Lessons from the Sweats

On Sunday night, I went to bed with the night sweats. On Monday morning, I woke up with them. Since the beginning of the new semester, I had missed nine days of school. To clarify, this teacher doesn’t like missing school, especially nine days in one month, but cancer. I had finished my radiation Friday and planned to return to school Monday. I don’t like breaking plans. I missed the kids. I didn’t have sub notes. I couldn’t stay home another day. I was going to school. Sweaty or not, I pulled my hair into a ponytail. Only later would I notice my horrifically crooked eyeliner. I looked like shit. I would wear a mask.

Back in 2021, I had cap and gown portraits made at Houston Baptist. The photo package included a mask with the lower half of my face. I bought it, and it’s so creepy. My smile is oversized. See? An understated message. I would fake it till I make it.

My students are working on research papers, a good plan considering my absences. Monday would be a workday. I would be available for consultation at my desk where I would sit and play catch up.

Before classes started, I searched YouTube for Snoop Dogg and clicked Dr. Dre’s “The Next Episode.” How appropriate. With the tunes on my overhead speaker, I wrote the kids a note and displayed it on my overhead projector. “I probably should have stayed home,” I said, “but I needed a sense of normalcy.” What is normal? I thought yet again. I signed the note, “with love.”

Between the gangsta hip-hop on my speaker and the ridiculous mask on my face, my students may have been more concerned than ever before. So much for faking it. My note said I needed a silent study hall. Never mind my music. Of course, they wanted to know how I was doing.

I’m not good with “How are you?” Especially with people who really care. The kids really cared. When I’m not okay, a super-sensitive version of myself sometimes appears. When my mouth opens, sometimes so do my tear ducts. I think I cried in every class that day, just trying to say I’m okay.

I CLEARLY was not okay. I possibly hit an all-time low. F-bombs exploded overhead, like a battle cry as I worked from my desk and tried to concentrate on grades and missing assignments, failures and emails, lesson plans and life. The kids seemed to get me, and through the sweats I made progress toward some goals. In the end everything was okay.

Back at home, renewed energy conquered my sweats. I decluttered a corner of my world, put away misplaced things, and patted myself on the back. Action lead to action. And Tuesday was better, and with each day came strength. Cancer has definitely been teaching me a thing or two. Here’s a favorite:

I can do hard things.

Cheers to Year 53

I count my years by December 30ths. Cheers to Year 53, and Happy Birthday to Me!

In the last days of December, I like to reflect and adjust. Or try to adjust. Why not enter the New Year with my mind right? Except in recent days, the more I turned the events of ’22 over in my brain, the more I heard nothing but crickets. I drew no real conclusions. Wasn’t it Socrates who said something like “The more I learn, the less I know”?

My thoughts from a year ago:

“In fact, there’s no better time than a new year or a birthday to let bygones be bygones and let it go. A gift to myself. Peace. I Believe our struggles strengthen us. I suppose that’s my 2021 takeaway. Strength. Perseverance. I made it. You did, too. As for 2022, I choose Hope. Maybe we’ll all be surprised.”
Crystal Byers

Perspective from my barely-younger former self, the girl who feels all the feels, but reaches for the bold.

As for 2023, I’ll stuff my pockets with the necessary ammo and wish you all the same:

Faith + Gratitude = Peace + Hope

Belief, Strength, Perseverance, Honesty, Courage, Progress, and Grace…

Happy New Year to You and Yours!

On GRACE

On January 2, I wrote, “I suppose, if I have one goal or one word for myself this year, I’m leaning toward GRACE. GRACE when I want to beat myself up. GRACE when I want to beat someone else up.”

The words “I suppose” sound half-hearted.

“If.” Noncommittal.

“I’m leaning…” Not quite there.

Perhaps, I needed a plan. Perhaps, more prayer.

Sure enough, by October, my word of the year had escaped my otherwise-preoccupied mind. I searched the blog and discovered these few lines toward the bottom of my first post of 2022.

“I’m leaning toward GRACE. GRACE when I want to beat myself up. GRACE when I want to beat someone else up.”

And what have I been doing to myself these last few days?

Beating myself up.

On housekeeping, on Christmas shopping, on my inability to move from the couch after work, on my not checking in on friends and family.

Then there are the fantasies of throwing throat punches. On the road, in the grocery store, even at school.

Then the anger melts to tears.

And suddenly, finally, I hear GRACE in the back of my head. In a velvety smooth voice, she says, “Honey Child, what would Jesus do? ‘A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another’ (John 13:34).”

And that’s GRACE—

Feeling the love and paying it forward, understanding we’re human and flawed, extending ourselves GRACE and love and time for honesty and patience for what we cannot control, knowing God will get us through if we just lean in.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and LOVE and GRACE and PEACE to you!

Hot Cross Buns

When I was in the second grade, my music teacher introduced our class to a plastic wind instrument called the recorder. We each received our own in a bag to take home and practice and keep forever.

My friend Robyn, a tall, quiet blonde with good grades, lived up the street and around the corner. One day she invited me to her house for after-school practice. This is where the details become a bit fuzzy. After playing “Hot Cross Buns” an indefinite number of times, I clearly remember wielding my recorder like a weapon, completely unprovoked, and cracking my friend on the top of her blonde head. Hard. From the bedroom doorway, I heard a gasp and turned to see Robyn’s older sister, eyes wide and jaw dropped.

End scene.

I can only imagine Robyn’s sister saying, “Crystal, I think it’s time for you to go home.” I don’t think Robyn cried. I don’t think anyone reported me to Robyn’s mother. I don’t remember saying, “I’m sorry.” I do remember Robyn eventually moving to Texas and losing track of her over time.

In 2009, I found Robyn on Facebook and apologized for the time, forty years earlier, I hit her over the head with my recorder. I’m not sure she remembered, my apology now another distant recollection. Why had this brief memory haunted me through the years? I’m quite sure I was even meaner to my brother when we were kids, but that was mostly retaliation.

Humans are imperfect. We randomly act without thinking and hurt others without malicious intent. We often beat ourselves up for mishandled situations while judging others for their shortcomings. At other times, we don’t own up to our own roles in our own dramas. Life is complicated. Apologies, forgiveness, and understanding are not exactly simple. Sometimes, however, we owe ourselves peace. ‘Tis the season.

Counting My Blessings

(Art School Version)

In thirteen weeks,
I climbed 8,125 stairs,
from the underground parking 
to my classroom on floor four.
Not that I’m counting.

Okay, I am.

125 per day. 6 flights.
5 mornings per week.
13 weeks.
Somedays more.

My phone keeps track—
13 flights on Friday,
12 on Thursday,
10 on Wednesday,
11 on Tuesday,
7 on Monday.

Each time,
my thighs burn,
my heart pounds,
I breathe hard—
but easier 
through 13 weeks.
I’ve lost a pound or 2—
okay 8, depending on
when I weigh.
Not that I’m counting.

Okay, I am.
Blessings have a way
of hiding
until
you look.

I count more
around the school
Steps and blessings
and such great kids.

I don’t know 
the girl
in the t-shirt 
that says,
“Nice 
is the new cool.”
But I smile, 
as does she.
Then my student 
greets me, 
“What up, 
Mrs. Byers?”
Her good energy 
spreads like fire. 
I overhear another say, 
“Today—
is gonna be amazing.”
He catches my eye, 
and his flicker.
I nod and hope 
mine spark, too, 
a torch to pass on.

There’s often time 
in my day
for extra steps.
Time—
another blessing. 

Music swells 
in the stairwells
a flute trio, 
a vocal solo.
My heart responds,
drawn by the pulse
of art and life.

One flight down, 
Dancers in leotards 
perfect techniques 
at the barre.
And I—
stroll a little straighter,
arabesque 
if only in my head,
held a little higher,
past the studios,
past the tune of piano,
down another flight 
to the art gallery
to contemplate
lines and images,
color and messages. 

There are days 
I descend 
two extra flights 
exit the building,
walk a few city blocks 
for lunch and fresh air
before ascending the stairs

back to floor four,
somedays to the fifth,
where rehearsals ensue

and my heart beats to
the Mariachi, 
vocal, and
orchestral 
excerpts.

In a small practice room
with an open door,
my student sits 
before a harp.
“I didn’t know 
you play harp,” 
I say.

“I don’t usually tell," 
says she, 
and I leave
her to her secret 
and take the stairs
back to my classroom
and prepare 
for my last class
of Week Thirteen,
not to mention
Thanksgiving.

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A post shared by Kinder HSPVA (@kinderhspva)

Proud teacher moment. One of these kids slaying Pavane by Fauré is my student. Please click the link and enjoy!

On my classroom desk, “One Minute with God.” Thank you, Becky! And Happy Thanksgiving, Everybody!

When God Speaks

It’s not like I hear a booming voice in the sky saying, “Crystal? Hello!” But God has a way of showing up. Like, over and over.

Once when I was fifteen or sixteen, I happened to have a severe earache while at church, my little non-denominational church in my little Oklahoma hometown. Pastor Charlie stopped mid-sermon and said, “God has laid it on my heart that there is someone here in pain. Someone with an earache. I’m going to stop and pray.” And so he prayed from the pulpit and returned to his message while I sat in the congregation awestruck. Believe me or not, my pain subsided 100%.

Then when I was twenty-one, I packed my bags with my mother’s help and loaded Drew into his car seat. I drove out of Colorado and left my young husband and the Rocky Mountains in my rearview mirror. I prayed along the way. “God, I don’t know what to do. Please. Send me a sign,” I said. It wasn’t long before Kody drove to Oklahoma to see me and Drew. Time apart had served us well. We had a happy family reunion for three. A month later when I missed my period, I took the positive pregnancy test as my sign. Thirty-one years later on a Friday night, we sit on adjacent couches. Our toes connect on the ottoman, and we smile at each other while the Astros play on TV.

God and I have been tight through the years—and sometimes not. Sort of like me and Kody. My mother once told me, “There’s a fine line between love and hate.” I’m stubborn when it comes to conforming. I tend to hold grudges when life doesn’t go my way. At times, I stick to the mantra—I can choose hope (through God) or despair, and who would choose despair? Then suddenly, I find myself despairing.

This past week, one of my students asked if she could use my room on Thursday at lunch for a meeting. Their regular meeting spot, or maybe their sponsor, wasn’t available this week. “No problem,” I said. I’m not sure I even asked what kind of meeting.

When Thursday lunch arrived, I grabbed my sad little sandwich from the refrigerator in the teacher’s lounge and returned to my classroom where a small group of some of my favorite students sat in a circle of desks. One of them read Philippians 4:6-7. “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

I sat at my desk on the opposite side of the room. I might have had some tears in my eyes. This scripture was one of my mother’s favorites. I wonder how many letters she wrote me that included this verse. Was my mother speaking? Or God? I believe they’re in cahoots.

The students took turns discussing the meaning of the words.

One said, “Whatever you’re going through, His peace is greater than your anxiety.”

Another one said, “I just know that we’re all struggling with grades and college applications, and God’s going to get us through it.” There was a pause. “We’re not going to do this on our own. God’s going to get us through it.”

And with these words, I felt convicted. How often do I try to rely on my own devices? That’s a rhetorical question.

Confession time. I struggle with alcohol. I like wine. I like bourbon, vodka, and tequila. I like the relaxation that comes from a drink or two and the comedy that ensues after three or four. According to my oncologist, daily drinking is alcohol abuse. She had the nerve to write that in my charts. Alcohol abuse. The American Cancer Society says, “It’s best not to drink alcohol” and recommends that women “who choose to drink should limit their intake to 1 drink a day.” One?! I swear, I’ve Googled this more than once hoping I’ll find a different answer. Anyway, I’m trying to make healthier choices. From the end of August to the end of September, I did great. I was practically alcohol free, but I was pretty bitter about it, and I mean, downright angry. Notice all the I’s. I. I. I. I. I. I…twelve. Then came October, and I fell off the proverbial wagon. I can’t do this on my own. The mouths of babes confirm it.

So—Thursday after school, I drove home and slipped into some leggings and a long t-shirt and my tennis shoes and went for a walk instead of pouring myself a drink. It was a gorgeous fall evening, and my steps fell to the beat of my music. YouTube picked a song for me. I swear, I think it was God again.

The Decadence of Slower

Halfway through another post, or mostly finished, I’m not sure—it’s hard to tell with a poem. The thing lacked detail, the kind of detail that develops from noticing—and time. I slid my laptop out of the way, beneath the couch, and slept. It was Friday night.

The next morning, I awoke to the incessant meow of Nora and ignored her. I lay in bed, scrolling my phone, and stopped on a post called Slower:

“Before I thought of myself as a writer, I thought of myself as an artist—not incompatible identities. Among the many lessons I learned as a visual artist also applicable to literary arts: slow down. Wait. Wait. Wait. The eye (thought) moves faster than the hand on the page; you have to slow down so that the hand can keep up.”
Jan Priddy, Oregon

My husband fed the cat. I made the coffee. Texas pecan, wildflower honey and cream for me. Back on the couch, I savored my cup, the decadence of the morning, the sunlight spilling through the living room window, the slowness of Saturday. I reread my last draft and started a new one.

I’ll Be Okay

Not long ago, my routine mammogram came back suspicious. I examined myself repeatedly and found nothing out of the ordinary. But there was a certain sensitivity I somehow hadn’t noticed. Was it in my head? I distracted myself with a mantra: I am fearless and therefore powerful.

Two weeks later, I endured a repeat procedure, a more thorough and painful flattening of my left boob, followed by an ultrasound, performed by a technician, and again by a doctor. The doctor told me to come back for a biopsy the following day. He scrunched his mouth to the side and locked eyes with me. He said, “I’m sorry. We caught this early. It’s tiny.”

He didn’t say cancer. I reasoned with myself. I’ll be okay…I’ll be okay…I’ll be okay…

At home, I told my husband about the biopsy and failed to mention the rest.

Kody drove me to my appointment the next day and waited. In a back room, they took the tissue they needed with a needle and inserted a tiny titanium post to mark the spot of the tiny tumor.

On the way home, I said, “It’s cancer.” There was silence in the pause. “I mean, I don’t want this to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I know.” All of this happened on a Thursday.

Friday. Saturday. Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. I waited for the official word.

On Tuesday, the second day of school, I received a call that went to voicemail. A call from a voice who requested a return call.

I knew.

It’s cancer, confirmed, tiny, and we caught it early.

At my first appointment for repeat testing and a second opinion, I met a woman, three years cancer-free. Similar diagnosis and situation caught early. She had flown to Houston from South Carolina for a follow-up. I have a quick drive across town.

And I have treatment options. Not all include surgery. One of my doctors, I can’t remember which one, said, “If you had to pick a cancer, this is the one.”

So, I feel lucky.

I’m waiting for my next appointment and thinking good thoughts.

I’m thankful every day is a new day, and I’ll be okay.

Thinking Good Thoughts

Last week started with a recurring thought from Maya Angelou’s mother. She was always…

I want to be like that. Unfazed by whatever happens.

Another thought came from the Book of Proverbs…

I want to be like that. Strong and Dignified. Fearless and Joyful.

Meanwhile, I’ll name it and claim it.

When Saturday rolled around, I mindlessly scrolled Facebook when a book caught my eye:

The post said, “Found this book in our move. Everyone could use a little more positive in their life! Ready to apply this with my family, friends, and students! If you’ve read this, what was your biggest take away?”

I read the book about five years ago and remembered the part about energy vampires. I pulled the book from my shelf and flipped to that chapter. These words jumped off the page: “If you want to be successful you have to be very careful about who is on your bus. After all there are people who increase your energy and there are people who drain your energy…Your job is to do your best to eliminate any negativity on your bus and this includes negative people.” Noted.

Charles Dickens once wrote: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” What a paradox! Our times can be both the best and the worst. Let’s choose our focus.

Alexandre Dumas once wrote: “Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes.” The storms of life happen—bad weather, catastrophes, flat tires, politics, rude people, illness, death—and when storms happen, I protect my energy.

I seek out good. I redirect my thoughts. I choose faith and gratitude, peace and hope.

There’s energetic power in the thoughts we carry. And energy, good or bad, travels. It transfers into our cells and to our loved ones. I don’t know about you, but my molecular make-up, my loved ones, too, could use some good energy. So, today I’m thinking good thoughts—for you and me—strong, dignified, fearless, joyful thoughts. Pass it on.

Bleh vs. What If?

Bleh, bleh, bleh, bleh,
bleh,
bleh,
bleh.

Bleh and bleh,
worry and fear,
sad and mad,
shame and guilt
and regret.

And yet—

What if?
I have the power
to rewrite my story.

What if?
My words and thoughts
have creative power
to transform.

What if?
I think on noble things:
health, wealth, and love,
faith and gratitude,
peace and hope
and joy.

What if I believe?
Life is good and generous,
and miracles are in motion
beyond my wildest dreams.

What if I say?
Thank you, thank you, thank you.