Dear Neighbor,

A few weeks ago, I cringed as I set my alarm for earlier than I have since March- 6:45 am (yes, I know that isn’t really early at all). When it chimed the following morning, I dragged myself out of bed, after another night of pandemic-induced insomnia. I pulled my middle child from his slumber to get him dressed, fed, masked, and out the door by 7:40. Two-year-old Finnley and I walked him to his first day of in-person class as a first grader. We found quite the orchestration, with multiple staff at every entrance, greeting each car, taking temperatures, giving each child words of welcome and encouragement, and walking them lovingly to their classrooms, where COVID-19 precautions mean parents are not allowed. I gave Rowan a quick, masked kiss and said goodbye in the school parking lot as a staff member took his heavy tote of supplies. I watched for a moment, then turned to walk back home, my eyes teary, and a little catch in my throat.

I know what you may be thinking, but my swell of emotion had nothing to do with my own little kiddo getting so big and independent. Rather, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude for all those lovely teachers and staff who have worked so hard through this crisis to care for our community’s children: preparing weekly meal boxes and food deliveries, making remote-learning plans, delivering supplies, providing emergency shelter and childcare, and more. Gratitude for the thoughtfulness, care, and compassion with which they were meeting an enormous logistical challenge to ensure our youngest and most vulnerable children are safely welcomed back to school, for the social and emotional support they so badly need. Gratitude, for yet another opportunity to witness the monumental impact of the tiniest acts of kindness. This was one of many moments in recent months that brought me to tears, reminding me that the depth of human compassion is precious, abundant, and often overlooked. Reminding me that when we all work together for our common goals, rooted in love and the understanding that we are one human family, we can accomplish anything. I believe these things to be true, in part because I see this every day in the extraordinary generosity of YOU, our community of Lydia Place volunteers, and supporters.

It has been a rocky year, to say the least. At Lydia Place, we have continued to forge ahead with critical services, now mostly provided remotely. We are still housing families in emergency placements and permanent homes. We’re providing remote parenting sessions and remote mental health sessions. We continue to expand our services to keep pace with the growing and changing needs in our community, while now working harder than ever to find pathways through a shifting and endangered funding landscape. Meanwhile, we continue our strong advocacy for broader early supports for families, and the system transformations we know are necessary for a healthy and equitable community. We continue to ask hard questions about how we can do our part to remedy and eliminate racial and economic inequality.

Yet, despite this year’s deep divisions, heartache, fear, and trauma, I find myself filled with optimism. I see opportunity shining through for us to be our best selves, to think and communicate openly and creatively, and build a community that recognizes the humanity in every single person and cherishes every single child – and for Lydia Place to lead with compassion and hope. We will work to cultivate a healthy and thriving community, work that your generosity and support will help us accomplish. Thank you for showing up, for opening your hearts and your hands, and making our work possible.

With gratitude,

Emily