Follow Hope Not Hindsight

As you’d expect, gravity does a number on a body that reposes face down for weeks. A beard and mustache grows. Skin sags. Bruises coagulate. Muscles atrophy. And maybe not as readily visible but certainly the case for a body used to constant movement… the spirit withers.

“I can see it now. I’ll be ‘that blind guy’ who sits off in the corner at the picnic table listening to music,” he jokes. The thing is, it’s hard for either of us to laugh when he says it, even though we can absolutely imagine it.

He’s not blind yet, but my husband and I will spend the rest of our lives working to mitigate the possibility.

It began as a slow-rising curtain of darkness in his left eye. A strange noticing that started on December 25th, 2020. By New Year’s Eve, he couldn’t see anything on that side. It was the gut-punch to conclude a gut-wrenching year.

The start of 2021, the year of our hopeful Park opening, and the reprieve to 2020, was anything but a relief. My husband, who turned 50 in November, set up an emergency consult with the best eye doctor in the region.

The news was devastating. Through tears of fear and a start to the acknowledgment of the gravity of his situation, he had to retell the diagnosis when he got back to the car I had been waiting in outside the hospital. His left eye had a complete retinal detachment and the retina in the “good eye” already had small micro-tears. His eyesight had probably been hanging in the balance for a while, but there was no escaping his new reality. He needed an emergency surgery to reattach the retina.

Our already-upside-down-pandemic-changed world began to spin in disorienting ways.

The injury and subsequent surgery meant he needed to stop all he’d been doing. That and he was instructed to remain face down for fourteen days as part of the healing process.

Face. Down.

To eat. To sleep. To sip beverages out of a straw. To rest during the day. To sponge-bathe. To walk.

Fourteen days. Face down.

My active, busy husband lay relatively motionless on his stomach with his head off the foot of our bed and his feet up near my pillow for approximately twenty-two hours a day. Fourteen days.

To say my husband stays busy does not give justice to the physical work he has always done. His first fifty years were spent fixing and flipping houses, building up and running kitchens, hiking tens of thousands of steps each summer up and down the Renaissance Festival hills, skating to coach hockey, fixing literally anything that breaks down in our house, and more recently carving trails, grooming snow, plowing and tinkering at what is supposed to be his project past retirement.

There were complications from the very start of his recovery. Pain. Abnormal pressure levels. A gas bubble meant to act as a stabilizing healer that managed to get into a space compromising his cornea. We didn’t know it wasn’t going as well as it should have. Multiple doctor visits, incredibly compromised vision, continued pain and eventually a floating stitch were what accompanied the multiple rounds of drops. If the challenges post-surgery did anything, they broke up the monotony of face down life.

The fourteen days ended and my husband began to stand and then walk. It was initially slow, but steps in the direction of activity were a source of hope and motivation for him. Neither of us imagined that a slowed version of his normal level of activity was enough to further challenge his fragile recovery.

By March 12th, the curtain of darkness had returned. He was going to have to do it all again.

A part of him was more prepared for the post-operation directives, but another part of him felt as though he had been caught for violating parole and he was headed back to jail, and this time for a life-sentence.

Two more weeks face down. Two more weeks to weaken his muscles, to loosen the pants around his waist, to lay awake each night considering life in still darkness.

We’re both cautiously moving forward post-recovery this time. He’s as reserved and as still as I’ve ever known him. He’s afraid of the blindness, but I think we’re both afraid to think about what the world looks like when my husband is not buzzing around in it, fixing everything in his path.

It’s an ask to re-imagine. A chance to create a new vision because nothing about how we saw the world before will ever be that way again.

We’re not alone in this space of uncertainty. As the world scrambles to rebuild what has been shattered over the last year, we are all faced with incredible challenges. Nothing will look quite the way it did before, but everything has potential to look infinitely better if we choose to see it that way. It’s time to hone our focus, to intentionally pursue what matters most every day, to move forward with curious contemplation about what is to come instead of a head-down drive to barrel through what was obviously never meant to be.

Hindsight may be 2020, but anything worth seeking takes time to see. Surrounding ourselves with the people who are also hopefully seeking in this hazy darkness will ultimately bring us to a new, lit place. A hopeful place we can visualize, even if we cannot clearly see it just yet. 

Copyright Meagan M Frank 2021

Choosing to Grow

Daily Pilgrimage

bridge to winter.JPG

I’ve never participated in a pilgrimage, or at least not an official one.

This morning, I was reading about a pilgrimage that took place both yesterday and today. Despite the cold and snow near Chicago, thousands of observers made a pilgrimage to commemorate Our Lady of Guadalupe in Des Plaines, Illinois.

Pilgrimages are a human symbol of our desire to end up some place holy. To physically move from one place to another. Until today, I had never really considered that maybe I am on a pilgrimage daily.

This morning, when I set out on cross-country skis for the first time this winter season, I had pilgrimages on my mind.

I started to think about the holy place to which I was trekking and I remembered gratefully the hundreds of times God has met me there.

You see, there is a wall that freezes into thousands of icicles this time of year that is along my ski trail. It is a holy place for me. It is quiet and peaceful and I stand in awe of God’s creation each and every time I find myself standing before it.

pair of eagles on pilgrimage.jpg

It is a perfect distance from my car, and if I’m lucky, I’ll catch a glimpse of one of the eagles that lives in the nest that is across the river.

The other thing I was thinking about while on my personal pilgrimage today was the instruction of a devotional I read over the weekend.

“Be surprised. Watch for Jesus in your life; watch for realities you don’t usually imagine.”

Each day I wake with an expectation of how the day will go. Sometimes I write lists I expect I’ll complete. Sometimes I jot those “to-do’s” as I pray through my morning. Too often I get frustrated when I seem so unproductive and when my list grows instead of shrinks.

In my prayer journal today, I jotted down those things I expect to happen, but I set out on my day with a new intention to embrace the unexpected…the surprises.

My first surprise of the day came on the trail.

I expected to see the ice wall today. The surprise came when I realized that the eagles I pray to see each and every time I am on that trail, were both perched at the top of a tree above the wall. Can you see them? Had you noticed them when you first looked at my picture?

We are all on a pilgrimage each and every day. We are journeying some place holy, on purpose, but God has so many surprises for us along the way. It could be a person who interrupts us as we walk through a store, or a child who asks for us to listen to an important story. God knows I love eagles, and he gifted me with their stoic presence this morning at the wall I expected to see. They were the surprise I thankfully noticed.

May your pilgrimage today bring you to the place you are seeking and with plenty of joyful surprises along the way.

Copyright Choosing to Grow 2016                           


Past, Present, and Planning

peak trainI’ve started three separate blogposts in the last few weeks but I’ve run out of time to finish any of them. I have an unbelievable desire to write regularly, but with increased activity through the summer, my time to write has decreased dramatically. I think I sense the squeeze of past, present, and planning, and whatever energy I would have for writing has leaked out into the lives of those around me. At the end of the day, I have no words left to share.


Walking up the hill to our upper kitchen with Middle Sprout the other night, I was stopped by a bar wench. (yes, they actually call themselves that) She was curious about my writing. “What sorts of things do you write? What are you working on now?”

I laughed and said I am not able to do any real writing right now.

“Writing is like breathing for me, and I have been gasping for air much of the time I’ve been in Colorado.”

The other bar wench who was listening to our exchange piped in,  “It’s got to be hard to write in the bus with so little space and all of those people.”

I acknowledged that truth and continued up the hill, but the more I thought about it, the more I know that the bus is certainly not to blame for my lack of consistency or my assuredly unproductive writing habits.

Middle Sprout walked thoughtfully with me for a few steps and then said, “Mom, you should go to a coffee house or something. You definitely need to breathe.”

She’s right, and I want to show her that I do that. That I prioritize my needs enough that I can keep breathing…and thriving. What an extremely important lesson to teach my almost 13-year-old. It’s important for all of my kids to see my investment in myself and I’ve admittedly sucked a little at that this summer. It’s likely why I was introduced to my inner bear. (see previous blogpost) I am generally better about prioritizing for my needs, but I think this summer what may have become more important are the needs of those around me.

So, I’ve thought quite a bit about the reasons my own breathing has taken such a backseat this summer and I’ve concluded I’m wading in a pool fed by three tributaries.


When I come to Colorado I am confronted full force with childhood demons and challenges I wish I could completely abandon. Hard emotions get easier and easier to navigate as I get older, but there is still energy expended there. I feel a sense of love and obligation to my family and to the friends with whom I’ve maintained lifelong relationships. There is, however, a cost to remaining committed to the past that shaped me.

I’ve watched my life in passing scenes on the hills of this site too. The beer guys transported kegs and plastic cups from site to the reception for our wedding…I carried our first baby up and down hills in a backpack …I lost our second baby by miscarriage after walking the grounds…Middle Sprout’s arrival was cheered with Huzzah’s when her dad managed to get back on site the day she was born on the last day of the show…I waddled around fully pregnant with Little Sprout while pushing a monstrous double stroller…all the Sprouts have been knighted and princess dresses and crowns fill drawers in our home…the big sprouts have learned to work out here and memories of driving practice will likely include some of these backroads. And our recent summer of camping experience has happened on the grounds of this Festival.

It is now both my past…and the past for our kids.


Now that we’ve converged at this present place, I’m struggling with what that really means. The Sprouts are all under the same roof and living with our singular family rhythm. When I look at the present clock too closely, I have to acknowledge that time is running out. Next week I’ll have two teenagers and in the fall they’ll all be in double-digits. By next spring we’ll have a driver and what might have been subtle shifts in responsibility will be a full-fledged handoff.

Of course there is the present reality of my upcoming 40th birthday in August too and despite my efforts, I cannot seem to ignore the symbolic milestones that come with that.

My Choosing to Grow philosophy is dependent upon living in the moment and celebrating the present. It’s honestly taking almost all the energy I have to live up to my own expectations.


And then there is the planning. I have built my life around planning and I’ve painfully learned the lessons of thwarted plans and increasing disappointment evidenced in children’s eye rolls at my efforts. As my teens have grown, my plans have simply needed to adjust to become “wait…wait…and wait some more for their plans to develop.” (rides here…money to go here, etc.) It has impacted me enough that poor Little Sprout does not have my best energy for planning. There was a point this summer (right around the arrival of the bear) when I literally threw in the towel for any more planning.

The more I’ve thought about it, the more I have come to believe that planning is necessary but it needs to be more about hope and faith than about control.

I plan to pray fervently about putting planning back into my routine.

The Fourth Dimension of MOTHERHOOD

I want our kids to know that motherhood is certainly multi-dimensional. Mother has a responsibility to herself and it serves as a model to her children. But motherhood is more than just teaching children how to be strong, independent, balanced and confident because they see that modeled behavior. It’s more than being a woman who knows what she needs and makes the effort to achieve her own goals at the cost of something else she also needs…relationship with her children. Motherhood is about something even more and it looks an awful lot like sacrifice.

I’ve spent too much of this summer being flat. I’ve been frozen without dimension because I let myself become too overwhelmed and it paralyzed me. I wanted to feel productive and important. I am at a critical phase in my life; sandwiched on all sides by past, present and planning pressures. There is a dimension I need to embrace, however, and the plan is to employ it immediately in order to legitimately refocus: LOVE.

Love transcends time and place, pain and pressures. The love I need applies to all parts of my day and my life. I need to be better at self-love, to be intentional about love for those from my past, for those who traipse across my day in the present, and for all those for whom prayer and planning are necessary to build hope.

As I try to finish this blogpost I just dismissed Middle Sprout to give me just a few more minutes of space. Space I have neglected to ask for this summer and, seeing the welling tears of hormonal disappointment, possibly the last time I will ask for this space while the Sprouts are snuggled in so closely. There is sacrifice in motherhood that piles up in pictures of their childhood. My choice is to be present enough…so I can love them back with everything I have right now…all before we have to make real plans for them to go.

***Despite my internal struggles, I have managed to get the kids out and about for some fun adventures. Pictures of ziplining and the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo with Little Sprout can be found on my website. ***

Copyright 2015  Meagan Frank                           Choosing to Grow                                             

I’m Going on a Bear Hunt

bearFor a few weeks now, I’ve woken to the evidence of bears who have torn apart our trash cans just yards away from the bus. A part of me has hoped I would see one so I could take a picture. That is…until I actually did. Looking at that beast up close, I realize I have too much in common with that damn bear.

It may not be the best picture, but he surprised me when I was resting near the joust arena at the end of this past weekend. Fumbling with my shaking hands could only yield this semi-intelligible photo. I promise…he was closer than he appears.

I’d like to say I have nothing analogous in common with the lumbering bear, but if I’m honest with myself I see a lot of myself in him. I am carrying around something quite dark and heavy these days and it is slowing me down.

I’m certainly not myself. In fact, my normal self would definitely be sleeping right now, at 3:30 in the morning, instead of trying to tap out some of the words swimming around in my head. My normal self might not be struggling with outrageous bouts of moodiness and unpredictability. My normal self wouldn’t be so anxious or consumed with the idea of sweets.

Okay, so the infatuation with sweets isn’t necessarily a symptom. There really are fried ice cream balls to produce after all. (I’ll get to that in a second)

The more I think about it though, the more I think I am probably carrying around all of these things not through any fault of my own. Much the way a bear is simply a bear and does bear things…an almost 40-year-old just HAS to naturally do some of the crazy stuff I’ve been doing lately. So, maybe my crazy is NOT my fault. Let me Google it.

Ok, I think I’m on to something.

Diagnosis: I have symptoms of perimenopause.

A logical causal effect…the BUS. (now don’t you DARE try to tell me that my estrogen is clouding my judgment and making that crazy assumption) I have to believe the bus is causing perimenopause. If the bus is the cause, that way, as soon as I set foot back in my house in Wisconsin I will no longer have these symptoms of night sweats, irregular heartbeat, insomnia, irritability, uncontrolled moodiness and downright cantankerous attitude. There is NO WAY I’m taking this crazy with me when I leave this bus! In fact, I would love to eradicate it much sooner than that.

I suppose I could try to eat my way out of this funk…or drown myself in a vat of our ice cream frying oil.

Fried ice cream could be an option now that the Frank Family clan has gone into the business. Our supplier gave us the last of what had been produced and we were forced to employ child labor last week to start filling the order we had placed  to get us through the show. Here’s a peek at our first taste test:

ice creamWe made 360 ready-to-go balls of ice cream in about 1.5 hours last week. Only about 1500 more to go!! Word on the festival street…delicious!

I want to survive this adventure of a summer. Strike that…I want to thrive in this adventure of a summer. I just wish I was behaving more like sugar and spice and everything nice right now.

Is there a prayer for that? (or any suggestions of other animals I should be emulating?)

Copyright 2015  Meagan Frank                           Choosing to Grow                                             

The Spaces We Occupy


Castle sweet castle

Anyone who knows our family’s story knows we have spent the majority of our time unsettled and between spaces. It makes some people who hear about our lifestyle incredibly uncomfortable. So uncomfortable, in fact, that some people hesitate deepening their friendships with us because we are generally planning an exit of some sort.

I hear things like:

“You choose to live like that?”

“You are crazy!”

“I could never do that. It would feel too chaotic.”

I admit, there are parts of what we do for our family of 5.25 (yes, Dickens completely counts!) that are not comfortable. This year, as we camp out in a 45-foot bus I expect we’ll be stretched more than most summers. What I have learned over the years of chaos and disruption is that routine is something man has created to help himself to feel more secure in the world. My habit is to crave and create routines to make my space more comfortable. The reality is that LIFE REALLY HAPPENS when my routines are broken and God tends to lean more toward the disruption of routine to allow growth to happen.

About a week ago, I was living in our beautiful home where the kids each sleep in their own rooms and on their own beds. There are three bathrooms for the five of us and plenty of space to spread out. This morning I drank coffee with my husband on our bed in the back room of the bus, quietly used the bathroom that divides the two living spaces, and then tiptoed through the girls’ beds at the front of the bus to get the dog out for his morning walk. I trekked a few miles on the site grounds and meandered my way past our son’s new single-person apartment that is situated on the top of one of our booths. He spends his nights in his new mancave that is about 1/4 mile away from us. It is a new and temporary routine.

There has been a learning curve to our arrival this summer. It is not unlike other times we have traveled here for my husband’s job, but I am making a point this summer to document the things I learn along the way.

Some things I’ve learned this week:

I learned I need birds to watch out my window and hummingbirds eat a lot of food…once they find the source.

bird 1 bird 3 bird 5

I learned to cook pizza in a convection oven and how to cut a Papa Murphy’s pizza in half to fit. I learned how to anticipate the slow cooking of a hotplate and some new recipes for the grill. I discovered that with our current ampage I cannot run the A/C, dishwasher and a hairdryer at the same time. I learned that our bus camping is one of the nicest living arrangements on site and there really are people who live in tents…all year…and sometimes not because they choose to do it. I learned that the basic necessities of food, water, shelter, and clothing are enough. The luxuries are running water, a space to do laundry, a private toilet,  a shower, and mattresses up off the ground.

I reconfirmed that exercise in the natural surroundings of Colorado space is among my most favorite things to do in the world.


I learned that it is not the space that someone occupies that makes my connection with them any less important. A friend of mine, who happens to be just as transient as I am, was in Colorado this past week to visit her family. She will occupy her mother’s space while she visits and we annually connect there or in any myriad of spaces in and around this part of Colorado. It is not the space, but the connection that matters. I confirmed that lesson when I crowded into a room (with more family members than were supposed to be permitted)  to visit my grandmother whose space is currently a hospital bed.

We can choose to spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing over the spaces we occupy and the routines we can create there, or we can invest in how we connect and interact with the people who share our spaces.

***If you want to see some of the other pics from the week, I have a posted a slideshow on my website.***

Copyright 2015  Meagan Frank          Choosing to Grow                                             

Leaving Home to Go Home

house front door

Probably the last thing I should be doing right now is writing a blogpost, but I’m really supposed to still be asleep. Therefore, all is justified, right?

We leave today for our annual adventure. I am of course thrilled that what splinters my heart in separation from my husband will soon be healed with our reunion, but I have to admit it is quite hard for me to leave this year.

I have fallen in love with our home.

The rooms have only begun to transform into lovely spaces of comfort and I have so much more work I would like to be doing in them.

I will miss the phrases I’ve put up on the walls and the art that records the year of growth for Little Sprout’s artistic expression. I’ll miss my paint projects, photographs, and experiments with candles. I’ll miss my office and the battles I’ve been waging with the bird-feed-stealing raccoon. I’ll miss the blanket of leaves outside each window and the surprising colors of flowers and bushes that push through this time of year. I’ll miss the dappled sunlight that subtly bounces off leaves just outside my morning window and the thrumming of big rainstorms at night.

It’s these elements of home that are impossible to bring with me.

I will miss people as well, but they are allowed to accompany me in the form of texts, emails, Facetime, Facebook updates, etc. And I guess I could actually call them too…

The space of a home is the space of a home… and there is no way to digitize that.

Maybe I’m more reflective this year because the space of our home is about to transform so completely in the next two days. The five of us are preparing to snuggle in tightly in our bus accommodations for the two months of summer. I want to remain mindful and grateful for what will surely be a memorable opportunity.

A good friend of mine (who happens to be RV living with her family of five right now too) told me the two things I need to pack for the lifestyle are patience and a sense of humor. Duly noted.

I also want to pack away a little bit of home too, so I took pictures of my yard this morning so that I can have a digital bouquet when I need it. Appropriately, a deer ran across our cul de sac while I was taking photos.


flowers from home


deer in cul de sac IMG_1483[1]

home flowers

Undoubtedly there will be plenty of beauty and natural experiences as we camp this summer. I too, of course, intend to make our space as homey and comfortable as possible. I plan to catalog (blog) as we go.

I expect I’ll find home there too. It is in fact where my heart has been since April anyway.

Copyright 2015  Meagan Frank          Choosing to Grow                                             

Come Rest Awhile

bench in leaves

Sit with me and rest awhile.

Watch all the leaves fall down.

There is no stopping winds of change,

No silencing the sound.

No way to push back time that ticks

Or changing cold air style.

There is nothing to do at all my friends,

So come sit with me a while.

Writing and Cooking: Creating without Fear

On my stove

My diced potatoes are softening on the stove. I grabbed a pot I think is a stock pot, and in it  I have combined the recipe ingredients I hope will turn into yummy-sounding loaded baked potato soup. Whatever I end up with will be what I serve my family tonight for supper.

On my laptop

There are storylines swirling in my head. Characters are starting to populate my thoughts and I realize in this very moment, I too am in the stage of softening. Fiction writing is a form of letting go for me. I have held my writing so tightly to my chest. Writing for me has been more about editing, revising, controlling, manipulating. The only stories I’ve allowed myself to tell are the real ones because my writing can be legitimized by something tangible. Made-up worlds are foreign to me and I realized today only by letting go will I have anything new to offer the world.

Quote of the day:

Why not go out on a limb, that’s where are the fruit is.

Living Life Unfinished

finishThe dog began to bark and I knew my prep time had come to an end. My visiting friends from Woodbury had arrived, and it was time to take them through our new home. I simply laid down the strawberry slicing knife, ignored the fact things didn’t look quite the way I had imagined they would, and walked to the door.

It took everything in me to pretend I wasn’t bothered by how unfinished I felt. Actually, at this phase in my life, unfinished is the way I feel practically all the time.

My kids are in school full time, have been for years, and I have less finished on a daily basis than I ever did when they were crawling around under my desk.

I used to be able to finish blogposts (edited and polished and ready for the world.) The lives of our growing children has interrupted my finishing. Actually, for quite some time now, I have stopped starting…because I know I will rarely have a chance to finish the way I hope.

We’re not finished with a lot of things around here. We’re not finished emptying out the detached garage that is currently housing those must-move-with-us-but-probably-won’t-ever-unpack boxes. (we moved in April) We’re not finished hanging pictures or shopping for wall art or furnishing rooms that don’t have pieces to fill them. We’re not finished organizing the clutter in the house or training our children in the ways of the world or to pick up their own rooms.

I’m not finished culling through boxes of photographs or organizing my books onto shelves or putting piles of my paper into a functional system. I’m not finished learning how to cook and bake and I’m certainly not finished with so many writing projects that I have energy enough to start but lack time enough to finish.

This is my life




Before I even had a chance to finish this blogpost I got a text from our oldest. Usually the first sign I will not be finishing what I’m doing.


Our across-the-street neighbor, who is dying of cancer, has been out nailing and painting his mailbox the last few days. Maybe he is trying to finish it before the weather changes…or he runs out of time. I can only imagine the list of things he hopes to finish in the time he’s given and once again I am challenged by the life being lived across the street by someone whose life is finishing.

Maybe life isn’t about finishing at all. Things are always unfinished, but while I sit waiting… paralyzed to start things I don’t think I can finish well, I miss out on moments that could complete me.

I’ve decided completion doesn’t always look like finishing.

So, I am writing without being able to finish well. Sending my writing into the world is the way my life feels most complete. My new way to write reflects my new way of living…unfinished…unpolished…but unapologetic. Take it or leave it.

Middle Sprout has decided to learn how to play volleyball. Many of the girls had to step out on the court without really knowing how to play. I need to approach life the way a 7th grader approaches a new activity. Sometimes you have to get out there and do what you are not ready to do.  I don’t know how to write without really finishing, but my life demands writing and I’m not really living if I don’t do it the way I can in the moments I’ve been given.

The 3 lessons I’ve chosen to grow through this week:

You have to host before the house is ready.

center flowers

You have to serve before you are finished learning how.

haley serving

You have to write what comes out in a morning…and post it before it is finished




Writing Blocks are NOT about Writing

Since my book-writing is not coming as quickly as I know it should, I’ve determined I must be blocked. I know myself well enough to know that my writing blocks very rarely have anything to do with writing.

I’ve written just fine on so many other projects I have going. It’s not the words that are stuck…it’s me.

It reminds me of a scene that just recently unfolded in our house. Big Sprout’s first writing assignment for his seventh grade history class was a story about his life. He stared blankly at the computer screen frustrated because the words just wouldn’t come.

“I don’t have anything to say,” he complained, “I have to have a paragraph about my life from when I was born up until I turned five, a paragraph from kindergarten through 6th grade, and a paragraph about my most recent summer. I don’t have anything to write!”

“Hmm. Sure, I can see why you don’t have anything to say,” I sarcastically remarked. “There wasn’t much interesting about the 6 moves you made living in three different states by the time you started kindergarten. It’s not really that cool of a story that you spent your elementary school years back and forth between the cabin in Wisconsin and our house in Minnesota/ And you’re right, there’s not much to say about last summer that was like all the other summers of your life spent with friends and family in Colorado.  I’m sorry you’ve had such a boring life so far,” I quipped.

He angrily tapped out a few letters, and then slouched defeated in his chair.

He had been moody since coming home from school, and I guessed that it wasn’t the assignment that was hanging him up at all.

“Is there something bothering you?” I asked. “Do you think there might be another reason you can’t write right now?”

After pushing him hard enough, the emotions began to release. He was frustrated with how football was going. He had gotten past the initial learning curve, and now he was frustrated with the feeling he had of being stalled.  He felt like no one was throwing him passes…and he felt as though he had hit a learning plateau. He was unsure how to bust through. In addition to that, there were other swirling emotions that he had not addressed about kids at school, how he felt about himself, and all the other incredibly important seventh-grade issues. His identity was in flux, and writing a concrete story about his life was more daunting than it normally would have been.

He talked. He cried, (not much, but enough), and I watched as his “block” slowly melted.

So as I stare (too often) at the blinking cursor that waits below a chapter title or a section description, I start to wonder what my block might be. Bear with me as I write it out…

There are too many things floating in my head: ugly thoughts, judgments, frustrations, stories about unloving people, and each time I consider writing it out, giving it a public voice, I am held back by one thing…FEAR.

For those of you who read my first book, and bless you for that, you know that I seemingly shared everything about my life. I had this candor that I maybe should have considered longer, but I felt safe to reveal.

I knew that my husband loved me unconditionally…my parents and siblings would eventually get through any pain my words caused and get back to loving me unconditionally too.  I trusted that…and I was confident saying what I felt needed to be said.

I don’t feel safe with this one.

I don’t trust that writing my book about youth sports is nearly as safe. The emotions of sports are more heightened than the intimate emotions of a marriage. People, and millions and millions of people, align with a philosophy and the division is deep and wide about a lot of topics. There are parenting, financial, coaching, and lifestyle philosophies that people will defend with every fiber of their being.

I’ve recently lost some of the confidence I had as I was sketching out the chapters. What happened in our house this past week has convinced me that the beast of youth sports is capable of so much more harm than I ever considered possible.

So, I have a decision to make. What I have FEARED… has happened, and I’ve gotten an up-close look at it. I have to decide whether I can handle continuing to lose the political battles to fight the principled ones. I have to decide that I have courage enough to tackle these emotional issues on behalf of all kids and I have to be willing to watch our own children potentially suffer because of it.

I know that if I write about those “unwritten” rules of youth sports, if I live according to what I believe to be the right way to develop children, there are real consequences for those decisions.

Maybe this book will be something that I write…and guard…under lock and key in order to give time for our kids to get through the machine before it turns on me.

There are a lot of “blocks” in my way right now, and only I can do the emotional work necessary to move past them.

What do you think? Do you think it is worth fighting for the greater good, potentially sacrificing our children in the process?

This one’s a bit bigger than me…and if you’re the praying type, I can’t imagine it wouldn’t help.


Choosing to Grow  copyright 2012                             Meagan Frank