Why I march:It’s not about me

So, when I went to the Woman’s March on Washington, I wore what is commonly referred to as a “race bib” with my reasons for marching written on it. When I marched again in Fayetteville, Arkansas last weekend, I marched for the same reasons as last year, and an infinite list of new ones, as I have learned more over the last year.

With keen interest, I have perused coverage of this year’s marches, and again, I have seen the comments and responses by other women who do not understand asking why—asking what rights we don’t have that we are trying to get. Many of us who march, or simply speak out for what we believe is right are dumbfounded when we see and hear this kind of commentary. I know I can never imagine that these women have never had the experience of being discriminated against, or being treated inappropriately simply because of their gender. And it pains me that even if that happens to be the case, that they somehow don’t understand why having our own rights means that we should leave behind those who do not.

It also frustrates me that media outlets so frequently seem to run across that one person who either cannot articulate their reasons for speaking out, or one of many who choose to treat the importance of speaking out and marching as a novelty event.

You see, I am a white, middle class woman of privilege. I live a relatively safe and comfortable life. There have been moments in which that wasn’t the case, but on a day-to-day basis, I don’t have too much to worry about. That being said, I cannot in my heart look beyond myself, and not see the suffering and unfairness around me. I just don’t find it possible to ignore that the American Dream is not accessible to all Americans. And just as importantly, I cannot ignore our larger role in the world beyond our borders, and the way we impact the freedoms and circumstances of others everyday.
I have been sharing reasons why I march and speak out in my social media circles today. I doubt anyone who judges those of us who march as fools will find these issues of value, but again, marching and speaking out isn’t solely about me. It’s about justice, fairness, compassion, and doing what is right by others.


In the last year, hate crimes against minorities and members of the LGBTQ community have been at an all time high. Many Good and decent people who have lived in our country and contributed to making it great are in fear, because they came here as children with parents who circumvented legal channels. Black and brown people continue to be profiled, targeted, and killed by law enforcement, even if they have been cooperative. Muslims and Sikhs have been targeted by ignorant and hateful individuals who have been given the impression that anyone wearing a turban or a head scarf is a terrorist. Twenty-seven transgendered Americans were murdered last year, simply for being transgendered. Of those killed, 26 were people of color.

These issues are just a drop in the proverbial bucket. There seems to be an endless river of hatefulness flowing through our country—especially in the last two to three years.

We continue to see mass shootings in schools, public places and events, and we continue to see a government, owned by the National Rifle Association, refuse to act in a reasonable and rational way to restrict or eliminate access to assault weapons, and large ammunition magazines. We continue to see the healthcare of our citizens under threat because our politicians are also bought and paid for by big pharmaceutical corporations and insurance companies. Big oil money pays for our leadership to completely set aside scientific consensus that we are destroying our planet, and leaving a far more dangerous environment for our children through climate change. We live an unsustainable existence which harms humanity all over the world.

Yes, women have come a long way. Our marching predecessors fought and won us the right to vote. Many women were involved in the abolitionist cause, and in the Civil Rights Movement. We can wear pants to school—something my mother wasn’t allowed to do as a girl. We can work outside of the home, and own property. There have been many strides. But we have so much further to go in achieving equality, and some of the strides we have made are in danger of reversal.

Women’s reproductive choices are under threat—again. And when we talk about choice, it’s about so much more than abortion. Women’s fair and equal access to contraceptives is at risk. Maternity care coverage as a mandate is under threat. The idea that men or people who have differing beliefs about women’s reproductive choices shouldn’t have to support equality of care is ridiculous. The idea that healthcare for women should cost more than healthcare for men is a slap in the face to the equal rights so many say we have. I do not hear the same outrage about insurance companies covering the cost of medications for erectile dysfunction, and the care associated with men’s reproductive organs. And yes, we do march to protect a woman’s right to choose her reproductive path—not because abortion is the right choice for everyone, but because no one should be forced to have decisions made about their bodies by others.

We have seen some glimmers of possible change in the last year. We are starting to see that victims of sexual harassment, misconduct and assault may finally be able to come forward and not have their claims brushed aside by law enforcement and the media. It’s conceivable that the next generation of boys may be raised with the knowledge that girls and women can do anything they can, and that “no” means “no,” and more importantly the absence of consent also means no. We may be starting to see that the culture of looking the other way makes you a complicit accomplice when a predator has been abusing, harassing and assaulting for years. Perhaps one day, when a woman is abused or assaulted, no one will talk about what she was wearing. There is a long, long way to go, and these are truly just glimmers. There is still great disparity in sentences of white male perpetrators of sexual violence, and the sentences of men of color. Many women never receive the justice they deserve at all, or the compassion, and care that they need to recover.

Income and wealth disparity is crushing the middle class, and making the American Dream unreachable. The poor get poorer. Our seniors are still having to make tough financial choices at a time they shouldn’t have to worry about anything. We have veterans who have fought to protect our rights, and keep us safe, living on the streets, and suffering without appropriate healthcare.

There are so many more reasons why we march. And none of them are about me. And that’s the point. Caring about the greatness of our nation isn’t a slogan on a ball cap. It shouldn’t be partisan. I may be a white, middle class woman of privilege, but as an American, I don’t believe I have the privilege of taking what I have for granted, or sitting on the sidelines while people without those same privileges struggle and continue to suffer.

It’s not about me.

Marching Orders: We aren’t even nearly there yet.

I have felt a lot of guilt over the last seven months. I may not have fully understood the purpose of my marching journey at the time, but every day since then, I have been learning and processing the reality that it was never meant to be about the healing that I needed. Not being able to follow through with more activism has gnawed at me, and made me feel like I am, once again, not doing my part to right wrongs. I am sure that I am not the only one who has felt that over the course of the last year.

So, this time, a year ago, I was on a bus with 53 other would-be Arkansan marchers. It had been a long day, and we were still hours from our stopping point for the night. We would only be able to sleep for a few hours before getting right back on the bus to finish our journey to Washington, D.C.

At the time, I was on that bus because my broken and angry heart needed some kind of closure for what felt like the incomprehensible loss of reason and decency in my country. Reeling from the sheer exhaustion of a daylong ride in a cramped bus, and all of the questionable dietary choices along the way, I started to realize the weight of our purpose.

A year later, I feel like I am still only at the beginning of that realization.

I understand that the hours I spent on that bus, and then marching with a sea of other people never truly came to a conclusion. I understand that many of us who were first time marchers arrived in the middle of a march that had already been led by others for generations, and will likely continue forever. I am aware that I was late in my arrival, that I didn’t fully comprehend my own motivation, and that I didn’t know enough about the journeys of those who came before, and those who had experienced true suffering in our nation. I understand that for many, the reason and decency I was only now feeling the loss of, had been absent from the lives of so many others around me, and so many who had come and gone before.

I don’t know if that qualifies me as “woke,” or if I will ever earn the right to be dignified with that honor. No, I am not looking for a pat on the back, or a cookie. I just feel deeply that I want to understand, and I want to do better everyday.

A friend of mine recently described me as being a person who “oozes compassion.” I take that as a compliment in a world where it is so easy to get caught up in self and in your own problems. When I see the pain of others, I just cannot shut it out. I cannot just go about my day, living my semi-charmed life.

One thing a gathering of like-spirited people can do is to light a fire within us for purpose. I know that happened to me last year. And I use “like-spirited” instead of “like-minded,” because I believe that caring about the hurts and wrongs done to others, and in our country, runs so much deeper to our cores than the simple intellectualization of right and wrong.

Iknow I changed. I think many others did as well. But I know there is so much further to go.

In the year since the Woman’s March, we have seen more women than ever emerge as candidates for political office. We have seen people of color, and people from the LGBTQ Community lead campaigns to victory. We have seen hopeful glimmers of a sea change in the way our society treats women who report crimes of sexual misconduct, harassment and assault.

And it’s true, we have seen many terrible things as well. We have seen the masks and hoods lifted from those who previously tried to conceal their racism and bigotry. We have seen a rise in hate crimes against minorities, immigrants, Muslims, and members of the LGBTQ community. We have seen the truth behind the lie of “family values” voters who would cast a ballot for a pedophile, but still decry the dangers of a trans woman urinating in the bathroom stall next to them.

We have also seen our country dragged through the swamp of corruption, likely treasonous activity, embarrassing ignorance at all levels, pettiness, and lies. We have watched our leadership do what many of us expected—give huge benefits to corporations and the wealthy at the expense of average Americans, especially the working poor whites who voted for them. We have watched the dismantling of institutions and protections for the environment. We have seen voting rights diminished. The list seems almost endless.

One day of marching didn’t stop terrible things from happening. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it only took one day to fix everything that is so broken? But the many souls who have marched throughout history, and who have been marching all their lives know something we tender-footed first-time marchers are only starting to learn.

One march is a single step—a drop in the bucket—of what must be a lifelong path of rising up for each other. And our march cannot end with us. It’s true—there may be times when we must sit on the sidelines, and simply cheer others on. And that is why we have to pass the flame of hope and perseverance to anyone who can and will carry it forward. The March is long. The stakes are high. It cannot be walked by one person.

It was always meant to be walked together.

On the edge—of something

So, there are times when we allow ourselves to look around and decide that what everyone else is going through is worse than what we are going through, and we therefore simply don’t have the right to ever feel sad, or alone. Many of us laugh off what we feel, and blame it all on “first world problems.”

Most of the time, it’s true—the problems upon which we expend the most emotional energy are situations someone else would gladly take on, in exchange for the many blessings that come along with those worries. I try to make it a habit to remember how lucky I am, and to recognize that even during hard times, I still have so much for which to be grateful and happy.

But sometimes, I think we can take the awareness that we are living a good life so far, that we struggle to ask for help when we actually need it, or even just to share the fact that we are struggling at all. We tend to let things build until we break, because we are constantly trying to convince ourselves that we should be able to cope—we should be able to take our lumps.

I know I have fallen into this habit a lot. I think my emotional aches and pains are trivial, and that I am weak if I allow them to take me down. As a result, I start to wall myself off and feel guilty for the fact I am struggling over something I define as ridiculous. The pain of admitting my weaknesses runs so deep, that I allow it to isolate me from people in my life who often would be happy to help. I tell myself that if I just harden up, and try to be stronger, I can deal with the struggle, or feeling of the moment.

But more often than I like, I just can’t.

I haven’t made it a secret that I had a less than fantastic childhood. It was rough. There truly were moments I thought I was going to die. There were moments I thought even worse things than that were going to happen. I’ve been told that I am really strong, because I survived those terrible years, and by many people’s standards, I am successful.

Sometimes, I laugh at the thought. I laugh at the idea that I am “strong,” because now, it seems like the least little thing can emotionally flatten or cripple me. It’s as if I used up my lifetime allotment of strength in the first twenty years of my life, and there wasn’t a drop left for anything else.

I guess if there were times I thought I might die, it might be reasonable that it took everything I could muster not to. But it does seem unfair—not to me, but to the people in my proximity. They’re the ones I always feel I am letting down when I can’t be my own superhero. And they’re the ones I actually am letting down when I don’t ask for help when I can’t make it on my own.

Still, even after more than twenty-five years of a life that most people see as charmed, I can’t figure out how to make myself ask for help, or even just tell a friend that I am struggling—at least not until I am clearly broken. I don’t have a reason. I don’t have an answer. It’s like a limp that never goes away. It’s there to remind me of the damage—the injuries—that were probably never appropriately treated when they were still fresh. It’s there to remind me of a time when I didn’t—couldn’t—tell anyone that I was hurt. It’s there to remind me of a time that I was forced to deal with unthinkable things alone.

And so, maybe it makes sense that the limp takes me back to that lonely place for the less difficult struggles—because if I couldn’t tell anyone I was at the edge of death, how could I possibly conceive of burdening anyone else for anything less?

Thankful Series: Creating a life

So, a dear friend of mine sent me a short story she wrote. She’s currently home recovering from surgery. My friend is especially gifted. I honestly can’t think of any creative medium in which she fails to achieve excellence.

But her story wasn’t remarkable to me simply because of its excellence.

Her story recounts the mundanity of a suburban housewife and mother who starts to reflect on her own invisibility, and the sadness associated with being little more than a footnote to her family’s achievements.

She fills her days with managing the details of her husband’s and children’s work and activities, planning meals, and curating her home in a way that is in keeping with what everyone else expects from her. She imagines having moments of creativity, but quashes those daydreams for fear of the mess she would make, and the way in which it would disrupt things for everyone else.

In the end, the sadness and invisibility are simply too much, and she curates an ending to it all that ensures she will not be a footnote.

My friend’s story is a very well written, disturbing, and haunting commentary on the unrealistic expectations we often develop for ourselves that have little if anything to do with who we really are.

I am a housewife  and mom, but with no disrespect to other stay-at-home wives or moms—or
even working moms who feel crushed by similar expectations—I know that I will hopelessly fail at falling into this trap.

I can’t keep the living room rug free of food debris from my three-year-old, let alone carefully curate my home or existence. And until I read my friend’s cautionary tale about losing one’s identity to mundanity, I thought one of the reasons for my “failure” was because of my own selfishness.

You see, I cannot live my life without creating something on a fairly regular basis. I make no claim that I necessarily create “well.” On an also fairly regular basis, I look at current and newly finished projects, and can only see the glaring flaws. Whether it’s the bark on my daughter’s tree costume that failed to stick with the tacky glue recommended, or the really deformed peacock I painted at a local paint and drink spot, all I see is my own mediocrity.

Even so, I know that if I didn’t do something to express the hidden, deeper parts of my own soul, I would feel myself being erased. I think that’s just the way some of us are made. And I find that when other people I love create, and share, I feel inspired to create and share. It’s as if we are part of an ecosystem that thrives on each other’s breath and living spirit. It doesn’t matter if we are at different skill levels, or that we may create different things. The act of creating is the only commonality required to keep the system alive.

I look around me, and I see the clutter and debris of the mundane life I “curate.” I see the incomplete toy sets, dirty socks left on the sofa, baskets of clean laundry waiting to be folded, magazines, and broken items waiting for the next time I have my glue gun handy. I see the components of my current creation waiting to be assembled, and I sit here writing.

I tell myself I should be doing something else. I should be tidying up my home, and preparing it for guests. I should be trying to stay ahead of the three-person wrecking crew that my family and I are instead of writing, or thinking about other creative projects that I either need to finish, or would like to start. But needing to express something feels like an itch in the dead center of your back, when your arms are too short to reach.

When I think of the ease with which women, especially stay-at-home wives and mothers, become so consumed by the needs of their families that they disappear, I begin to embrace the fact that my struggle with clutter is at least somewhat related to the itch in the middle of my back that makes me crazy until I find a way to scratch. When I consider the way in which we can so easily lose ourselves, and fade into the background of those around us, I am grateful for the compelling urge I so often feel just to make something—anything.

Creating helps me to live in color, instead of fading into a beige existence. It keeps me alive. And I believe it demonstrates the value of creating and expression to my daughter.

Would I love to have a tidy home, carefully curated, and free of the debris of everyday living? Sometimes. But only because it would make life easier. And as I think about the word “easier,” I realize that I have never been about “easier.”

Perhaps that’s why I am part of the extended creative ecosystem with which I connect and to which I relate—because who I am in my soul just can’t breathe within a tidy, clutter free box of mundanity. I find the overwhelming ordinariness of beige, taupe, and clear crystal vases to be as threatening to who I am at my core, as a fire is to a forest.

I can’t fit any mold. I can’t curate the perfection of mundanity. So, I accept a sense of the tug of war between my need to “paint” over the plainness of everyday life, and my recognition of the chaos that it curates.

Thankful Series: My Activist Friends

So, a few days ago, we crossed a milestone that still feels pretty awful for a lot of us. It has been a year since our country managed to elect someone who is completely inappropriate, incompetent, and unworthy of the presidency. 

And it’s not about who lost, or who also ran. It’s hard to imagine many people who would be worse in the position. 

Within a few days of the election, I started to worry about being so open in a very “red state.” After all, we’d only been here a few years, and I really didn’t know many people. 

Fortunately, a local chapter of Pantsuit Nation welcomed me, and I was reminded that no matter where in the world we end up, we always find the people who are like us. 

And one of the things that is so remarkable about so many of the people that I have found, is how much of themselves they put out there in the world to try and make it better. 

That’s something I am fortunate enough to see in many of my friends—both new, and old. It’s something I respect and admire so much. At times, they have even made it possible for me to find ways to be involved as well. 

Without friends like I have found, being part of the Woman’s March on Washington would have been an awful lot harder to do. At least a couple of my new friends worked extremely hard to make that a possibility for several dozen of us. It was amazing!

I still haven’t figured out how to juggle it all so I can contribute as much as I see my other friends contributing. I am a stay-at-home mom, with a three-year-old that demands more attention than I ever imagined possible. I know at some point, she will be big enough to go along with me, and I will be able to do more.

I have friends who have been activists for years, and the knowledge they have about issues never ceases to blow me away. Some of them have had little choice about their activism. When you, and those you love have been victims of discrimination, brutality, inequality, and marginalization, your choices are to either accept the wrong, or stand up for the right. I am constantly amazed by their courage, strength, dignity, and fierceness. And I learn so much from them everyday.  

I know that America is a great country. It is the dream that so many seek. I know that we have freedoms and rights that people in other countries cannot even imagine. At the same time, I know that we can easily succumb to our worser demons. We can fail to see each other’s points of view, and we can allow our own beliefs to make us forget the principles upon which our nation was founded.

The men who wrote our Constitution were imperfect. Many didn’t see their own inhumanity. But they created something special. They created a living document that can evolve and change when necessary, and they created possibility. 

The activist friends I know, respect, admire, and love stand up for all of us. They see injustice, and they cannot sit still for it. They have made me feel welcome in my new home, and while my own insecurities make me worry that I disappoint them with how little I feel I contribute right now, I hope they know that when I can do more, I will. 

It’s not an overstatement to say that we owe these people, and all of those who have stood up throughout history an enormous debt. In some cases, we owe them our lives. Without the courage to stand against tyranny, to stand up for human, civil and equal rights, our nation wouldn’t even exist. 

I am humbled, and grateful for my beautiful activist friends. I know you cannot stand alone, and that we are always stronger together. 

When thoughts, prayers and words harm

So, a friend of mine shared an article from the religious section of a conservative online magazine called “The Federalist.” In the days since he shared the article with me, I have seen multiple responses to it in social media. I didn’t respond to it right away, and I think that might be fortuitous. 

This particular article was written by Hans Fiene, who is a Lutheran pastor from Illinois. In the article, Mr. Fiene discusses the recent mass shooting at a church in Sutherland, Texas where 26 parishioners, who were gathered for Sunday services were snuffed out by a man carrying a semi-automatic rifle.

His piece is in response to those of us who say that the time is long overdue for our legislators, and government to do something besides offer thoughts and prayers after one of these horrific events. In his piece, Fiene lays out an argument for the idea that the 26 who died in that church were actually having their prayers answered. No, they were not praying for a mass shooter to walk in to their church and gun them down—some of them children at point blank range—but to be delivered from evil. In this case, however horrific it might seem to the rest of us, an evil act was the instrument of deliverance.

When I initially read the piece, I was appalled, and flabbergasted. I didn’t quite know how to form my thoughts around a response to something, that on its face, seems so beyond ludicrous. But as luck would have it, other conservatives with access to the media made statements this week that I found almost as appalling.

Roy Moore, a man seeking a Senate seat in Alabama, has been accused of pursuing romantic, or sexual relationships with several women while he was in his 30s and they were in their teens. At this point, nobody knows the veracity of the allegations, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time a powerful older man made unwanted sexual advances.

What is incredible are the statements made by a couple of conservatives who have come to his defense.

 Alabama State Auditor, Jim Ziegler, actually invoked the Bible to come to Moore’s defense. “Take Joseph and Mary. Mary was a teenager and Joseph was an adult carpenter. They became parents of Jesus,” Ziegler told the Washington Examiner.

He further defended Moore by stating that nothing illegal had occurred, because it’s not like he had sexual intercourse with the teens. “There is nothing to see here,” Ziegler told the Examiner. “The allegations are that a man in his early 30s dated teenage girls. Even the Washington Post report says that he never had sexual intercourse with any of the girls and never attempted sexual intercourse.” 

The current age of consent in the state of Alabama is 16. Regardless of party, wouldn’t you think a state official would think more carefully about commenting on these allegations? One of the women was 14 at the time she alleges that Moore tried to persuade her to touch him sexually.

Alabama Bibb County Republican chairman Jerry Pow told Toronto Star reporter Daniel Dale that he’d vote for Roy Moore even if Moore did commit a sex crime against a girl. "I would vote for Judge Moore because I wouldn't want to vote for Doug," he says. "I'm not saying I support what he did."

Because it’s totally better to vote for a guy who wanted a 14-year-old to touch his penis through his underwear than to vote for a Democrat. Ziegler invokes the age gap in Mary and Joseph’s marriage to defend Moore, and maybe that makes sense.

Maybe Moore was just keeping things godly—something he feels we all should be doing.

While he recently spoke to a group at an Alabama church, he explained what he believes to be the reason for the mass shootings.

 “You wonder why we're having shootings, and killings here in 2017? Because we've asked for it," Moore said. "We've taken God out of everything. We've taken prayer out of school, we've taken prayer out of council meetings."

If only kindergarteners  were saying a prayer at the beginning of the day, we wouldn’t have to worry about getting shot down in public places.

These are not the first truly bizarre, or even thoughtlessly insensitive statements conservatives have made in either defending their colleagues, their policies, or their positions.

In August of 2012, Todd Akin, who was a Missouri Representative running for the Senate explained his reasoning behind the idea that women who are victims of rape shouldn’t be able to choose to have an abortion if they become pregnant.

 “It seems to me, from what I understand from doctors, that’s really rare,” Akin told local media in an interview. “If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down. But let’s assume that maybe that didn’t work or something: I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be of the rapist, and not attacking the child.”

If you are sexually assaulted, and become pregnant, you may just have to rethink the incident. If you got pregnant, it probably wasn’t rape.

And more recently, in regards to climate change, Michigan Representative Tim Walberg explained that humans are essentially helpless. It’s just out of our hands.

 “I believe there’s climate change. I believe there’s been climate change since the beginning of time,” Walberg said. “Do I think man has some impact? Yeah, of course. Can man change the entire universe? No.”

He continued: “Why do I believe that? Well, as a Christian, I believe that there is a creator in God who is much bigger than us. And I’m confident that, if there’s a real problem, he can take care of it.” 

So, the next time you are in a quandary over “paper or plastic,” just know that it doesn’t really matter, because whether the polar icecaps melt away or not has nothing to do with you.

I know that we can all be thoughtless. I know we can be passionate about our viewpoints. But we don’t all have a vast and public platform that reaches thousands.

As Michael Hutchence of INXS wrote, “Words are weapons, sharper than knives.”

When we discount the suffering of others by invoking our faith or sharing baseless viewpoints, we diminish our sense of common humanity and connection to each other. We trivialize the pain felt by those who have been harmed by violence, abuse, or disaster.

And when we trivialize someone’s pain, we are, in fact, trivializing them.

Thankful Series: Tomi

So, just over four years ago, life turned upside down. Unlike the Fresh Prince, however, we did not find ourselves in Bel Air. Instead, we found ourselves in Northwest Arkansas. Our ties to the area weren’t super strong, but Jeph had grown up in Joplin, just forty-five minutes north of where we landed. 

We were expecting our daughter, and I was successfully “hermiting.” I was sick most of the time, and certainly not great company. I binge-watched a lot of television, and hung out on the couch with my dog. 

One person seemed to know that things couldn’t stay that way forever. 

Several of Jeph’s Joplin friends have befriended me over the years, but one friend in particular has become a regular companion. 

Not long after moving down here, Tomi started getting me out of the house from time to time. She was one of the very first people in this neck of the woods to make me feel welcome, and like I wasn’t all on my own. 

She shared the insanity that is the War Eagle Craft Fair, and I don’t imagine either of us will forget that trip we almost took to the Junk Ranch. And while I will never be as good at it as she is, she has taught me to at least take a stab at negotiating prices when we are on the hunt. 

But Tomi is more than just a companion. She is the first real, solid, and reliable friend I had in this new life.

Tomi and I are solid introverted nerds. We like books, antiques, crafts, and Doctor Who. We each understand when the other just needs to hole up in their quiet place and not be around anyone. We could both spend hours pinning art nouveau pieces on Pinterest, reading classic literature, or binge watching Doctor Who Christmas specials. We share a dry, and frequently “off” sense of humor. 

She gets me, and I get her. 

She is almost always the first person to check in on me and ask how I’m doing on rough days. She knows she can’t always help, but I know her well enough to know that she genuinely means it when she says she wishes she could. 

A week or so after I had my daughter, Tomi took me out to get fitted for nursing bras, and to rummage the aisles of Walgreens in search of compression sock, because my legs and feet were still very swollen. 

Months later, Jeph and I were supposed to host a holiday party and he got stuck at work. Tomi arrived an hour and a half early, saw my panic, and saw that I was cooking and cleaning up after things—still in my pajamas—and that I truly needed help. Without batting an eye, she ushered me off to the shower, watched my baby, and helped me start greeting people as they arrived until Jeph got home.

That’s something very special about Tomi. She’s a little on the conservative side—especially in comparison to myself—and she has a strong faith that guides her. And while I know that it makes me cynical to say it, I don’t often see many people like her who truly walk their talk. 

In the time that I have known her, I have come to know someone who will truly try to help others if she can. She lives in a small bungalow home, which she has carefully decorated with beautiful pieces she has hunted down. In the last four years, I know of at least a couple of times she has opened up her home to a family member or friend who just needs a place to crash until they can get back on track. She routinely loans out furniture and other treasures from her collection. And almost every time we go on one of our hunting adventures, she is thinking about someone she knows who is looking for something specific. 

She is a kind and caring soul, and she rarely asks for anything herself. She’s forgiving, and compassionate. When it comes to people, and the sometimes odd and nonsensical things they do, she is always quick to remind me of one simple fact: “People are complicated.”

I’m not just thankful for Tomi, I am lucky and blessed to have someone like her in my life, and in my corner. She’s a deeply honest, caring, and generous person. And to have all of that wrapped in a Whovian spirit is at least twice the blessing.