The past few weeks have been rife with outcries from hurting humans, in particular in the Black community. As a family, even a multi-racial family, the pain and suffering that we thought we were used to witnessing, addressing, and lamenting because of what we perceive to be our own powerlessness, has come into focus almost like it's new. The anguish that our black friends have shared has been deafening... absolutely deafening. And the fact that it has been so startling to hear their hurt in this way, makes us wonder if we have ever been listening at all.

As peddlers of small notebooks made for people to put their stories, their hurt, their wonder, and daily dreams we have spent the past two weeks fairly quiet, turning instead to our own journals, working out bits of our own culpability, frustration, and eventual hope for what is to come for all people in our country. As a family we've talked about what we dream will happen and what steps we need to take to insure that those dreams take shape.

For us, that has come in the form of car caravan protests, long, hard, humbling conversations with friends from all walks of life, and continuing to lean in to care for the immigrant community.

We're committed to striving for love and care and infectious hope to be what we spread, especially now, as a global pandemic is pulsing around us. We're not entirely sure how. We're aware that there are liabilities to our blind spots. But we're hoping that somehow, stumbling forward, we'll help more than we harm.