Shortly after the election I read somewhere that the word Christian had become a political term. This was the writer's opinion of course, and I found myself agreeing. In the greater public realm, Christian has come to convey a lot of bigotry and judgment, because Christians have sounded -- and been -- bigoted and judgmental.
I wonder why it's so hard for us to let people just be, to acknowledge that each person, every one, is on a journey. Each day we travel. Sometimes we get stranded and stuck, but that, too, is part of the journey. Have you ever been on a trip and had your car break down? Are you still there -- on the side of the road in your broken down car? Or did you deal with it and move on? And if so, didn't the breakdown become part of the story of that particular road trip?
Why do some of us think we've got this whole life thing locked up, all figured out? Some people think that not only do they know where they are going and just how to get there, but they know where everyone else should be going too and the road they should travel to reach their destination... They heap judgment on others' journeys when they've never even been on that road.
I wish that we could all just see ourselves as pilgrims and appreciate the fact that every person is just looking for the way. I wish that we all could experience the communion of our common humanity, be in it together, rather than thinking we have to tell each other what to do. Jesus said that he was the Way, the Truth, the Life. And early Christians referred to themselves as followers of the Way. I like that because it implies that we are on the road.
While we live on this earth, we journey. We have not arrived at our destination. I can help you find your way, but only if I get on the road with you and stand in your shoes. I can't stand over here where I am and tell you where to go. My map doesn't look like yours because we're on different roads. If you try to follow my map from where you stand, you will get lost.
Fortunately, Jesus. a.k.a God with Us, is the Way. He stands with me on my road, and he stands with you on yours. The only people who can help us find the way are the ones who are willing to stand with us right where we are. This is why judgment is such an affront. It is the opposite of all that Jesus is. He entered into this painful life, full of suffering, so that we would not be alone. He did not stand far off and point and gesture and yell, trying to get us on the road, and then judge us when we didn't hear him because the distance was so great. He came near. He still comes near. He stands with us where we are so he can show us the way.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
My Father Is Disappearing
I try to call my dad every few days. Lately it requires a deep breath before I make the call. I never know exactly how he'll sound, at least not anymore.
Back in the early summer, I began to notice some things that just seemed...different. He would say something, and although I never thought, "Huh, something is really wrong," I did think, "Huh."
My confusion about my dad's state gathered steam when we all went to the beach with my brother's family. My dad didn't pack one change of clothes. He forgot his wallet. He dozed in the chair much of the day. And he said some things that were a bit more...honest (?) than usual. We began to believe something wasn't quite right.
It took some more incidents that didn't add up and some doctor visits to determine that my father has something called vascular dementia, or white matter disease. Sometimes he seems like the same old dad, but mostly he doesn't.
I am so sad that we are done knowing my father as my father. That my kids can no longer know the real McCoy. He's there. It's partly him, but not totally. The older boys are old enough to fully understand the situation, and the youngest is young enough to be utterly clueless, and I am grateful for this. But to watch someone's very person deteriorate, as opposed to watching their body deteriorate, is really quite tragic. I watched my mom die of cancer over the course of three weeks, and honestly I think I'd prefer that.
Back in the early summer, I began to notice some things that just seemed...different. He would say something, and although I never thought, "Huh, something is really wrong," I did think, "Huh."
My confusion about my dad's state gathered steam when we all went to the beach with my brother's family. My dad didn't pack one change of clothes. He forgot his wallet. He dozed in the chair much of the day. And he said some things that were a bit more...honest (?) than usual. We began to believe something wasn't quite right.
It took some more incidents that didn't add up and some doctor visits to determine that my father has something called vascular dementia, or white matter disease. Sometimes he seems like the same old dad, but mostly he doesn't.
I am so sad that we are done knowing my father as my father. That my kids can no longer know the real McCoy. He's there. It's partly him, but not totally. The older boys are old enough to fully understand the situation, and the youngest is young enough to be utterly clueless, and I am grateful for this. But to watch someone's very person deteriorate, as opposed to watching their body deteriorate, is really quite tragic. I watched my mom die of cancer over the course of three weeks, and honestly I think I'd prefer that.
Monday, December 3, 2012
The Spoken Word
Last week a friend and I went to hear Anne Lamott -- one of our favorite writers -- speak. I left with a lot to think about. But one of the things that really struck me was not something that she said. What struck me was the power of the spoken word.
I love Anne Lamott's writing. She is a careful writer, and she is also hilarious and insightful. But to hear her speak was another matter entirely. Years ago, I read much of Bird by Bird, her book on writing, and I have read many other books (or portions thereof) about the writing process... But hearing her talk about the process of writing got through to me in a whole new way. Maybe it's just the season in my life. Not that I'm in a season where I think it will be easier to write, because I most definitely am not. I'm thinking more of my age, the passage of time, and the understanding that the things we want are rarely easy.
She shared how she is never inspired to write, but still she sits down every day and does it. She tackles it, as her father once told her brother, bird by bird.
And though it is so hard for me to do anything beyond what must be done to ensure the day-to-day survival of my children, why do I think it should be easy or convenient to sit down and write? The reality is that I find it hard to get dinner on the table each night. I fail to make the time to exercise. I feel like I'm always one step behind. Why would writing be any different?
Life always moves in and takes up space. I am going to have to shove it aside for a bit each day if I am ever to make room to write. Because even when Son4 is old enough to be in school full day, five days a week, then I'll just be working more than I already am right now. Will I really feel like I have more time then? Probably not. Not if I don't start now. And that is the power of the spoken word, that it could knock something into me that no words on a page ever have.
I love Anne Lamott's writing. She is a careful writer, and she is also hilarious and insightful. But to hear her speak was another matter entirely. Years ago, I read much of Bird by Bird, her book on writing, and I have read many other books (or portions thereof) about the writing process... But hearing her talk about the process of writing got through to me in a whole new way. Maybe it's just the season in my life. Not that I'm in a season where I think it will be easier to write, because I most definitely am not. I'm thinking more of my age, the passage of time, and the understanding that the things we want are rarely easy.
She shared how she is never inspired to write, but still she sits down every day and does it. She tackles it, as her father once told her brother, bird by bird.
And though it is so hard for me to do anything beyond what must be done to ensure the day-to-day survival of my children, why do I think it should be easy or convenient to sit down and write? The reality is that I find it hard to get dinner on the table each night. I fail to make the time to exercise. I feel like I'm always one step behind. Why would writing be any different?
Life always moves in and takes up space. I am going to have to shove it aside for a bit each day if I am ever to make room to write. Because even when Son4 is old enough to be in school full day, five days a week, then I'll just be working more than I already am right now. Will I really feel like I have more time then? Probably not. Not if I don't start now. And that is the power of the spoken word, that it could knock something into me that no words on a page ever have.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Handwashing and Old Juice
The other day Son4 and I came inside for lunch. We'd been collecting leaves in a bucket as we were playing house and store beneath the trees. He was already starting a fit over the fact that we were washing our hands. Not big on the handwashing, this one. And as we were in the process of soaping up, he noticed his juice cup in the sink, and here's how it went down:
"That my juice," he said.
"Yup," I said.
"I want..."
I cut him off and said, "That's old yucky juice. It's been sitting in the sink."
"No. I drink it," he said.
"No, buddy, it's yucky. It's not good for you now. I'll get you new juice."
"NOOOOOO!!!!!"
Commence crying and thrashing.
While he flailed on the floor, I thought about how this is just like me at times. How this is just like all of us at one time or another with God. We fail to recognize that God is looking out for our best interests, and we think he's holding back and holding out... Because like Son4, we don't even begin to have the capacity to see what could possibly be the problem with the juice.
"That my juice," he said.
"Yup," I said.
"I want..."
I cut him off and said, "That's old yucky juice. It's been sitting in the sink."
"No. I drink it," he said.
"No, buddy, it's yucky. It's not good for you now. I'll get you new juice."
"NOOOOOO!!!!!"
Commence crying and thrashing.
While he flailed on the floor, I thought about how this is just like me at times. How this is just like all of us at one time or another with God. We fail to recognize that God is looking out for our best interests, and we think he's holding back and holding out... Because like Son4, we don't even begin to have the capacity to see what could possibly be the problem with the juice.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Time
My oldest son turned eighteen today, and it has me thinking about the fact that some things just take time. There is so much in life that we want to rush. We have ideas, dreams, and visions, and we want to see their fruition. We think the time from conception to maturity should be quick, and so we often give up on the dreams and ideas that bubble up from our hearts.
When my first baby was a colicky mess, all I wanted was for him to grow up. Even this moment, facing the sad fact that he is leaving in two days, I would not return to those days where I felt such confusion and despair. I didn't know how to help him or myself. I didn't know how to be a mother, though I desperately wanted to know how to be the best one on earth.
There are some lessons that only time can teach. Motherhood is one of those lessons; it's something you never stop learning. But time has also taught me that some things can't ever be rushed. It took eighteen years for my son to grow from an entirely dependent being to one who is ready to leave the house. We expect it to take eighteen years plus for a child to grow from conception to maturity. But what about our ideas and dreams and plans? How long do we give them to grow?
When my first baby was a colicky mess, all I wanted was for him to grow up. Even this moment, facing the sad fact that he is leaving in two days, I would not return to those days where I felt such confusion and despair. I didn't know how to help him or myself. I didn't know how to be a mother, though I desperately wanted to know how to be the best one on earth.
There are some lessons that only time can teach. Motherhood is one of those lessons; it's something you never stop learning. But time has also taught me that some things can't ever be rushed. It took eighteen years for my son to grow from an entirely dependent being to one who is ready to leave the house. We expect it to take eighteen years plus for a child to grow from conception to maturity. But what about our ideas and dreams and plans? How long do we give them to grow?
Thursday, August 23, 2012
The Best Grief
In twelve days (not that I'm counting), we will put Son1 on a plane to embark on the rest of his life. He will spend nine months in Maine participating in a leadership and service program, where he will concentrate on student ministries. When he returns, I expect he will have a greater understanding of who he is and the impact he wants to make on this world, and then he will begin the college adventure. I am genuinely thrilled for him. It's a good plan, and the right one for him.
For years, I was mystified by the moms who made so much of their children leaving the nest. My own parents didn't seem too flustered by the experience when I left, and I was too young to notice whether they seemed distressed when my brothers left for college. I expected to embrace this right of passage when my own children reached it. Kids should grow up. They should move on (and move out). Of course, it's easy to have these feelings when the reality is years away.
About a year ago I began to realize it wouldn't be so simple. And so this whole year has felt like a countdown to the inevitable: the loss of this boy I adore in the day-to-day life of our family. What I thought I would so easily accept -- my son growing up -- began to feel a lot like grief.
This summer, life has felt more poignant. Sometimes when I've heard Son4, the two-year-old, say good-bye to his oldest brother as he's walking out the door, I've felt like I could burst into tears because a bigger good-bye is coming. I am broken-hearted because this little guy will miss out on living with his oldest brother day in and day out, and because Son1 will miss out on watching his youngest brother change before his eyes. And then there are Sons 2 &3. They love their brother. In many ways, they rely on him. The three of them have been a unit almost as long as the three of them have all been in this world. Because I grew up essentially like an only child, I have found it fascinating to watch the relationships, the dynamics, the interplay among them. They showed me all that I missed. They are like a little tribe, with their own set of memories and jokes, a shared understanding and culture. This isn't just hard for me and the husband. Those boys will miss their brother. Life will not be the same for any of us.
We lived in Chicago when Son1 was born, and I could not take him to the grocery store without at least one woman approaching me and saying, "Enjoy it. It goes so quickly." All Son1 did at that age was scream and cry, so I had no idea what these ladies meant when they said to enjoy it, and I figured the whole thing couldn't go quickly enough. But every trip I made to Dominick's supermarket, another lovely woman said it to me again. Perhaps all of them had a high school senior in the house.
Of course those women in Dominick's were right. It does go quickly, every year faster than the one before it. As I've been staring down my sadness and sense of loss as the big day approaches, I've realized something very important: I will cry when he leaves, but I don't really have anything to cry about. Children can lead us to grief in all kinds of ways. I could have wanted to have children and been unable to. I could have lost a child to an accident or to disease. I could have lost a child to addiction or other destructive behaviors. All of that would mean a heartbreak I can't fathom. Instead, I have a son who will soon turn eighteen and who is starting out on the journey of the rest of his life. My grief is the best grief there is -- my wonderful boy has grown up and he wants to leave.
For years, I was mystified by the moms who made so much of their children leaving the nest. My own parents didn't seem too flustered by the experience when I left, and I was too young to notice whether they seemed distressed when my brothers left for college. I expected to embrace this right of passage when my own children reached it. Kids should grow up. They should move on (and move out). Of course, it's easy to have these feelings when the reality is years away.
About a year ago I began to realize it wouldn't be so simple. And so this whole year has felt like a countdown to the inevitable: the loss of this boy I adore in the day-to-day life of our family. What I thought I would so easily accept -- my son growing up -- began to feel a lot like grief.
This summer, life has felt more poignant. Sometimes when I've heard Son4, the two-year-old, say good-bye to his oldest brother as he's walking out the door, I've felt like I could burst into tears because a bigger good-bye is coming. I am broken-hearted because this little guy will miss out on living with his oldest brother day in and day out, and because Son1 will miss out on watching his youngest brother change before his eyes. And then there are Sons 2 &3. They love their brother. In many ways, they rely on him. The three of them have been a unit almost as long as the three of them have all been in this world. Because I grew up essentially like an only child, I have found it fascinating to watch the relationships, the dynamics, the interplay among them. They showed me all that I missed. They are like a little tribe, with their own set of memories and jokes, a shared understanding and culture. This isn't just hard for me and the husband. Those boys will miss their brother. Life will not be the same for any of us.
We lived in Chicago when Son1 was born, and I could not take him to the grocery store without at least one woman approaching me and saying, "Enjoy it. It goes so quickly." All Son1 did at that age was scream and cry, so I had no idea what these ladies meant when they said to enjoy it, and I figured the whole thing couldn't go quickly enough. But every trip I made to Dominick's supermarket, another lovely woman said it to me again. Perhaps all of them had a high school senior in the house.
Of course those women in Dominick's were right. It does go quickly, every year faster than the one before it. As I've been staring down my sadness and sense of loss as the big day approaches, I've realized something very important: I will cry when he leaves, but I don't really have anything to cry about. Children can lead us to grief in all kinds of ways. I could have wanted to have children and been unable to. I could have lost a child to an accident or to disease. I could have lost a child to addiction or other destructive behaviors. All of that would mean a heartbreak I can't fathom. Instead, I have a son who will soon turn eighteen and who is starting out on the journey of the rest of his life. My grief is the best grief there is -- my wonderful boy has grown up and he wants to leave.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
The whole concept of respect has been brewing in my mind lately due to the destructive political discourse on Facebook. There is so little respect for others to be found there. People think they have things all figured out: I'm right. You're wrong. You're an idiot for being wrong, and I'm going to show you just what an idiot you are for holding the "wrong" political beliefs.
I get it. I really do. I often think Republicans are idiots. Woops. Did I say that? See, disrespect is easy to slip into, and it doesn't help that sometimes people leave themselves open for potshots: people like the Republican candidate for Senate from Missouri who thinks that pregnancy can't happen in the case of "real rape." Really? Is this the twenty-first century where we have scientific facts at our disposal?
But back to respect. Lately I've been having a lot of discussions with Son2 about politics and life. He's a philosophical fifteen-year-old with lots of questions and thoughts. He enjoys discussing politics, and so that's what we were doing one recent summer morning while I was cleaning up the kitchen. We were discussing the national debt and I was explaining how Republicans like to say they are for "small government." He understood the terminology from watching TV news and from his freshman Civics course. I went on to explain how I find it ironic how Republicans like to wax on about small government while at the same time they want the government to dictate whether or not you can get an abortion or marry your same-sex partner. Now, I'm not trying to get into a discussion or debate about either of those hot topics, but what I am saying is that I wish people would talk straight. Acknowledge that you're only for "small government" in some circumstances. Acknowledge that you actually want the government to dictate (or restrict) some people's life choices. Now I realize the government actually does this all the time. The government has restricted my right to murder you or steal from you. Indeed I have no right to do either, as I shouldn't because that would seriously hurt your rights.
The issue came up again with Son2 a few days later, in a completely different way. We had stopped at Dunkin Donuts and after the boys got back in the car with their goodies, a man approached the car asking for money. I opened the window and gave him a few dollars. Now, it's been a long time since I've given a homeless person money -- partly because I rarely have opportunity to do so since it's far from urban around here. As we drove home, Son2 said, "I don't think you should have given him money. He's probably just going to buy alcohol or drugs with it." I told him I understood where he was coming from, and that I have often bought (or at least offered to buy and been refused) people food when they've asked me for money. Or I've directed them to the nearest place for a free meal. But I explained I wanted to give this guy money, and couldn't I just give him the respect of allowing him to make his own decision about how to spend it? He's homeless. He's probably mentally ill. He has very few choices left to him. Can't I give him three dollars and allow him to decide what to do with it?
My question for myself and for Son2 and for all of us is this: at what point will we acknowledge the right and freedom of others to make decisions for themselves--even when we think those decisions are immoral or simply unwise? Hasn't God actually given all of us humans that freedom? Hasn't he given us the respect of endowing us with our own will -- to decide for ourselves all manner of issues?
As I grow older I feel less and less inclined to try to make choices for others or to tell them what to do. What do I know anyway? I have made good choices and bad ones. But all of my choices have ultimately been good teachers.
Respect. Can't we have a little? Can't I allow you to be a Republican and just tell myself that you hold these beliefs because you believe they really are best for you and for everyone? Can't I respect that? And can't you respect me in that same way when I vote for Obama in November? I will make my choice, and you will make yours. Just please, stop trying to make decisions for me and stop bashing me over the head with your hyped up political rhetoric on a public forum like Facebook.
This has been a public service announcement.
I get it. I really do. I often think Republicans are idiots. Woops. Did I say that? See, disrespect is easy to slip into, and it doesn't help that sometimes people leave themselves open for potshots: people like the Republican candidate for Senate from Missouri who thinks that pregnancy can't happen in the case of "real rape." Really? Is this the twenty-first century where we have scientific facts at our disposal?
But back to respect. Lately I've been having a lot of discussions with Son2 about politics and life. He's a philosophical fifteen-year-old with lots of questions and thoughts. He enjoys discussing politics, and so that's what we were doing one recent summer morning while I was cleaning up the kitchen. We were discussing the national debt and I was explaining how Republicans like to say they are for "small government." He understood the terminology from watching TV news and from his freshman Civics course. I went on to explain how I find it ironic how Republicans like to wax on about small government while at the same time they want the government to dictate whether or not you can get an abortion or marry your same-sex partner. Now, I'm not trying to get into a discussion or debate about either of those hot topics, but what I am saying is that I wish people would talk straight. Acknowledge that you're only for "small government" in some circumstances. Acknowledge that you actually want the government to dictate (or restrict) some people's life choices. Now I realize the government actually does this all the time. The government has restricted my right to murder you or steal from you. Indeed I have no right to do either, as I shouldn't because that would seriously hurt your rights.
The issue came up again with Son2 a few days later, in a completely different way. We had stopped at Dunkin Donuts and after the boys got back in the car with their goodies, a man approached the car asking for money. I opened the window and gave him a few dollars. Now, it's been a long time since I've given a homeless person money -- partly because I rarely have opportunity to do so since it's far from urban around here. As we drove home, Son2 said, "I don't think you should have given him money. He's probably just going to buy alcohol or drugs with it." I told him I understood where he was coming from, and that I have often bought (or at least offered to buy and been refused) people food when they've asked me for money. Or I've directed them to the nearest place for a free meal. But I explained I wanted to give this guy money, and couldn't I just give him the respect of allowing him to make his own decision about how to spend it? He's homeless. He's probably mentally ill. He has very few choices left to him. Can't I give him three dollars and allow him to decide what to do with it?
My question for myself and for Son2 and for all of us is this: at what point will we acknowledge the right and freedom of others to make decisions for themselves--even when we think those decisions are immoral or simply unwise? Hasn't God actually given all of us humans that freedom? Hasn't he given us the respect of endowing us with our own will -- to decide for ourselves all manner of issues?
As I grow older I feel less and less inclined to try to make choices for others or to tell them what to do. What do I know anyway? I have made good choices and bad ones. But all of my choices have ultimately been good teachers.
Respect. Can't we have a little? Can't I allow you to be a Republican and just tell myself that you hold these beliefs because you believe they really are best for you and for everyone? Can't I respect that? And can't you respect me in that same way when I vote for Obama in November? I will make my choice, and you will make yours. Just please, stop trying to make decisions for me and stop bashing me over the head with your hyped up political rhetoric on a public forum like Facebook.
This has been a public service announcement.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
I've been thinking about this blog a lot lately... like a friend I haven't seen in a long while. I can't get it off my mind, and I realize there is a relationship here yet.
Two years ago everything within me went silent. Life loomed and threatened, and there was nothing about it that I wanted to say or share...not here anyway. I was absorbed in sheer survival—consumed and desperate. But two years is a long time, and things have become different, in a quiet and good way.
Now words are bubbling up again, pressing for a way out. The relief I feel over this is something I can't find words for, but here I am.
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