Community

Senior Boots and Our Hope for Tomorrow

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

Heading down to my Alma Mater to celebrate a new generation, and I can hardly believe the passing of time. Texas A&M University- it’s been too long, and I may or may not have teared up as that skyline came into view. Former Student is right- you never stop being an Aggie. So much has changed, yet as the saying goes, so much remains the same, and I am thankful once again that tradition here runs deep.

Senior boots are a big, big deal, and I’m so proud of my nephew tonight. As I stand on Simpson Drill field looking out at A&M’s finest lined up in rows, dreams written across their young faces, I wonder where the time has gone. Twenty- five years ago they were my peers, and now they are our children, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. In no time at all, we’re the middle aged visitors to these hallowed halls that used to be ours, and they are our hope for tomorrow. It hits different when they’re yours and the world that we’re handing them is on fire with peace upended.

But today- they are invincible. Youthful eyes bright with hopes not yet realized and courage for life’s battles they’ve yet to fight. Newly minted young men and women, the last remnants of childhood melted away in the Texas sun.

And those seniors on the sidelines- so full of life and vigor, cigar smoke swirling around their heads as they sing and sway to that War Hymn I know so well. Reassuring us all that the Spirit of Aggieland does indeed live on. They are the kings of the day, and every one of us knows it.

Congratulations, my fellow Aggies- the best of your lives lie before you, and we are so proud of you all. Now go and do great things. Return with honor, and Gig’em👍🏻

The Friends That Stay

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

 At a recent conference I honed my craft and spent precious time with friends both old and new. Some I hadn’t seen in twenty years, but in the breath of “Hello,” time collapsed. It is one of life’s great blessings to have friends like that. You know the ones? The ones where it doesn’t matter that twenty years have come and gone, and picking up right where we left off is as natural as the laugh lines that now crease our faces.

We spoke of everything and nothing. Children born, life lived, friends we missed, victories won, and lessons learned. 

We laughed til we cried, talking into the wee hours of the morning as we rushed to fill the gap of years in the span of days, yet lingered over conversations poured out like wine that time might move more slowly. 

There is a sacredness here. In the celebrated and mundane. In sharing a meal and breaking bread- whether at the trendy hotel bistro between sessions or around a campfire in the Canadian Wilds when all we had was time. It shows up when we commit ourselves to community, to living up close and in the real. Somewhere in the sweating and the swearing and the striving and the praying and working towards a common goal, a gift emerges. 

Come as you are, let down your hair, pull up a chair, and stay awhile, only friendship is being served. Through reminiscence, new adventures, clinical and philosophical discussions, loud card games, and late night talks, we unfold our lives in turn. There is no hiding here. And no need for it either. They earned the right to speak truth into my life long ago, and that doesn’t fade with time. 

“We collect people,” one of them said, speaking of her own life, and where it’s taken her. This humble statement whispered, both simple and profound, catches me off guard. Collecting people, I can’t help but think, what’s more beautiful than that? As we go through this life don’t we all, if we’re wise, find a few souls to pull close and pour into? And in so emptying ourselves, are filled in return, a blessing pressed down, running over.

September 11th and the Moral Wound of a Generation

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

Where were you on that September morning? I remember it in sharp relief.

We were working at a boarding school in Indiana when my still-new husband called me at home to tell me that America was under attack. I still remember the feel of the floor beneath my shifting feet as I listened uncomprehending and told him that he must be mistaken. I tuned into the one station we had on our TV, adjusting the rabbit ears as the second plane hit, and proceeded to watch in horror for the next six hours. Fear became a palpable thing, seeping into my pores. Somewhere between home and work, I cried for my mother in the hallway when I thought no one was looking. All grown up but suddenly feeling so very small.

Our students had limited access to the news and outside lines, but through our whispers and grim expressions, they knew something was very wrong. How in the world do we tell these teens of the tragic magnitude we’ve yet to understand ourselves?

After some debate, it was decided that we would show them news clips that afternoon, and fill them in on what little we know. But first, a delicate piece of business. For one of our students this wasn’t some far away corner of America, seen in films but rarely visited. For her, it was home.

She hailed from Staten Island, NY, and her big heart and no-nonsense ways made her a fast favorite with all who knew her. As her mentor, the awfulness and sacredness fell to me to tell her of the gaping hole ripped into the heart of her hometown. I’d only just begun to learn what it is to sit with the broken, and the sound of her anguished cries stays with me still. Her aunt worked in the building she explained, and what do you mean calls can’t get through? If the raw pain and pure rage in that small body could’ve transported her, it would’ve carried her all the way home.

Sept. 11, 2001 was a Tuesday, and Eric and I had a road trip planned for Wednesday, our sights set on Niagara Falls. Those plans seemed small now, and an international tourist site no longer sounded like a good idea. So we went where we always went for comfort in those days, where we knew best: we went to the woods and disappeared into the trees. Letting the sunrises and sunsets, the wind in the treetops and gentle thunder of the waterfalls tend to the places in our broken hearts the trappings of civilization couldn’t quite reach. God met us there in those Ohio woods. By the cave and under the stars. By the river in our sandled feet, we poured out our grief, our fears, the innocence lost and the moral wound of a generation. What terror have we witnessed here, oh God Who Sees, and how will we carry on? For us, mere witnesses, but even more, those still searching for loved ones and choking out goodbyes?

Twenty years and we are here, facing fresh atrocities and uncertainties, the innocence of another generation lost. My children read about this day in their history books, not understanding that this particular page of history still echos in our bones. And for some, it still screams.
We Remember. We Remember.

Fear-Stained Heart

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

I have lived in fear of this day for over a decade. First in the abstract- a distant bridge to be crossed some day. When we’re older, wiser, more prepared. And then- in these last few months- as an end date. A day of unknown trepidation to which we were marching with ever gaining momentum. Could this really be the fix we’re looking for? That seemed too big a thing to hope. A promise too far away, and the cost too much to pay.


Was it worth the risk? How could we choose optional brain surgery? But was it really an option anymore? His seizures were getting worse, technology better, and we’d run the gamut of medications. Dare I trust my person- this wonderful husband of mine- to the lauded hands of the handsome young surgeon?
But then, it wasn’t just his hands at all. As the prayers and well wishes poured in, the wise words of a nurse and friend seeped into my fear-stained heart. “Good news is that the Lord has a steady hand.” Deep breath. We’re going to do this.


And the one who formed the oceans knows my name. Who spoke the stars into existence steadies the hands of the healer, and heals the parts of us no surgeon’s hands can touch. “Lean in and trust, close your eyes and fall, I’ve got you,” His voice seemed to whisper. My knuckles clenched. I swallowed hard. Tossed and turned in the sleepless nights as fear turned to resolve. Ride the wave. Trust in Him. Stay the course.


The body of Christ rose up and around me. My tribe showed up and answered the call. Held my hand a 5am, cooked meals, and watched my children. Cried big tears with me, helped me laugh out loud, and made me feel sane, even when I broke apart. They sat the watch, held their breath, celebrated the victories, fed me, cared for me, and prayed over me with love. Peace descended. Fear deserted. Hope overcame, and I knew I was not alone.


And the surgery? It went great. He sleeps peacefully in his bed tonight. Vitals are good, wit and humor intact. His grip on my hand is strong, his steady breathing balm for my soul. “He’s still him,” I confided to a friend as I hugged him tight. His eyes glittered with quiet understanding as they looked back into mine. I’d whispered my fears to him days ago, and we’d both cried. Friends filled the room, laughter trickled down the hall, and the road to recovery began. With my heart a little braver, my faith a little deeper, my love a little stronger. And my gratitude- as wide as the sky.


As for physical healing? We shall see. But oh, how I believe! For He healed something sacred in me.