Broadway Lights & Cabin Nights

It’s Tuesday night, I’m up in Pine at the cabin—my favorite place in Arizona—and the house is finally quiet.

This week has been… a lot. In the best way.

Just a few days ago I was in New York City with 55 students—some of them on their very first airplane, their very first trip to New York, their very first Broadway show. Broadway lights, subway rides, snow falling in March… and now I’m here, sitting in the quiet, trying to take it all in.

Because this week isn’t just about New York.

It’s also the quiet realization that this is the last week all of my kids will be under one roof before everything changes.

I knew this was coming.

I just didn’t know if I was ready for it.

We hit the ground running from the moment we landed. Central Park, the 9/11 Memorial, the Empire State Building… one thing after another, moving at the speed only New York City can demand. It was a whirlwind in every sense of the word—but what made it unforgettable wasn’t just the places we went. It was watching these kids experience it all for the first time. First subway ride. First Broadway show. First time seeing a city that never slows down. There’s something really special about getting to stand next to someone as their world gets a little bit bigger—and realizing you had a small part in that.

There were so many moments that felt like little snapshots I wanted to bottle up and keep. Watching them try to stay seated during MJ the Musical after learning choreography from the show earlier that day with Kali May Grinder. Seeing snow start to fall as we stood near Trinity Church, right after visiting where Alexander Hamilton is buried—something so simple, but it felt like magic. Walking through the Museum of Broadway and being reminded why I fell in love with this art form in the first place. Hearing our choir sing in St. John the Divine and feeling the sound just fill that incredible space.

And then those unexpected New York moments—the kind you can’t plan.

Like meeting Louis McCartney as he was heading into the stage door of Stranger Things and telling him he probably didn’t remember me, but that I had seen the show this past summer and mentioned I was a theatre teacher from Arizona. When I told him I had brought a group of 55 students to see him that night, he lit up—remembered me—and was excited to meet them after the show. Watching him take time to sign playbills and posters, take pictures, and genuinely connect with my students was one of those moments that just sticks with you.

Or meeting Apollo Levine and somehow ending up in a conversation that left me feeling seen and encouraged. Or spotting Patrick Page and Paige Davis at dinner and trying (and failing) to play it cool as I told them how incredible they are.

It was exhausting. It was exhilarating. It was everything.

And somewhere in the middle of all that magic… my back was done.

There were moments where I physically couldn’t keep going. Where I had to step away, sit things out, or find a place to lie down while everything kept moving. Missing parts of the Empire State Building. Sitting on a bench at Radio City while everyone else climbed what felt like a thousand stairs. Trying to keep up with a pace my body just wasn’t built for this week.

And if I’m honest, that part messed with me a little.

Because I’m used to being the one who leads from the front. The one who handles it. The one who keeps things moving.

And this time… I couldn’t always be that.

But that’s where something really beautiful showed up.

Because I was never doing it alone.

Ben—my partner in crime, my work bestie, the absolute yin to my yang—was everything I could have hoped for in a colleague on this trip. He stepped in without hesitation, led when I needed him to lead, and made sure everything kept moving seamlessly. Our incredible parent chaperones did the same. There was never a moment where I felt like things were falling apart—only moments where I was reminded how supported I actually am.

What could have been overwhelming, or even defeating, became something else entirely—an experience filled with grace, kindness, and quiet moments of being taken care of.

And my love and appreciation for that man—and this team—grew tenfold on this trip.

At one point, the kids asked me what my favorite part of the trip was. And without even thinking, I told them, “Seeing it all for the first time through your eyes.” Because that’s what it was. Yes, the shows were incredible. Yes, the city was electric. Yes, there were moments I’ll never forget.

But the real magic was standing next to them as their world got a little bit bigger. Watching something click. Watching wonder show up.

Like in our workshop with Michael Brian Dunn—watching them lean in, fully locked, hanging on every word as he walked them through script and character work. And I just kept smiling to myself thinking, “Yes… this is exactly what I’ve been telling you all year.” There’s something so funny about being a teacher—you can say something a hundred times, but take them across the country, have a Broadway professional say the exact same thing, and suddenly it clicks. And honestly? I love it. Because in that moment, it landed.

Watching them realize there’s more out there than they imagined—and that they might actually have a place in it.

That’s the part that stays.

And now, just a few days later, I’m sitting in the quiet of a cabin in Pine—my favorite place in Arizona—surrounded by the people I love most.

We’ve spent the last few days playing games, laughing uncontrollably, eating more than we probably should, and just… being together.

Yesterday, we spent the evening at Allyson’s sister Jenny’s with most of the Shumway family for a barbecue—one of those nights that felt both completely normal and quietly significant at the same time. It was the last time Maggie will be with all of them for a while.

At one point, she had to step away for her Home MTC meetings. And I found myself watching her differently… because just a couple of nights ago, she was set apart as a missionary.

And that moment meant everything to her.

The man who set her apart had been her choir teacher’s aide her senior year—someone she shares a really special bond with. And somehow, because everyone else was out of town for spring break, he was the one who got to stand in that role.

A complete “coincidence.”

Except… I don’t really believe in those.

It felt like one more quiet reminder that the Lord is in the details. That He knows her. That He sees her.

And now here she is—wearing that name badge, stepping into something bigger than herself—and she’s different.

Glowing.

Focused. Grounded. On fire to serve the Lord.

And I just sit there in awe of her. Of her willingness. Of her faith. Of the example she is—not just to others, but to me.

And I can feel it now… how close everything is to the surface.

Because these “lasts” are starting to stack up.

And each one carries a little more weight than the one before it.

And I found myself watching them more than usual.

Not in a sad way. Not exactly.

Just… noticing.

The way Maggie laughs. The way Max jumps in and out of conversations. The way Mayzie moves through the room. The rhythm of all of us together in one space—something that has felt so normal for so long that I don’t think I’ve ever really stopped to consider what it would feel like when it changes.

And now it’s about to.

Because this is the last week all of my kids will be under one roof as kids.

Maggie leaves next Wednesday for her mission. Max will follow in January. And just like that, everything shifts.

And I keep catching myself wanting to slow it down. To hold onto it a little tighter. To make time stretch in a way it just… won’t.

I’ve known this was coming.

I’ve talked about it. Prepared for it. Even celebrated it.

But knowing and accepting are two very different things.

And I think that’s what this week has been teaching me.

That life doesn’t happen in clean, separate moments.

It’s not joy or pain. Not celebration or endings. Not strength or needing help.

It’s all of it.

It’s Broadway lights and back pain. It’s standing in awe of your students while being quietly carried by the people around you. It’s watching your kids step into who they’re becoming while holding onto who they’ve been for just a little bit longer.

It’s being completely full… and still feeling the ache.

It’s gratitude and grief, living side by side.

Because some of the most meaningful moments in life don’t ask us to choose—they ask us to hold it all.

And right now… this is enough.