Restless. Cynical. Apathetic.
Just to name a few.
It's one of those days when the paradox of desperately wanting real connection with people and desperately wanting to be alone, collide, and I am left sitting in a bathtub with a plate full of cold blueberry pie and a can of Diet Coke...trying desperately to find some comfort in the hot water where tiny Walmart bubbles float by, filling my nose with their cheap Sea Breeze scent.
Thomas went to bed. An argument was no doubt brewing in us both. I had done most of the dishes. He got the sweet delight of completing the project of kitchen cleaning duty, and though I had spent a good 30 mintues scrubbing Cocoa Wheats off of bowls and stuffing them into the dishwasher, he had the satisfaction of walking away from the kitchen with it spotless and shiny. So when, halfway into Extreme Makeover Home Edition, Elias and Keziah conned me into making popcorn, suffice it to say that there were droplets of grease splattered on his shiny stove.
He was not happy.
I did not care.
That he was not happy.
In fact, I kind of enjoyed it.
But for as firey and defensive as I usually am when he makes a rude comment about something as petty as oil residue...wating for that very moment to give my list of things accomplished today (getting three children ready for church, helping Elias with his homework, doing some laundry, making dinner, signing permission slips, filling in the calendar, working on a spreadsheet...just to name a few), I played my cards well and retreated to the bathroom, where I found myself looking like Cat in the Hat.
After getting out of the bath and realizing I had a house of sleeping people all to myself, I decided (again this will explain my insanity) to take a trip to Walmart. Not because I like the store. In fact, I have several conspiracy theories about how they manipulate people into thinking their prices are cheaper than the next guy's, but again they are only theories and they are floating in my head somewhere and could never be articulated well. I only went, truly, because I wanted to walk. While I have secretly been enjoying the cold weather, as on a good day I see that it brings us together as a family and we have more time to just sit and play or watch movies or whatever, today I had had it with not getting any exercise. And since we can't really afford a gym membership, I told myself that Walmart was free (though Walmart is never free...I spent twelve dollars and ninety six cents on batteries and a bubble necklace and a Hannah Montana glue stick and thank you cards).
I enjoyed my WallyWorld visit...it seemed to fit my "I want to be around people but don't really want to interact with them" mood. In fact, as I was standing in the check out line, I didn't even mind the lady in front of me who had tried desperately to stuff a pair of boots into a box that was clearly made for a pair of clearance-priced sandals (the picture was right there!). The cashier guy, who had perhaps smoked a little too much weed that day, was about to fall for it, when Ms. Manager, who clearly knew what was going on, decided to go and check the validity of the lady's story, as she said there were several pairs of boots in these "clearance sandal" boxes.
I didn't stick around to see the outcome, for I switched over to lane eleven by the time she returned. However, I did see the lady leave without the shoes as I waited, again apathetically and patiently, for yet another price check for the guy in front of me. And it's a good thing I didn't have an ugly chip on my shoulder because Mr. Football dude in front of me (who I secretly was theorizing was a Colts football player who could only shop at night because of all of his crazy fans) knew me from church and began asking me questions about us being missionaries. Turns out, he goes to IUPUI, a local state college, and was buying a presentation folder for his paper due tomorrow. But he could have passed for a Pro football player. And since I don't watch football and wouldn't know any of them from Adam, it was fun to pretend.
While I am being sort of funny, I am realizing as I'm processing this to cyberspace that my cynicism and apathy are rooted in it being one of those days where I keep having these thoughts, ones that are subtle, like a cat scratching at the back door, that all of the injustices of the world are just too much. It's unjust that I read a story last night that a woman in Somalia was stoned to death in front of 1000 spectators, unjust that my sister can't get her baby from China, unjust that Christian women and children are being raped and hacked into pieces in front of their loved ones in India, unjust that this very moment a woman in Africa is walking 20 miles to deliver some 50 pounds of rice that she has been carrying on her back, all for forty cents. And I know Jesus' ways are not my ways, but sometimes I can't help but wonder why on earth He doesn't just come back and get this good versus evil thing over with once and for all.
And in the crevices of my heart, the ones that believe in a God that is Sovereign and good, long-suffering, slow to anger, abundant in mercy and grace and love, I know the answer to that question.
But for the sake of delving into my state of being at this very moment, I can't help but wonder if all of the injustices are what has made me frustrated at my husband today. This morning, after they called all of us missionaries on stage to introduce us, we sat back down near the front row and shortly after, were passed "the elements" (that always makes me laugh). For the layperson of the Christian Church, that's the little wafer and tiny cup of grape juice (which Elias loves, by the way). The symbolism of course is what really matters and so there we were, having eaten our wafer (representing Jesus body given for us) and "holding our cup (the blood of Jesus shed) so that we could take it as one body." In that moment, I had this fleeting thought that what I really wanted to do with it was to dump my juice onto Thomas' lap.
No, I wouldn't have done it. Yes, it would have felt very good. Until I realized how dumb I looked (though I could have "accidentally" spilled it...hmmmm....). Anyway, I wanted to dump it on him because I was jealous. I was jealous that he got to go to this conference all week and learn about the Bible and eat amazing food and have fellowship with like-minded people all day and every day. I was jealous because, as a man, he somehow has more repoire with people. They listen when he speaks. And you could argue with me all day that I'm off on this one. But tomorrow I could give you five examples of it being true. It's just the nature of being a man versus being a woman.
Don't get me wrong. I take great honor in having the privelege of being a stay-at-home mom. I think that the gift of being a woman, with our instincts, our beauty, our mystery, and our connection with the ones we grow inside of us, is one that is insurmountable. But that doesn't mean that raising children is my "calling" in life. I have a lot of passion stirring inside of me. I have put so many things on the back burner of life because I KNOW these little people will soon be adults and I want to help them become the best adults they can be. However, on days like today, when my jealousy collides with the injustices toward women, I can't help but become angry at the person who is closest to my heart and just so happens to be a male.
When I think of the women who are victimized sexually...when I think about single moms and the workers in the tomato field in Rwanda...when I think about the old man at the mall today who kept looking at my little sister's chest...when I think about the girls at the Hannah House who have fled their homes because of abuse...when I think about my good friend who was molested by her grandfather, one man she should have been able to trust... It is then that I just feel hopeless. And my hopelessness, because I cannot fix these problems, turns into cynicism. Unfortunately, my cynicism, when not divulged, falls onto the Church...or most often and more likely, my husband...
My husband is one of the least shovenistic males I know. In fact, that was a huge reason why I married him. Because he sees us as equal. In fact, he knows that having a wife gives him another necessary perspective on life. I believe he would say that I bring stability and perhaps a little wisdom into his otherwise unrooted and scattered world. I could go on for at least a few paragraphs about what he brings into my life, but what I really want to say is that he is not my enemy. My uneasiness is not because of him, though I could also go on for several paragraphs about what drives me crazy about him! My uneasiness...my disheartened mundaneness is due in full by the fact that until Jesus returns, women, no matter how progressive the culture, will not only be exploited on levels unimaginable, but they will also not be given the high honor they are due.
And for that reason, I'm at a loss. Nonetheless, tomorrow will begin a new day. I will awake and remember, as I drive Elias to school, the woman in Africa whose children walk three miles to school. And for that woman, I will take pride in how far we have come as a country. I will be thankful for the opportunities that lay before me. And I will try to treat Thomas with the decency and respect he deserves. Not because he's a man. But because he's my husband.
Nov 16, 2008
Nov 4, 2008
Inspi[red]
I'm inspired a hundred times a day. Kids alone are inspirational. From the moment my one year-old wakes up, I am enthralled by his every attempt at making sense of the world. I'm even admittedly inspired when, upon entering his room in the morning and smelling the familiar dirty diaper smell, he pats his diaper and says "Poo." I know. It's truly sick. I'm no longer inspired when, picking him up, I realize that his little surprise has leaked into his pajamas and I now have to strategically maneuver him just right so that the remains will not further cake his legs, or my hands for that matter. Typically, I unravel him just so and stick him in the tub, letting the water pressure and the drain work magic in getting him clean. I'm inspired once again when he gets out of the bathtub by himself, makes his way downstairs, and starts whining at me, trying so seriously to convey his needs while I laugh at his little naked body and tangled hair that won't stay out of his eyes to save his life.
I believe that inspiration is a choice. Okay, there are those obvious times when inspiration just simply "is." Like the birth of a baby, the ocean at sunrise, falling in love, Christmas morning, the silhouettes of trees and birds and mountains, the election of the first black President...
But for all of the seemingly mundane moments that make up my day, I must choose to be inspired. So many times I go about my day, choosing to silence the God-given beauty that is screaming (literally) around me. Instead of bending down to listen to what my daughter is truly needing, I tell her for the tenth time in an hour to "hold on a second." Instead of sitting and building a castle out of blocks with my son, I pour out the blocks and hope that he'll figure it out so I can sit and pay my bills.
Today was different though. I didn't have to choose to be inspired. I came down to Bloomington, Indiana to vote. I never changed my address on my license from, oh, eight years ago, and so I got registered here by default. It just so happens that my older sister lives here and so it was a wonderful collision of purpose for the trip. Our kids are all around the same ages, some within weeks of one another, and when they play together it's like a glimpse into the heart of God, the knitting together of a family, a bond that holds tight though earthly miles, even oceans and mountains, try desperately to break it.
I got to my sister's house where my pregnant sister announced that she needed a Polar Pop. Right down the street from her house is a Circle K, home of the 69 cent beverage. I'm always up for carbonated fluid and since my husband came along, we put him on the task of taking care of the youngest three at home while we took the others with us on a walk. Elias and Garrett inline skated along the sidewalk, crushing freshly fallen leaves beneath their wheels, while Kailee went along on her scooter, her pink rainboots standing in perfect contrast to the green grass next to her. Keziah, my three year-old, who wheezled her way into going with us on the walk at the last minute, sat in the stroller asking random but smart questions and sipping on my Diet Coke whenever she slipped it from my hands without me noticing.
We arrived at the park. Elias and Garrett were unusually picking on each other. My sister and I sat on a bench and tried to interfere as little as possible, as we discussed our daughters' fashion sense, the public school system, the imminent election, and the Sovereignty of God. Ignoring the tattling boys had seemed to work as they now played together, making circles around us on a concrete ledge. All of a sudden, we heard a scream that was the kind that makes every mother's heart beat faster. It was Garrett. He had fallen. I had seen it out of my periphrial but remained unalarmed until his delayed cry made its way out of his shocked lungs. We ran to him. Blood was gushing from his head. One of us, I can't remember who (because as sisters, at that moment it was like we were one...like we were both the mother of this sweet boy), scooped him into our arms. My sister hates blood and gets quite freaked out at the sight of it, though in retrospect, she handled it quite well. All I could think about was getting Garrett home. Home would make his head better. Home offered something, didn't it? Suddenly, we were no longer one. She was now the mother again and I, the sister who was there to help make this better. I called to her to take off her (white) shirt. I saw she was wearing two shirts and we both knew the bleeding needed to stop. We draped it over his head and told him to hold it there. The short walk home seemed to take an hour, as we switched off carrying all fifty pounds of him. He kept asking me if he was going to die. "You are going to be fine," I said, hoping I was right.
Moments later, an ambulance responded to my sister's phone call. She felt silly for having called, but what else do you do when all your life you have been primed to equate gushing blood with death, or in the very least, panic? The paramedics wrapped his head and told my sister he'd need stitches. Thomas stayed with the little ones again while I, still shaking from the adrenaline rush I had just received, drove us cautiously to the Prompt Care. They stitched him up while Elias and Kailee connected dots and colored in the waiting room. I read a magazine.
Life was back to normal, so it seemed.
We left and drove to the Asian Market across the street. We grabbed all of the ingredients for Pad Thai, as well as some Indian dishes. The kids each picked out three candies from the big plastic bins. Garrett's hair remained blood-stained, looking as if he had sprayed some pink hair dye above his forehead. I kept looking at him as he bounced around the grocery store as if nothing had happend hours earlier. I kept thinking, "What if he wasn't here?" What if one of those voices could no longer be heard shouting through my sister's house? My thoughts turned to the mundane moments of my daily life: What if Ezra no longer stood at my feet as I cooked dinner? What if Keziah no longer told me how she talks to God? What if Elias didn't grab my face and kiss my lips, laughing so I wouldn't take him too seriously? What if?
Tonight I lay in bed with Keziah, thinking about the election news happening in the other room. She was distraught from the chaos of the day and couldn't fall asleep. I forced myself to be in that moment. I relaxed and let her lay on my arm, an object of security, representing protection from a dangerous and scary world...a world that would allow her cousin to get hurt. I glanced at her loosened pigtails and laughed to myself at the leaves embedded in the strands of hair that were framing her face. I buried my nose in her hair and took a deep breath. It smelled like the pumpkin spice candle burning in the other room. It smelled like the leaves she had played in earlier this evening. It didn't take much, as she lay there still on my arm, to be inspired.
I am inspired to love them better. I'm inspired to face the mundane with a renewed gratefulness for the tiny moments that make up each day of this life together, no matter how good or bad. A life that promises no tomorrows. A life that offers only this very moment.
I believe that inspiration is a choice. Okay, there are those obvious times when inspiration just simply "is." Like the birth of a baby, the ocean at sunrise, falling in love, Christmas morning, the silhouettes of trees and birds and mountains, the election of the first black President...
But for all of the seemingly mundane moments that make up my day, I must choose to be inspired. So many times I go about my day, choosing to silence the God-given beauty that is screaming (literally) around me. Instead of bending down to listen to what my daughter is truly needing, I tell her for the tenth time in an hour to "hold on a second." Instead of sitting and building a castle out of blocks with my son, I pour out the blocks and hope that he'll figure it out so I can sit and pay my bills.
Today was different though. I didn't have to choose to be inspired. I came down to Bloomington, Indiana to vote. I never changed my address on my license from, oh, eight years ago, and so I got registered here by default. It just so happens that my older sister lives here and so it was a wonderful collision of purpose for the trip. Our kids are all around the same ages, some within weeks of one another, and when they play together it's like a glimpse into the heart of God, the knitting together of a family, a bond that holds tight though earthly miles, even oceans and mountains, try desperately to break it.
I got to my sister's house where my pregnant sister announced that she needed a Polar Pop. Right down the street from her house is a Circle K, home of the 69 cent beverage. I'm always up for carbonated fluid and since my husband came along, we put him on the task of taking care of the youngest three at home while we took the others with us on a walk. Elias and Garrett inline skated along the sidewalk, crushing freshly fallen leaves beneath their wheels, while Kailee went along on her scooter, her pink rainboots standing in perfect contrast to the green grass next to her. Keziah, my three year-old, who wheezled her way into going with us on the walk at the last minute, sat in the stroller asking random but smart questions and sipping on my Diet Coke whenever she slipped it from my hands without me noticing.
We arrived at the park. Elias and Garrett were unusually picking on each other. My sister and I sat on a bench and tried to interfere as little as possible, as we discussed our daughters' fashion sense, the public school system, the imminent election, and the Sovereignty of God. Ignoring the tattling boys had seemed to work as they now played together, making circles around us on a concrete ledge. All of a sudden, we heard a scream that was the kind that makes every mother's heart beat faster. It was Garrett. He had fallen. I had seen it out of my periphrial but remained unalarmed until his delayed cry made its way out of his shocked lungs. We ran to him. Blood was gushing from his head. One of us, I can't remember who (because as sisters, at that moment it was like we were one...like we were both the mother of this sweet boy), scooped him into our arms. My sister hates blood and gets quite freaked out at the sight of it, though in retrospect, she handled it quite well. All I could think about was getting Garrett home. Home would make his head better. Home offered something, didn't it? Suddenly, we were no longer one. She was now the mother again and I, the sister who was there to help make this better. I called to her to take off her (white) shirt. I saw she was wearing two shirts and we both knew the bleeding needed to stop. We draped it over his head and told him to hold it there. The short walk home seemed to take an hour, as we switched off carrying all fifty pounds of him. He kept asking me if he was going to die. "You are going to be fine," I said, hoping I was right.
Moments later, an ambulance responded to my sister's phone call. She felt silly for having called, but what else do you do when all your life you have been primed to equate gushing blood with death, or in the very least, panic? The paramedics wrapped his head and told my sister he'd need stitches. Thomas stayed with the little ones again while I, still shaking from the adrenaline rush I had just received, drove us cautiously to the Prompt Care. They stitched him up while Elias and Kailee connected dots and colored in the waiting room. I read a magazine.
Life was back to normal, so it seemed.
We left and drove to the Asian Market across the street. We grabbed all of the ingredients for Pad Thai, as well as some Indian dishes. The kids each picked out three candies from the big plastic bins. Garrett's hair remained blood-stained, looking as if he had sprayed some pink hair dye above his forehead. I kept looking at him as he bounced around the grocery store as if nothing had happend hours earlier. I kept thinking, "What if he wasn't here?" What if one of those voices could no longer be heard shouting through my sister's house? My thoughts turned to the mundane moments of my daily life: What if Ezra no longer stood at my feet as I cooked dinner? What if Keziah no longer told me how she talks to God? What if Elias didn't grab my face and kiss my lips, laughing so I wouldn't take him too seriously? What if?
Tonight I lay in bed with Keziah, thinking about the election news happening in the other room. She was distraught from the chaos of the day and couldn't fall asleep. I forced myself to be in that moment. I relaxed and let her lay on my arm, an object of security, representing protection from a dangerous and scary world...a world that would allow her cousin to get hurt. I glanced at her loosened pigtails and laughed to myself at the leaves embedded in the strands of hair that were framing her face. I buried my nose in her hair and took a deep breath. It smelled like the pumpkin spice candle burning in the other room. It smelled like the leaves she had played in earlier this evening. It didn't take much, as she lay there still on my arm, to be inspired.
I am inspired to love them better. I'm inspired to face the mundane with a renewed gratefulness for the tiny moments that make up each day of this life together, no matter how good or bad. A life that promises no tomorrows. A life that offers only this very moment.