Well, I did it.
I went and put my very ridiculous self on the line and sent my book out to a group of publishers.
Thank you to all of you who have encouraged me to do this, as it's been in my heart for a long time, like a recurring dream that I can't quite make sense of.
I do not know what will come of it. I have heard back from a couple of "partnership" publishers, which means I'd have to put some money into the project. I'm praying for peace in whatever direction God leads. Who knows...
So in the meantime, I'm writing, but most likely not posting. Because what good is a book if you have already read it?
Much peace until then.
Cristina McEwen
Feb 2, 2009
Jan 18, 2009
Losing My Shadow
I do a majority of my thinking and praying in the shower; but on days like today, when I am not afforded the luxury of twenty minutes of good water pressure and the white noise that muffles the voices of fighting, crying, or (on a good day) playing children in the other room, I do my thinking in bed, as I lay between Elias and Keziah, waiting for them to fall asleep. And so tonight, after Elias got done telling me how he wished he was born like the little boy in his Sunday School class who can't walk and gets to ride in a cool remote control wheelchair, I watched Keziah as she unknowingly discovered the art of shadow puppets. Her fingers moved slowly as she hid her thumb and wiggled her chubby fingers, watching their mirrored reaction on the wall. I felt like I was watching Peter Pan lose his shadow. I felt for a moment like Wendy, taking it all in and believing it, letting child-like naivity and simplicity settle down ino the part of me where inspiration and beauty are intertwined. The part of me that says it's time to write.
I remember seeing the mountains for the first time. I was something of eight or maybe ten, and we went to visit my aunt and uncle in Montana. My uncle, my dad's brother, embodies every last one of his parent's short genes, standing a mere five feet four inches (with cowboy boots on). But for what he lacks in vertical stature he makes up for in creativity and humor. The guy is seriously funny. He reminds me of Robin Williams, his absurdity and sensibleness entwining into a personality that is both likeable and infectious. Hence, I'd have to name him my favorite uncle.
But about the mountains. So I remember looking out their picture window and being mesmerized by the mountains that seemed a mere one hundred feet away. I asked my dad how far they really were. He said they were some twenty or thirty miles away. I was sure he was wrong...that if I ran to the end of my uncle's long driveway, I'd certainly begin my ascent into them. And surely it wouldn't take long to reach their snow-capped summits.
It all looked so fake, as if someone had pulled down a backdrop and landed it right behind my uncle's wooden fence, a little ways down the wintry hill that was, in actuality, a mountain in his backyard.
When I returned home, no longer a virgin to the west, I would pretend that my flatland home embodied a moutainous landscape. The clouds in the distance were mountains, the blue sky the ocean. And when they met in the sky, exchanging their blue and white hues, overlapping just as the waves when they meet the shore, I pretended it was a reflection of the Hot Springs where we swam a few weeks prior. The world was now wide open to so many possibilities. Why, if that backdrop in Montana were truly real, surely anything, even the flatlands of Indiana, held in them the promise of mountains and waterfalls and sunsets so pink and orange that not even the African plains could compare.
Thus my journey for something beyond the cornfields began. And while the illusions of mountains in the sky soon dissipated, I was left with a yearning for something outside of my surroundings. Different illusions were to follow. Illusions of fulfillment in friends, boyfriends, popularity, money, and lots and lots of material things. And when humility finally slapped me upside the head, I had the teenage audacity to believe that the ocean would heal all things broken.
So when I moved to Florida at eighteen, the ocean offered me nothing more than the reality that I was slowly packing on fifteen pounds and quickly realizing that the vision of me running, blonde and tanned, along the sand, perhaps in a swimsuit, maybe even a bikini, was something of yet another illusion. And all the true Florida girls that had the waistline that still makes me want to die, gave me a reality check day in and day out, as they flaunted their tanned bodies in tiny tank tops and shorts, all day, every day.
I left Florida a year later with a desperation for God. Of course I'm always in essence desperate for Him. But at that time in my life, I was so incredibly broken and confused, having faced one of the biggest personal battles of my life (yes I'm being vague. This isn't my diary for the love). Feeling defeated, I went back to the only place that has ever been truly "home" to me, no matter my location. No matter my struggles.
My knees.
Clinging to my Bible, like my daughter with her "silky blanky," I memorized Scripture and wrote out countless prayers, prayers that spoke of my helplessness and of my desperation for the Father to remain with me, through the storm, through the laborous and tiresome journey to simply do what was right. Most of all, I waited in hope that He would heal my heart.
Little did I know that the Midwest, namely Indiana, had a tiny jewel in its otherwise mundane topography. Bloomington, Indiana. Home of Indiana University, for those of you who remember the infamous Bob Knight (who I witnessed giving his final speech on campus, right after he got fired!). Having transferred to I.U. sort of by default (ie. it made the most sense), I arrived relieved to be only an hour or so from home and without the year-round pressure to derobe at any given moment in order to reveal a perfect swimsuit body. I never truly appreciated the Fall until that year. The changing leaves and autumn air reminded me that life turned in seasons and indeed this was the season for renewal in my personal life.
I met some great friends, fell in love with photography, learned to play the djembe', and took some amazing classes about Judaism, philosophy, psychology, writing and graphic design. I experienced community amongst roomates and met homeless people in parks. I interviewed people and heard their stories and took their photos. I dreamed of being a photographer and became obsessed with Sebastian Salgado and James Nachtway. I came to realize that my camera could tell the world of injustices that were being executed in Africa, India and in our own backyards.
As a perfect counterpart to the illusions I had as a child, I became conscious of the fact that Indiana had its own oceans and mountains and waterfalls and sunsets. I drove. Drove to lakes at sunrise. Nature parks in the middle of the day. Coffee shops at night. And allthewhile, I clung to Jesus, like He was my co-dependent boyfriend. Ours was the only relationship in which I felt truly known and secure. Loved. Adored. Treasured.
When I think back to that time, more than any other time of my life, I can feel Him in the car with me, like I felt the sweet breeze through the windows as I drove through the hills toward Lake Lemon. I can feel Him at the parks where I'd lay out my Mexican blanket and listen to Moby while working an art project. I can feel Him in even my closest friendships, those late nights at Taco Bell with Liz or at Jimmy John's with Jozee, the night we found out we had a bazillion things in common. I can feel Him at Soma, the night I went there in the rain and sat in the far corner, right under the speaker where "Ring of Fire" played through the speaker right above me, loud but strangely soothing.
Those three years offered me grace, redemption and the reality that the Father never leaves or forsakes His own, no matter how big the battle, how many the falls. Sometimes I long for that closeness. On other days, I feel it. It is the backdrop of my life, a mountain that is both near and far, a paradoxical union of ordinary and supernatural. While most things we hope in will fail us or prove, as they have in my life, to be an illusion of one kind or another, it is in losing our shadows in the Almighty and finding ourselves in His (shadow) that we can believe and hope for a future that is brighter, a healing that is greater, and a love that overcomes every shattered dream, every disheartened soul, and every broken heart.
I remember seeing the mountains for the first time. I was something of eight or maybe ten, and we went to visit my aunt and uncle in Montana. My uncle, my dad's brother, embodies every last one of his parent's short genes, standing a mere five feet four inches (with cowboy boots on). But for what he lacks in vertical stature he makes up for in creativity and humor. The guy is seriously funny. He reminds me of Robin Williams, his absurdity and sensibleness entwining into a personality that is both likeable and infectious. Hence, I'd have to name him my favorite uncle.
But about the mountains. So I remember looking out their picture window and being mesmerized by the mountains that seemed a mere one hundred feet away. I asked my dad how far they really were. He said they were some twenty or thirty miles away. I was sure he was wrong...that if I ran to the end of my uncle's long driveway, I'd certainly begin my ascent into them. And surely it wouldn't take long to reach their snow-capped summits.
It all looked so fake, as if someone had pulled down a backdrop and landed it right behind my uncle's wooden fence, a little ways down the wintry hill that was, in actuality, a mountain in his backyard.
When I returned home, no longer a virgin to the west, I would pretend that my flatland home embodied a moutainous landscape. The clouds in the distance were mountains, the blue sky the ocean. And when they met in the sky, exchanging their blue and white hues, overlapping just as the waves when they meet the shore, I pretended it was a reflection of the Hot Springs where we swam a few weeks prior. The world was now wide open to so many possibilities. Why, if that backdrop in Montana were truly real, surely anything, even the flatlands of Indiana, held in them the promise of mountains and waterfalls and sunsets so pink and orange that not even the African plains could compare.
Thus my journey for something beyond the cornfields began. And while the illusions of mountains in the sky soon dissipated, I was left with a yearning for something outside of my surroundings. Different illusions were to follow. Illusions of fulfillment in friends, boyfriends, popularity, money, and lots and lots of material things. And when humility finally slapped me upside the head, I had the teenage audacity to believe that the ocean would heal all things broken.
So when I moved to Florida at eighteen, the ocean offered me nothing more than the reality that I was slowly packing on fifteen pounds and quickly realizing that the vision of me running, blonde and tanned, along the sand, perhaps in a swimsuit, maybe even a bikini, was something of yet another illusion. And all the true Florida girls that had the waistline that still makes me want to die, gave me a reality check day in and day out, as they flaunted their tanned bodies in tiny tank tops and shorts, all day, every day.
I left Florida a year later with a desperation for God. Of course I'm always in essence desperate for Him. But at that time in my life, I was so incredibly broken and confused, having faced one of the biggest personal battles of my life (yes I'm being vague. This isn't my diary for the love). Feeling defeated, I went back to the only place that has ever been truly "home" to me, no matter my location. No matter my struggles.
My knees.
Clinging to my Bible, like my daughter with her "silky blanky," I memorized Scripture and wrote out countless prayers, prayers that spoke of my helplessness and of my desperation for the Father to remain with me, through the storm, through the laborous and tiresome journey to simply do what was right. Most of all, I waited in hope that He would heal my heart.
Little did I know that the Midwest, namely Indiana, had a tiny jewel in its otherwise mundane topography. Bloomington, Indiana. Home of Indiana University, for those of you who remember the infamous Bob Knight (who I witnessed giving his final speech on campus, right after he got fired!). Having transferred to I.U. sort of by default (ie. it made the most sense), I arrived relieved to be only an hour or so from home and without the year-round pressure to derobe at any given moment in order to reveal a perfect swimsuit body. I never truly appreciated the Fall until that year. The changing leaves and autumn air reminded me that life turned in seasons and indeed this was the season for renewal in my personal life.
I met some great friends, fell in love with photography, learned to play the djembe', and took some amazing classes about Judaism, philosophy, psychology, writing and graphic design. I experienced community amongst roomates and met homeless people in parks. I interviewed people and heard their stories and took their photos. I dreamed of being a photographer and became obsessed with Sebastian Salgado and James Nachtway. I came to realize that my camera could tell the world of injustices that were being executed in Africa, India and in our own backyards.
As a perfect counterpart to the illusions I had as a child, I became conscious of the fact that Indiana had its own oceans and mountains and waterfalls and sunsets. I drove. Drove to lakes at sunrise. Nature parks in the middle of the day. Coffee shops at night. And allthewhile, I clung to Jesus, like He was my co-dependent boyfriend. Ours was the only relationship in which I felt truly known and secure. Loved. Adored. Treasured.
When I think back to that time, more than any other time of my life, I can feel Him in the car with me, like I felt the sweet breeze through the windows as I drove through the hills toward Lake Lemon. I can feel Him at the parks where I'd lay out my Mexican blanket and listen to Moby while working an art project. I can feel Him in even my closest friendships, those late nights at Taco Bell with Liz or at Jimmy John's with Jozee, the night we found out we had a bazillion things in common. I can feel Him at Soma, the night I went there in the rain and sat in the far corner, right under the speaker where "Ring of Fire" played through the speaker right above me, loud but strangely soothing.
Those three years offered me grace, redemption and the reality that the Father never leaves or forsakes His own, no matter how big the battle, how many the falls. Sometimes I long for that closeness. On other days, I feel it. It is the backdrop of my life, a mountain that is both near and far, a paradoxical union of ordinary and supernatural. While most things we hope in will fail us or prove, as they have in my life, to be an illusion of one kind or another, it is in losing our shadows in the Almighty and finding ourselves in His (shadow) that we can believe and hope for a future that is brighter, a healing that is greater, and a love that overcomes every shattered dream, every disheartened soul, and every broken heart.
Jan 1, 2009
A Christmas Toast
I have never been to Hawaii, but I imagine it would be like listening to Sufjan Stevens sing “Amazing Grace,” the banjo lulling me into a peaceful trance as I place another poorly wrapped gift under our burnished, ribbon-laden, and memory filled tree. I have always loved the hymn, but there’s just something about his version…
A guy in New York City committed suicide today. Something about a big financial scheme and losing lots of money. And I mean “lots” as in a billion. Though, the way the government throws around “billions of dollars” these days, like the lady at Costco giving out free chocolates at Christmas time, one billion doesn’t really sound like that big of a deal. Not that I’m into talking politics. I would risk sounding like my father discussing a woman’s menstrual cycle or better yet, afterbirth. That is to say, I would sound pretty um… how do you say it?
Dumb.
And mortified.
But more or less…dumb.
And I get that same uncomfortable feeling when discussing politics with people that my father gets whenever he is telling “us kids” goodbye and my husband is standing within three feet of him. I see his square jaw line tense up and a knowing smirk appear, it trying desperately to hide behind all 180 pounds of his seriousness. Then, he avoids eye contact with Thomas and embraces me until his three feet of personal space ensues…until he is no longer cornered by an oblivious Thomas. Apparently, this is the universal signal that hugging another man would indeed mean he is gay, or in the very least, to quote Mister Gepetto, “A real boy.”
I don’t know why I brought up the guy in New York. I guess it caught my eye because it seems Christmas, perhaps more than any other time of year, brings with it such a contradiction in terms. The Christmas cards, cookies, carols…the lights and laughter and the feeling that love is in the air, all imply that we are living on the set of The Brady Bunch.
Certainly, just for the month of December, the food fairies take food to the millions of people who are starving to death in Africa! And I’m quite sure the psych wards, just for a couple of weeks, will send all their patients home so that they can eat sweet potato pie with their “functional” families. Oh and let’s not forget the homeless folk down the street. Or the pregnant teenager out on her own. The AIDS patient. The child with leukemia. Her family. The grieving husband. The orphaned son. The unemployed single mom. The falsely accused inmate. Surely the holidays will offer them reprieve. Nothing a little mistletoe and fruitcake can’t resolve.
Sometimes I lament the delusions I had as a child and adolescent. The world was safe, people were on my side, leaders were trustworthy, and only kids on After School Specials did drugs. That’s back when drugs meant alcohol or cigarettes. When the problems on Seventh Heaven were the real problems of the world (admit it…we all wished our dad was a little more like Rev. Camden). Back when I thought that families stayed together forever. When the term “children are starving to death” meant nothing more than that kids were to clean their plates.
In one of our first years of marriage, Thomas and I were doing this no-carb diet thing. For me, a vegetarian, this left me eggs, cheese, and natural peanut butter. Oh, and vegetables (but they can be so darn boring). One of the items we could eat, however, was pork rinds. I am not a pork rindish kind of gal, but one day when Thomas brought a bag home from the store, I thought I’d throw back a few. Just as I placed the fifth or sixth one in my mouth, Thomas turned to me and said, “You eat pork rinds?”
I knew that very second that the name implied something. “Rind of pork.” “No, this can’t be…they aren’t really made from pigs? Are they?”
Thomas laughed at me, perhaps harder than he ever has before…or after. He was taking great pleasure in the shocked and disgusted look on my face and the fact that I had contaminated my meat-free body with fried pigskin. Sure enough, I turned the package around and there on the ingredient list read, first, “Pork Rind,” as if the pig himself were smiling at my ill-informed dieting scheme. I wanted to vomit. Like when I accidentally drink my toddler’s backwash.
Needless to say, I was ignorant.
Plato said, “Ignorance is the root and stem of every evil.” While it is bliss when we are children, as adults we must own up to the problems in our world. In our cities. Our neighborhoods. Our families.
I, for one, am a product of an ethnocentric culture. We truly believe that the U.S. of A. is the latest and greatest thing since pickled cucumbers. More than that, I personally have “middle-child syndrome.” This is my self-diagnosis of what is otherwise known as narcissism. So getting outside of myself is my biggest challenge in life. Oh oh oh. Did you know that there is such a thing as “Truman syndrome?” It’s true. Heard it on CNN (is that a paradox?). It’s when you think people are following you around, like the paparazzi or something and that everyone knows who you are…basically an exaggerated version of egotism. Well golly gee willikers, as my papa would say, can you believe, in our culture of overdone reality TV, glam ads, and rags to riches sagas that people would actually think that the world revolves around them? I like to think I’m pretty normal (on a good day, which is about 182.5 days out of the year), and I still struggle with thinking that the world owes me something. That this life is actually about me and my comfort and my adaptation to all things surrounding me. It’s my own little “Cristi Show” right here in these four oddly shaped walls.
So I have to force myself out of these pathetic patterns. I actually have this self-talk thing I do in moments when I am thinking the whole world is against me. On a typical day, one where I have to be around people, it starts in the parking lot. I used to pray for a good parking space. And then I realized that Jesus probably wanted me to get some exercise. So I stopped praying and started my own little Norman Vincent Peale session right here in my own pint-sized brain. For instance, if it’s cold out I say to myself, “There will be a parking space close to the store.” I speak very kindly to myself, like I’m talking to a newborn or a dying elderly woman. As I’m having this conversation with the little kid inside of me, I feel the virtue of patience fastening itself to me, like a good bra. I drive. Ho hum. There will certainly be a good parking space.
Eventually.
I drive some more. By this time, I’m stopping for pedestrians, letting cars go in front of me, smiling for no apparent reason, feeling like I just stepped out of the North Pole, like Buddy, and into the donut shop with the "world’s best cup of coffee." In reality, the donut shop is an overcrowded mall and the coffee is water dressed in brown. But by this point, I don’t care. I’m waiting on my destiny. And then, in my peripheral I notice white lights, the sign of a car in reverse. Right time. Right place. I just won myself a front row parking space. I park and nearly skip to the entrance. Never mind the fact that I just lost the opportunity to burn a few calories. It’s cold out, for the love. Jesus probably didn’t mind the cold like I do. After all, He patented it.
If this is as easy as it is to subdue my self-absorption, I am wondering why I don’t do it more often. It feels good to serve. To be a part of something outside of myself. I have noticed, even in our marriage, that if Thomas and I serve someone (or something) together, even by picking up trash on a walk, we are much more apt to be kind to one another. Serving allows us see beyond the interior, with its monotonous sounds and smells. When we look at the infrastructure of humanity, that every person deserves to be loved and that God created the earth for us to care for, serving becomes the wheel of change. We are hands and feet, fashioned for good. Period. Bottom line.
On a few instances I have lost one of my children in a store. I remember one time, in Chicago, Thomas and I were in a kids clothing store with Elias, who had just turned two. We were both looking at clearance racks, I guess thinking that the other had the boy, and suddenly we looked at each other and said, “Do you have Elias?”
“No,” we said, in unison.
We started searching the store. Calling his name. There is a timeframe that those of you who are mothers or fathers or owners of a beloved dog or cat or maybe even a ferret, are familiar with, when the child or pet disappears. At first you are like, “Oh, I’m sure he’s around here.” You call his name, expecting him to respond. Nothing. You walk around, eyes darting to and fro like someone on an acid trip, waiting for him to appear. Still nothing. Panic sets in. Headlines news scenarios rush into your mind. “Stay calm. Don’t panic. He’s around here somewhere.” Your motherly impulse overrides sanity.
And just as I started to lose it, there, out from behind the clothes rack on the far left side of the store, crawled a smiling Elias, as if he had performed a successful circus act, expecting us to be excited at his newfound passion for hiding. We hugged him, my hands shaking, heart pounding, still haunted by the thought of losing my baby boy. I kissed his neck, that little crevice between his shoulder and cheek that’s made for a mama’s lips. I smelled his baby-fine hair and then gazed into his huge eyes that have always looked ever so serious, and said, as every mother does, in my best mother tone, “Don’t you ever do that again.”
I have vowed in my heart that if a mother loses her child, I won’t just stand there and stare at her turning into a volcanic mess as many people have done when I have lost one of my kids. While I am a natural pessimist and would quickly believe that others simply don’t care about the fact that I’ve just lost my child, I think the reality is that they don’t know what to do. Again, I think this is partly because of our cultural apathy. We believe the problems of others aren’t our problems and thus we have been trained to keep to ourselves…to not be a part of the solution.
Last weekend Thomas and I ventured to “Christmas at the Zoo” with not only our three kids, but my sister’s three as well. The first stop in the sea of lights and creatures, and more than that, people, was the butterfly garden, which was transformed into a big train exhibit. As our kids peered into the tiny villages of snowcapped mountains and covered bridges, I noticed a mother next to me calling for her son. “Jess,” she kept saying, “Jess!”
Her voice became a little more troubled. Panicked, really. “Jess!”
Now, I must admit that I also have a superhero complex. I’m sure it’s intertwined into the middle-child thing, but mostly this one is used for the good. I even caught a guy at the Disney Store in Chicago last week as he stuffed a bunch of clothes into his huge black coat and darted for the door. I ran to the store clerk and yelled, “That guy just stole a bunch of stuff.” She ran outside and caught him just as he was about to step onto the “getaway” city bus. It was beautiful really. I half expected the whole store to put me on their shoulders and shout “hip hip hooray” just like they did on the Smurfs. But it’s Chicago, so I accepted my husband’s pat on the back and continued shopping for an Ariel doll and a Power Ranger.
My “mama empathy” rose up as I watched the mother wait for her son to return. I noticed no one was even paying attention to this woman. The ones that were sort of looked at her like she was an alien and then walked by, caught up in their own children, their own experience here in train land. I approached her, thinking simultaneously that I would probably lose one of our kids in the meantime. “What is he wearing?” I asked, knowing her mind was already to the “what-if” stage.
“He’s African-American and he’s wearing a striped hat and a black Zip up hoodie with a red shirt underneath and jeans. He’s five.”
Wow. “Good description,” I thought. This chic was on it.
“He was right behind me. And then I turned around and he was gone.”
“I’ll go look upstairs,” I said.
I went to the top floor and scoured the place, thinking the “what-if” question but mostly believing that he would show up. I was just starting to pray when I heard her say, in a stern but relieved sort of tone, “Jess. Oh Jess, where were you?”
I made my way down the stairs, eased at the sight of them together.
“Thanks,” She said, her countenance completely different than before.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ve totally been there,” I offered, an overused but true proclamation of understanding.
In the moments before this occurred, I had been frustrated with Thomas about something. I think it was his passivity. Feeling like the zoo idea was mine and he was simply being strewn along, like me when my daughter talks me into playing “baby.” (“Now you pretend to put me in bed. Now pretend to feed me. Now let’s go shopping and I’ll be the baby and you be the big sister and we can go to Chuck E. Cheese and I’ll have ice cream and then you are frustrated with me because I’m crying and then you spank me. She reaches for her doll and acts this out for me, announcing to the baby she is getting spanked and then hitting the poor thing and throwing her on the floor. That’s about the point when I tell her that mama is done playing baby and offer to put a movie in. And I don’t spank babies…or throw them across rooms, for the record...).
But after helping this woman, feeling as if I’d acted on a thought instead of just letting it dwindle, I was okay with Thomas. Of course, he still drove me nuts with his complaining about the cold and his obvious annoyance with pushing our ridiculous, and I mean ridiculous, double stroller. But I no longer let his attitude affect me in the way it had before. And by the time we left the zoo and made our way down to the Monument Circle for ice cream at our favorite chocolate shop, he was playing silly games with the kids, chatting it up with strangers, and being kind to his exasperating wife.
It began with getting outside myself. Announcing to the bratty middle child within that a) the world isn’t against her and b) that if she’d look in her peripheral she’ll find someone in need (or in the very least, a good parking space). Both of these things point me to the reality that this life is beyond my pendulum-ridden moods. There will always be someone in need. Always a bigger cause outside of myself and my circumstances. And to this, I raise my eggnog latte’ and give a Christmas toast:
May we suppress Ignorance and every excuse we have for her. May our eyes be open and our hearts be primed so that we can see all 360 degrees around us. May we embrace the narcissistic child inside of us, but may Kindness forever win out as we seek to serve and care for those in need.
Heaps of peace, abundant grace…and the small subtle nagging feeling of discomfort… to you and yours.
Cheers!
A guy in New York City committed suicide today. Something about a big financial scheme and losing lots of money. And I mean “lots” as in a billion. Though, the way the government throws around “billions of dollars” these days, like the lady at Costco giving out free chocolates at Christmas time, one billion doesn’t really sound like that big of a deal. Not that I’m into talking politics. I would risk sounding like my father discussing a woman’s menstrual cycle or better yet, afterbirth. That is to say, I would sound pretty um… how do you say it?
Dumb.
And mortified.
But more or less…dumb.
And I get that same uncomfortable feeling when discussing politics with people that my father gets whenever he is telling “us kids” goodbye and my husband is standing within three feet of him. I see his square jaw line tense up and a knowing smirk appear, it trying desperately to hide behind all 180 pounds of his seriousness. Then, he avoids eye contact with Thomas and embraces me until his three feet of personal space ensues…until he is no longer cornered by an oblivious Thomas. Apparently, this is the universal signal that hugging another man would indeed mean he is gay, or in the very least, to quote Mister Gepetto, “A real boy.”
I don’t know why I brought up the guy in New York. I guess it caught my eye because it seems Christmas, perhaps more than any other time of year, brings with it such a contradiction in terms. The Christmas cards, cookies, carols…the lights and laughter and the feeling that love is in the air, all imply that we are living on the set of The Brady Bunch.
Certainly, just for the month of December, the food fairies take food to the millions of people who are starving to death in Africa! And I’m quite sure the psych wards, just for a couple of weeks, will send all their patients home so that they can eat sweet potato pie with their “functional” families. Oh and let’s not forget the homeless folk down the street. Or the pregnant teenager out on her own. The AIDS patient. The child with leukemia. Her family. The grieving husband. The orphaned son. The unemployed single mom. The falsely accused inmate. Surely the holidays will offer them reprieve. Nothing a little mistletoe and fruitcake can’t resolve.
Sometimes I lament the delusions I had as a child and adolescent. The world was safe, people were on my side, leaders were trustworthy, and only kids on After School Specials did drugs. That’s back when drugs meant alcohol or cigarettes. When the problems on Seventh Heaven were the real problems of the world (admit it…we all wished our dad was a little more like Rev. Camden). Back when I thought that families stayed together forever. When the term “children are starving to death” meant nothing more than that kids were to clean their plates.
In one of our first years of marriage, Thomas and I were doing this no-carb diet thing. For me, a vegetarian, this left me eggs, cheese, and natural peanut butter. Oh, and vegetables (but they can be so darn boring). One of the items we could eat, however, was pork rinds. I am not a pork rindish kind of gal, but one day when Thomas brought a bag home from the store, I thought I’d throw back a few. Just as I placed the fifth or sixth one in my mouth, Thomas turned to me and said, “You eat pork rinds?”
I knew that very second that the name implied something. “Rind of pork.” “No, this can’t be…they aren’t really made from pigs? Are they?”
Thomas laughed at me, perhaps harder than he ever has before…or after. He was taking great pleasure in the shocked and disgusted look on my face and the fact that I had contaminated my meat-free body with fried pigskin. Sure enough, I turned the package around and there on the ingredient list read, first, “Pork Rind,” as if the pig himself were smiling at my ill-informed dieting scheme. I wanted to vomit. Like when I accidentally drink my toddler’s backwash.
Needless to say, I was ignorant.
Plato said, “Ignorance is the root and stem of every evil.” While it is bliss when we are children, as adults we must own up to the problems in our world. In our cities. Our neighborhoods. Our families.
I, for one, am a product of an ethnocentric culture. We truly believe that the U.S. of A. is the latest and greatest thing since pickled cucumbers. More than that, I personally have “middle-child syndrome.” This is my self-diagnosis of what is otherwise known as narcissism. So getting outside of myself is my biggest challenge in life. Oh oh oh. Did you know that there is such a thing as “Truman syndrome?” It’s true. Heard it on CNN (is that a paradox?). It’s when you think people are following you around, like the paparazzi or something and that everyone knows who you are…basically an exaggerated version of egotism. Well golly gee willikers, as my papa would say, can you believe, in our culture of overdone reality TV, glam ads, and rags to riches sagas that people would actually think that the world revolves around them? I like to think I’m pretty normal (on a good day, which is about 182.5 days out of the year), and I still struggle with thinking that the world owes me something. That this life is actually about me and my comfort and my adaptation to all things surrounding me. It’s my own little “Cristi Show” right here in these four oddly shaped walls.
So I have to force myself out of these pathetic patterns. I actually have this self-talk thing I do in moments when I am thinking the whole world is against me. On a typical day, one where I have to be around people, it starts in the parking lot. I used to pray for a good parking space. And then I realized that Jesus probably wanted me to get some exercise. So I stopped praying and started my own little Norman Vincent Peale session right here in my own pint-sized brain. For instance, if it’s cold out I say to myself, “There will be a parking space close to the store.” I speak very kindly to myself, like I’m talking to a newborn or a dying elderly woman. As I’m having this conversation with the little kid inside of me, I feel the virtue of patience fastening itself to me, like a good bra. I drive. Ho hum. There will certainly be a good parking space.
Eventually.
I drive some more. By this time, I’m stopping for pedestrians, letting cars go in front of me, smiling for no apparent reason, feeling like I just stepped out of the North Pole, like Buddy, and into the donut shop with the "world’s best cup of coffee." In reality, the donut shop is an overcrowded mall and the coffee is water dressed in brown. But by this point, I don’t care. I’m waiting on my destiny. And then, in my peripheral I notice white lights, the sign of a car in reverse. Right time. Right place. I just won myself a front row parking space. I park and nearly skip to the entrance. Never mind the fact that I just lost the opportunity to burn a few calories. It’s cold out, for the love. Jesus probably didn’t mind the cold like I do. After all, He patented it.
If this is as easy as it is to subdue my self-absorption, I am wondering why I don’t do it more often. It feels good to serve. To be a part of something outside of myself. I have noticed, even in our marriage, that if Thomas and I serve someone (or something) together, even by picking up trash on a walk, we are much more apt to be kind to one another. Serving allows us see beyond the interior, with its monotonous sounds and smells. When we look at the infrastructure of humanity, that every person deserves to be loved and that God created the earth for us to care for, serving becomes the wheel of change. We are hands and feet, fashioned for good. Period. Bottom line.
On a few instances I have lost one of my children in a store. I remember one time, in Chicago, Thomas and I were in a kids clothing store with Elias, who had just turned two. We were both looking at clearance racks, I guess thinking that the other had the boy, and suddenly we looked at each other and said, “Do you have Elias?”
“No,” we said, in unison.
We started searching the store. Calling his name. There is a timeframe that those of you who are mothers or fathers or owners of a beloved dog or cat or maybe even a ferret, are familiar with, when the child or pet disappears. At first you are like, “Oh, I’m sure he’s around here.” You call his name, expecting him to respond. Nothing. You walk around, eyes darting to and fro like someone on an acid trip, waiting for him to appear. Still nothing. Panic sets in. Headlines news scenarios rush into your mind. “Stay calm. Don’t panic. He’s around here somewhere.” Your motherly impulse overrides sanity.
And just as I started to lose it, there, out from behind the clothes rack on the far left side of the store, crawled a smiling Elias, as if he had performed a successful circus act, expecting us to be excited at his newfound passion for hiding. We hugged him, my hands shaking, heart pounding, still haunted by the thought of losing my baby boy. I kissed his neck, that little crevice between his shoulder and cheek that’s made for a mama’s lips. I smelled his baby-fine hair and then gazed into his huge eyes that have always looked ever so serious, and said, as every mother does, in my best mother tone, “Don’t you ever do that again.”
I have vowed in my heart that if a mother loses her child, I won’t just stand there and stare at her turning into a volcanic mess as many people have done when I have lost one of my kids. While I am a natural pessimist and would quickly believe that others simply don’t care about the fact that I’ve just lost my child, I think the reality is that they don’t know what to do. Again, I think this is partly because of our cultural apathy. We believe the problems of others aren’t our problems and thus we have been trained to keep to ourselves…to not be a part of the solution.
Last weekend Thomas and I ventured to “Christmas at the Zoo” with not only our three kids, but my sister’s three as well. The first stop in the sea of lights and creatures, and more than that, people, was the butterfly garden, which was transformed into a big train exhibit. As our kids peered into the tiny villages of snowcapped mountains and covered bridges, I noticed a mother next to me calling for her son. “Jess,” she kept saying, “Jess!”
Her voice became a little more troubled. Panicked, really. “Jess!”
Now, I must admit that I also have a superhero complex. I’m sure it’s intertwined into the middle-child thing, but mostly this one is used for the good. I even caught a guy at the Disney Store in Chicago last week as he stuffed a bunch of clothes into his huge black coat and darted for the door. I ran to the store clerk and yelled, “That guy just stole a bunch of stuff.” She ran outside and caught him just as he was about to step onto the “getaway” city bus. It was beautiful really. I half expected the whole store to put me on their shoulders and shout “hip hip hooray” just like they did on the Smurfs. But it’s Chicago, so I accepted my husband’s pat on the back and continued shopping for an Ariel doll and a Power Ranger.
My “mama empathy” rose up as I watched the mother wait for her son to return. I noticed no one was even paying attention to this woman. The ones that were sort of looked at her like she was an alien and then walked by, caught up in their own children, their own experience here in train land. I approached her, thinking simultaneously that I would probably lose one of our kids in the meantime. “What is he wearing?” I asked, knowing her mind was already to the “what-if” stage.
“He’s African-American and he’s wearing a striped hat and a black Zip up hoodie with a red shirt underneath and jeans. He’s five.”
Wow. “Good description,” I thought. This chic was on it.
“He was right behind me. And then I turned around and he was gone.”
“I’ll go look upstairs,” I said.
I went to the top floor and scoured the place, thinking the “what-if” question but mostly believing that he would show up. I was just starting to pray when I heard her say, in a stern but relieved sort of tone, “Jess. Oh Jess, where were you?”
I made my way down the stairs, eased at the sight of them together.
“Thanks,” She said, her countenance completely different than before.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ve totally been there,” I offered, an overused but true proclamation of understanding.
In the moments before this occurred, I had been frustrated with Thomas about something. I think it was his passivity. Feeling like the zoo idea was mine and he was simply being strewn along, like me when my daughter talks me into playing “baby.” (“Now you pretend to put me in bed. Now pretend to feed me. Now let’s go shopping and I’ll be the baby and you be the big sister and we can go to Chuck E. Cheese and I’ll have ice cream and then you are frustrated with me because I’m crying and then you spank me. She reaches for her doll and acts this out for me, announcing to the baby she is getting spanked and then hitting the poor thing and throwing her on the floor. That’s about the point when I tell her that mama is done playing baby and offer to put a movie in. And I don’t spank babies…or throw them across rooms, for the record...).
But after helping this woman, feeling as if I’d acted on a thought instead of just letting it dwindle, I was okay with Thomas. Of course, he still drove me nuts with his complaining about the cold and his obvious annoyance with pushing our ridiculous, and I mean ridiculous, double stroller. But I no longer let his attitude affect me in the way it had before. And by the time we left the zoo and made our way down to the Monument Circle for ice cream at our favorite chocolate shop, he was playing silly games with the kids, chatting it up with strangers, and being kind to his exasperating wife.
It began with getting outside myself. Announcing to the bratty middle child within that a) the world isn’t against her and b) that if she’d look in her peripheral she’ll find someone in need (or in the very least, a good parking space). Both of these things point me to the reality that this life is beyond my pendulum-ridden moods. There will always be someone in need. Always a bigger cause outside of myself and my circumstances. And to this, I raise my eggnog latte’ and give a Christmas toast:
May we suppress Ignorance and every excuse we have for her. May our eyes be open and our hearts be primed so that we can see all 360 degrees around us. May we embrace the narcissistic child inside of us, but may Kindness forever win out as we seek to serve and care for those in need.
Heaps of peace, abundant grace…and the small subtle nagging feeling of discomfort… to you and yours.
Cheers!
Dec 18, 2008
The Frizzy Headed Monster
You would think that, if I was going to jealous of anyone, it would be of my Suburban friends…the ones with big houses, three car garages, car payments, and kids who play soccer on Saturdays, go to private schools during the week and church, faithfully, every Sunday.
But I’m not. I mean, sometimes I get this itch to do the “normal” thing, as this Suburban life is what I grew up knowing. Minus the private school. Oh, and substitute soccer for softball. We had a big yard. And big bedrooms. Bedrooms that somehow separated us from the messiness of being a family and where I sometimes felt lonely. But there are those moments, like when I open the door and step on a coat, trip over a pair of shoes, and take two steps into the living room and scratch my head, saying to myself, “I just picked this place up…” that I think maybe a big house would make more sense. And then I remember reading this article in “House Beautiful,” one of seven some odd magazines that I subscribe to thanks to my Diet Coke addiction and their “Reward” program. I rarely find time to read any of them and I have vowed to take them to Italy with us to read them when I’m “not busy,” as if in learning another language and culture and assisting my three helpless children acclimate will somehow leave me bored. This article was by the Editor, a frail-looking gay fellow whose personality shines through his writing and whose mannerisms are likely to mirror Boy George. In this particular article, he was discussing how much he enjoys small spaces and how when he goes to his friends’ houses that are ginormous, he always asks the questions, “So where do you really live?” And most often they lead him to a tiny corner in the house, with a comfy chair and a good light. And that is where they “live.”
And thus, when I think about this (as well as the small fact that we are moving to a country where you can’t find anything bigger than a shoebox to live in), any grass-is-greener-than attitude pretty much dissipates and I am left happy with our tiny house (and tiny mortgage). That is not to say that people don’t have preferences. Just as those “big house” people probably get all jealous of one another over their crown molding and master suite bathrooms and fancy refrigerators, I, a small space city gal with a budget the size of a tuna can, get jealous of other small space city gals who live on a similar sized tuna can budget.
In fact, right now I am sitting in the kitchen of one of my friend’s apartments in downtown Chicago. She (I will call her Joanna) and her husband just left for church with their three children who were matched in Christmas attire, like they just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Now, I have to preface by saying that the jealousy I’m allowing to simmer in a tiny part of my conscious, isn’t just about this space and her utilization of it, though I will go on about that I’m sure. It’s also about the fact that since I have known this girl, for going on five years, she and her husband have always done everything the “right” way…or I should say the way I was raised to believe was the “right” way. When we all lived in the same building, we lived two floors above them. On a Saturday night, while Thomas and I fought over who would do bedtime or dishes or laundry, I would make my way to their apartment to ask Joanna a question and she and her husband would be sitting there serenely, their children asleep, listening to Saturday night worship music together, reading and studying their own separate books in their own little chairs. It was like a scene at my grandparent’s house. It seemed too perfect and until that point, I thought that people our ages with kids our kids’ ages, just simply lived in chaos.
In addition, my friend also manages to work on her Masters, lead Bible Studies, throw parties, counsel friends, workout, bake, attend (and head up) important meetings, clean and organize her home, and decorate it in a way that is completely unlike my style but that is somehow appealing in all of its warmth and coziness. To boot, she and her husband have the job here at Moody that we were looking to apply for before we applied with Avant to go to Italy. The job comes with this top-floor apartment, and get this, a rooftop deck (I have prayed, boldly, like my son when he wants a Power Ranger, for a rooftop deck for a good three years…). Oh and they adopted a little black baby girl, something that has always been in my heart to do. These small facts are most likely unbeknownst to them, and it’s quite a joy to see them in this job position and with this beautiful baby girl. There is just this part of me…the part that still believes, after all these years, that Jesus is holding out on me because I’m not good enough, that is somewhat invidious of my friend.
Because I am here alone, just with Elias and Keziah (the others are down the hall sleeping), I was looking around at all of her utilitarian ideas for space, and a sense of guilt crashed over me, like a ferocious wave, as I searched for a Tupperware container to put leftovers in and found them in their own drawer, aligned with color-coded lids, perfectly placed into one another just like one of those infomercials for some space-saving masterpiece. And I suddenly felt like the girl on that same infomercial who is over-dramatizing the effects of not having such an item. Only, when I saw the dramatized version of myself reaching above the sink in my kitchen for a Tupperware container, the scene of the lids and plastic cups falling onto my head and into my sink of dirty dishes was was a familiar one, it being part of my daily life and all.
I even made my way into her bedroom, as I snoopily wanted to check out her closet space. The top drawer of her dresser was open and there lay a cute little sock organizer…one that looked like it was made just for this little chest of drawers. There in this small diagonal tick-tack-toe cubby thingy, were each pair of socks folded perfectly into one another, as if they were twins in the womb…as if they had never been apart all of those times in the washer. This, and I was pretty proud of myself when last Friday I organized Thomas and my socks, putting the matches in their own shoebox and the orphaned ones into a broken hamper.
By the time I made my way into her bathroom, the only other niche besides my closet that I just can’t seem to make “work” when it comes to style and function, I threw my hands up and admitted that keeping up was wholly impossible. For there on her cute little shelves, lay side by side, a few decorative paraphernalia and toothbrushes, as if they went together. As if the toothbrushes were part of her decor. There was no clutter. You wouldn’t have thought that one, three, and four year-olds shared this space. No toothpaste smeared on the sink. No fingerprints on the mirror. And certainly not the same smells that fill our bathroom at home, thanks to a certain six year-old that seems to miss when aiming.
So if I were in a counseling session, Mike would probably say, “So what is really going on? What are you unhappy with in your life that is causing guilt over Tupperware placement?” And I would take a deep breath, like I just did, take a sip of Diet Coke (did that too) and stare at him, the ceiling, the window, for a good two minutes (you kind of have to speed up the thinking process when you are getting charged by the minute). And I would probably say something to the effect of, “That’s a good question.”
I would probably think back to last night and how I left some other Chicago friends’ house with a sense of emptiness. How I felt unheard and misunderstood for ridiculous reasons. How I thought that perhaps I was projecting my feelings toward Thomas onto these innocent bystanders. Because Thomas and I really haven’t connected in a while. And because he is a talker, as well as an extrovert, and I’m an introvert who can pose as an extrovert in situations where I feel comfortable, I therefore have this terrible disposition of having to have my heart (my thoughts) drawn out of me. It can happen easily when I sense someone really wants to know me. But as in the case of marriage, somehow the busyness of life gets in the way and we forget the needs of one another and the reality that our styles of communication are as different as the climates of Indiana and Florida. Thomas talks and talks and as he talks his point begins to unfold, as well as his heart. I, on the other hand, do the same, but in a very different “climate,” if you will. My heart has to feel secure and understood and empathized with in order for my “point” to unfold. I haven’t been drawn out lately. My conversations have been shallow. The climate is off. In my marriage. With my family. In my friendships. Even with Jesus.
Perhaps the reason is that the reality of us moving in six months, as well as all the “work” that has to be done in order for us to leave, has begun to settle down into my heart, like an Alka-Seltzer dropped in water, fizzing and bubbling, unpredictable in its nature, but sure to subside nonetheless. When faced with an awkward conversation, instead of being objective, I think, “This is what it’s going to be like in Italy.” I will be unknown. This is scary. I know. I have done this sort of thing before.
And with Thomas, I’ve been with him in the midst of change. We either cling to one another or cling to something else that gives us comfort. The first is good. The latter is damaging. I have real fears.
I was talking to my older sister, Julia, recently and I was listening, my heart feeling helpless, as she lamented over the loss of the baby boy they were getting ready to adopt from China. She talked about how she had been angry lately. Mean to her husband and kids. Feeling out of sorts.
She and I have this bond, as we have grown older. It wasn’t always this way. When we were young, we used to hit each other with brushes and point out one another’s flaws. I always told her she had a big nose and bird legs. Her defense was that I was fat with a fat nose. In hindsight, it’s quite funny, as none of those things are inherently true. We just used whatever ammo we could come up with in our puberty-stricken state.
But somehow, the older we’ve gotten, the more kids we have had, and the ways in which our lives share so many passions and goals, it is as if there are moments where our genetic makeup takes over and we are in default sister mode. We share deep joy and deep pain. It’s like the first day of spring. While it’s been so cold for so long, I remember the warmth of the sun when it hits my pale skin for the first time in months. I breathe deep and allow my body to receive this new, proverbial season with all of its flowery smells, like a fresh load of fabric-softened laundry. In a world that can be cold and lonely, she makes me feel known.
When Julia said this about being angry, I began thinking about how I’ve not been the most pleasant person as of late either. And I remembered that my emotions are typically a gauge for what is going on in my heart. Time is no longer on my side. Months are slipping by until we leave, and by nature, I am beginning to disassociate with the world around me. This is typically when my addictive personality starts rearing its frizzy head. Instead of involving myself emotionally in relationships that are seemingly going to dissolve, I exercise, eat, clean, shop, and stalk random people on Facebook… all in the hopes of dissimulating.
And suddenly all of those old demons, the ones I have arrogantly “gotten past,” are once again before me, raising their pointed horns and all. I’m critical. I’m jealous. I’m materialistic. Ironically, I’m all the people I criticize. Fitting, really.
And so Mrs. Therapy Person, also known as my conscience, there you have it. That is why I am comparing myself to someone whose sock drawer is the equivalent of a modern art sculpture (though I guess my shoebox sock drawer may better fit the modern art description…really I do not like modern art…but was simply trying to make the point that she is organized in a way that I can never be). That is why I am questioning whether or not Jesus has remembered my prayers, especially the one for a rooftop deck. And that is for sure why I’m being overly critical of my husband who is in reality a mere human, just like myself. We are all in process.
And I am taking a deep breath again. Realizing that, in the little humility I can invoke in this moment, it’s all about forgiveness and grace. Just like my babies have known my relationship to each one, the moment each was born, so I know these friends, Forgiveness and Grace. They are familiar. I met them when I was fourteen and have taken advantage of them, mostly in my desperate moments, ever since. And in these moments of errant behavior, coupled with a heavy heart, I call on them again.
And I hear His voice, like a God who would care enough for me to take on human flesh and die a criminal’s death, like the constant sound of the tide, muted and tranquil, saying “Come to Me.”
And once again I am home.
But I’m not. I mean, sometimes I get this itch to do the “normal” thing, as this Suburban life is what I grew up knowing. Minus the private school. Oh, and substitute soccer for softball. We had a big yard. And big bedrooms. Bedrooms that somehow separated us from the messiness of being a family and where I sometimes felt lonely. But there are those moments, like when I open the door and step on a coat, trip over a pair of shoes, and take two steps into the living room and scratch my head, saying to myself, “I just picked this place up…” that I think maybe a big house would make more sense. And then I remember reading this article in “House Beautiful,” one of seven some odd magazines that I subscribe to thanks to my Diet Coke addiction and their “Reward” program. I rarely find time to read any of them and I have vowed to take them to Italy with us to read them when I’m “not busy,” as if in learning another language and culture and assisting my three helpless children acclimate will somehow leave me bored. This article was by the Editor, a frail-looking gay fellow whose personality shines through his writing and whose mannerisms are likely to mirror Boy George. In this particular article, he was discussing how much he enjoys small spaces and how when he goes to his friends’ houses that are ginormous, he always asks the questions, “So where do you really live?” And most often they lead him to a tiny corner in the house, with a comfy chair and a good light. And that is where they “live.”
And thus, when I think about this (as well as the small fact that we are moving to a country where you can’t find anything bigger than a shoebox to live in), any grass-is-greener-than attitude pretty much dissipates and I am left happy with our tiny house (and tiny mortgage). That is not to say that people don’t have preferences. Just as those “big house” people probably get all jealous of one another over their crown molding and master suite bathrooms and fancy refrigerators, I, a small space city gal with a budget the size of a tuna can, get jealous of other small space city gals who live on a similar sized tuna can budget.
In fact, right now I am sitting in the kitchen of one of my friend’s apartments in downtown Chicago. She (I will call her Joanna) and her husband just left for church with their three children who were matched in Christmas attire, like they just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Now, I have to preface by saying that the jealousy I’m allowing to simmer in a tiny part of my conscious, isn’t just about this space and her utilization of it, though I will go on about that I’m sure. It’s also about the fact that since I have known this girl, for going on five years, she and her husband have always done everything the “right” way…or I should say the way I was raised to believe was the “right” way. When we all lived in the same building, we lived two floors above them. On a Saturday night, while Thomas and I fought over who would do bedtime or dishes or laundry, I would make my way to their apartment to ask Joanna a question and she and her husband would be sitting there serenely, their children asleep, listening to Saturday night worship music together, reading and studying their own separate books in their own little chairs. It was like a scene at my grandparent’s house. It seemed too perfect and until that point, I thought that people our ages with kids our kids’ ages, just simply lived in chaos.
In addition, my friend also manages to work on her Masters, lead Bible Studies, throw parties, counsel friends, workout, bake, attend (and head up) important meetings, clean and organize her home, and decorate it in a way that is completely unlike my style but that is somehow appealing in all of its warmth and coziness. To boot, she and her husband have the job here at Moody that we were looking to apply for before we applied with Avant to go to Italy. The job comes with this top-floor apartment, and get this, a rooftop deck (I have prayed, boldly, like my son when he wants a Power Ranger, for a rooftop deck for a good three years…). Oh and they adopted a little black baby girl, something that has always been in my heart to do. These small facts are most likely unbeknownst to them, and it’s quite a joy to see them in this job position and with this beautiful baby girl. There is just this part of me…the part that still believes, after all these years, that Jesus is holding out on me because I’m not good enough, that is somewhat invidious of my friend.
Because I am here alone, just with Elias and Keziah (the others are down the hall sleeping), I was looking around at all of her utilitarian ideas for space, and a sense of guilt crashed over me, like a ferocious wave, as I searched for a Tupperware container to put leftovers in and found them in their own drawer, aligned with color-coded lids, perfectly placed into one another just like one of those infomercials for some space-saving masterpiece. And I suddenly felt like the girl on that same infomercial who is over-dramatizing the effects of not having such an item. Only, when I saw the dramatized version of myself reaching above the sink in my kitchen for a Tupperware container, the scene of the lids and plastic cups falling onto my head and into my sink of dirty dishes was was a familiar one, it being part of my daily life and all.
I even made my way into her bedroom, as I snoopily wanted to check out her closet space. The top drawer of her dresser was open and there lay a cute little sock organizer…one that looked like it was made just for this little chest of drawers. There in this small diagonal tick-tack-toe cubby thingy, were each pair of socks folded perfectly into one another, as if they were twins in the womb…as if they had never been apart all of those times in the washer. This, and I was pretty proud of myself when last Friday I organized Thomas and my socks, putting the matches in their own shoebox and the orphaned ones into a broken hamper.
By the time I made my way into her bathroom, the only other niche besides my closet that I just can’t seem to make “work” when it comes to style and function, I threw my hands up and admitted that keeping up was wholly impossible. For there on her cute little shelves, lay side by side, a few decorative paraphernalia and toothbrushes, as if they went together. As if the toothbrushes were part of her decor. There was no clutter. You wouldn’t have thought that one, three, and four year-olds shared this space. No toothpaste smeared on the sink. No fingerprints on the mirror. And certainly not the same smells that fill our bathroom at home, thanks to a certain six year-old that seems to miss when aiming.
So if I were in a counseling session, Mike would probably say, “So what is really going on? What are you unhappy with in your life that is causing guilt over Tupperware placement?” And I would take a deep breath, like I just did, take a sip of Diet Coke (did that too) and stare at him, the ceiling, the window, for a good two minutes (you kind of have to speed up the thinking process when you are getting charged by the minute). And I would probably say something to the effect of, “That’s a good question.”
I would probably think back to last night and how I left some other Chicago friends’ house with a sense of emptiness. How I felt unheard and misunderstood for ridiculous reasons. How I thought that perhaps I was projecting my feelings toward Thomas onto these innocent bystanders. Because Thomas and I really haven’t connected in a while. And because he is a talker, as well as an extrovert, and I’m an introvert who can pose as an extrovert in situations where I feel comfortable, I therefore have this terrible disposition of having to have my heart (my thoughts) drawn out of me. It can happen easily when I sense someone really wants to know me. But as in the case of marriage, somehow the busyness of life gets in the way and we forget the needs of one another and the reality that our styles of communication are as different as the climates of Indiana and Florida. Thomas talks and talks and as he talks his point begins to unfold, as well as his heart. I, on the other hand, do the same, but in a very different “climate,” if you will. My heart has to feel secure and understood and empathized with in order for my “point” to unfold. I haven’t been drawn out lately. My conversations have been shallow. The climate is off. In my marriage. With my family. In my friendships. Even with Jesus.
Perhaps the reason is that the reality of us moving in six months, as well as all the “work” that has to be done in order for us to leave, has begun to settle down into my heart, like an Alka-Seltzer dropped in water, fizzing and bubbling, unpredictable in its nature, but sure to subside nonetheless. When faced with an awkward conversation, instead of being objective, I think, “This is what it’s going to be like in Italy.” I will be unknown. This is scary. I know. I have done this sort of thing before.
And with Thomas, I’ve been with him in the midst of change. We either cling to one another or cling to something else that gives us comfort. The first is good. The latter is damaging. I have real fears.
I was talking to my older sister, Julia, recently and I was listening, my heart feeling helpless, as she lamented over the loss of the baby boy they were getting ready to adopt from China. She talked about how she had been angry lately. Mean to her husband and kids. Feeling out of sorts.
She and I have this bond, as we have grown older. It wasn’t always this way. When we were young, we used to hit each other with brushes and point out one another’s flaws. I always told her she had a big nose and bird legs. Her defense was that I was fat with a fat nose. In hindsight, it’s quite funny, as none of those things are inherently true. We just used whatever ammo we could come up with in our puberty-stricken state.
But somehow, the older we’ve gotten, the more kids we have had, and the ways in which our lives share so many passions and goals, it is as if there are moments where our genetic makeup takes over and we are in default sister mode. We share deep joy and deep pain. It’s like the first day of spring. While it’s been so cold for so long, I remember the warmth of the sun when it hits my pale skin for the first time in months. I breathe deep and allow my body to receive this new, proverbial season with all of its flowery smells, like a fresh load of fabric-softened laundry. In a world that can be cold and lonely, she makes me feel known.
When Julia said this about being angry, I began thinking about how I’ve not been the most pleasant person as of late either. And I remembered that my emotions are typically a gauge for what is going on in my heart. Time is no longer on my side. Months are slipping by until we leave, and by nature, I am beginning to disassociate with the world around me. This is typically when my addictive personality starts rearing its frizzy head. Instead of involving myself emotionally in relationships that are seemingly going to dissolve, I exercise, eat, clean, shop, and stalk random people on Facebook… all in the hopes of dissimulating.
And suddenly all of those old demons, the ones I have arrogantly “gotten past,” are once again before me, raising their pointed horns and all. I’m critical. I’m jealous. I’m materialistic. Ironically, I’m all the people I criticize. Fitting, really.
And so Mrs. Therapy Person, also known as my conscience, there you have it. That is why I am comparing myself to someone whose sock drawer is the equivalent of a modern art sculpture (though I guess my shoebox sock drawer may better fit the modern art description…really I do not like modern art…but was simply trying to make the point that she is organized in a way that I can never be). That is why I am questioning whether or not Jesus has remembered my prayers, especially the one for a rooftop deck. And that is for sure why I’m being overly critical of my husband who is in reality a mere human, just like myself. We are all in process.
And I am taking a deep breath again. Realizing that, in the little humility I can invoke in this moment, it’s all about forgiveness and grace. Just like my babies have known my relationship to each one, the moment each was born, so I know these friends, Forgiveness and Grace. They are familiar. I met them when I was fourteen and have taken advantage of them, mostly in my desperate moments, ever since. And in these moments of errant behavior, coupled with a heavy heart, I call on them again.
And I hear His voice, like a God who would care enough for me to take on human flesh and die a criminal’s death, like the constant sound of the tide, muted and tranquil, saying “Come to Me.”
And once again I am home.
Dec 7, 2008
Happy Pills
After making our way in the snow to Target last night, with the sheer intention of getting my prescription for Zoloft (otherwise known as my happy pills) filled, I walked to the pharmacy and stared at the cold steel door over the window, realizing it would be yet another day until I would feel somewhat sane again.
Not only did I suffer from a serious headache yesterday from the lack of mind-altering enhancement (otherwise known as Serotonin), but I also was quite emotional this morning. Now, I am (with or without meds) totally wired as a feeler. I sense God's presence and leading in my life through my emotions. No, they are not always right, especially when I'm reading the world through an emotional lens that is tweaked by hormones. However, more often than not, I listen to my gut when it is speaking. I am learning, in my 29 years of life, that when something doesn't "feel" right, I would be most wise to just wait on God's leading. I could give you lots of examples of times I didn't do this, but dwelling on our mistakes is no fun and I have been lacking some serious verbiage lately and to go on about such things would only suck more of my brainpower, as well as your time. Trust me, I'm doing all I can right now to come up with some sort of point to this blog.
As a side note, or rather I guess this would go along with my point, I also know, through my feelings, when I am supposed to write. I get this anxious feeling...like a kid waiting to see Santa. The only difference is that I'm not only the kid waiting, I'm also the one pretending to be Father Christmas. And delivering some sort of message is my responsiblity alone. THe proliferation of all that I hold inside is up to me. If it's good, well surprise! I am as delighted as you are. But if it's bad, it goes into my drafts folder with all the other rejects, and I'm back to a blank screen (aka a stocking of coal). And this would be fine if I didn't have that continued nagging, pulling, lump-in-my-throat-thing going on where I know God wants to stretch me and have me share my heart with you.
Most times, when I sit down to blog, I get sidetracked by e-mail, facebook, slickdeals, or as in the case a moment ago, a crying child. Ope. He must have heard me type that, for he just began whining in his bed again.
Okay. Silence. Finally.
So like I was saying, when I sit down to write, just as if I were in college with a paper due tomorrow, I put on my procrastination hat, and find something else to do. Delving into my emotional state, somehow making sense of it, and making it sound good enough to keep your attention is a very risky thing. It's like I'm in the 8th grade beauty pageant all over again, standing awkwardly in that Barbie-pink, ridiculously puffy dress, waiting to find out if I'm indeed the next "Ms. Brandywine." Mind you that all you needed was one of these overstuffed dresses to win and my best friend's mom knew that because she was the one that hosted these outlandish events and lent me the dress...and well, come to think of it, I think I was the only one with such a dress, henceforth I was the winner... however... It was still a terrible feeling to have given those judges my all and then to wait nervously for them to tell me if I was good enough.
And so it is with you. I hate hate hate that I am such a sucker for affirmation. I long to adhere to the childhood proverbs about not caring what others think (or better put in Christian circles..."only caring what Jesus thinks"), but I'm just not there. So trust me when I say that your encouragement is what is making me sit here at my little desk, in this uncomfortable chair, in my small, quiet house, with all of its hushed interstate sounds and mulled cider smells, to communicate with you...to put myself on the line...in order for something beyond myself to be fashioned, bent, and sculpted with these tiny keys and with these tiny words and these ridiculously long sentences.
Now then. Where was I? Emotions. No crazy meds. This morning. Ah yes.
So on the way to church, I was listening to the radio and on came this song by a girl I know from Chicago. I only encountered her a handful of times, but we were good friends with her good friends and henceforth the strange connection. This woman and her husband lost their baby to SIDS in May, I believe. And this song on the radio is older. And her voice is so beautiful. And you could feel the pain in her voice, even though it wasn't even there when the song was recorded. I wanted to cry. I held back tears for fear that mascara would be all over my face by the time I got to church. I thought about how shallow that was. How I was inhibiting the sharing in God's sorrow for this mother all for the sake of my freshly painted face. My heart remained heavy.
When I finally made my way into church with my whining children in tow, I looked to the screen and saw the face of a hurting mother. She was telling the story of how they lost their teenage son in a car accident less than a year ago. Through tears she told of God's comfort in the midst of pain.
Next, a husband and wife told their story about a miscarriage, a failed adoption, and the eventual miracle baby who recently came into their lives.
At that point, I took my kids to their class and began talking to a friend. I later made my way down the hall to the high school room, where I always go for a few minutes. I like the music and the energy of a generation that isn't afraid to dream big dreams. Concurrently, I like praying for the kids in the room. I couldn't help but think, as I knelt down in the very back of the dimmed santuary, how so many of these kids were hurting, perhaps feeling inadequate, depressed...maybe even suicidal. I stared at them, my eyes drifting from one to another, wondering about their stories. Wondering who was lonely. Who was afraid.
Then I continued my Sunday morning sojourn, by heading upstairs to the "young adult class," where I look forward to my weekly cream-filled iced donut. You know, I saw a sign in a Kansas City gas station once, as I was at the cash register purchasing a box of Krispy Kremes for our ride home that read, "Go ahead, you have all day to work it off." And that is how I look at donuts, as well as any other sugar filled dessert item dressed in breakfast drag.
I was quite disappointed when upon entering the room, I didn't see the white boxes of yeasty heaven in the back. I made my way to a table, feeling out of sorts without Thomas being there with me. My ADD settled down and I listened to the conversation that our pastor friend was leading. It had to do with "where the class was going" and, having had plently of discussions with him regarding his philosophy of ministry, I knew what he was getting at. The dialogue was going in circles and at some point, my haven't-had-medicine-for-four-days side kicked in and I began "sharing" my opinions. My opinions carried the weight of emotion with them because, at the moment, I was for some reason passionate about getting these people to understand what the pastor dude was trying to communicate. One of the guys refuted me, proving my overly sensitive feminist side right. I got annoyed. I wanted to leave the room. And then I realized that indeed I was being overly sensitive and overly critical and just as my emotions had given me compassion for those hurting people and those high school kids moments earlier, they were now beginning to control this other side of me...the dark side if you will, and I knew in that moment that my mind was off. I needed to keep my mouth shut before I said anything I regretted. I needed to get my kids and get out of there.
I acted normal as I made my way down the stairs, across to the classrooms, and over toward my parents who were holding a tired Ezra. My heart was still heavy. I began having shallow conversations with people, just wanting to get away, in fear of what I was capable of in my "the world is against me" state. Elias began hitting his sister who began crying. He then proceeded to chase Ezra around, nearly running into the crowd of people. Upon telling him his TV privelege was going to be taken away for his nasty attitude, he used an unpleasant cuss word, at which point I shared with him that he would also be getting his mouth washed out with soap. I took his hand and, remaining calm, pulled him along the snowy parking lot, trying to ignore him screaming, "Let go. Let go. Let go." When i finally did let go, he began screaming that he wanted to watch TV. That lasted for a good ten minutes in the car until I reminded him that I could take more priveleges away.
By the time we got home, Elias had calmed down (with a Zest-fully-clean mouth) and I had a new month-supply of happy pills in hand. I put a pill in my mouth, took a sip of Diet Coke, and swallowed.
We went over to our friends' house later on that day. I could feel my negativity subsiding. Of course, Annette's dance party in her kitchen helped a little... I felt free to be me. Not inhibitied by a skewed perception of some false philosophy on life.
I am constantly amazed, when I confront this part of me (because this isn't the first time I let my prescription run out), how real my emotions appear. They drown me at moments. I make the world out to be a dark and mean-spirited place and I make my husband out to be my mortal enemy (oh, that happened later in the day). It's ugly really. But when my brain is functioning as it should, my emotions act as a guide. They assist in directing me into new worlds. They guide me into grieving for a hurting mother, a desperate teenager. They steer me to try new things, to make myself a little more vulnerable, to confront someone who's hurt me or say sorry to one I've wronged. But when I'm imbalanced, my emotions don't merely guide me. They control me. I have no say over where they will take me. When it's good, like this morning when I had a tiny glimpse into God's heart for his hurting children, it's good. But when it's bad, like taking little comments personal, it's really bad. And when it's really bad, I know that depression is not far off.
Therefore, I am at peace with the fact that I need medication. Emotions are such an intregal part of the way I see the world and my role in it. Without them, I would wither and die. But it took two children and a third pregnancy to make me see that my emotions were controlling me and therefore damaging my husband and children with their unpredictability. But more than that, they were damaging me. I see Jesus' grace better with medicine, because it's easier to extend it to myself and others. Ahhhh. Grace. I love that word. It always brings me back to a place I can start from. And tomorrow I will be glad to start it afresh without the highs and lows...just a steady compassion for my family and my neighbors...a love that can only be stirred through growing closer to Jesus and letting Him guide me. Whether that's through my emotions or not...that lies in the hands of a God who shouts to us through his beauty and remains silent through our pain. A God whose ways we will never comprehend but in whose mercy we must depend. A God who has given us our emotions in order to channel us into His heart.
Not only did I suffer from a serious headache yesterday from the lack of mind-altering enhancement (otherwise known as Serotonin), but I also was quite emotional this morning. Now, I am (with or without meds) totally wired as a feeler. I sense God's presence and leading in my life through my emotions. No, they are not always right, especially when I'm reading the world through an emotional lens that is tweaked by hormones. However, more often than not, I listen to my gut when it is speaking. I am learning, in my 29 years of life, that when something doesn't "feel" right, I would be most wise to just wait on God's leading. I could give you lots of examples of times I didn't do this, but dwelling on our mistakes is no fun and I have been lacking some serious verbiage lately and to go on about such things would only suck more of my brainpower, as well as your time. Trust me, I'm doing all I can right now to come up with some sort of point to this blog.
As a side note, or rather I guess this would go along with my point, I also know, through my feelings, when I am supposed to write. I get this anxious feeling...like a kid waiting to see Santa. The only difference is that I'm not only the kid waiting, I'm also the one pretending to be Father Christmas. And delivering some sort of message is my responsiblity alone. THe proliferation of all that I hold inside is up to me. If it's good, well surprise! I am as delighted as you are. But if it's bad, it goes into my drafts folder with all the other rejects, and I'm back to a blank screen (aka a stocking of coal). And this would be fine if I didn't have that continued nagging, pulling, lump-in-my-throat-thing going on where I know God wants to stretch me and have me share my heart with you.
Most times, when I sit down to blog, I get sidetracked by e-mail, facebook, slickdeals, or as in the case a moment ago, a crying child. Ope. He must have heard me type that, for he just began whining in his bed again.
Okay. Silence. Finally.
So like I was saying, when I sit down to write, just as if I were in college with a paper due tomorrow, I put on my procrastination hat, and find something else to do. Delving into my emotional state, somehow making sense of it, and making it sound good enough to keep your attention is a very risky thing. It's like I'm in the 8th grade beauty pageant all over again, standing awkwardly in that Barbie-pink, ridiculously puffy dress, waiting to find out if I'm indeed the next "Ms. Brandywine." Mind you that all you needed was one of these overstuffed dresses to win and my best friend's mom knew that because she was the one that hosted these outlandish events and lent me the dress...and well, come to think of it, I think I was the only one with such a dress, henceforth I was the winner... however... It was still a terrible feeling to have given those judges my all and then to wait nervously for them to tell me if I was good enough.
And so it is with you. I hate hate hate that I am such a sucker for affirmation. I long to adhere to the childhood proverbs about not caring what others think (or better put in Christian circles..."only caring what Jesus thinks"), but I'm just not there. So trust me when I say that your encouragement is what is making me sit here at my little desk, in this uncomfortable chair, in my small, quiet house, with all of its hushed interstate sounds and mulled cider smells, to communicate with you...to put myself on the line...in order for something beyond myself to be fashioned, bent, and sculpted with these tiny keys and with these tiny words and these ridiculously long sentences.
Now then. Where was I? Emotions. No crazy meds. This morning. Ah yes.
So on the way to church, I was listening to the radio and on came this song by a girl I know from Chicago. I only encountered her a handful of times, but we were good friends with her good friends and henceforth the strange connection. This woman and her husband lost their baby to SIDS in May, I believe. And this song on the radio is older. And her voice is so beautiful. And you could feel the pain in her voice, even though it wasn't even there when the song was recorded. I wanted to cry. I held back tears for fear that mascara would be all over my face by the time I got to church. I thought about how shallow that was. How I was inhibiting the sharing in God's sorrow for this mother all for the sake of my freshly painted face. My heart remained heavy.
When I finally made my way into church with my whining children in tow, I looked to the screen and saw the face of a hurting mother. She was telling the story of how they lost their teenage son in a car accident less than a year ago. Through tears she told of God's comfort in the midst of pain.
Next, a husband and wife told their story about a miscarriage, a failed adoption, and the eventual miracle baby who recently came into their lives.
At that point, I took my kids to their class and began talking to a friend. I later made my way down the hall to the high school room, where I always go for a few minutes. I like the music and the energy of a generation that isn't afraid to dream big dreams. Concurrently, I like praying for the kids in the room. I couldn't help but think, as I knelt down in the very back of the dimmed santuary, how so many of these kids were hurting, perhaps feeling inadequate, depressed...maybe even suicidal. I stared at them, my eyes drifting from one to another, wondering about their stories. Wondering who was lonely. Who was afraid.
Then I continued my Sunday morning sojourn, by heading upstairs to the "young adult class," where I look forward to my weekly cream-filled iced donut. You know, I saw a sign in a Kansas City gas station once, as I was at the cash register purchasing a box of Krispy Kremes for our ride home that read, "Go ahead, you have all day to work it off." And that is how I look at donuts, as well as any other sugar filled dessert item dressed in breakfast drag.
I was quite disappointed when upon entering the room, I didn't see the white boxes of yeasty heaven in the back. I made my way to a table, feeling out of sorts without Thomas being there with me. My ADD settled down and I listened to the conversation that our pastor friend was leading. It had to do with "where the class was going" and, having had plently of discussions with him regarding his philosophy of ministry, I knew what he was getting at. The dialogue was going in circles and at some point, my haven't-had-medicine-for-four-days side kicked in and I began "sharing" my opinions. My opinions carried the weight of emotion with them because, at the moment, I was for some reason passionate about getting these people to understand what the pastor dude was trying to communicate. One of the guys refuted me, proving my overly sensitive feminist side right. I got annoyed. I wanted to leave the room. And then I realized that indeed I was being overly sensitive and overly critical and just as my emotions had given me compassion for those hurting people and those high school kids moments earlier, they were now beginning to control this other side of me...the dark side if you will, and I knew in that moment that my mind was off. I needed to keep my mouth shut before I said anything I regretted. I needed to get my kids and get out of there.
I acted normal as I made my way down the stairs, across to the classrooms, and over toward my parents who were holding a tired Ezra. My heart was still heavy. I began having shallow conversations with people, just wanting to get away, in fear of what I was capable of in my "the world is against me" state. Elias began hitting his sister who began crying. He then proceeded to chase Ezra around, nearly running into the crowd of people. Upon telling him his TV privelege was going to be taken away for his nasty attitude, he used an unpleasant cuss word, at which point I shared with him that he would also be getting his mouth washed out with soap. I took his hand and, remaining calm, pulled him along the snowy parking lot, trying to ignore him screaming, "Let go. Let go. Let go." When i finally did let go, he began screaming that he wanted to watch TV. That lasted for a good ten minutes in the car until I reminded him that I could take more priveleges away.
By the time we got home, Elias had calmed down (with a Zest-fully-clean mouth) and I had a new month-supply of happy pills in hand. I put a pill in my mouth, took a sip of Diet Coke, and swallowed.
We went over to our friends' house later on that day. I could feel my negativity subsiding. Of course, Annette's dance party in her kitchen helped a little... I felt free to be me. Not inhibitied by a skewed perception of some false philosophy on life.
I am constantly amazed, when I confront this part of me (because this isn't the first time I let my prescription run out), how real my emotions appear. They drown me at moments. I make the world out to be a dark and mean-spirited place and I make my husband out to be my mortal enemy (oh, that happened later in the day). It's ugly really. But when my brain is functioning as it should, my emotions act as a guide. They assist in directing me into new worlds. They guide me into grieving for a hurting mother, a desperate teenager. They steer me to try new things, to make myself a little more vulnerable, to confront someone who's hurt me or say sorry to one I've wronged. But when I'm imbalanced, my emotions don't merely guide me. They control me. I have no say over where they will take me. When it's good, like this morning when I had a tiny glimpse into God's heart for his hurting children, it's good. But when it's bad, like taking little comments personal, it's really bad. And when it's really bad, I know that depression is not far off.
Therefore, I am at peace with the fact that I need medication. Emotions are such an intregal part of the way I see the world and my role in it. Without them, I would wither and die. But it took two children and a third pregnancy to make me see that my emotions were controlling me and therefore damaging my husband and children with their unpredictability. But more than that, they were damaging me. I see Jesus' grace better with medicine, because it's easier to extend it to myself and others. Ahhhh. Grace. I love that word. It always brings me back to a place I can start from. And tomorrow I will be glad to start it afresh without the highs and lows...just a steady compassion for my family and my neighbors...a love that can only be stirred through growing closer to Jesus and letting Him guide me. Whether that's through my emotions or not...that lies in the hands of a God who shouts to us through his beauty and remains silent through our pain. A God whose ways we will never comprehend but in whose mercy we must depend. A God who has given us our emotions in order to channel us into His heart.
Nov 16, 2008
Divulging my Apathy...
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.
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 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.