the light by the big baptist church, we turn right and drive down the quiet residential road beside Chick-Fil-A. It’s too bad Chick-Fil-A is closed at this time of night, because we could all really go for a big tub of waffle fries. We turn left to go around the median and find ourselves at the light where we started. We sit in the turn lane and crank the music just a bit louder. The bass in this one is just SOOO good!

///

Those town streets were home to me in those teenage years. We had no parties to attend, we had nowhere to go, and for some reason, those streets felt like they were standing there just waiting for us to come hang out. It wasn’t until later that I noticed the “No Loitering” signs. I suppose some businesses hung them up to keep kids like us out. But when you’re a teen, you feel invincible—the world is your oyster—and you are more daring than ever before.

If I close my eyes and breathe deeply, I can conjure those streets—that cruising route—in my mind as if it happened only yesterday. I can hear the playlist loud and clear. I still know every single word to all the songs. I am so different now, some 25 years later, but deep down, so much of that young girl still remains.

///

Some might say I grew up “on the wrong side of the tracks.” My family never had a lot of money, and I often felt jealous of my schoolmates that seemed to have more than I did. Many of the people I went to high school with attended Junior League and Cotillion—things I had never heard of. I grew up wishing I could be like them, with their perfect two-parent families, their huge, beautiful houses, and their lives that seemed like everything came so easy to them.

I went to daycare, elementary, and middle schools that were filled with predominately low-income students—many of whom were black. Many of my best memories from childhood include these black friends. My Mom and Aunt taught me that people were people, no matter their skin color. I believed it. I embraced it. I thought that I lived it. But I was wrong.

Now as I think back on those days where I thought black and white were living in harmony, I realize just how blind I was to the realities that my black friends were facing. I never once saw myself as having a privileged childhood, but now I see that although it was full of challenges, I never had to experience the things my black friends did. As a white teenager, I never even thought to ask them how their lives were different than mine.

When I listen to these songs now, they take me right back to those small town streets. I am back in that high school band room full of amazing musicians, many of whom were black. I am back in the stands of the high school football field, where the people I had the most fun with were of a different skin color than my own. And yet as many memories as I have with the black folks around me, I spent the weekends cruisin’ on the streets, with my white friends. Blaring music created by black musicians, singing words that portrayed a reality I could remain blind to, simply because I was white.

///

Now 25 years later, these songs feel no less relevant today than they were then. And while listening to this old playlist brings me so much joy and nostalgia for my high school days, it also completely tears me apart. It feels so unfair that the lyrics to Gangsta’s Paradise are still the reality for so many. I am ashamed that I even dared to think a song like Tha Crossroads was a song that I could identify with. It makes me so angry I could spit that a mass of white people were so arrogant to think they can storm the capital building with confederate flags waving high and not be immediately thrown into a police wagon and taken to jail. 

I moved away from that town long ago, but the memories remain. I’m connected to many of those black childhood friends through social media, and I’m challenged by their posts, almost every single day. I know that my kids now live the enchanted, privileged childhood that I once longed for; and it breaks my heart into pieces that their children don’t. They can’t. Not as long as our society remains blind to the inherent racism that exists.

I know if I were to drive down those streets once again, I would feel the same impulse to crank my bass, turn down the treble, and completely rock it out. But I also know that this time I’d be more aware of what’s going on around me.

Earlier this week, I wept as I heard the words of Rev. Silvester Beaman at the Inaugural Benediction,

We will seek out sin and seek forgiveness, thus grasping reconciliation.

As I look back on those teenage years of blindness, I confess my sin and seek forgiveness. I vow to move forward with eyes wide open. With a heart wide open. With ears wide open. And with arms ready to do the work of true reconciliation.

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For the full Cruisin’ experience and a true ride down Memory Lane, I present to you the playlist that inspired this post. I promise it will help you get through the weekend. Just promise me you’ll get up and do the dances when the time comes, m’kay?

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "Playlist".