Play Poem to Ponder

I love language, and I am drawn to those who love its slippery, sinuous beauty. Words are tricky things. Gregory Rabassa says that words acquire meanings as barnacles, each person associating cultural and personal experience to the meaning-weight of a word. There is a word's meaning, but there is also the inherent music of language. Long tones of vowel punctuated with bursts of consonants create a rhythm. Good story tellers know this. They write for the meaning, but they also write for how the words and phrases sound, how they taste when you say them, how much stretch they have for the emotion you bring to them.

As part of my lingual love, I write poetry. I didn't try to. Some days, I don't want to. I've never taken a poetry class and, for all I know, may do everything wrong.

When I write a poem, it's usually out of the overflow of an emotion or direction of thought. Once a week I have the bliss of several hours of solitude. Sometimes when that time goes well, I can respond in some way to what I've thought or written in my journal. More often than not, when the muses are kind, the response takes the form of blank verse (verse with no inherent rhyme or defined meter).

This last week I started my solitude mulling a phrase that occurred to me while listening to my children get lost in their play. "There is no idea in childhood but dreaming makes it so."

I liked the rhythm and consideration in it. In just a few minutes with a whiteboard, I mused some more on our loss of play as adults and what a fall I consider it to be:

There is no hope in childhood
but dreaming makes it so
Reality just a lean away
from dragon wonderlust
Grown ups learn to factor
      & figure
against the odds of ideal
In losing child-like thought
Enchantment's gates rust
And all-uncomprehending,
we beggar our trust

I leave it for you to ponder as well.

Against my Will

My children are awake shortly after 6:00 a.m. For the second day in a row. Within 5 minutes of rising from bed, their brains, tongues, and energy are operating at full speed. Mine are most definitely not. I will therefore conclude that rising early yesterday morning AND staying up late in pursuit of solitude was a spectacularly wrong choice.

Few are willing to discuss this topic. It causes much marital strife and can wreak havoc on parent/child relationships. I am referencing the early bird vs. night owl disparity. I married an early bird who is VERY early. My dad made a habit for years of being up at 5, and I was awed. I don't have a response for getting up at 4 or 4:30. On purpose. Consistently. I am of the belief that analog clocks only have 4's so we can see when it's 4 p.m.

In this season of life, I appear to be the sole night owl in the family. This is problematic. There are mornings such as today when I feel dragged into early bird-dom against my will. But when I consider that phrase, "against my will", I have to sigh.

My strong will has led me many places, but the best turns in my path have happened against or in spite of my will. I was bound and determined to be ONLY friends with my now-husband for six months after we met. I was sure we would have kids after at least 5 years of marriage, not just 3 like we had. I vowed I wouldn't move back home. and on and on and on. I am thankful and humbled by how much wealth and growth each of these has added to my life, and I wouldn't wish a single one done differently.

Perhaps the crux of this morning is realizing that choosing to believe Jesus is the son of God, choosing to act as if the gospel is true, means much of LIFE will now be against my will. My will prefers ease, convenience, what's familiar, predictable, and comfortable. I do not default to choices that require self-sacrifice. I do not easily choose another over myself--especially when my brain isn't fully awake and all filters are missing. (Do any other night owls spend much of their morning with their mouths clamped shut, Abba?)

Against my will can be the best thing that ever happened to me.

I'm willing for this morning to be an instance of that, but I still don't think early birds are God's gift or anything. (See? Still no filters.)

Gardening

I love gardening. In our last house, I had several roses that I spent time with and made much of. When we bought this house, I had a curious (though compliant) one-year-old. By the time he was 3, I had a new baby. I've been able to have annuals or veggies here and there, but nothing too substantial. When I dream, it's of time and space (and budget) enough to have a true backyard (and front and side and window and indoor) garden.

Yesterday was part of a promise to myself. With small children in tow, I went to a local nursery. I bought their last climbing rose and some fiesta red impatiens, paid the asked for amount (remembered why not every one is willing to pay for roses; ay-yi-yi), and came home. Last night I got to have dirt therapy, for the first time in a LONG time. My rose is ensconced in the back yard, centered on a panel of the fence. As it grows, my aim is to train the canes to run along the fence. Beauty for metal, instead of ashes.

I held off for so long on getting even a single rose because I'd really like to be somewhere else. This is the longest I've lived anywhere since I was a kid, and I'm getting restless. The comparative life in our world goes down so easily: I'd like a house with this, I want a yard like X has, I'd prefer to live in such-and-such state or with view Y. It's rare to hear someone say they want what they already have.

When a gardener plans to transplant something, he/she hardens off the plant. They give it less water, dig up roots and surrounding dirt to ball it in burlap (for larger plants), and wait for it to be less dependent on its surroundings. I finally realized that NOT planting much here was my way of hardening myself off. See, God? No roots. Few attachments. I'm ready to go!

The truth is that no rose or lack of one will have more effect on "making" God do anything. I'm only depriving myself of the joy of gardening in the meantime--and I continue longer in the mistaken belief that my actions have any ability to compel the God of the universe into anything, as though I could back him into a corner. If a rose garden I love is here, the One who knows and loves me is perfectly capable of moving me wherever I need to be--and having a rose garden waiting for me when I get there.

I don't want my gardening to wait until some other place, so yesterday I bought a rose. I've already been out this morning to check on it, reminded of God's care of so many 'gardens' himself.

Ha. It's Already Done.

The morning of my wedding, I was awake at 4 a.m. Dreams were not friendly places, and I left bed and went downstairs. I wrote in my journal, and I ate. I had heard enough stories of brides who never got to eat on their wedding day, and I knew friends and family would be asking me, so I ate a bowl of cereal. Even wrote, "I've eaten, so leave me alone!" in the journal entry.

Welcome to the glorious brokenness that is me. Yes, I do right things with wrong motivation. All the time.

I'd like to think I've learned and grown some in the intervening decade or more, but some inner personality bents remain. In a season of life where chaos reigns and my time is more often someone else's rather than mine, I've been fighting for space to write. (My biggest fights, I readily admit, are with myself; writing is not convenient, it's not restful, and only rarely does it feel 'good' while in process or after it's done.) One practical line I could draw was to tell myself I couldn't check facebook before I wrote a blog post for the day.

I hate that I made this rule for myself.

My husband's in bed, my kids are asleep, and it's 'my' time to do restful things before calling it a night. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was after midnight. "If you write a blog post NOW," my creative inner child suggested, "you'd meet the requirement ahead of time. Tomorrow would be free!" (I don't know how my mother avoided strangling me in my younger years. Dealing with this mindset, a 'creativity' toward circumventing rules, is exhausting.)

At the heart of it all, it doesn't matter whether I write a blog entry that rivals a Shakespeare sonnet or a bunch of gibberish on a page. The point is that I believe God gave me a gift that expresses itself through words and phrases. I didn't like practicing for piano lessons all those years ago, and I don't like writing when I make myself write. The time now isn't about production, but about training and reliance. My hours at the piano mean I can close my eyes and still know where my hands are on the keys. Writing regularly means knowing my tools--words, spelling, verbal painting, listening to an inner song--so well that when something DOES need to be said through me... I'll be ready.

My blog entry for May 15th is done, yes; what matters more is I took time in this 24-hour block of time to work on learning my instrument. Perhaps in time my heart will even sing in tune.

If You Don't Like the Weather, Wait 5 Minutes: It'll Change

Never has this adage about Midwestern weather been more appropriate.

Two weeks ago, there was snow coating my front lawn--SNOW. Today, less than 2 weeks later, we surpassed 100 degrees.

I may get whiplash.

There's a glimpse of God in this, though. One day my inner life feels freezing, every effort focused on trying not to snap my family members' heads off with my words. The next day (or two weeks later) I'm in a refining furnace as I deal with consequences of choices or just the circumstances of life. (An unforeseen accident that shattered my mate's rear windshield was on today's list.)

As each new fire or ice threat looms large, I get caught up in it. Sometimes I remember there's life beyond the struggle; sometimes I don't.

I wish I did a better job of remembering weather patterns. We had snow in May, sure, but usually the weather issue of the month is tornadoes. I've lived in the Midwest my entire life; I know when tornadoes could come, and I know what things signal their approach. I know what I can (and can't) do to brace for them. I don't worry that something I've done has somehow upset the balance of the summer and caused the tornado.

So why do I do that for spiritual things? Certain trials come because it's that season of life. Raising kids means a grad-level course in patience, mercy, wisdom, and self-control. Some trials come because of who I am (like tornadoes happening most often in Tornado Alley). The enemy of my soul knows where the chinks in my armor are; attacks via thought or perception often come in areas where I'm insecure.

Storms come and go; they rarely last for weeks. My days of faith and seasons of doubt will ebb and flow; the grace I possess in any and every situation will sometimes shine and sometimes fail. That's OK.

I want to remember that if I don't like my spiritual weather, I can wait 5 minutes; it'll change.

Re-wired

My husband knows, more than most, that being a mom is hard work. I could have fallen on the floor and kissed his feet the day he told me he realized that unless I had someone fill in for me during the minutes I had to myself (for a day out, weekend away, etc.), vacation time was not restful for me.

There are levels of awareness when it comes to understanding a full-on, no-limits role. I had no clue what being a full-time mom meant until I was one; they don't give you fine print until after you're on the front lines. It's jarring to realize just how much the role will ask of you. It will often feel like more than you have to give.

The man I married is fully aware of how much effort it can take to run errands with multiple active small children. He knows that preparing a meal and timing things isn't easy. The level he doesn't quite get is that every decision takes me that kind of calculation.

He loves to grill, and I love the smell of charcoal (something primal, there), so he prepped a meat dish for supper tonight. I crashed hard and was deeply asleep when he came to me ~15 minutes before our usual supper time to ask what else we could have to eat. He had mentioned running an errand in town with both kids, and it became apparent that it didn't happen while I was sleeping. As we talked further, the collision of everything (my brain ramping up, supper not decided let alone started, errand not run with husband remarking it would take at least half an hour, and usual kids' bedtimes fast approaching) meant I couldn't restrain the "how could you not understand this ahead of time?" expression on my face.

It's easy to forget how long it takes to learn certain things and learn what options just aren't there. Moms learn it in the trenches, and you don't understand the extent of it until you have to do it every day with no end date. If I don't have a supper plan by 5, my "fast" options are mac & cheese from a box (assuming I have all ingredients), reheated leftovers, or some quick-heat frozen food option. If frozen pizzas aren't in the house, I cannot get some from the store, preheat the oven, cook them, and be ready to eat at 6. It won't happen. If I have an errand to run with the kids and I only have 15 minutes, I'm going alone or I'm not going. Period. --And I only have two kids! I am certain these sorts of plans change drastically for more kids.

I never appreciated all my mom did until I was trying to do her job. John Piper said that motherhood is the big leagues of self-sacrifice, and it is. No personal boundary or preference gets to remain intact, no physical indignity is off the table. We're not saints, and yes, there are times we resent being needed, when we internally whimper, "Why do I have to be the go-to person on this?" So many, many moms follow that whimpered thought with getting up to go do it anyway, though. It's our job.

My mom has been my first teacher, cheerleader, confessor, solace, authority, entertainer, listener, friend, and confidante. The moms in our lives are often our first experience of the fierce tenderness that characterizes God. A line from the movie "The Crow" says that 'Mother' is the name for God on the lips of every child. On the eve of Mother's Day, now a mother myself, I am thankful. My mom did more than just accommodate me in her life, more than rearrange her world. I finally understand that she was willing to rewire her neural circuitry, to change the way she viewed everything and chose anything, for me. Because of her, I have been willing to do the same for my kids. Thank you, Mom.

Wrestling with Alienation

I woke this morning thinking of immigration. I don't remember how or why.

When I grew up my small hometown was a textbook example of homogenized culture. If there was an ethnicity other than northern European, it was likely the semester's transfer student.

Life here has changed, and I am thankful for that. I am glad that my kids can grow up hearing a different language than their own and learn about different cultures and families.

Integration, like any change, comes with a cost. It is common to hear frustration over change, especially if the speaker LIKED where they were and didn't see a need for change. There are many in my area who are conservative Christians. Many exchanges about the topic of immigration include Romans 13:1 – Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God. This verse is often cited in support of ejecting every immigrant who is here illegally back to their home country. I used to be more swayed by this argument than I am now. When I woke this morning, I was thinking of the reasons my thoughts have changed.

1. All verses are to be taken in context. In Romans 13, Paul is writing to a house church of Christians in the city of Rome. He wrote to encourage them that in a godless setting like Rome, even the emperors sat on the throne by God's permission. Not all rulers are good. Paul does not tell the house church each rule given by the government is on a par with Scripture and should be obeyed and enforced as such. Roman law required prayer to the emperor as God. I cannot make myself believe Paul is saying to do this; he tells the church to recognize that they are subject to these authorities and to behave in a responsible manner toward those authorities.
2. The words immediately before this are full of calls to sacrifice. Twenty-one verses contain phrases of (in the Message rendering), “practice playing second fiddle”, “don't quit in hard times”, “love from the center of who you are; don't fake it”, “don't hit back”, “discover beauty in everyone”, “don't insist on getting even”. The last two verses are this (in the NIV): “If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head. Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” After challenging his readers for twenty verses to live a life of self-sacrifice and overcome evil with good, I cannot use Paul's words about authority (addressed to MY response to authority) as iron-clad reason for someone's else's position with authority to exempt my personal sacrifice.
3. The parable of the tax collector and pharisee is notable to me because reading it is so likely to prompt the internal thought, “Thank you that I'm not like the Pharisee, God!” – which is EXACTLY the Pharisee's attitude toward the tax collector. The parable of the Good Samaritan shows me two examples of people who followed the law and failed, and someone who set aside what was expected to see the person in front of him. Jesus held up the Samaritan, not the priest or Levite, as the example of how to live. Using Romans 13:1 as the reason I don't have to pay a cost feels uncomfortably like following a law so I don't have to change.
4. Romans 13:1 also needs to be held along the forty-seven verses from the Pentateuch alone using the word 'alien' that are commandments on how to live. (I didn't even look at the verses for 'aliens', 'alien's', 'stranger', 'foreigner', or 'neighbor'!) Laws are to be the same, whether for alien or native-born. Harvest gatherings are to be left on purpose for the alien. We are called to remember times in our own lives when we have been the stranger, the alien, and reach out to others. If I'm operating from a law standpoint, reading “[God] defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the alien, giving him food and clothing” in Deuteronomy packs a wallop of a punch. There's no qualification of the alien following all of God's law for Israel before God gives him food and clothing or shows him love. Why is it so easy to look past all of these verses to lean on the one that means I get to do nothing?
5. The ultimate in selfish motive is revealed in me when my main reason (immigrants aren't obeying the law and shouldn't be here, so I don't have to sacrifice for them) is threatened. Immigration reform is gaining momentum. I am appalled by how many who claim to be in support of law fight SO hard to prevent the law being changed. The arguments are there (loss of jobs, increase in benefits cost, no room/resources for more), but the core issue is all the same: Because I don't want to give up something that's been mine for someone else.

There are other things I've learned (being here illegally is the same class of violation as speeding while driving, which I do so often; realizing I've never asked an immigrant if they're here legally or not before I wrestle with how to respond; being a mom and asking how I'd feel to be taken from my children because I was 10 when I came to the country but they were born here). There is a wealth of national history on this issue. There was a political party oriented around not wanting to ask about immigration status. Asian nationals were barred from entering the U.S. at all for decades. African-Americans had to register, be subject to whites in degrading ways, and were considered by someone as revered as Thomas Jefferson to be less than human. Irish and Italians were considered the dregs of society in the early 1900s. Eastern Europeans were shunned in the 1910s and 1920s as being "less-thans". Civil rights in the 1960s was another years'-long battle about worth and value between different groups of people. This is not new. I think there will come a day when our "us" vs. "them" seems as odd to my descendants as my ancestors' divisions seem to me.

In order to change, I have to be willing to acknowledge that my heart has been wrong. This is hard to do, but necessary. I want to look for God and see who he is, not who I want him to be.

Truth Performing

Last night, we flipped through TED Talks on Netflix and chose to watch one about Lie Spotting. Pamela Meyers spoke to an international audience about our deep ambivalence toward the truth. Some of the statistics she cited were staggering:

- For married couples, we lie to our spouse 1 out of every 10 encounters.

- For unmarried couples, we lie 1 out of every 3 encounters.

- We are more likely to lie to strangers than we are to co-workers.

- Men lie more about themselves.

- Women lie more about other people or to protect other people.

One study found that over a one-week period, lies were detected in
- 37% of phone calls
- 27 % of face to face meetings
- 21% of IM chats
-14% of email

Watching her speak, both of us were riveted. I'm interested in reading her book to understand more. When the speech was over (and the obscenely-loud end noise of the TED series had sounded its shock wave), we talked for many minutes.

I consider myself a truth-teller. I am passionate about truth. I try to be honest, even in casual settings like a "How are you doing?" query.

Hearing Meyers made me look at myself in a new light.

I learned early on in school that simply being me was likely to bring stares. Performing on purpose to solicit attention didn't bother me as much as getting attention by just being me. I investigated my empathy through trying on different moods, personae, and mindsets like they were new skins.

As I got older, I got better at shaping 'me' instead of being me. Even today, I restrain or reshape opinions, thoughts, and actions based on how I read any given 'audience'. -Not all of this is bad, mind you; courtesy and self-control are necessary to function in community! It only becomes a problem when I don't have places to simply be myself instead of thinking about what form 'me' should take.

I do think I'm passionate about truth. I think it is more accurate to say I try to figure out how much truth (sometimes very little) and what shape will fit in a given situation: a truth performer rather than a truth teller.

Success as a Habit of Grace

Years ago, my husband and I talked about what was necessary for success. Whether it's about cooking, fixing a car, painting a masterpiece, exercising patience, or mowing a lawn, there are elements they hold in common. I need knowledge, skills, time, and consistent choices in line with a desire.

There is another element, one my husband said was essential: you have to be willing to screw it up beyond all recognition.

I agree with him.

It is possible to learn something, even become good at it, without failing. Mastery of anything, though, requires a willingness to experiment, to fail spectacularly. True genius and genius of expression requires that I have grace for myself. Without the option of mistakes, the skill becomes about effort and control: limiting my expression instead of freeing it. Failing is a chance to learn new things. Failure is not a final judgment on my abilities. -If I make the same mistake over and over, I need to do a better job of learning. A bird that falls from the nest is not barred from flying; a bird that cannot fly finds alternatives (swimming or running, perhaps).

Today I began a new aspect of writing. I'm excited about it, but cautious, since I haven't done it before. Only time will tell if my gifts are a good match for this need. In the meantime, I'm reminding myself that success isn't about perfection or control. Success is about willing to fail.

Success is about grace.

Confounded by Complexity

So many choices seem easy, until I think about them.

Do I intervene in my child's disagreement with that kid on the playground? Yes!
But... I don't want to handicap him.
But the adversary is an older kid, so my kid might not be heard unless I'm present.
But I want him to learn to fight his own battles.
And on and on and on, until I'm stuck in so many 'good reasons' that picking either option seems like I'm ignoring the good points of the other option.

I've been told that the devil loves complexity. Christianity is simple, as in, "Love your neighbor." -Not easy, mind you, but simple. The truth so often sounds like the speaker is being a child, and the deepest answers sound like they deserve a "no duh" response. It's when we start thinking and analyzing, over-thinking and over-analyzing, that we become stuck. Good intention dwindles in fear or indecision.

I re-read the parable of the Good Samaritan recently, in Kenneth Bailey's book Jesus Through Middle-Eastern Eyes. Bailey lived and taught in the Middle East for 60 years, and I appreciate learning the cultural threads that add such depth and richness.

In the Good Samaritan, I used to think the priest and the Levite just couldn't be bothered by the inconvenience. This conclusion is too blunt. The priest was headed downhill from Jerusalem to Jericho, likely after serving two weeks at the temple. Jewish law required that he help a fellow Jew who was injured. Since the man was beaten (Bailey says bandits in the Middle East usually only beat a victim if the victim resists, so the man was likely unconscious), the priest didn't know if he was dead. Since the man was stripped, the priest didn't know if the man was Jewish, Greek, Syrian, or some other foreigner. If the priest touched a dead body or a foreigner, he would be unclean. He would receive no payment in tithes (nor would his family) until his cleansing was completed. If the priest tried to serve and was suspected of being unclean, it had happened before that a priest was dragged outside the temple and stoned. If the priest got this wrong, he faced the possibility of death. Rather than open a can of worms, the priest pretended not to see the victim and walked on.

The Levites were servants to the priests, kind of like assistants. Bailey says it's likely the Levite would have known the priest was ahead of him on the road, and may even have been that particular priest's assistant. What does the Levite do? He knows the priest walked past without helping. If the Levite helps, he is criticizing the priest's understanding of the law. The Levite is then elevating his understanding above the priest's--a huge insult. The Levite, too, decides to walk past.

We see complexity and foresee difficulties or hardship, so we do nothing. The Samaritan came down the same road and chose to help, despite complexity he faced, too. In today's terms, it's as if an undocumented immigrant saw an injured border patrol guard and carried the guard to a hospital for care. After staying all night with the injured patient, the Samaritan gives the innkeeper enough cash to cover several days, then pledges himself for any other expenses, too. Despite all that might have happened to the Samaritan, he helped. He saw a need, knew he was able to meet that need, and did so.

So often I'm confounded by what I think is complexity, when in fact I'm caught up in my convenience.

Lost

I had a wonderful evening Friday night and blissful morning Saturday (see Saturday's blog entry). Sunday morning I realized I left my garnet necklace at the motel. It isn't tremendously valuable in the money sense, but it was a Valentine's Day gift years ago from my husband; it's valuable to me.

I tried calling the motel, but got no answer at the desk and no answering machine, either.

I forgot all about the necklace during the rest of Sunday and all day Monday. (Every other mom is now nodding her head in sympathy.)

The psalmist writes about lying awake in bed during the watches of the night, thinking over things, and I understand that. When I woke early this morning, the necklace came back to mind. While pondering it--ok, obsessing--I found a new layer of dross buried deep inside me.

In the last week, 'things' have been in the forefront of my mind. A lot. I dislike my near paranoia for losing track of things. Whether loaned out to someone, lost in a forgotten location, or heedlessly pitched because I wasn't paying attention, I hate losing things. For a recovering pharisee with a gift for administration and organizing AND a weakness for over-analyzing, such loss isn't brushed off. "What's wrong with me?!" "How could I possibly have lost track of that?" "Didn't I think to keep an eye on that/take care of that/make sure it was somewhere in the bag?"

My memory unhelpfully called up the other things I've lost over the years in hotels: the silk pajamas from college that I loved, forgotten on the hook behind a bathroom door and impossible to replace; the dress I found after hours of systematic hunting for style, fabric, color, price--I wore it twice, then accidentally left it in a motel room after a friend's wedding. What galls me most about this one was that I didn't notice I'd left it until THREE MONTHS LATER. I was appalled at my mind lapse, lack of concentration, and (in a tiny way) that I apparently had so few occasions calling for a dress.

I say I want a right attitude toward things, but when I look back at these times, I WAS treating them as things. I didn't obsess about them or make them a priority. Where I've run off the rails is when I realize I treated it as a thing and it's gone. I don't think I'm mad about being careless as much as my pride smarts that I can be very absent-minded at times.

Perhaps my problem isn't my attitude toward things, but my attitude toward my imperfection. It's OK to mourn the loss of something special, but I can also tell myself the truth: that the sun will continue rising and setting whether I get my necklace back or not.

But oh, how my heart still hopes I can find the necklace.

Discovering Secrets

This morning I learned my two children were planning to make juice this afternoon.

Not just any juice: George Juice.

Thank you, PBS and the makers of Curious George...

I learned in a back-hand way that my kids intended to combine red fruits and veggies ("And try a piece of raw fish as the secret ingredient!" said my daughter) to copy the juice George makes in one episode.

I said, "Mmm-hmm." I asked if they knew how much the fruits/veggies cost. I asked if they knew what 'in season' meant. I asked if they were intending to pay the cost for the ingredients. Answers to all of these questions were "no". (Daughter told me at this point that SHE was only going to make pretend juice.)

The cost really isn't that bad for the ingredients, but my inner revolt is in the matter-of-fact assumption that I will just fall in line with what they've decided. Especially when that decision takes time, prep work (whole watermelon + juicer = bad juju) and energy. Not to mention clean-up. I wish George's juice wasn't red. It stains more than most colors.

Just as I start to simmer about their assumption and imposition on me, I remember a 2nd-grader telling her mom excitedly about the crafty valentines she was going to make for her classmates. I didn't ask my mom to make them, but I did have a Jeeves attitude about getting the supplies (as in, "Supplies of this sort by this afternoon, Jeeves!"). She got them for me. It wasn't until this past year that I realized how rude my attitude must have been--but she still got them for me.

Then I think of all the times I race down my path and feel irked that God isn't racing along with me. I expect him to foot the bill, arrange the details, and facilitate my ideas. There are times he says no, and times (so many times!) he gives me grace.

Parenting is often two aims in tension. Here, I don't want to fall in the ditch of always saying 'no' because it inconveniences me; I love and cherish my kids' confident trust that I am interested in what excites them. I also value their ready belief that I will help them and provide what's needed. At the same time, I don't want to fall in the opposite ditch and always fulfill each whim. I don't want to leave them blind to what their choices can cost others.

We probably will make the juice later today. My son pointed out we already have a few of the ingredients, and I do love experimenting with them as we learn different things. Abba God, please help me see when my listening turns to assuming you'll jump on board with me.

Gifted

If I could visit my 15 years' younger self and relate that my all-time favorite wish list header is 20 hours of solitude, past me would be baffled.

Fifteen years ago, I journaled about loneliness, wanting to be known and needed, wanting someone else to care when I walked through the door. Fifteen years ago I didn't know the sharp edge of being needed, how it often morphs into being taken for granted. How the cutting, careless knife of another's need can pare away my privacy and personal space. I don't think past me would have listened, though, let alone understood.

Adding fifteen years has meant adding wisdom about differing dreams for differing stages of life. For now, with demand for solitude far outweighing supply, I crave being alone. I strive for limited input.

My husband and best friend knows me well. I asked for (and immediately got) an afternoon/evening/morning by myself for Mother's Day. I've had multiple meals and bedtime that were choices I made about only one person.

'Tis been bliss.

I go back this morning (motel checkout is in a couple hours), muscles relaxed from weight I got to release for several hours. It's easier to pick it up--easier to WANT to pick it up--after such a gift of grace.

(No, my husband doesn't teach training courses in cherishing, but I think he'd make a killing if he did!)

Let it Be

Last night we got home from our son's music program, and as I tucked him into bed I sincerely, lovingly, told him I trusted him to cry himself to sleep and I would see him in the morning.

To everything there is a season, according to Ecclesiastes, and that includes seasons of mourning. Our elementary school music teacher is retiring this year. She's been teaching young kids to love music for more than 30 years--she was, in fact, MY 6th grade music teacher in this same school. Since it was her last music program, she fought tears at the end as she praised the kids and thanked the parents. Then the kids recited a poem they'd written for her and gave her flowers from her fellow teachers, she got a standing ovation from the packed theater, and her two sons (grown, married, with kids of their own and living out of state) came on-stage to give her hugs and kisses.

Nancy wasn't the only one fighting tears last night. Not by a long shot.

In the midst of the furor, my mate looked up on-stage and saw that our son was sobbing. In a moment, I was in lioness mode, that mindset where you will do/kill whatever is needed to get to your child. There are certainly benefits to living in your home town: MY kindergarten graduation was in that theater; I sang in a number of musical roles on the very same stage. I know the fastest route to reach back-stage, even through several hundred people. I got backstage in moments and flagged a teacher (who, to continue the small-town interweaving, is married to the man who remodeled my parents' house when I was in junior high and was herself my daughter's Sunday School teacher last year). She rescued my boy from his back row riser and got him to me, still in tears. I had worried that he might be having a panic attack or be severely over-tired, but that wasn't the case.

"Honey," I asked him, "what's wrong?"
"I will never get to see Mrs. S. again!"

I quickly reassured him that Mrs. S. would still be his music teacher for the rest of the school year, and he wiped his eyes as we headed through the crowd. He got sad again, though, when he thought about saying good-bye at the end of the year.

We've talked with our kids about it being OK to feel sad and OK to cry. We try to help them sort out which things are worth tears and which aren't. When we tucked our tired child into bed last night, he was still sad. I gently told him that crying can help your heart grieve, and that's OK. I said if he cried a while, he might feel very tired and he'd be able to go to sleep right away. I told him I trusted him to know how long he wanted to cry about saying good-bye to his beloved music teacher, and that I would see him in the morning.

This is a gift we parents can give our kids: space, permission, and guidance to grieve the things that matter.

Second Glance

I spoke with a friend yesterday about the glance around a room we women make. She mentioned that she would like to see a study that had each woman in a room periodically write out their 'lists' of ranking and what those rankings were. Not every woman would rank a room the same way, we thought.

This thought interests me. When I scan a room, I see traits most often linked to areas where I am wounded (insecurities about weight, physical fitness, physical beauty or body shape) or my personal ideals of form or behavior. I've struggled most of my life with how much to talk. I come from a family with the gift of gab and very little self-consciousness. Add in a pinch of lack of social awareness, and I'm too often a set-up for misreading an audience and hogging a stage. I also (most unfortunately) am one of those people who talk more when they are nervous. Because of this, I admire people who are able to remain quiet and listen, keeping their opinions to themselves until asked for their input. I can scan a room and get a baseline on who in that room is likely to be a good listener and who might hog the stage -- I've been studying those traits my whole life.

My point is this: do our ranking lists resemble a personalized cast, a plaster casing for our wounds and wishes? Do we use our internal ranking to remind ourselves of how we are imperfect and how far we have to go before we are the person we long to be? How much of our scanning keeps us at a distance from healing, from helping those around us in ways we were crafted to help?

These are my wonderings today. How about you? What of your heart does your cast conceal or guard against?

In the Blink of an Eye

A woman walks into a room full of people and puts her superpower to use: she scans the room.

Guys may not know it, and the women I know don't discuss it, but every woman I've asked has this superpower. In a 5 second scan or less, we can tell you a scandalous amount of information about the people in that room. And none of it, I repeat, none of it, has to do with personality.

In the blink of an eye, I can tell you who the most popular woman/women are, which woman is likely wearing the priciest get-up, which women are uncomfortable, which woman a pack of guys is most likely to hit on, which woman the other women resent, and which women in the room are most likely to be "my" people.

Every woman does this.

Since we could see, we've trained to read facial expression, body posture, vocal tone, eye direction and every non-verbal cue you might think of to figure out another's mood--and where we fit in the social hierarchy. And every time we walk into a room, we hone that skill just a little bit more, adding to the hours we've spent. It's ridiculous, like a person who can't walk past a piano without sitting down to practice for at least fifteen minutes.

Doing this increases my focus on appearance. I know that. It often adds to my insecurities, underscoring wounds and scars I already have. I know that, too. Because relational awareness is built into my psyche and physiology, telling myself not to do it only makes me more aware of everything I shouldn't notice. Telling an addict that their problem is solved by not taking a drink or not doing bad habit X is true, but unhelpful. Jesus talked about this in a parable about a man who had a demon cast out; the space wasn't filled with anything new, and the demon (plus six of the demon's friends) came back and made life worse than it was before.

I think I'm supposed to redirect this superpower, not shut it off. Guys fight a turn-and-look response when an attractive woman walks by (I've encouraged guys to use it as an opportunity to pray for the woman when it happens). Telling myself not to scan a room would be exhausting, and I don't think it would help. Instead, I think I'll scan the room to help me learn which women are hurting, could use encouragement, would welcome a compliment, are feeling in need of a friend, fought all their inner demons to be in that room and are longing to be anywhere else.

In the blink of an eye, I might learn to see how God sees the people in front of me.

Savage Discourse

As my daughter learns (for what must be the 10th time) about the gecko effect from PBS' Wild Kratts, I wanted to think in print about exchanges. Many articles, inches of print, rants and raves have spent time on technology's effect on communication. I do not intend to go there. Education systems, instructors, and grammar fans have been vocal about tech's effect on syntax. I shall will myself away from this.

I wonder this morning what has happened to our ability to relate to each other.

We pull away from who we are, distancing ourselves from our opinions with "if you know what I mean"s, as Taylor Mali has addressed beautifully. We BIRG and CORF based on sports teams, belief systems, or which side of a political bill we support. Many, many statements and facebook status updates I see are in a context of us vs. them. We support this. Join our team by clicking here. Thwart them by signing this.

We've turned all of life into a competition split into teams, with rosters based on the topic at hand. No one wins, and more importantly, we never leave the field.

G. K. Chesterton addressed this mindless identification in a piece he wrote regarding patriotism:

'My country, right or wrong,' is a thing that no patriot would think of saying except in a desperate case. It is like saying, 'My mother, drunk or sober.' No doubt if a decent man's mother took to drink he would share her troubles to the last; but to talk as if he would be in a state of gay indifference as to whether his mother took to drink or not is certainly not the language of men who know the great mystery.

In deciding my 'I' exists so completely in whatever group, communication and exchange are not about information or wisdom, but about loyalty. Someone's disagreement causes me to become defensive. I am less likely to hear, weigh, or value a conflicting input because it could make me disloyal to my chosen 'us'.

We are losing the art of civil discourse.

In discussions (which are often more debate or disagreement), we sling arrows at enemies instead of spreading ideas out on a communal table. There are topics that will always be high-stakes, with great emotional investment. Not every discussion, from where to build a facility to which translation of the Bible, from a municipal construction decision to a schedule change for a summer program, merits that sort of meaning.

Our first year of marriage, my husband & I fought most over the dishwasher. Never knew it was such a critical pre-marital counseling topic, did you? I remember one conversation in particular where I turned his loading methods into a soapbox about authoritarian parenting and how I self-righteously vowed our children would not live under such a choking state of legalism. Hi, Pot? I'd like to introduce myself: Kettle.

I'm troubled by our tendencies in conversation--my tendencies included--because it means we aren't listening. When we're not talking, we're waiting for the other person to stop talking so we can say the response we thought out while we could have been listening. We get defensive over a word choice or phrase, so a gracious space of helping someone else sort out their thoughts turns into a game of swords and shields. We are more quick to hear hurt or offense than we used to be. Instead of conversation being a casual tennis volley ("This happened at work today." "How'd you respond?"), we attempt ace after ace to triumph over an opponent ("So I said this to her!"). We rarely revisit topics and change our minds or modify a stance. We often speak in decided thoughts and closed ideas, conclusions not just drawn but inked in place--as this sentence itself demonstrates!

I fear that in time, with enough savage discourse, true exchange will cease and only agreement & pitched battles of conversations will remain. In the meantime, I will try to remember some key guidelines of conversation: 1-There is never a reason to be unkind. 2-Seek to understand before seeking to be understood. 3-We have two ears and one mouth to remind us how important it is to listen. 4-Agape love longs for the best interpretation of the facts. 5-Contempt has no place in conversation. Christ himself said calling another person a fool was sufficient to land me in hell. 6-God is never on 'my' side. At best, I have asked him and listened to what his spirit says regarding his heart.

Should-ing

This morning has been a should-ing morning. In Brennan Manning's memorable phrase, many Christians spend a lot of time "should-ing" all over themselves: I should have done that, I should be doing this, etc.

Despite a list of things I have done this morning, my thoughts are full of the voice that annoyingly points out all I still haven't done or the things I didn't do well enough, fast enough, kindly enough, thoroughly enough -- and that voice never runs out of critiques.

I decided this morning that every woman spends significant time trying to get away from that voice. The constant criticism, continual picking, snide internal remarks about how someone else of my acquaintance would have done a better job at such-and-such. There are days I'm able to tell that voice to go take a flying leap.

Today has not been one of those days.

When completing a task doesn't lower the volume or quantity of criticism in my head (and in fact, it seems to increase the criticism when I complete something, usually along the lines of "See what you can do if you just make an effort? Why does it take you so long to muster up the energy to get things done?"), just doing something doesn't chase away the blues.

I finally gave up this morning. I surrendered and agreed with my inner critic that I will never be the sort who keeps a spotless house. I will always have more organizing that could be done. I will never keep up with the dog hair or the dust that coats so many surfaces. Much as I might dream otherwise, I do not hold to planning menus and doing grocery shopping for the week so we have healthy, home-cooked meals that fit snugly in a beautiful budget plan.

I dragged my feet to devotions this morning. If I'm already feeling down and compressed by criticism, there's no appeal in spending time listening to how I need to be a better Christian, after all.

Then I found I Thessalonians 3:3-5:
"Not that the troubles should come as any surprise to you. You've always known that we're in for this kind of thing. It's part of our calling. When we were with you, we made it quite clear that there was trouble ahead. And now that it's happening, you know what it's like. That's why I couldn't quit worrying; I had to know for myself how you were doing in the faith. I didn't want the Tempter getting to you and tearing down everything we had built up together."
And 1 Thess. 3:13:
"May you be infused with strength and purity, filled with confidence in the presence of God our Father..."
And 1 Thess. 4:1:
"We ask you--urge is more like it--that you keep on doing what we told you to do to please God, not in a dogged religious plod, but in a living, spirited dance."

And instead of further criticism, I feel encouraged, like a marathon runner in mile 20 who finally gets to a stand with cups of cold water. I get one to dump over my head and another to gulp quickly as I continue on my way.

The phrase in 3:13 helps me most: "May you be... filled with confidence in the presence of God our Father..." Confidence that I'm not stuck in my shoulds on my own, struggling to extricate myself from commitments I made or tasks still undone, confidence that my Father isn't 'there' but here, with me.

And for a brief window, the inner critic goes away (or I just don't care what it's saying) and I remember it's supposed to be 75 today. Perhaps my daughter, dog and I can take a short walk in that sunshine. And the laundry? I'm thankful it's clean. It can be folded and put away another time.

Vultures

Illness never scared me in the corporate world.

A colleague was ill? I was concerned. I was cautious. I calmly ran down lists in my head of contacts I'd had with them so I could professionally assess my risk. I never felt a sense of eminent dread.

With children, the stakes for all bets go up. With children who are nursery-aged and (especially) school-aged, I found a point of empathy with pioneer women. (I understand you weren't expecting that comparison, but bear with me.) How often did a lone wagon face starvation, dehydration, illness or catastrophe? How often did someone look up, see vultures circling, and know a grim certainty that eventually they'd come for you, too?

One child gets sick, and I know my second will, too. It's reasonable. They play together often and rarely heed constant reminders to "cover your mouth when you cough!" My daughter is distraught if her brother leaves for school without hugging and kissing her good-bye, and dealing with the certainty of her meltdown versus the chance she'll get sick is a no-brainer in my mind.

Sometimes I hope the child/parent barrier will halt infections. I wash my hands numerous times a day. I turn faces away from mine when I see a cough coming. I've tried to keep a clean-but-not-sterile house so they aren't grimy but still have immune systems. We have a dog, so they're exposed to dander. I'm telling you, I've thought this through!

Then we enter my uncalculable realms, the ones where numbers don't work. My feverish son this weekend, who rarely cuddles anymore, who seemed most content when I was next to him on the couch, stroking his strawberry-blond head and quietly asking now and then if he'd like something to drink, getting him acetaminophen -- all the things that still have me wanting MY mom when I'm sick. Being known and anticipated in your needs or your desire to be left alone is among God's greatest relational gifts. The risk I chose willingly was greater exposure to whatever germ had him complaining of leg pain (just above his knees) and limping for two days.

The vultures came closer last night.

An hour after I tumbled into bed, I woke to a small voice next to my bed, tearful because she'd gone to the bathroom in her underwear. I will never again fail to put on my glasses to handle such things. Only after I stumbled out of bed, found clean underwear, a warm sleeper, and picked up her soiled underwear did I realize it was both liquid and semi-solid. Lights on, woke sleeping husband, put on glasses (I'm legally blind without them), ran a bath, scrubbed carpet, husband scrubbed child's bed, started laundry soaking... chaos for minutes to regain comatose state within an hour. (And older child slept through it all; the kid is a ROCK.)

I don't like circumstances like these, but I do love being my kids' go-to person. When the world takes a turn for the worse, we seek the people who know each next step out of the mess and are willing to walk through it with us. I loved being able to soothe my small girl last night and reassure her that everything would be OK. (God bless husbands who are willing to help in such times!) After she was clean and back in pajamas, I cuddled her on my lap for a while to make sure she was warm -- despite the fever I felt radiating from her.

And I watched the vultures circle closer.

This morning she seems much better -- thank you, sweet LORD, that neither child threw up -- but now my stomach is uneasy. I've felt those aches in my legs my son mentioned (and my daughter this morning). I think today will be a quiet day with my girl. I'm thankful I have the option for it to be quiet!

And no more vultures.

Macerated Heart

We waited until Nathan was on the bus and headed for school before we bundled up in fleece and warmth to walk to Grandma's house. We talked about 'smoke' in the air (frozen clouds of breath), safety crossing streets, and encouraged each other to keep going.

Just a few blocks from Grandma's, Zoe fell. I didn't see it, but somehow she fell with her chin being the one to greet the rough sidewalk first. I picked her up, soothing tones already in action, then realized the gushing wound was beyond any get-better kiss. Shirt, coat, gloves getting stained; my panicked thought that I had absolutely nothing with me to help handle this--

Jehovah Jireh.

The man who opened the door just behind me was a man I've known almost all my life. At my request, he called my mom, who drove to come get us. While waiting, Zoe used the family's bathroom (as I held a quickly sodden crimson paper towel to her chin). A few blocks back to Grandpa & Grandma's, and Zoe watched a favored video while we waited for Grandpa to come home and give his medical assessment on whether stitches were needed.

I love physiology and planned for decades to enter medical school. One of my first dates with Trent involved treating a wounded hand he wasn't up to doctoring himself. I do not usually get light-headed around blood, but it requires great detachment to view your child's serious injury calmly.

Grandpa agreed the cut was too deep and the edges too far apart to join on their own, so to the clinic we went. My brain kept holding tight to the strand of purpose that was mine: Help Zoe. Comfort Zoe. Reassure her. Speak calmly. Use warm, non-grave pitches and tones. Keep her distracted from worry by asking other questions or talking of other things.

We waited a while in the procedure room while the P.A. finished up with another patient. We read books. Judith Viorst's book about Alexander's terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad day was a good fit for the tears that were still there. We spoke about stickers. I covered the upcoming syringe w/ one of the sterile instrument packets. Moms know there's no need to stare at an upcoming fear for all the moments until you absolutely must face it.

The time came for the shot, and my girl, who could hold off two adults on her own while still an infant, did a credible job of keeping three adults from easily putting a needle to her chin.

It's never easy for a mother's heart to hold down her child for the purpose of allowing pain, no matter how good the result will be. This shouldn't be, your heart cries. I'm to fight for her, not against her!

Needle done, but distraction was still needed for the space of three stitches, meticulously tied. Band-aid applied over all, sticker chosen from a counter basket, and we were back home shortly thereafter. Zoe asked me how come we weren't going to walk home from Grandma's house, truly puzzled. I laughed a bit, but was too drained at that point to risk anything else happening that might necessitate a sprint for multiple blocks, bloody trail following us home...

Lunch at home brought tears again, as muscles tugging at stitches made life painful. She pushed her plate away, and my heart hurt again. We snuggled in the living room recliner under warm blankets, her favorite stuffed friends, water cup, and dark chocolate m&ms at hand. After a bit of TV watching, I shut it off and we fell asleep, Zoe-girl snuggled up next to me, a trusting puppy-pile of exhaustion from the morning's events. It was a pocket of grace, rarely experienced with a sprite of perpetual chatter and movement.

Today, Abba, I am thankful your strength never fails. My heart was macerated as much as her chin this morning, and it took a good part of the afternoon to recover my strength from what was spent in care and comfort. She may very well carry memories of this morning for the rest of her life, but without reading my words, she won't know what this morning cost me -- may never know until she is a parent herself what her hurts do to your heart.

Thank you that you are never impatient with my fears. Thank you that even when you know the full purpose of them, you never scoff at my hurts. Thank you that your care and comfort always meet me where I am, whether waiting in 4-yr-old fear for the needle that's coming or trying to remember as an almost 37-yr-old that I shouldn't lock my knees to prevent falling over myself in a faint.

Thank you for letting me be a mom. Thank you for helping me be a mom. Thank you for showing me your heart, any and every time.