Confessions of a Clay Pot

I need to quit interrupting.

2012-02-17T10:11:00.000-06:00

Communication is usually one of my strong suits. It’s never going to earn me a medal, but I’m the goddess of the drive-thru. Back when I was taking orders, happy customers repeatedly commented on how remarkably clear and pleasant our loudspeaker interaction had been. Even today, my husband jokes that it would be better if he could back up to the speaker so I could place our orders from the passenger side, because it would up our odds of getting the food we actually want, and lower his stress levels.

Despite my ability to interact effectively and pleasantly, even without the assistance of visual clues, I’ve been troubled lately by my tendency to interrupt others. A topic piques my enthusiasm, someone says something intriguing or funny, and, next thing I know, I find myself verbally jumping into conversation gaps that aren’t gaps. This has probably been going on my whole life, but there are a couple circumstances recently that have made me realize I need to install a governor on my discourse.

First, I’ve had laryngitis. For the last week or so, speaking has been a labored effort. It takes so much extra breath to say something with enough clarity and volume to be heard, that when anyone, especially my kids, is inattentive, interrupts, or ignores me, I feel the burden of the added work it takes to repeat myself. I find myself surrendering my point, rather than repeating something that seems too inconsequential to muster the effort. It’s made me realize how important it is to be a good listener, to slow down and put more effort into hearing what others have to say.

The challenge of laryngitis has also heightened my sensitivity to a friend of ours for whom speaking is an act of deliberate effort. I have caught myself interrupting him more than once in the last couple weeks, and it humbles me. I should already be humble that someone values our friendship enough to work for it like that; I definitely shouldn’t be making him repeat himself by talking over him.

If I’m foolish enough to interrupt in those circumstances, it a guarantee that I’ve been interrupting everyone else, too. So, if you’re one of my victims, I apologize. I’m going to work on it. Maybe flick me on the forehead, if I interrupt you. That should shut me up.

Anyone who answers without listening is foolish and confused. Proverbs 18:13

The chickens are going to have to wait.

2012-02-10T10:37:00.000-06:00

Imagine the kids’ surprise on Easter morning, when we open a seemingly routine express mail package and out pop – chicks! Downy soft and ready to eat their first meal, the three day old chicks cuddle up in their warm hands and the girls’ eyes sparkle with delight as our new adventure in hobby farming begins.

We’ve had that image in our minds since we first put an offer on this place. With great optimism, we imagined that we’d get settled in over winter break. We’d be hosting sledding parties in January. We saw ourselves, as March rolled around, rearing to get out there to plant a giant garden and build a chicken coup.

Reality is reining us in yet again. With the mildness of winter this year, we spent winter break building a shed and cleaning the garage, instead of unpacking the basement. Old Man Winter withheld sledding until just this past weekend, when we finally got a snowfall that could cover the grass on our hill. As the dominoes are toppling, I see that our Easter fantasy is fading as fast as my laundry pile is growing.

I am in no way deterred from the vision of what this place is going to be for us, but I am having to rethink the timetable. We chose a smaller house, and it takes a lot longer to get organized and settled in when you have half the cupboards, closets, and garage that you did before. My spring chickens aren’t the only thing I have to let go of. There’s also the extra set of dishes, the spare bed, the computer armoire, that stunning teal sectional…and many, many things that are still in boxes downstairs, yet to be identified for sale or donation.

Finally breaking in the sledding hill last weekend!

We took a lot on, pursuing this vision of self-sustenance and simplicity; it may take us quite a while to achieve even a basic start to all we hope for. But it was a gratifying moment last week, when my oldest came in after school, dropped her bag and coat by the door, and sighed, “Ahhh…home sweet home.” Yes, my dear girl, it really is. And whenever we do get to it, farm fresh eggs and garden vegetables will only make it sweeter.

Hezekiah, I will tell you what's going to happen. This year you will eat crops that grow on their own, and the next year you will eat whatever springs up where those crops grew. But the third year you will plant grain and vineyards, and you will eat what you harvest. Those who survive in Judah will be like a vine that puts down deep roots and bears fruit. 2 Kings 19:29-30

I am helpless against roses.

2012-02-03T12:10:00.000-06:00

My husband was the first man to ever bring me roses. After our first date, I came home to my apartment one afternoon and found a dozen roses, left on my doorstep, with a note from “guess who.” In the years since, he has often made similar gestures, usually not on Valentine’s Day, or my birthday. Very rarely even on our anniversary. Generally, it’s just some random evening that he decides to show up with a romantic gift. Those moments are wonderful in their unexpectedness, remind me that he still considers me worth wooing, and humble me for being such a cold-hearted, “don’t waste your money on romantic gifts,” kind of girl. Let’s face it, no matter how down to earth and practical I try to be, there’s still a little girl inside me, who loves playing dress up, things that sparkle, and, emphasis on occasional, romantic gestures from the man I love.

My daughters don’t have any of that practicality yet, but also don’t attach any romantic notions to flowers and jewelry. Whether you are mother, father, aunt, sister, or random acquaintance, they will joyfully accept any flowers, trinkets, or jewelry you’d like to offer, without making any awkward relationship assumptions. While, anymore, they seem to enjoy dance for its own merits, it rose to a place of prominence in their priorities when my oldest was showered with bouquets after her first recital. I think my middle daughter danced her first year, purely in anticipation of cellophane wrapped roses and baby’s breath.

It was my oldest’s dance acquisitions, not my husband’s romantic overtures, that overwhelmed me this week. After dancing her first principal role, she was blessed with an abundance of beautiful flowers from us, and from family and friends. Then she got another big bouquet during curtain calls. I filled a two gallon pitcher and dutifully arranged them all for her, placing them in the dining room for her to enjoy. I immediately started a sneeze and runny-nose fest, but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal to live with flowers for a week or so until they died.

After a day and a half of cohabitation with their loveliness and aroma, however, my husband came home from work and blurted, “Whoa! What’s wrong with your eye!?” I hadn’t looked in the mirror all day, so I was shocked to see that my eyes were severely blood shot and there was a yellow blister growing out of my eye ball. I scoured the internet to find out that I had a cyst on my eye ball, and that allergies can cause it. So much for any future romantic gestures; so much for enjoying the girls’ recital gifts; so much for that lovely Japanese orchid I’ve been hinting about for the last six months (I stuck my face in one yesterday to see if it would make me sneeze; no sneeze, but the reward for my stupidity was a thirteen hour sinus headache and a scratchy throat).

Recital flowers are now quarantined to an upstairs bedroom, and I guess my husband’s going to have to woo with diamonds from now on.

Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. Song of Solomon 2:12

I'm itching for a road trip.

2012-01-27T12:47:00.000-06:00

Between the baby, the move, and financially preparing for me to quit my job, family vacationing has been off the table for the last couple years. Granted, and my husband would be quick to point it out, we did travel with the kids each of the last two summers, to Arizona and to Wyoming, but both times it was on short notice for a memorial service. We tried to make the most of the time off and family togetherness, but, in my mind, it really doesn’t qualify as a true “family vacation.” We have thoroughly enjoyed a few weekend visits to neighboring cities, and I wouldn’t complain about Minneapolis, Chicago, or the Wisconsin Dells, but, again, these short, fun weekend trips were really more “getaways” than “vacations.”

Mostly, those occasions served to remind me how awesome it is to hit the open road with the whole family in tow. I love those long carefree days of seeing new things together, listening to old school music on the radio, eating deviled ham sandwiches for lunch, and taking turns watching Star Wars movies in the back seat with the kids. There’re KOA campgrounds calling my name, World’s Biggest Balls of stuff to be photographed and explored. There’s national history to be learned in person, hotel pools to be cannonballed into, mountain paths to be hiked, and, I hope with all my heart, an ocean to be splashed in. I don’t care whether we go east, west, or south; I just have that deep hankering to go.

It’s not entirely reasonable. The baby’s still small. The house isn’t unpacked or organized. The summer is still months off. It always costs more than you budget, someone inevitably spills, craps, or vomits in the back of the van. At some point, your will to rough it breaks down and you spring for a two-room suite that gives you a locking door between yourselves and the kids. Yes, I know all the limitations. But the heart wants what the heart wants. I long for a 2-4000 mile, 14-20 day adventure, together with my favorite people. I think it’s road trips that make us American; it’s our patriotic duty to explore this vast and beautiful nation. Are you buying this? Because I really want to go.

You brought us here and gave us this land rich with milk and honey. Deuteronomy 26:9

Don't make me sing...

2012-01-20T12:23:00.000-06:00

As they passed out the songbooks, the emcee announced, “We borrowed these from the Senior Center…” That’s when we knew we had been bamboozled.

Although we might have felt some obligation to attend the church’s chili cook-off anyway, it was a stroke of genius when the committee chair asked my husband to judge, thus securing the whole family’s participation. They said there would be a talent show after the meal. Maybe not our first choice for a Saturday night, but we could sit back and enjoy the accordion playing and card tricks, we figured.

Then, as quick as you can say, “zipa-dee-doo-dah,” the evening was turned all around on us. Before a single act had taken the stage, the gal at the piano banged out the intro and, despite my husband’s best effort to wave off the song books, we were swept up in a sing-a-long against our will. The music segued from that deliriously wonderful day to the fairy godmother’s “bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.” We felt none of the mythical Disney magic; we had hoped, like most talent shows, that audience participation would be limited to texting in our votes.

Admittedly, I could not help but laugh at my husband’s chagrin, and I sang louder and more expressively to add to his misery, but the real entertainment for me was in my mind. I imagined all sorts of more entertaining alternatives to our current predicament. Imagine if the pastor had come in dressed like Jiminy Cricket to sing Zipa-dee-doo-dah. The only way to follow that up would be to have been for the choir director to throw on a tulle skirt and grab a wand for Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo. Instead of the hard knot of anxiety we all felt in our core in seeing that Hakuna-matata was next in the book, we would have felt wild anticipation for which old friend was about to come out dressed like a wart hog. It wouldn’t have mattered that most of us were off-key. It wouldn’t even have required any talent. It would have, most certainly, made for a memorable and entertaining program.

So, church event organizers, I just thought I would share this tip for the next big event. If we can’t bring the talent, let’s bring the costumes.

Kenaniah the head Levite was in charge of the singing; that was his responsibility because he was skillful at it. 1 Chronicles 15:22

I felt guilty about the MP3 player.

2012-01-13T11:26:00.000-06:00

My husband and I felt a huge wave of emotion when the girls opened their MP3 players this Christmas. They were not the coveted iPod touches they had begged for since last Christmas. Instead, they were affordable knock-offs that came in bright, personalized colors. As we steeled ourselves for their disappointment, they floored us instead with their enthusiasm. As they tore open the paper simultaneously and read the packaging, my oldest girl’s voice grew in volume and intensity as she saw and read aloud the all important phrase, “TOUCH SCREEN.” We got the video camera out as quickly as possible to capture their unanticipated elation, but, as hilarious as it was, it still didn’t capture the overwhelming ecstasy of their first reaction. We felt like Oprah on one of her Favorite Things episodes.

We outlined the attributes and limitations of the devices, because we did not want to mislead them about the reality that they were not iPods, but they were not disappointed in the least. They, instead, were thrilled. They immediately began snapping pictures and recording video. They plugged in their ear buds to check out the music we had loaded for them, and our middle daughter took delight in looking through the library of photos we’d transferred for her. They were the exact opposite of the kids in Jimmy Kimmel’s “I gave my kids a crappy present” montage. My husband and I, with tears in our eyes, gave congratulatory glances to one another across the room. Mission accomplished: an awesome Christmas gift that didn’t break the budget. It felt like a real family accomplishment: our mad gift giving skills, the kids’ great and grateful attitudes; it all came together.

One of the great selling points (that we didn’t end up needing to sell, but still told them) was that these devices were affordable enough that the kids could be trusted with them. Unlike high end devices, they could take their MiPods with them wherever they wanted. This would be a test of their ability to be responsible with their own electronics.

Flash forward less than a week later. My older daughter had her treasured touchscreen in the pocket of her hoodie, which she had slung across the couch cushion while we watched football. I was crawling back to my accustomed spot in the back corner of the sectional, and proved that the weight of my body on top of my bony right knee was more than a knock-off touch screen MP3 player could handle. At first, I didn’t comprehend her look of utter dismay, as she dug in the pockets of her jacket. But when she pulled out the cracked device, and began to cry into my lap, it was all I could do to control my own emotions. I tried to be parental and reproach her leaving something she valued so much in such a thoughtless place. I reminded her that we had expressly told them of their responsibility to take care of the devices, and that putting them where they could be stepped or sat on was an explicit violation of that responsibility. Through her tears, she determined to spend her own money to replace the defunct device, then continued to cry in my lap for another twenty minutes or so. It was torture to sit by and let her mourn.

What my daughter doesn’t know is that after everyone was tucked in that night, I cried too. In that one moment, I had gone from Oprah to the Grinch. I could not believe that it was me! I was the one who had broken my kid’s favorite gift. I know it could have been anyone; after all, she left it hidden in a pocket on the couch. But it was me. I had disgraced our victory. I had turned triumph to tragedy, in the world of a ten year old I love.

The next morning, when replacing her MiPod was her first and most emphatic thought of the day, I let her off the hook and told her I would split the price, because I wanted her to know how sorry I was for being the one who broke it. I wasn’t sure if I should have done that or not. But now that she has her new one, I don’t think it detracted from the lesson. Both girls are taking care to keep them in cases and tuck them away when they aren’t using them. And I’m going to be very careful where I step or sit.

We also bought the product replacement plan on the new one. Duh.

I did feel bad at first, but I don't now. I know that the letter hurt you for a while. Now I am happy, but not because I hurt your feelings. It is because God used your hurt feelings to make you turn back to him, and none of you were harmed by us.When God makes you feel sorry enough to turn to him and be saved, you don't have anything to feel bad about. 2 Corinthians 7:8b-10a

My kid outclassed me (and I didn’t scrub the floors).

2012-01-06T10:50:00.000-06:00

OK so, first of all, I didn’t go all Molly Maids on the old house after we moved out. I figured the new owners were going to give it an overhaul to put their own smell on the place anyway, and, frankly, we had other priorities moving week. The actual moving, three kids, Thanksgiving, out of town family, and a cancer diagnosis in my husband’s immediate family – to name the most obvious contenders for our attention. But all excuses aside, we did leave the house without completing our regular housekeeping, so it was not the spotless showplace it had been a few weeks earlier. Let me know if I’m wrong on this, but I’ve never known anyone who moved into a house or apartment and raved about the previous owner’s housekeeping; cleaning the new place is part of moving. Or so I thought.

I expected the new people would find something to complain to the neighbors about, but what I didn’t expect was that my ten year old would be approached at school by the child of our former neighbor, in front of other kids, with a nasty accusation about our family’s filthy living – as reported to her parents by the buyers of our house. As if they hadn’t gone through the house just a few weeks earlier and seen how clean it was when we weren’t in the middle of moving. I was horrified when my daughter told me what the girl had said. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t crying and wondered if she was being brave for us. A well of defensive unpleasantness bubbled up in me, as I took a mental inventory of all the very judgmental and personal jabs I could take at them. It was a challenging sale, and we had sometimes struggled to remain gracious. All of those moments when we had to remind one another to be kind, to let things go, and to be generous rather than stingy, were suddenly overwhelmed by a vicious instinct to lash out and harm the people who had turned an adult financial transaction into neighborhood gossip and schoolyard bullying.

As I was about to surrender to my anger and injured pride, and arm my daughter with a slew of nasty responses she could use if it came up again, my husband saved the moment by asking her how she had responded. She said matter-of-factly that she had told the girl, “Oh, so you must think moving is easy.” And then she told the other kids who were listening to the exchange, “What? Did they live in a hotel before? They can’t clean their own bathroom?”

I could have cried. I felt so much admiration for her. She did everything the school counselor says to do with bullies. She stood up for herself; she disarmed them with humor. She didn’t take it, but she didn’t escalate the situation either. I could not have provided her with a better response than she came up with all on her own. She was the tough but gracious person I wish I was – and she’s only ten years old.

I am embarrassed by the ugliness I felt about the situation and by the defensiveness I’m still battling. I am tempted even now to give you all the reasons why I think we are nicer people than them. I am just not as good or confident a person as my daughter is. She is a class act. And I have a lot to learn from her.

We work hard with our own hands to feed ourselves. When people insult us, we ask God to bless them. When people treat us badly, we accept it. When people say bad things about us, we try to say something that will help them. But people still treat us like the world’s garbage—everyone’s trash. 1 Corinthians 4:12-13

I wish I was in New York City.

2011-12-30T12:26:00.001-06:00

Who doesn’t, right? It’s a popular bucket list item to spend New Year’s Eve in Times Square. Heaven knows, my bucket list is probably as long as anybody’s. If my sister is going to Africa to climb Mount Kilimanjaro next summer (which she is), the least I should get to do is freeze my backside under the twinkling billboards, in the City that Never Sleeps.

Ironically, I have never had any desire to pass through the threshold of a new year beneath the dropping ball. I would actually have been willing to fly home on New Year’s Eve to save on airfare. If you’ll indulge my bragging, I have already ice skated at Rockefeller center and even witnessed the flight of the giant balloons for the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. I’ve been to the top of the Empire State Building, and backstage at Late Night with David Letterman; I just missed the cut to sing a little ditty for “Stump the Band.” I’ve stood at Ground Zero and pondered the empty sky, and rode the Staten Island Ferry to get a glimpse of Lady Liberty on Ellis Isle. I cannot complain that I in any way need or deserve a more fantastic New York City experience than I’ve already had.

The reason my husband and I both woke up from NYC dreams this morning, is this: our beloved Cyclones, that Blue Collar team that keeps making all the inspirational montage segments on ESPN, will be playing in the Pinstripe Bowl today. Who wouldn’t want to be in Yankee stadium this afternoon, when that vibrant leader, Paul Rhoads, leads his irrepressible team of over-achievers onto the field, in hopes of pulling off yet another fantastic upset? It may be a near home-field advantage for Rutgers, but my hopes, if not my money, are on Iowa State. It may be one of those tens of bowls that no one has heard of. It may be a battle between teams that don’t amount to much in the national picture. The BCS is in no way implicated. But when the Iowa State Cyclones take the field, they bring all the excitement college football can generate. Watch for first quarter on-side kicks. Don’t be surprised if they run a gadget play on a long fourth down in their own territory and make the first down. Even if you had no other reason to cheer for the Clones, surely you are wondering whether Paul Rhoads can actually muster a more inspiring locker room speech than, “I am so proud…to be your coach” or “I don’t care whether your black or white, or rich or poor, or where you came from…I do care that we are ONE team.” What about the way he jumpsaround on the sidelines when they botch a call?

There are at least a dozen reasons why we couldn’t make a bowl trip this year, but this morning I woke up regretful of all of them. If I had it my way, I’d be at the end of a 24 hour RV drive through sleet-crusted freeways, dragging my kids through the subways, and saddled with an enormous load of blankets, mittens, and baby paraphernalia, to freeze my backside and lose my voice cheering for our team. We’re going to have a blast cheering them on from Central Iowa today – I’ll probably lose my voice anyway – But I wish I was doing it in New York City.

Help us defeat our enemies! No one else can rescue us. You will give us victory and crush our enemies. Psalm 60:11-12

I choose us.

2011-12-23T12:35:00.000-06:00

My oldest daughter gave me the compliment of a lifetime. “You know, Mom; you’re really great at being a mom.” The baby was off her schedule, up too late, and still needed her dinner when we got home from the church Christmas program. She was fussing and cranky, too worked up to focus on the spoonful of puréed chicken and noodles I was offering her. My biggest girl was having her own late dinner across the table, observing the whole operation as I combined soothing tones of encouragement and gentle offerings of her favorite snacks to finally get the baby to settle down and realize that eating food could actually be the solution to her hunger. To a ten-year-old’s perception, I accomplished the impossible; no one could ever get a baby that mad to stop crying and eat, and who ever would want to talk sweetly to a baby that’s screaming at the top of her lungs? Well, don’t worry, it hasn’t gone completely to my head, but unsolicited feedback on my job performance is exceptionally rare and, in this particular case, well timed.

Many times I’ve heard from both working and stay-at-home moms that I have an ideal situation. I get the best of both, being able to take my kids to work with me. I’m not cooped up in the house all day with only children for company, but I’m not tied to a cubicle, staring longingly at my baby’s picture. Oftentimes, that has been true. But there are also many times when I’ve had the worst of both; where my professional to-do list had to compete with a teething infant or a curious toddler. Unlike my stay at home friends, I couldn’t drop everything to attend to my child. Unlike my working friends, I couldn’t drop her off at daycare and focus on my work. As long as I’ve been working and mothering, there have always been days when my baby had to cry it out, when my kids had to play solitaire in the youth room, or when I had to pay someone else take them to the park on a summer day. There have also been meetings that had to be carried on with a giddy toddler squealing during the video, youth group campouts that included school-aged tagalongs, and potlucks to which we just didn’t make it. And I haven’t yet mentioned the cooking or laundry.

Working and mothering has always been a tricky balance, but I felt called to both, so I found ways to make it work. There were seasons where I felt like everything was just right, and seasons where I could have quit my job at any moment. Combining my twelve years on staff with the years of volunteering I did before I was staff, this year’s high school graduates and I have been together since they were in preschool. I feel confident that God has used me in the lives of young people to shape their childhood for the better. They have experienced the love of Christ through my church’s ministries in ways that God put me there to facilitate. I do not question that, up to now, I was called to be both a minister and a mom.

But everything is different now. Not just for me. I see it with my husband and my in-laws, too. When you put our littlest girl next to our oldest, it’s like a flash forward. In a blink, they go from itty-bitty, to all grown up. We really felt like we were trying to savor the days with each of our kids, but it is undeniable that our sense of urgency is amplified this time around. We’ve experienced the speed of life first hand, and we just don’t want to let even the smallest moment get away from us. There’s no “we’ll do that tomorrow,” or “maybe next time.” I feel like Nicolas Cage’s character, Jack Campbell, in The Family Man. I’m seeing how all those compromises add up. I’ve come to the conclusion that even if you have the best job in the world, which I do, and Jack thought he did, God can still call you away.

Maybe I’m a wonderful youth and children’s pastor, but it’s my first and highest calling to be a wonderful mom. I hope I’ve done both, but I’ve made compromises that I don’t want to make any more: compromises that God has laid it on my heart to back away from. Perhaps it may demand I make a whole new set of compromises, as leaving my job means giving up a calling that has become part of my identity. I fear that it may be a surrender to sexism in that it suggests that I can’t be the best mom and the best minister concurrently. It will be sad, and it will be hard; it will turn my life upside down. But we’ve made arrangements with the church for me to resign this spring. When my kids get out of school this summer, for the first time, we will wake up each morning to see together what the day brings. When my baby weans this spring, for the first time, it won’t mean that she crosses a threshold, whereby I must spend the majority of my income paying someone else to nurture her during the day.

I’m nervous about the financial impact; I’m anxious about my professional future; but I know I’m leaving ministry to pursue a proud profession that I’m gifted for. And despite my uncertainties about what the future holds, “I choose us.” Not over God, but over professional ministry, during this season of my life.

Good people live right, and God blesses the children who follow their example. Proverbs 20:7

I’m a closet introvert.

2011-12-16T11:14:00.001-06:00

Hell for me is a phone with a headset, hooked up to an automatic dialer. It’s torture, having to muster a pleasant tone of voice, and confront the unknown demands of a conversation. I did a miserable customer service job for a year and a half out of college and I still cringe when I hear a phone ring. I program my loved ones’ phone numbers with special rings so that when they call, I can actually respond with joy, instead of trepidation, when I answer the phone. Sometimes I don’t even answer their calls.

No one had to wonder whether I was an introvert, as a kid. My silence should have made it clear, but it also ensured that no one wondered whether I was an introvert. They were more likely to wonder whether I was a snob, or a nerd, or possibly a deaf person – or not to notice me at all. I was shocked, when my siblings alerted me (in less than diplomatic terms) to the fact that my silence was communicating a disregard for everyone around me that I did not feel. In fact, I have a very passionate concern for people. It is part of what makes interacting so exhausting. I feel such a drive to make every interaction one of care, help, and nourishment that I feel like I should have a script and a rehearsal before I open my mouth. The pressure eventually wears me out.

Those who have known me as an adult may or may not realize this about me, though. They may be in my inner circle, where I shamelessly, and probably overbearingly, turn my full personality loose and trust they will graciously interpret my missteps in the context of who they know me to be. Or they may be the recipient of a gift they didn’t know was a gift. They are one of the many people, with whom I interact with openness and possibly even verbal excess, despite the extreme anxiety and fear I’m hiding. They’ve managed to overlook it that I keep my arms down to hide my pit stains during meetings. They’ve correctly understood that they matter, but they’ve never tuned in to the moment of hesitation before I looked them in the eyes and smiled, or the extended time I spent in the restroom during a break.

It is hard work to make small talk, to decide how much to disclose, to know when to ask questions and when to let the awkward silence bring an interaction to a close. I could stumble into a landmine of impropriety or offense at any point. But it is apparent to me that, even when I don’t do it as perfectly as I hope, interacting is more valuable, and a better representation of myself to the people around me, than keeping silent. So, I interact. Against my strongest inclinations, I approach strangers after worship. Despite my shoulder devil’s insistence that no one will get them, I crack jokes and tell stories.

Often, my worst fears are realized and I play back a conversation in my head with embarrassment or regret. Many times, as well, I feel so drained afterward that I need a few hours or days of cloister to build up my energy and courage to return to the public. I read a great article about introverts that a couple of my fellow Women in Ministry posted this week. It was very affirming to realize that I’m not alone in my social struggles, and also that it’s not a character flaw I need to cure. It just is who I am.

So I’m coming out: My name is Emily, and I’m an introvert.

Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone. Colossians 4:6

We’re going to disappoint our kids this Christmas.

2011-12-09T10:04:00.002-06:00

I’ve been hearing about it for over a year. iPods, iPods, iPods. They vowed to save up for them. They wanted them for their birthdays. They wanted us to search Craigslist for cheap ones with cracked screens. Their devotion to getting iPod touches has been almost single-minded, even usurping the role of cell phone at the top of their longings and desires. When we got my husband an iPad, and everyone found out firsthand how flawlessly Apple technology operates, and how truly addictive Angrybirds is, it amplified their desires to a new level of intensity.

In planning our Christmas giving, we got sucked in. We debated the merits of iPods vs. ghetto-pads; we considered Nooks and Kindles. We weighed the potential reading minutes against the potential gaming minutes. We considered getting them one to share, but I wasn’t interested in officiating time of possession. We were at the cusp of making a major outlay for technology, granting our kids’ biggest wish.

Then they started bickering. First it was over socks. Despite the fact that each girl has a drawer that is overflowing with socks, I was charmed by the goofy Christmas socks at Dollar Tree and bought them each two pair that they could mix and match. The next morning, they were going at each other hatefully over the stupid socks, because they couldn’t come to an agreement on who got which of the FOUR PAIRS. Later, they raised the same ruckus over who got to wear the pink mittens, despite the bin full of available options. Shortly into the afternoon, they were fighting over space in the minivan. We were FOUR people, riding in a vehicle designed to seat SEVEN.

My kids already have DS’s. They already have a portable DVD player for road trips. They already have a room all their own. They already have a closet full of clothes. They have a huge collection of Barbies, of Our Generation dolls, of Galactic Heroes, of dress up gowns, etc, etc. But over the last few weeks, every adult who cares about them, myself included, has opened at least one conversation with, “what are you going to ask for this Christmas?” It has led my children to believe that their self-centered, materialistic desires actually matter to the overall functioning of the social order and that, somehow, Jesus came to earth, purely to occasion their own wish-fulfillment.

I am back at square one. I want my kids to have a fun, memorable Christmas. Like everyone else, I don’t want their gift opening to be a disappointment. I wonder what kind of role model I’ve been for them, that they would display such repulsive behavior. Let’s face it, I’m disappointed, too. I want to make them happy, but I also want to be a good mom, and I’m afraid that this Christmas, I’m not going to be able to do both. Character and gratitude last longer than electronics anyway, right? Wish me luck.

As bad as you are, you still know how to give good gifts to your children. But your heavenly Father is even more ready to give the Holy Spirit to anyone who asks. Luke 11:13

Holiday sweets make me giddy.

2011-12-02T10:15:00.003-06:00

I couldn’t help it. The gal at Sonic was passing me the most beautiful incarnation of Pumpkin Pie Milkshake ever. The cup was shiny metallic, like an old soda shop, the whip cream was fluffy and crusted with crumbs of graham cracker and brown sugar. Before I could stifle it, a high pitched giggle of delight escaped, and I felt embarrassed by the cold on my teeth as I gave the girl a billboard grin and a childishly joyful “Thank you!” I felt like a complete weird-o, as her even stare and cautious body language signaled her distrust.

Who needs mom’s apple pie? There’s I-HOP’s Eggnog Pancakes, McDonald’s Holiday Pies, and pumpkin, in all its various forms. I don’t need to be invited to a slew of holiday parties, I bring the party to the drive thru, every time I get a chance to consume these delightful concoctions! How, tell me, how can you beat getting 2 custard pies, with sugar sprinkles baked in to the crust, for a mere $1? I can pass on the dessert for the whole rest of the year, because these enchanting specimens are only on the menu for four short weeks!

So whether you are serving me up a Gingerbread hot chocolate or a caramel apple parfait, don’t look at me like I’m putting you on. I’m for real. And for the 700 calories, that shake better be worth getting excited about, don’t you think?

It is a joyful holiday that they celebrate by feasting and sending gifts of food to each other. Esther 9:19b

I wished the movers would go “smoke.”

2011-11-25T22:15:00.002-06:00

They started the day chipper, almost gleeful. They had the abundant energy and lousy skin that are a signpost of meth use. For the first four hours of the day, they were like the 7 Dwarfs, with their joyful “Hi-ho, hi-ho.” They hauled everything we pointed out to them with a spring in their step that was almost manic, and cooed friendly baby talk at my daughter on my hip as they wheeled heavy dressers full of heavy clothes up and down the stairs.

Sometime in the early afternoon, however, their moods took a sudden dip. Almost instantly, they had freakish dark circles under their eyes and every question or comment was greeted with growls and scorn. I can’t disparage their labor; they eventually accomplished everything we had outlined for them to do. They did not, however, seem nearly as pleased or motivated to do it as they had before their buzz wore off. Over the course of a 10 hour move, they only took two fifteen minute breaks and never even ate, only smoked cigarettes. After all the barking and groaning, however, I mentioned to my husband that I wished they would take a little longer and track down what they were really craving, because I didn’t think the second half of our move was the right time for them to start de-tox.

Toward the end of the incredibly long day, I made a sandwich run and brought them back some subs and soda pops. They seemed really thankful, but still didn’t stop to eat them until after the move was complete. They had worked unbelievably hard all day, so we couldn’t imagine sending them away without a tip, but we had mixed feelings about it as we handed them each their wad of cash. I can’t imagine working that kind of job every day. I can imagine how tempting it would be to enhance my energy with illicit substances before showing up to haul people’s stuff for them. I wonder about my complicity in their demise; because I own more stuff than I can carry from house to house on my own; because I have the affluence to hire people to carry my stuff when I can’t or would rather not; because I saw the situation and still preferred them high; because I handed them enough cash to go do the same thing tomorrow.

A lot of people I know say they can’t tell if someone uses. I wonder if they can’t or just choose not to, because I’d rather choose not to, too.

Drug yourselves so you feel nothing. Blind yourselves so you see nothing. Get drunk, but not on wine. Black out, but not from whiskey. For God has rocked you into a deep, deep sleep, put the discerning prophets to sleep, put the farsighted seers to sleep. Isaiah 29:9-10 (MSG)

I'm passing on Twilight.

2011-11-18T09:12:00.001-06:00

I know I’m going to tread on some toes here, and there is not much I can say about the series that hasn’t already been said, but it seems to me that anyone over 25 who is fawning over these movies needs an express ticket to Cougartown.

When the mania began, and the facebook posting about glittery suitors became overwhelming, my husband and I figured we should check it out and rented the first movie. We didn’t hate the movie, but we also weren’t overwhelmed by the drama, the characters, or the acting. Mostly we thought it was weird that a 100 year old guy would find a teenage girl remotely captivating. As for Bella – you have some serious father-figure issues if you are trapped in a love triangle with a vampire and a werewolf. Anyone with any sense would pass on both. As a parent, I find myself rooting for her to find a guy who’s too old for her, rides a motorcycle, has gages, tattoos and a chain wallet, and chews tobacco. It would be safer and show better judgment.

I get more annoyed with the series every time another fang-inspired romance crops up and panders to my youthgroup and kids. Girls, you should never consider a relationship with someone who assaults you, demeans you, or might eat you. Even if you see the characters on the Disney Channel doing it.

But, who knows? I did only watch the first movie. Star Wars didn’t hit their stride until Empire Strikes Back. Now there’s a series worth a midnight premier!

I think I know where this whole vampire thing got started, though. There is someone whose blood holds the hope of eternal life. Maybe it is all just a misunderstanding…

But if you do eat my flesh and drink my blood, you will have eternal life, and I will raise you to life on the last day. John 6:54

I believe in fighting back.

2011-11-11T08:37:00.000-06:00

She was pointing her finger at me and laughing at my socks. Somehow she had noticed that I was wearing the same pair two days in a row and decided that everyone in the room should be alerted to my lack of hygiene. My face flushed and I struggled to answer her claim. You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just claim clearly and confidently that I had two pairs of the same socks; after all, most people do, and often they wear them on subsequent days, right? But I completely lacked the confidence to speak up on my own behalf. Plus she was right, and I was tongue tied by that knowledge. I pray my own kids find lying as difficult as I did back then.

This occasion is memorable to me because a girl named Caryn swooped in to my rescue. She had noticed that my accuser was wearing the same pair of BLUE JEANS she had worn the day before. It was obvious, because she had acted so cool when she’d written her name on the leg in pen, in front of us all, the day before. Needless to say, as soon as Caryn mentioned the jeans, she dropped her suit against me for my socks.

I was so grateful to Caryn. I wondered why people were scouring my wardrobe for mistakes, but she never seemed to draw any fire. Of course, there’s the obvious – the coolness I so notably lack and she so effortlessly emanated. Possibly, she never wore similar looking socks on subsequent days? No. It was more than her fashion choices. There have been long articles and mini-specials offered on how to avoid or deal with bullies, but the answer I eventually noticed and practiced is so obvious it’s ridiculous. Bullies backed off and left me alone, just about for good, when I started doing what Caryn did. I started standing up, not just for myself, but for others.

It’s one thing to put together some good one-liners, to change your route or routine to avoid problems, or to carry extra lunch money. Those are all actions that will help with self-preservation. But nothing seems to intimidate an intimidator more than speaking up on behalf of others. All it takes is doing so once or twice to discover that you have all the confidence and courage you need to make a difference for yourself and others.

There are so many broken people in this broken world who exploit the vulnerable to fill their own needs, from sixth grade bullies, to bosses on a power trip, to harassers and abusers. If you don’t want yourself or your loved ones to be a victim, then don’t let someone else be a victim. When you know something is wrong, say so. You aren’t just rescuing that victim, you are protecting yourself.

And if that fails, a solid punch to the stomach should buy you enough time to get away. Jesus may have suffered in silence, but God’s going to have to call my kids with that message directly, because I’m not going to teach them to let themselves be victims. As Michael Landon’s angel on Highway to Heaven said after taking a second punch, “Now don’t say I didn’t turn the other cheek.” Then he kicked tail.

Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Isaiah 1:17

I could never be as tough as Chuck or Betty.

2011-11-04T10:24:00.004-05:00

I love the Chuck Norris jokes, but I realized the other night that I really think Betty White is tougher. I was contemplating what it is about her that makes her so exceptional and made a list of reasons. Eat your heart out, Chuck.

10 Things you should know about Betty White:

1. She has shark teeth for dentures.

2. Her Aquanet helmet scrambles Satellites.

3. She drives slow to thwart her CIA surveillance.

4. She smells like Bengay because she uses it to lubricate her power tools.

5. She eats oak trees for her fiber supplement.

6. Her support hose will hold up buildings.

7. She carries big purses, because they fit her machete.

8. Her hearing aids play Korn and Slipknot.

9. She can’t play shuffleboard, because she doesn’t shuffle.

10. She wears Granny-panties, because she doesn’t need UnderArmor.

There are certain things that seems to go with the territory of aging, but I will always admire the people, like my grandparents, Clint Eastwood, Betty White, and many others, especially the ladies, who defy those stereotypes and remind me that the road ahead of me can be exciting and vibrant through retirement and beyond.

Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, my God, till I declare your power to the next generation, your mighty acts to all who are to come. Psalm 71:18

I hate my hair!

2011-10-28T01:00:00.005-05:00

My hair has been falling out by the handfuls for months. It did the same thing after the births of my older daughters too, resulting in giant bare spots on each temple. When my oldest was about 6 months old, I had to part my painfully thin hair in the middle and pull it around to a low ponytail, just to sparsely cover my skull. I’ve been fortunate, this time around that, while my hair is still falling out at the same high rate, the regrowth started much sooner. Instead of completely bald spots, the lean places have a carpet of wacky fringe that goes whichever way my cowlicks dictate. I’m torn each morning between spending hours at the mirror attempting to stylishly mask my hairlessness, or just surrendering, putting in a headband and ponytail, and wearing my shirt inside out to distract people from looking at my hair.

I wish this battle were something new, but it’s really not. I have hated my hair for as long as I’ve been aware of fashion. I spent my fourth grade year figuring out the pattern of a girl named Beth’s French braids; I hoped I could duplicate her look, but it took four years of attending school with bizarre, tangled messes on my head before I finally got it down. When big hair came into fashion, I couldn’t afford the volume of hairspray it required to make bangs as thin and fine as mine stand up and be teased. I had to skip the late eighties and go straight to grunge.

So here I am, all grown up, and still hating everything about my hair. It’s a blah color. It has no real body or texture. Frankly, I resent every moment of my life that I’ve spent in the chair at a salon, or at the mirror with a curling iron and hairdryer. I was born to “wash and go,” and that fantasy remains out of reach for me. But now you know why I dress the way I do…probably explains a lot.

Don't depend on things like fancy hairdos or gold jewelry or expensive clothes to make you look beautiful. 1 Peter 3:3

Why is simplicity so complicated?

2011-10-21T00:00:00.001-05:00

Over a year and a half ago, my husband and I were trying to catch our breath. He felt the financial pressure of being the primary breadwinner. I felt the frantic race of keeping up with church activities, dance, and housekeeping. Those feelings were all compounded by our ambitious volunteering with the Parks and Rec. Not wanting to play favorites, when Dad volunteered to coach our older girl’s basketball team, Mom volunteered to coach the younger’s. Have your chuckle at the idea I could potentially coach a sports team and let’s move on…

I picked up a devotional book on simplicity and we decided to complete the six-week course during Lent. It turned out that it wasn’t so simple. It took six months to finish the book and the process of assessing our lifestyle, our gifts, the things from which we take the greatest joy and satisfaction, and our hopes for contributing to, rather than exploiting, the world in which we live. It might have been safer to cruise right through the book in six weeks. Our pursuit of simplicity found us having a third child and putting our house on the market.

You’ve probably heard that it’s a buyer’s market out there. It is. We had hoped that we could pursue simplicity without actually catching it, I guess, because our decision to downsize was supposed to be dependent on God sending us a buyer for our current house. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation from the new baby, maybe it was confidence in the marketability of our current home, but I honestly believe it was more along the lines of Providence. We are closing this morning on that little brick house my husband’s been eyeing for the last five years; it’s set on a beautiful, wooded pasture just 2 miles from our current house. It met all our criteria and then some. The kids won’t even change schools, and we can raise chickens, have up to 3 livestock, and have all the room in the world for a giant garden.

It's already cuter than this - with a brand new, black roof.

I believe we’re following the calling of the Holy Spirit. I believe we went through this process thoughtfully. Still, it has been surprising to both of us how complicated this whole simplicity thing is. Somehow while it seems like it should be the easiest thing ever to simplify, it is actually fraught with risk. It’s taken a lot of courage and we’re just going to continue to rely on one another and listen for the still, small voice of God to show us the way.

I don’t know when we’ll be moved. I don’t know how much stuff we’re going to have to unburden ourselves from. I don’t know who is going to buy our old house. But I know we’re headed where we’re supposed to be. And I’m excited for the journey. And I wouldn’t change a thing. OK, I’d take a buyer…anyone?

Are any of you wise or sensible? Then show it by living right and by being humble and wise in everything you do. James 3:13

I just go go go

2011-10-14T13:29:00.001-05:00

My high school friends hated to ride with me, because I charged every stop sign. Not to the point of throwing anyone into the dash, but I wouldn’t let off the gas until I had just enough time to make the stop. Why waste precious seconds coasting? I avert my eyes when an elderly person cuts me off in a doorway or grocery store aisle to avoid signaling animosity where there is only impatience. I’m not mad they’re slow, or resentful that I have to wait for them; I just wasn’t prepared to break my stride so abruptly and am ready to resume my mission as soon as they clear the path.

My husband calls me antsy. It drives me nuts to wait behind someone in the self checkout who can’t figure out the scale. I could lose my mind watching someone run an internet search using inefficient search terms. Don’t get me started on sitting through church meetings.

I don’t tailgate or nag, but it’s only because I know how impatient I am. I know that it isn’t fair to the others around me, who need a little more time to get through the doorway, decide what they want to order, or realize it’s their turn at the four way stop. I have a certain practiced calm that is often a required antidote to my natural impatience; I stand back, breathe deeply, and say a prayer of thanksgiving that God has given so many delightful things to do each day that I literally want to race from one to the next; that God’s blessed me with the physical health and quick thinking that make it possible to get my half dozen items and get back out of Walmart in less than ten minutes; that someone stepped in front of me this very instant to remind me to slow down and savor where I am and what I’m doing.

I hear people marvel sometimes that I’m able to keep up with so many demands. My driven nature does allow me to keep up a full plate and I’m grateful for that. But sometimes I know that comes at the cost of making other people feel they’re just a speedbump on my race. It takes deliberate, intentional action for me to reorient my attitude from action and accomplishment toward relationship and connection. Sometimes I need to sacrifice efficiency to leave enough space for humanity, to hear someone’s story, to show someone love; to leave room for Christ to shine.

Always be humble and gentle. Patiently put up with each other and love each other. Ephesians 4:2

I'm a pizza addict

2011-10-07T09:02:00.002-05:00

It has pickles, mustard, onion, and bacon on it, and I can never stop after just two pieces. As likely as it is to add inches to my middle, Bacon Cheeseburger pizza, I would argue, is still a healthy choice. It satisfies my pizza cravings, and my fast food cravings, with a single meal. When have you ever found such an efficient junk food?

If only Bacon Cheeseburger pizza actually were enough to satisfy my pizza cravings, though. I love pizza. You’re right, we all love pizza. Let me clarify, I love pizza. I would gladly eat pizza once a day, every day, for the duration of my life. If such an occasion arose, I could certainly add an extra lunch or dinner to that when necessary. My husband hordes pizza coupons to shelter our family from the financial burden of my addiction.

I often find myself doing pizza math when we start discussing dinner options. While he’s thinking: steak, chicken, or fish? I’m trying to make sure we didn’t eat pizza in the last 24 hours, before I mention that I’d like to have pizza again.

In addition to my newest favorite, the Bacon Cheeseburger pizza, I’ve long been a fan of the Supreme. Hawaiian is also delicious. Barbeque – yum. Steak or green olive – yes please. Originally not on my list, I’ve even come around to find myself enjoying Taco pizza. It is, however, the one pizza I do not enjoy cold the next day.

Oh, yes. Cold pizza. If you don’t order a big enough pizza to dine on cold leftovers the next day, you didn’t order a big enough pizza.

Then he set it before them, and they ate and had some left over, according to the word of the LORD. 2 Kings 4:44

I serve two masters

2011-09-30T13:49:00.000-05:00

“Mom,

Mom you make my life special. Your life is crowded with 2 kids and 1 baby and 1 pet and 1 Dad. You might have no time to play but you love me every day. I love you how you cook dinner and coach our church. But you love me below and above. I need you brush my hair. Your husband loves you too!

Thank you for all you do!

I love you Mom.”

I got three things I really needed this morning: a cup of coffee, a nice chat with my husband, and this note from my 7 year old. It fell out of the desk drawer, just when I needed it. As you can see, my kids don’t sugarcoat things for me. They know my life is “crowded.” They probably know better than anyone that I’m pulled in more than one direction and have to constantly make compromises between what I want to be doing and what I need to be doing. Let’s face it, everything else aside, I’d pull them out of school every single day to follow some flight of fancy and adventure. They might never learn to read and we might have to subsist on grass and berries, but it would sure be great to spend carefree hours together, discovering every beauty the world has to offer.

Scripture says we can’t serve two masters, because we will love the one and hate the other. Of course, this is referring to God and money. Sometimes I struggle with the ways that truth applies to my life, though. I’m called, at a minimum, to serve at least three: my family, the church, and the Lord. Making it even more complicated, I’m actually getting paid to serve the church, so perhaps the church should count as two – God and money? But I already made a distinction between serving God and serving the church. I guess because they sometimes seem like two different masters, as well, when the challenges and expectations of church life come into tension with my ability to devote myself singly to God.

Most of the time, I find ways to keep my masters happy. Even if I don’t have time to play, I still manage to cook some meals, brush some hair, and “coach the church.” Other times, I find one master or another to be exceptionally demanding, and I end up having to make things up to the others later. I had a demanding master this week, she hardly napped during the day; she insisted on eating twice every night; she refused to enjoy her Jump-a-roo when I needed to prep lessons and make meals. A string of sleep longer than 3 hours would be an incredibly welcome luxury right now.

But my husband got the kids ready for school every morning this week and kept the baby happy so I could teach the kids and youth on Wednesday. The big girls pitched in when I needed someone to grab me a diaper or empty the dishwasher; they were well-mannered at the doctor’s office, and didn’t complain when I made zucchini. And neither God nor the church stuck me down for being sleep deprived and scatterbrained at work this week. Even the teenagers, as usual, were good natured and accommodating. Who doesn’t love masters like mine?

My daughter’s note this morning brought all those moments together for me. It was a welcome reminder that, even though I’m struggling to keep up with my many masters, my most important calling is still being accomplished: my kids know I love them “below and above.” And hopefully my other masters are getting that message now and again, too?

No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money. Matthew 6:24, Luke 16:13

I have a love/hate relationship with my minivan

2011-09-23T10:45:00.001-05:00

We’ve all seen her at the mall, I’m sure. She’s wearing 5 inch heels and fake fingernail tips, balanced on the running board of a Sequoia, trying to wrestle a baby seat up into the base without snapping a nail or getting her hair in her lipstick. Not realizing how much she looks like the butt of a reality show joke, she wears her biggest fear on her Armani sleeve. She’s a slave to anything the design editors have told her is “in.” If you savor this sort of entertainment, and you can walk slowly enough to your car, you can catch the sequel, where she tries to fold up the stroller and lift it in under the hatch without crushing her shopping bags or spraining her ankle.

It’s not really fair for me to pick on Designer-Mom. It’s probably not smart either. If she gets ticked, she could run over my whole house with that SUV. Seeing her struggles, however, I shake my head and pity her a little. It’s not that I don’t like cool stuff; I do. It’s just that I try to incorporate fashion in ways my lifestyle can actually accommodate. I feel a different sort of coolness wash over me when I load up my three kids, and the stroller, and all the scenery and puppets for Sunday’s outreach, and am on my way while Designer-Mom is still stretching over seats to fiddle with car seat buckles she can barely reach without climbing into the third row of her fabulous vehicle.

The practicality of a minivan completely reigns for me. Driving a third-row SUV would be, to me, like wearing thong underwear. It may impress that one person who actually catches a glimpse of it, but you’re the one who has to live with the chafing wedgie all day long. It’s just not worth it.

My minivan does, however, have a downside. While it has changed our lives for the better with its sliding doors, seating capacity, and cargo space, it has indulged our worst hording tendencies. The back seat is constantly piled high with leftover fastfood cartons, markers, personal electronics, dirty socks, and, usually, whatever item the girls needed for school and couldn’t find. Every time I clean it out, I vow that I’m going to enforce better habits. My husband and I have our own stash between the front seats, usually the leftovers from our last road trip: the GPS tangled around a mess of half-eaten combos, museum fliers, and, if you’re lucky, enough loose change to park downtown for a quick lunch.

A fashion crisis on wheels, our minivan also sports a cracked windshield, bubbling paint spots, a wide array of door dings, manual-close doors, and the interior has cords strung around like Christmas lights to run the portable DVD system. I fantasize about trading it in for an upscale minivan, with power doors, built in A/V, leather seats, and a moonroof.

Basically, I’m sitting back in my granny-panties, wishing for some nice, cotton bikinis.

Your country will be covered with caravans… Isaiah 60:6

I ruthlessly remember birthdays...

2011-09-16T10:37:00.000-05:00

…well, I used to, at least. As my family started to splinter and spread out geographically, it became a bigger and bigger challenge to stay connected to each other. One way I tried to bridge the gap was in remembering my parents and siblings on their birthdays. What I didn’t realize at the time was how, in a family that didn’t put a priority on celebrating these holidays, my attention to them left my family with mixed feelings. At one point I was accused of “ruthlessly remembering birthdays.”

When my husband and I got married, it wrought havoc on my birthday discipline. As in many marriages, I am generally the keeper of birthdays, so my list doubled at the altar. In the last decade, it has multiplied by marriages, births, and expanding friendships. If I once ruthlessly remembered birthdays, there are probably some people who would now complain that I ruthlessly forget – and I even do that inconsistently. Sometimes I purchase the gift early, only to have it sit on my counter until it’s late. Sometimes I remember a birthday one year, and then don’t the next. Sometimes I find something grand to send, other times my honoree has to settle for nail clippers and a comb. For the first time ever last year, I was so late with a gift that I put it away and sent it for the next year. It was very humbling. Anymore, I feel successful if I get a birthday gift sent within 3 months before or after the day – that’s a six month window and I don’t always hit it!

Despite my failed ruthlessness, my loved ones can continue to expect erratic birthday acknowledgement from me. I may not be good at it anymore, but I’ll never give it up, because there’s only one of you – and you are remarkable and cherished. So, to my beloved aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, parents, siblings, friends, and in-laws, in case this is the year I forget – Happy Birthday. I’m so glad you’re here. I really do love you and miss you – I just can’t seem to make it to the post office.

God can bless you with everything you need, and you will always have more than enough to do all kinds of good things for others. 2 Corinthians 9:8

I hate being afraid.

2011-09-09T09:20:00.006-05:00

I interviewed a Catholic monsignor for an assignment once. He was elderly, very pastoral, and won me over right away with thoughtful responses to my questions that surprised me, being far from the typical theology I expected from a Catholic priest. Our conversation ended up off-topic, as my conversations often do, and he shared with me about an experience he had as a young man, exorcising demons. He looked me in the eye and assured me that evil is real, that it is terrifying, and that a person should never open themself up to evil. Some people might say he was a quack, but I believed him. The fear he expressed, and the sincerity of his warning made a strong and lasting impression on me.

That was early in my seminary career, right around the time that we had a collective experienced of evil, September 11th, 2001. My oldest girl was two months old and I was getting us ready to go to work at the church, when I flipped on the TV to check the weather and instead found out that there was a new world unfolding. The towers were still up, wounded and smoking. I began to pray the people inside would know peace. It felt so weird to look at those towers and know that people, who were otherwise just fine, were in a death trap from which they would not escape. I pictured them, possibly huddled under their desks and in stairwells, and couldn’t think of anything else that would help, so I prayed they wouldn’t feel panic, but would be overwhelmed by the peaceful presence of the Holy Spirit. It seemed wrong that their last moments should be overwhelmed by wasted panic and worry, I hoped they could experience peace.

If my prayers were answered, and there was any peace, I haven’t seen much of it since. Hate and fear dwell in such close company. One leads to the other in an endless cycle of human brokenness. There have been moments where it peaks for every generation: WW II, the assassinations of JFK & MLK. There are many others, but for my generation, it will always be 9/11. In the ten years since, we’ve normalized a level of hatred and fear that I still struggle to accept.

Ten years later, we are still at war. I tied up a yellow ribbon when it started, and it weathered for so long, as one war faded into another, I couldn’t decide what was appropriate – take it down? Replace it? Eventually it wore out and fell off the tree. I wonder what kind of fear and hatred our extended presence abroad might be stirring up. Ten years later, being X-rayed and frisked is the price of travel. As much as it frustrates us, it also reminds us of that day. It reminds us to look around and be afraid of our fellow travelers. Ten years later, we pay European prices for gas, and the economy has yet to stabilize. My generation, and the one after me, is defining ourselves by our relationships, because we’ve come of age in an economy where our wealth and careers are never secure.

I know we can’t unsqueeze the toothpaste tube. Many of the changes evoked by September 11th, like those of the Cuban Missile Crisis or Pearl Harbor, are changes we are right to normalize, because they aren’t going away. But I’m tired of hate and fear. If we assimilate them into our culture, we invite the evil they breed. The scripture claims that through Christ, we have power over demons. We can order evil to pack up and leave us. Instead of using religion to fuel the flames of hatred and fear, I want my faith to be a tool for peace, that the love and power of Christ could prevail.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. 1 John 4:18

I sound corny when I talk about my husband.

2011-09-02T10:05:00.002-05:00

Nothing felt odd or out of routine to me until the women I was standing with dropped their jaws, and one asked what I had done to train my husband so well. We were at an event where the big girls were running around with friends, and my husband and I were keeping up with them and one another, in a sort of tag-team way. I was holding the baby, standing in a small circle of women, visiting, when my husband came into the room, and without a word, took her out of my arms and disappeared.

The other women were shocked that he would take the baby off my hands, without my requesting it, or making a show about it. I didn’t know what to say, because being a great dad is so normal for my husband, that until their comments, I took it for granted. All I could say was, “I didn’t do anything. She’s his daughter; he’s allowed to hold her when he wants.” I have to admit, I felt really proud to be his wife.

Another humbling moment, recently, was when my daughter was, without a doubt, acting like me. I felt an urge to curb her, because it was a trait I have never liked about myself. Much to my chagrin, my husband began to engage her, and even to enjoy her and egg her on. Suddenly it hit me. He even likes things about me that I dislike about myself. Seeing him with our daughter changed my whole attitude. Love multiplied in that moment – his love for her reflected love right back on me.

When we first got married, thirteen years ago this weekend, I felt a full heart of love for my husband. The biggest surprise in these years, to me, has been how much deeper my love has grown, as I’ve seen his commitment to our children. We’re this unit, in which love just seems to multiply extravagantly. The more the kids see us love each other, the more they love us. The more we love the kids, the more we love each other. I probably sound pretty corny, and maybe a little naïve, but that’s not the kind of family I grew up in, so sometimes it overwhelms me that I get to be a part of something so amazing. It’s a blessing I don’t deserve and I wish I could share with everyone I know.

I don’t know who I’d be, if it weren’t for the incredible man who showed me true love. And it doesn’t matter whether we are at year 13 or 30 or 300, it only gets better from here.

As the Scriptures say, "A man leaves his father and mother to get married, and he becomes like one person with his wife." This is a great mystery, but I understand it to mean Christ and his church. So each husband should love his wife as much as he loves himself, and each wife should respect her husband. Ephesians 5:31-33