After the bleakest times in human history, such as the Holocaust, lessons are learned that help future generations become braver, wiser and more resilient. How do I know? Because Anne Frank kept a diary, Viktor Frankl penned “Man’s Search for Meaning,” and Edith Eva Eger documented her insights in “The Choice: Embrace the Possible.”

In other words, because we write.

Writing is a supreme act of love. Imperfect people take the risk to share their most private thoughts in hopes that someone else might benefit. It is why this journey I am on as publisher of Exchange is so meaningful. In conversations with Exchange founders Bonnie and Roger Neugebauer, and Editor-in-Chief Sara Gilliam, we marvel together at the resilient and generous spirit of Exchange authors who advise, provoke, entertain, enlighten and inspire.

I found the writing in this edition especially heartening. Many times as I was reading the courageous leadership articles, a particular passage brought me to tears. Our profession is being tested, but the writers reassure me we are ready. Other generations met their challenges. We will meet ours.

Ann Pelo and Margie Carter, with their book, “From Teaching to Thinking,” have used writing to offer an opportunity for reimagining early childhood education. Now the pandemic, and the social justice issues we must confront, add a sense of urgency to that offer. What kind of world do we want for our children, they compel us to ask. Ann and Margie are embarking on a journey of hope in tackling this great question. Read their call to action on the previous page.

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My young cousin, teaching abroad and suddenly finding herself in quarantine alone, far from home, recently shared this excerpt from the work of a young poet. She said it gave her courage:

“We draw maps of each other’s pasts. Heartbreaks colored in black.

“Grief outlined in purple. The happiest times shaded yellow. 

“This is how we learn each other. We are so scared and brave. We are so terrified and willing.

“We rewrite the definition of brave and it is this: love again. love again. love again.”
—Fortesa Latifi

One night, looking for something to buck up my own courage, I rediscovered a piece by an unpublished writer: my grandfather. His life was a study in choosing love over fear. His mother died giving birth to his younger brother, so he left school in the eighth grade to watch the baby while his father worked. During that challenging time, then later as he struggled through the Great Depression, he wrote to make sense of his world. In the last years of his life, he wrote in hopes of leaving something of value to his family. I am grateful to have this from him, a description of how nature helped him cope with trauma:

“I stayed outside all summer and I think I fished every day. I suppose every generation has its sights and sounds to remember and make their hearts glad, and I know I do mine. For me it was to see an old chicken hawk sailing around in the sky, to watch my dog go chasing a rabbit that he never caught, to look down in a little pool of water and see every rock and minnow through the clear, clear water, to smell the cabbage cooking I’d grown myself. I’m writing this many years after that healing summer. I’m sure the same sights and sounds still exist in places if you could find them, but it has all changed in my old town. Now you can drive in an hour what it took two days to do in a covered wagon. Now filling stations and taverns and pizza parlors have replaced the wild places I explored. I hope nature won’t be lost from children’s lives in the future. I hope progress won’t make us forget. I think children will always need nature’s comfort and its message of goodness.”

And that is why we write.