It’s been ten days since my dad passed. There was no funeral. No obituary. No public eulogy. Just a hot day in late July—a day not unlike the ones he cherished. Since then, memories have begun to rise—unexpected and vivid—as locusts call between trees and the Michigan summer begins its slow shift. He loved this season. Not just August or any one part of it—he loved summer itself. The long light. The warm air. The subtle slowdown. But mostly, he loved summer because it gave him something he longed for all year long: relief. He was a schoolteacher for 28 years—elementary classrooms full of kids, and later, a school system that changed faster than he could keep up with. He went from a time when teachers could correct behavior and maintain order, to a time when the rules left him powerless and discouraged. He carried that weight quietly. But by the time June arrived, his shoulders would start to lower, and by July, he could breathe. Summer gave him room to be himself again. On days when the Tigers were playing, he’d settle into the screened-in porch at the back of our house with a bowl of vanilla ice cream. And sometimes—on days that felt a little extra special—he’d have a bowl of “orange ice,” a Wichterman family tradition passed down from his mother, whom I never met. But somehow, I knew her through the food she left behind. The recipe is simple: water, sugar, orange juice, lemon juice—no rind. We always liked it smooth. Frozen in a Pyrex dish and chipped away with a spoon. The clink of metal against glass still echoes in my memory like a soft bell marking sacred time. The Tigers played. The spoon clinked. The pool water splashed in the background. The porch held him like a secret. He raised four kids on a public-school salary. My mom stayed home and carried much of the daily weight, but when summer came, Dad showed up differently—softer, slower. He painted houses to bring in a little extra money. He worked in the garden. He didn’t swim in the above-ground pool out back, but we did, and he was always close by, content just to be near. And the heat? The heat never bothered him. He welcomed it like a friend. Looking back, I realize he practiced spiritual disciplines without ever naming them: stillness, silence, simplicity, gratitude. Not out of piety or pretense. Just out of posture. He didn’t chase after more. He didn’t hunger for recognition or status. He was content with a reliable Toyota, a working radio, a garden full of zucchini, and a freezer full of orange ice. But he did have dreams. He wanted to see the family home in Switzerland—a Swiss chalet that has stood for generations, nestled in the same village our name came from. He wanted to walk among the redwoods in California’s northern forests—those towering sentinels of silence, those places where you feel small in all the right ways. But he never made it. The trips were expensive. He was satisfied with what he had. And that’s what made him beautiful. But I carry those dreams now like promises. I will go. Not this year. Maybe not next. But someday. I’ll stand in that Swiss village, my feet on the same land as my ancestors, and I’ll whisper to my dad and grandpa, “We made it.” I’ll walk through those redwoods in Northern California, stretch my arms to the sky, and say, “They are as tall as we imagined.” Because mourning isn’t just sadness. It’s movement. It’s memory. It’s the honoring of unfinished hopes with the breath we still have. The day we buried him was late July. I drove my mom to the cemetery. No crowd. No speaker. No ceremony. Just two people in a car watching the quiet end of a long life. He didn’t want a show. He wanted people to go on living. My mom has been hard on herself in recent years—age does that to people. Strength fades, energy changes, and you start questioning whether you were enough. As we sat together, I didn’t want her to cry—I just wanted her to feel the freedom to express what she was feeling. To let it out instead of holding it in. I knew how much she loved him. I knew how heavy the years had been. But her generation didn’t give much space for that kind of expression. They were raised to carry pain quietly and move on quickly. Still, I looked at her and said, “You’ve always been a wonderful mother. You were there. I never felt like you weren’t.” I added, “You were an amazing wife. Dad had his quirks, and you stood by him for 55 years.” She looked out the window and said, “He could be difficult sometimes.” That was all. Not because she didn’t feel more, but because those feelings had been folded into a thousand quiet sacrifices across the decades. And maybe that simple sentence was all she had words for. That’s how we mourned that day: in honesty, in presence, in silence. Afterward, I dropped my mom off. I lingered at my childhood home for a short time, not quite ready to leave. On the drive home, I called my oldest sister to update her on the quiet moment we had shared. I remembered. I cried. I thanked God for the time I had with him. Not because it was enough—it never is—but because it was good. And because gratitude is one of the ways we hold on to what we can no longer touch. If You’re Mourning Quietly Too If your goodbye came without a service, without a headline—here are some ways to walk through grief that lives in the background: Let the memories rise naturally. Don’t force them. Let the citrus, the porch, the baseball game bring them. Repeat their rituals. Make the orange ice. Sit where they sat. Listen to what they loved. Don’t rush your grief. Whether it comes in tears or silence, let it come in its own time. Speak the unsaid. Say what they never heard. Say what you needed to say. Say it still. Live the dream they couldn’t. Not as a burden. But as an act of honor. Complete it with joy. Let the ordinary become sacred. A quiet porch. A clink of a spoon. A bowl of frozen sweetness. These things hold holy weight. My dad didn’t want a performance. He didn’t need applause. He just wanted peace. And in the end, he taught us how to find it—in simple joys, in sacred seasons, and in the call of locusts between the trees. A Quiet Life: Scripture and Reflection “Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands…” —1 Thessalonians 4:11, NIV In a culture where ambition is often equated with visibility, Paul’s instruction to the Thessalonians reorients our view of what it means to live well. The verse calls not for obscurity, but for rootedness—for a life grounded in steady, faithful presence. As the Preaching the Word Commentary explains, Paul dignifies the simplicity of ordinary work and daily life, honoring it as a reflection of peace with God. The Expository Commentary echoes this, noting that Paul urges believers toward contentment and spiritual maturity rather than restlessness or disruption. And as Calvin wrote, “A tranquil mind is the mother of wisdom.” My dad lived this verse without preaching it. He worked with his hands. He didn’t seek applause. He knew how to be still. And by his quiet life, he passed down a kind of wisdom I’m still uncovering. Final Words The world tells us to move on quickly, to sanitize our grief, to get back to productivity. But we are not machines. We are image-bearers, shaped by loss and love alike. If you're mourning—loudly or silently—take your time. Let the memories wash over you like heat in late July. Let the dreams remain alive in you. Let the porch hold your body the way it held his. And know that God meets us not just in victory, but in quiet, faithful presence. Grief may visit in silence, but it never returns void. It teaches, it softens, it prepares us to live more deeply, love more patiently, and remember more intentionally. Like orange ice on a hot day, it doesn't erase the heat. But it gives you something sweet to hold.

Lessons from the Field: Reflections on My Journey as a Counselor and Educator A Look Back: Was My Master's Degree Insufficient, or Was I Just Immature? Eighteen years of counseling and thirteen years of teaching have given me ample time to reflect on my journey. When I look back at my master's program, I wrestle with a lingering question: Was the program inadequate, or was I simply too immature to recognize what I needed at the time? The truth is, it was probably a balance of both. My master’s program was mildly clinical at best, and while I gained foundational knowledge, it did not prepare me for real-world application. Even in my practicum and internship, there were no significant case presentations, no video or audio recordings, and no supervisors sitting in on my sessions. I had no real way to gauge whether I was practicing effectively. After graduation, I started my career as a wraparound coordinator in Calhoun County, Michigan. Unlike traditional case managers, wraparound coordinators were required to have a master’s degree in counseling or social work because the role included psychological testing and direct therapeutic work. In many cases, I was the only therapist working with the family. My first five and a half years in the field were overwhelming. I felt unprepared and undertrained. My toolbox was empty, and I had to learn on the fly. I attended extra trainings, sought mentorship, and relied on trial and error to develop my skills. Now, nearly two decades into this field, I want to share the lessons I learned the hard way—lessons that graduate school never taught me but that experience, mistakes, and perseverance have drilled into me over time. Lesson 1: Some Professionals Are Faking It One of the biggest shocks early in my career was realizing that many professionals in the field were just making it up as they went along. After years of practice, research, and training, I now see that a large percentage of counselors lack deep clinical competence. Many therapists receive minimal supervision, don’t seek additional training, and fail to refine their skills beyond the bare minimum required for licensure. This realization was initially discouraging, but I quickly learned that it provided me with an opportunity: If I committed to learning, training, and seeking mentorship, I would surpass 75% of my colleagues. It became clear that those who genuinely dedicated themselves to humbly developing their craft—reading, attending specialized trainings, and seeking feedback—would naturally stand out in the field. Lesson 2: Good Intentions Do Not Equal Competence Some therapists deeply care about their clients but are not effective. Early in my career, I believed that a sincere desire to help people was the most important quality in a therapist. I was right in that it was (is) terribly important, but I soon realized that intention without skill could be harmful. I witnessed well-meaning therapists unknowingly reinforce unhealthy patterns, misinterpret symptoms, and provide interventions that lacked clinical backing. If I wanted to be truly effective, I needed to go beyond my desire to help and develop the knowledge and skill to actually facilitate change. Good intentions must be paired with internal spiritual development, competency, evidence-based practice, and a commitment to lifelong learning. Lesson 3: Your Internal Life Matters More Than Your Clinical Skill Skill deeply matters, but who you are internally matters more. It is easy to become so focused on developing clinical expertise that you neglect personal growth and spiritual discipline. I have had seasons in my career where I was technically competent, yet I felt emotionally drained and spiritually disconnected. In those times, my work suffered—not because I lacked skill, but because I lacked depth of my relationship with Jesus Christ. As a Christian, I have found that engaging in prayer, fasting, solitude, scripture study, biblical meditation, eating well, and physical exercise helps me maintain this relationship. I have also found that if my internal world is in chaos, I will not be able to offer clients the stability and clarity they need. Lesson 4: Humility is Essential (Even If You’re Good at What You Do) Even if you become highly skilled, you are not above humility. I worked in an agency where therapists fought over chairs, stole each other’s lunches, and treated minor inconveniences as major betrayals. The workplace environment often felt juvenile, and I was shocked at how professional adults could behave so immaturely. Through those experiences, I learned that true maturity is often revealed in how we handle conflict and how we treat our colleagues. I had to remind myself that even if I had worked harder, trained more, and gained more expertise than others, this gave me no reason to gloat. I had to practice humility, patience, and grace—not only for my clients but for my coworkers, and to honor Christ as well. Lesson 5: Find a Specialty When I was in my master’s program, the focus was on generalist training. By the time I reached my PhD, I knew I needed a specialty but wasn’t sure which one. At first, I felt pressured to figure out my niche quickly, but I realized that finding your specialty is a process. Over time, I discovered that I thrived in working with teenagers and trauma survivors. Specialization gave me: Greater competence More confidence Freedom to work with populations I genuinely enjoyed Choosing a specialty is not just about career advancement—it is about becoming more effective. When you focus on a specific area, you gain deeper insight, refine your skills, and ultimately provide better care. Lesson 6: Clients Are Responsible for Their Own Progress One of the hardest lessons I learned was that clients must take responsibility for their own healing. Early on, I took every client's lack of progress personally. I questioned whether I was doing enough or if I had failed them somehow. However, I realized that therapy is a partnership, and my role is to guide, not to carry the weight of their change. A client can have the best therapist in the world, but if they refuse to engage in the work, no amount of skill and care can force change. Therapy is only as effective as the effort the client is willing to put into it. My job is to build rapport and provide the best tools, insights, and interventions possible, but it is ultimately up to them to apply those insights. Lesson 7: Faith and Professionalism Can Coexist As a Christian, I view my counseling through the lens of my faith, but I have also learned that faith and professionalism are not mutually exclusive. I do not force my beliefs onto clients, but I also do not compromise my values. Ethically, my job is to help clients achieve their own goals in therapy. If my faith conflicts with a particular intervention, I have learned to navigate those situations with wisdom, discernment, and professionalism. I can provide compassionate care without endorsing behaviors or lifestyles that contradict my faith. Lesson 8: Find a Supervisor Who Matches Your Specialty Not all supervisors are equal. When I was working toward full licensure, I had supervisors who were competent but did not specialize in my area of interest. I realized that having a supervisor who aligns with your specialty is crucial for professional growth. It took me years to find mentors who truly understood the populations I wanted to work with. Once I did, my clinical skills and confidence skyrocketed. If you want to become an expert, find people who are already where you want to be and learn from them. Lesson 9: Call CPS or APS When in Doubt There were times early in my career when I hesitated to make reports to Child Protective Services (CPS) or Adult Protective Services (APS) because I wasn’t sure if what I observed was truly reportable. I have since learned that if you ever have to ask, it’s best to call and consult. These agencies are there to investigate concerns, not the therapist. When in doubt, report. It is better to make a report and have it deemed unnecessary than to ignore something that could lead to harm. Lesson 10: Your Work is Not Worth Sacrificing Your Family I have met therapists who work 50+ hours a week, seeing 30+ clients. They wear their exhaustion as a badge of honor. I used to work too much myself. But after years of overworking, I realized that my marriage, children, and personal well-being were suffering. No amount of career success is worth losing your family over. I had to set boundaries, limit client hours, and prioritize my personal life. Therapy is important, but my primary ministry is my home. This is almost always an ongoing struggle in western culture. Lesson 11: Have a Transition Ritual to Leave Work at Work Early in my career, I found it difficult to disconnect from emotionally heavy cases. I would bring the stress of work home, and it impacted my personal life. One of the best things I ever did was establish a transition ritual. Before entering my home, I would take a moment to mentally leave work outside. Whether it was placing my hand on a tree, sitting in my car for a few minutes, or praying before walking inside, I found that symbolically leaving work behind helped me be more present with my family. Lesson 12: You Do Not Have to Experience Something to Help Someone Through It There is a common misconception that you must have personal experience with an issue to effectively help a client with it. This is simply not true. I have never experienced addiction or been through a divorce, yet I have successfully counseled people struggling with these issues. Empathy, education, and skill matter as much as shared experience. While personal experience can provide insight, it is not a requirement for effective therapy. Lesson 13: Seeing 30 Clients a Week Will Burn You Out Some agencies push therapists to take on heavy caseloads. I have known colleagues who saw 30+ clients per week, and I watched them burn out quickly. The most sustainable number of clients is between 20-25 per week, allowing time for notes, supervision, training, and self-care. If you find yourself seeing too many clients, advocate for yourself, set limits, and prioritize your long-term sustainability. A burned-out therapist is not an effective therapist. Lesson 14: You Will Have Bad Sessions, and That is Okay No matter how skilled you are, some sessions will not go well. Clients may be disengaged, you might feel off, or an intervention might not land the way you expected. Early in my career, I would beat myself up over bad sessions. Now, I recognize that one off session does not define me as a therapist. Learn from it, improve, and move forward. Even the best therapists have difficult days. Lesson 15: The Key to Longevity is Humility and Learning Looking back on my career, the most important qualities that have kept me growing are humility and a willingness to learn. I have met seasoned therapists who refuse to take feedback, seek consultation, or engage in professional growth—and it shows. The best therapists are lifelong learners. They seek feedback, stay updated on research, and constantly refine their skills. If you want to thrive in this field, stay humble, stay teachable, and never assume you have arrived. Conclusion Reflecting on nearly two decades in this field, I realize that no single degree, training, or supervisor could have fully prepared me for the realities of counseling. Growth comes from humility, perseverance, and a willingness to learn from both failures and successes. If I could offer one final piece of advice to new counselors, it would be this: Commit yourself to lifelong learning, remain humble, and prioritize the internal work necessary to sustain you in this demanding field. If you do this, you will not only survive but thrive—and, most importantly, you will provide the best care possible to those who need it. AI Disclosure This blog post was created with the assistance of AI technology to ensure accuracy, thorough research, and clarity. While the content reflects a blend of machine efficiency and human oversight, readers are encouraged to consult professional ethical guidelines and faith-based counseling resources for further guidance.