City Dreams: A Tale of Three Friends by Dr. Tony Rivera is Real!

City Dreams: A Tale of Three Friends by Dr. Tony Rivera is very misleading.  It presents itself as a simple story of three lives that randomly connect in New York City.  

But it’s anything but simple.

Dr. Rivera skillfully draws you into the lived experiences of foster care.  Each character has a different back story, a unique point of view, and represents a varied history.  Yet, they are all so similar.  The story is fictional in most elements.  However, the emotions and challenges presented through their stories are anything but fake.  Against the backdrop of obstacles and successes, the characters join together to grow.  Things that some might call common and familiar like family events, college life, and job interviews loom large in the mind of fosters as they try to understand their place in a complicated life pattern. 

I recently completed research related to the success of foster care alumni.  I was looking for the elements that made the minority stand out from the crowd.  I found three substantial things that work together for fosters to succeed.  Community to build their confidence and internal value; motivation that keeps them pushing forward when it would be much easier to quit; and self-regulation which allows them the freedom to mourn what they don’t have and face the wounds so they can heal.  Of the three, community is the most important.  Friends, teachers, mentors, family, and positive voices make the greatest difference.

As if he had read my research, Dr. Rivera weaves these elements throughout the stories of Lila, Jamal and Sophia.  Time after time, you hear them build one another up, lean into the strength of their community, and stand up against the obstacles that rise before them.  Through the pages they heal and grow together. 

Who should read this wonderful story?  Middle and high school students - regardless of their family situation; educators everywhere, social workers, counselors, pastors, youth workers, and law enforcement.  When you read this book you will see the kids around you with new eyes.  If you are or have considered working with fosters, please read this book.  This book will build your compassion and knowledge.  You will hear the fosters around you in this book.

I saw myself in these pages. At some point each character faced something I have lived.  You would think that since I am more than 40 years aged out I would have moved on. Lived experience in foster care is not a label I wear with shame or dread.  It shapes who I am and why I am passionate about education.

Similar to the character in City Dreams I can say, “I think we really did find home.  Not in a place, but in each other and in the work we’re doing.”  

Yes, Lila.  I understand what you mean. 

To order your copy of City Dreams: A Tale of Three Friends, use this link:   CITY DREAMS

You can find Dr. Rivera on LinkedIn.  Besides writing amazing stories, he is doing a great deal to pull fosters to a bright future. 

Milwaukee. You're my Home.

 I'm home.  

Like, back in Milwaukee, for real.

I have always been an urbanite. I love Milwaukee.  I love being downtown in the morning when the sun peeks over the lake and streams down Wisconsin Avenue.  Before the bustle begins when the air is crisp and the shadows are sharp you can feel everything just waiting to begin. Slowly the cars arrive, the shop doors open, the busses beep, and passengers step into the fray.  

Art museum events, walks with friends down the Avenue, lunch at the Farmer's Market behind the Grand dance in my heart and remind me of those other days. 

I have so many memories of visiting, working, and hanging out downtown.  I've watched the ebb and flow of increase and decrease many times in my life.  It's a favorite place.

And then I left.  I became only a visitor who sometimes went downtown when I stopped in between more important things, who might have taken a picture or two of the lake, but whose attention was clearly elsewhere.

I was living broadly in those elsewhere years.  From Minneapolis to Moscow and several points in between.  Alone, often.  Lonely, rarely.  College degree.  Traveling city to city to soak up culture, history, friendships.  Oh! the places that I went!  The coffee drank.  The tastes sampled. The laughter guffawed.  I remember one day, in particular, sitting at a lovely little shop in St. Petersburgh reading Chekhov and drinking tea.  And roaming Boston as if I owned the place!  And New York, of course, and St. Louis, and... and.. 

But home beckoned.  That great place by a Great Lake wanted me back.

When the opportunity to come home presented itself, I knew it was time.  

It was the offer more than the location.  You see, down in my heart of hearts, I know where my passion lies.  I deeply, sincerely, want to change the image of my city.  I hate that it's called the most segregated city in America.  I despise the idea that there are kids who are not given purpose, access to education, healthcare.  How can that be?  

Milwaukee has a long, long history of openness and acceptance.  Look at the pictures of the people who really built the city.  They are strangers from many different places who got through winter's storms and summer's heat to dig deep and settle in.  

Somewhere along the line someone decided they weren't us and we weren't them and hard words and violence ensued.  A chasm split the city into angry mobs.  

I, personally, don't understand it.  

Urban studying professors may tell you it was because of red-lining and freeway building that poverty dug her talons into my city.  Accountants might blame it on booming industry that later ceased booming and caused massive lay-offs.  Others will say it's because the Italians went over there and the Poles to that side and the immigrants from elsewhere settled into that neighborhood.  Which, I do know personally, to an extent is true.  We all hold our sameness closely and there are definite ethnic neighborhoods.  However, the whole ethnic mix is guilty of this.  We live and shop where we do because of common ideas, convenience, and personal preferences. 

But the idea that people aren't welcome in one place or another because of their skin or religion, I don't understand.  I have felt it, but I don't understand it.  It always takes me by surprise.

Because most people whether they look like me or not, are welcoming and friendly.  

What does that have to do with my being home?  I'm here with a large worldview now.  I have seen how other people in other places navigate strangers.  And I have come to the conclusion that the real determining factor is a lack of understanding.

I'm home.  I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I'm going to be someone who fosters greater understanding, greater grace, and greater love for others.  I passionately believe that education is the key to eradicating poverty.  I plan to be involved in increasing educational opportunities for urban students and teachers.  

For example, I'll be working this summer with the Center for Urban Teaching and its summer school program.  It's an incredible organization that prepares teachers with real, tangible skills to bring back to classrooms. Its methods are data-proven with 7 of 10 of the highest performing schools in Milwaukee being linked to CfUT.  Teachers, leaders and students all feel the benefits of this program. 

I hereby therefore henceforth (and any other old English word of your choosing) plan to be the change my city needs.

Amen. 

Who is with me?

Casting and Cares

I shared this with a ladies' group and thought perhaps you might like it, also.  As summer teases us, it's a good time to think about good times.  

Today’s Bible verse calls up a very vivid memory for me.

I can see my 10-year-old self on the banks of Jackson Park lagoon. I’m leaning against a tree and watching my grandpa as he digs around the tackle box.

“You want to make sure you have the right lure and the right sinkers.” He is talking more to himself than me, but I’m trying to really listen. I’d rather be swimming. But the pool is unexpectedly closed and I said I would fish with him instead.

Truth be told, I never really liked the whole process of fishing. First of all, there is the hook which can get caught in your finger – which I experienced at a much younger age. Then, there is the catching of the smelly fish which … smell. Finally, there is the cleaning of the smelly fish which is even smellier. I didn’t mind eating them, however, but the rest of the process was not my favorite.

Being with my grandpa, however, was always a treasure. He was 6’2” of stories, patience, and love. We spent countless hours walking around this lagoon from my earliest childhood.

And so I succumbed on this summer day to fish with him. Little did I know this would be one of the last opportunities for such a magical day.

“You remember how to put the sinkers on? You do that part and I’ll get the hook set on the other pole.”

I did remember. You had to have them in the right place and then clinch them together or you couldn’t properly cast the line. It wouldn’t go far enough out and it wouldn’t sink far enough down. Casting was a very important step in fishing.

I clinched the sinkers with the pinchers and carefully re-wound the line on my pole and set it down. I reached over to Grandpa’s pole and set his sinkers, also.

“Well, looky there. You got that perfect. Thanks.” The sun behind him was shaded by the ever-present hat cocked jauntily on his head. I beamed in his approval. Even now, almost 50 years later, I can feel his love wrap around me like a blanket.

“Ready to cast?”

Here’s the thing about casting. You have to do it. Willfully, purposefully, and confidently. This is not a namby-pamby action. You have to cast with strength or your hook will hook the tree above you, the grass beside you, yourself. I speak from experience.

This time, I cast perfectly. I absolutely flipped my wrist, let loose the reel, and watched the hook and line soar out over the pond.

I don’t remember catching anything that day except a sunburn. But I remember that cast. I’m sure it’s the best cast I ever casted. I’m also sure I have never fished again.

I know what you’re thinking. What verse are you talking about? Being fishers of men? Being called like John and Andrew? Where is she going?

Actually, here is the verse that brought that lovely memory:

1 Peter 5:7 (KJV) Cast all your cares on Him, for he careth for you.

Now you understand the casting. Picture yourself with confidence, strength, and determination literally casting your cares to Jesus as if He is standing beside you like my Grandpa. Tall, strong, capable just waiting to help you, waiting to tell you how proud He is of you.

If you can’t quite picture that, let’s read it in The Passion Translation:

1 Peter 5:7 (TPT) Pour out all your worries and stress upon Him and leave them there, for he always tenderly cares for you.

In our culture of independence, especially for “modern” women, it’s hard to be vulnerable enough to ask for help. But do it. Just try it. Find yourself a place to pray and pour out the whole entire set of problems. Big and small. He has time to listen. Your problems are not a bother to Him because they are too small. He never said that He only cares about big problems. In fact, cancer that needs to be healed has the same capacity for a miracle as the stretched budget and the healing in your heart over a friend who just betrayed you and the situation at home or work that you can’t seem to solve. If it’s your concern, He cares about it. Talk to Him.

What have you got to lose?

It might just be that one prayer time, that one specific connection to Jesus will live on in your memory like a sunny day at a lagoon that the thought of makes you feel heard, cared for, and loved.

Building the Writer

 Ugh!

There are two things I really don't like.  One of them actually makes me a good teacher and the other makes me a good coach.  Neither of them is helpful to my writing career.

First, is the task of bragging about myself and my writing.  I don't know why it's good or what makes it good or how to describe what's good about it.  I just know that I love to do it and people enjoy reading it.  

"Summarize the skill and provide a sample."  

I mean, I can give you a sample of the piece I wrote about Tolstoy or Michael Perry or Mitch Albom, but how do I summarize the way they have spoken to my soul and pulled out a piece of my history?  There is no professional way to say that Andrew Bridge unwittingly acted as my counselor as I worked through my history in foster care.  My review of their work helps others to see through my experiences, but how can I put a value on that?  

Similarly, I can tell someone else your story.  I will ask you a thousand questions and find a theme, a consistency, a layer of the story beneath your answers and write it full of adjectives, adverbs, and actions that will make every reader think they have become your best friend.  Can I summarize my work that way?  Which company wants that on their website?

This makes me a good coach.  Knowing how hard it is to brag about myself, and thinking you may be just as uncertain, I can help you with a hundred adjectives about how great you are and what you bring to the table.  

The other thing I hate, that makes me a good teacher, is I had to take tests.  I doubt and second-guess every answer.  And 9 times out of 10, my gut reaction was correct.  I understand the second-guessing on tests which is why I try to make them more logical.  

I say all of that to say this.  Although I am really working to get my name out there as a freelance writer and although I'm really trying to market myself as a valuable asset to people who need someone to share their story, I really don't like it.  

I love writing.  I can do it almost effortlessly.  I have something to say that is valuable and helpful.

But, wow, it's hard for me to pinpoint why it's worth your effort.

So, dear readers, if you know anyone who needs an article, a skit, a white page, a book review, a paper edited, or a lesson planned... pass on my name.  If you want to be my publicist or agent or summary writer, please reach out.  

While I'm waiting for the fish to bite, I'll just be over here answering every LinkedIn, Upwork, Writer Access, Indeed lead I can find.  

As challenging as it is, however, I am thankful for this season of rest, refresh, and reset.  God is good.  

I Lost My Voice

It’s inevitable.  It’s Spring.  I know it’s going to happen it’s just a matter of when.  My kids always found great amusement in teasing me when it would happen. 

“Is that a mouse in the house?”

“Too bad mom isn’t up and calling me to leave because I’m totally ready.”

I would try to respond, but only a squeak or a hoarse whisper would be returned. 

This losing my voice thing has always been with me.  I don’t know the medical cause.  I’m sure someone who gets paid more than me could figure it out, but since it comes and goes I’ve never felt compelled to solve it.  Give it a day of not talking, some tea with honey and lemon and it will return.

As a writer, it shouldn’t make much difference.  After all, writers use words on paper, not verbally. It’s the perfect opportunity to use talent instead of vocal cords.

This time, however, it occurred to me that not only did I lose my voice verbally, but I have lost my voice on paper.  That’s a much greater problem.

I looked back on my blog and see there are scant posts for the last several years.  No attempts to explain, interest, engage, or exist outside of my bubble have been made.  I didn’t realize it was happening.

So, how did I lose my writing voice?  I became very intensely involved in teaching, mentoring, guiding, and helping a school and all of the people in that community.

It wasn’t a bad thing.  In fact, it was often quite good.  I watched several students find their purpose, their voice, their talent.  That is the real reward of teaching.  I poured my time and ability into them.  I wrote the best lesson plans I could.  I found activities to stretch them and bond them together.  I searched for opportunities to pull them out of their circumstances to see the greater good in the world. 

I watched the K-8 school slowly expand to high school adding one grade level at a time until this year there will be high school graduates.  I’m so proud of the progress. I’ve worked with colleagues that stretched their own imaginations and abilities to create tools to build successful students.  We cried together over losses, laughed with each other in joyful celebrations, and dug up old mindsets to create growth.

It has been a wild and rewarding ride.

All of those good things were good.  But it didn’t leave time or energy to write.  The miasma of activity circled me and pulled me higher and higher into its grasp.  There was no time to think, no time to play, no time for relationship building outside of the work. 

It’s what was needed.  It’s what was required.  It’s what was important.  Until it was done.

Now, in the stillness after the rush, I hear the words pulling me to paper again.  Perhaps this is the season of my life where writing will give back enough to keep body and soul together.  Or, perhaps, this is the season when the words will bring rest to my exhausted spirit. 

A good cup of tea with a dollop of honey and a splash of lemon will soothe my voice and help me to speak again.  A good hour of prayer with a dollop of reading and a splash of music will soothe my soul and help me to find words again.

Have you lost your voice?  I recommend you take some time out to rest, refresh and renew in the One who gives life. 

God Knew

My camera roll is a study of contrasts.  Google reminded me recently of five years of memories.  I studied the layers pealed back to see who appeared in the shots, where I was and why it seemed important to document for the lady who clicked the button.

Five years ago today I was journaling my every day Moscow life.  This was my second full school year in Moscow.  My neighborhood was familiar, comfortable.  I recognized people and knew my way around enough to not be lost.  One photo is the landmark church that guarded the street where home could be found.  But the photo was not a creative “shot,” just the view through the fence.  It was the view that you see when walking home from the grocery store.  I feel the bags pulling on my hands, my feet are sore, the wind has blown my hair into my face.  No glamour, just common. 

The next photo is a tired, solid apartment building.  The brown wood of the balcony has seen better days.  Weary lilac bushes are seen trying to push out leaves to welcome spring.  The sidewalk is littered with leaves and small bits of trash.   Another common view of my Moscow home. 

Four years ago today I see a myriad of shots from a long Moscow walk.  Instantly I am transported to that day.   The sun shone cooly and teased us with its brightness.  Thankful for a warm jacket and hot coffee, we walked.  I was accompanied by a young historian full of knowledge who practiced his English while I absorbed the culture of this grand city.  The photos are full of contrast.  A sleek, modern mirror building reflecting an ancient church.  An Easter Village sprung up in the court of the Bolshoi Theater. 

At the end of our walk, outside of a metro station named for the Revolution of 1905, beneath a statue honoring Communism, we happened upon a parade of Russian military tanks and soldiers walking with guns drawn.

My friend took a sip of his coffee and said with a smile, “So, when you were  in your 20s like I am now, did you ever imagine you would be standing here?” 

When I was 25, the Berlin Wall still stood staunchly in place.  I was someone who hardly left the South Side of Milwaukee, let alone would stand calmly watching a Russian military parade in the middle of Moscow. 

But God knew.

Three years ago I was in Thorp, Wisconsin, at a picnic table in a little park surrounded by my grandbabies.  Hardly able to keep them in the frame, they are running, playing, laughing at the day.  Such a contrast of the last year’s location!  American freedom exemplified.  Had you asked me at 16 would I be so richly blessed with my family, I could not have imagined it.

But God knew.

Two years ago my worlds collided.  Friends in Moscow took a picture which was tweaked and printed by friends in Eau Claire who brought it to me in Milwaukee.  I see my reflection in the photo of the photo.  I am reminded how small the world is.  Had you asked me if I expected my love of history to bond two artists across the continents, I would not have expected it.

But God knew.

One year ago the photos are filled with ministry at church and work.  It’s funny, in a way, that my work would become more ministry than profession and my volunteer time would be the same.  I see the people that I work with at church in the photo and the kids that we get to bless together.  I’m a facilitator that makes sure the teachers have the tools and training they need to be successful.  I love it.  I get to enjoy the students, but also enjoy helping brilliant young teachers thrive.  My profession is a teacher, but it’s more ministry than teaching.  My students come from almost the same starting place that I did.  I see myself in them so often.  It’s my privilege to help them academically in a place where their spiritual growth is just as important. 

The church photo shows a room full of listening hearts lifted up to hear an encouragement, a puppet speaking from a tree, several teachers filling the air with their love and compassion.  I can feel the joy of the place. 

In the second photo there is a line of young artists, fresh faced, innocent smiles, best and brightest. They are together enjoying a taste of victory.  They have well represented our school by their excellent work and character. 

I remember being the age they are.  When the world was full of possibilities and I began to stretch my creative wings.  I dreamed of being a writer at a famous magazine or newspaper.  I would travel the world and write, write, write!  Or maybe I would be a teacher. I would go to a foreign country and teach impoverished children how to read and write.  Or maybe I would be a social worker and help foster kids and kids in jail get out of the life of drugs and alcohol and hurt. I would have a big family with lots of kids and extra rooms for more kids so they would never feel left out.  

Then life happened and all those dreams lay beneath the will to survive.  Hard years happened.  If I were smarter I may have avoided some of those hardships.  If I had more direction I may have not become so scarred and calloused.  Had you told me there would be a time when my life would become enveloped in helping kids in various ways, I would not have believed you.

But God knew. 

Now I see in these pictures the reflection younger me couldn’t imagine.  I see healing, confidence, strength, love, compassion and strength.  I did go and do all those things I dreamed of.  I have filled my life with people in every place who occupy spaces in my heart and, I hope, I in theirs.  

I love to look through my camera roll.  It reminds me where I’ve been and where I’m going.

This Thing About Families

This thing about families.  It’s not about a name or a place to live or a status to have.

It’s about belonging.

It’s about walking into a crowded room and knowing where to sit and who to talk to.  It’s about not ever knocking on a door, but always just walking in.  It’s about being sick and knowing someone will go to the store for you, make soup for you, pray for you.  It’s about reaching out and finding a welcome hand.  It’s about being inclusive, never excluded.

It’s a hard thing for me to understand.

It’s not about time spent or even calls made.  Although those are nice and welcome.  But family doesn’t count the days between, only the hours with.  Family thinks about you when you’re not there and talks about you like you’re just around the corner.  “My sister always loves….,” “My brother always says ….”

Family knows you – really – and accepts you anyway.

Your fears are their opportunities to be a hero.  Your joy is a reason for them to laugh.  Your tears are a reason for the to problem solve or share or fight.


It’s holiday times and create a memory times and everyday times when you just need to be alone with people who know you.  Take the mask off, lay down the shield.  It’s refreshing and resting and sometimes even arguing, but knowing once you blow your stack and spill the beans and all the volcanic ash is everywhere but in, you still have someone to grab a cup of coffee with and a smile to share.  Family helps you find the boundaries.

I have seen it often – but not always – at church.  I have known it with certain friends, but not all.  I’ve even felt it in some workplaces.  Not all, but some.  It’s like you’re covered, held, welcomed.

Most people silently push away, exclude, separate from others.  


Family pulls you in.  


It’s not culture, color, religion, location, time that builds family.  I have family in Africa, Asia, America.  I’ve known some for all my life, some share my DNA.  They represent many religions, many socio-economic levels.  Some are very wealthy.  Some are very far below the poverty line.

Some share pages and pages of history with me.  Some only a few paragraphs.

I’m mostly afraid of the family thing.  Afraid I am over-assuming my place. Afraid I am over-assuming their acceptance of me.  I stay back a little just in case.  So, if they reject me, no one will see.  I am cautious until I know for sure that if  I walk into a crowded room and I see family, I know where I belong.