Walls and Windows

I'm normally an open book. A "wear-your-heart-on-your-sleeve" kind of girl. I value authenticity, honesty, self-reflection, and an occasional slap-across-the-face-reality check with those I am close to. Criticism (appropriate and well-timed) does not usually discourage me. To prove all of this, I will tell you that I  have cellulite, an unhealthy addiction to Diet Coke, and I cuss like a sailor when my kids aren't around (and occasionally when they are). I have harbored grudges like nobody's business and can be jealous, petty, cold, and unloving. I don't celebrate these things, nor do I try to hide them; I simply acknowledge that they exist. And while I try to overcome all of this brokenness, it persists. I'm a broken person in a broken world.

In the past few years, perpetuated by a sort of perfect storm of loss and unexpectedly difficult transitions and flat-out unadulterated heartache, I have forgotten, at my core, who I am. Being an adult, I do not throw tantrums; I just shut down completely. And in the past year and a half it's as if an emotional draw bridge has gone up and most people have been left outside the wall, without an explanation.  I have been a cold fortress with high impenetrable walls, but inside, the loneliness is warm and comfortable and easier. It's been a cold, lonely, easy year, without the complications of others.

Through all of this, I've come to understand that sometimes loneliness, self-imposed or otherwise, is necessary.

Walls are designed to give privacy, separation, and a little bit of peace. Sometimes we need those things. We need quiet so that we can hear our own voice apart from the voice of the crowd. We need to listen to that truth so we can follow our own path. I was drowning in noise, in the busy-ness of life, in the voices of others, in a distorted perception of myself, both good and bad, created by those voices. For a season, those walls have shut out the noise. Those walls have allowed me to heal, and to begin to find my way back to the path of love, reciprocity, and joy. I'm back on the path, though wholeness is still a long way off.

At a very low point, when I didn't understand that my walls were instinctual, that they were there for a reason, I asked my husband to help me find a window. I needed to see that there was life outside of the walls; I needed to let the light spill in.

Knowing the depth of where I was and had been, knowing that I couldn't find words for what I was feeling, my sweet husband reminded me of my favorite author, Anne Lamott, who suggests that prayer is often nothing more than saying to God, "help me, help me, help me" and "thank-you, thank-you, thank-you." 

And so in my heart, I pray this a lot. I write it in my journal. I say it aloud. I pray it for my children. And it works. It reminds me that in the midst of our deepest pain, there are limbs of gratitude that hold us up, and work to show us that life has a purpose outside of our sometimes wretched selves. And it reminds me that I don't have to be worthy, or special, or even articulate to ask for help. I just have to acknowledge that I can't do it alone. Because though I have felt safe, and warm, and comfortable within the walls I have built, I know that life isn't meant to be lived in isolation.

So, this prayer- simple, unaffected, and foundational- has become my window.

 And the light it provides is showing me the way out.

Back to School Shopping

Today as I was perusing the aisles of Target, in search of individual portioned breakfast cereal and a new (and heavily discounted) classroom chair for the upcoming school year, I heard my name:

"Mrs. Burgess."

It was an unusually quiet voice from a student who last year was rarely quiet. He would show up, annoyingly, ten minutes before his class began and want to chat (loudly) while I was still needing to teach. He teased me about being old and uncool. He told me about problems with his current foster mother. He shared how his biggest goal is to get back to his biological mom. Then the bell would ring and he would attempt to manipulate himself out of work for the rest of the hour.

So, I asked him about his summer. He shrugged and didn't really answer. And then he said, again, uncharacteristically measured and somber, "You won't be seeing me next year." I asked him why and he pointed down the aisle to a lady standing with a little boy. "My new foster family. I'm going to Webb." We made a little more small talk, I wished him luck, and said goodbye.

Before I made it out of the aisle, I heard my name again.

"Mrs. Burgess. I was telling her that I got to be really good at writing last year, and I wanted you to tell her so that she would believe me."

So I told his new foster mom that he had worked very hard and I was always proud of his work. I told her, truthfully, that he had been more focused first semester, but that I knew what kind of work he was capable of and that I want him to continue to work hard at his new school. Then he told me about how he had just received his driver's license and (because I'm too old and uncool for a fist bump), I gave him a high five. We said good-bye again, I found my individually portioned breakfast cereal, and drove home.

For many reasons, the last school year was painful. And hard. And a little soul-crushing. I let fear envelop and control me. I burned bridges and made mistakes I can't fix. I hurt people and built high, thick walls around myself. I didn't write because for months because I had no words. Just emptiness.

Tonight, I still have walls. Big ones. Things aren't fixed. But I have some words again. The quiet boy on the cereal aisle restored the voice that says you don't have to be perfect or whole or significant to make a difference, even a small difference. You just have to be willing. And you have to show up: to listen, to celebrate a rite of passage, to say to someone I know you can do better and don't give up. This is the core of my role as a teacher, and of what it means to be human. I can do this one thing, warts and all.

For this minute, for this day, for this school year, that's enough. 

Snow Days

Today is a beautiful winter day, covered in a kind of redemptive blanket of snow. School has been out for two days and the forecast is calling for yet another round this evening.

I woke up to four year old snuggles and oatmeal for breakfast. The front porch is littered with snowsuits and mittens and hats and scarves and boots from children running to and from their snowy playground. And let's be honest, we all reached our screen quota for the year sometime around mid-afternoon yesterday. It's all a little bit sweet and romantic and what, when I was younger, I somehow imagined my life to be, which is why none of what I am about to share makes any sense at all.

Because in the midst of it all, the hot chocolate and kisses and scattered mittens, I am often terrified. Terrified of the quiet. Terrified of the noise in my head. Terrified of being forced to stop the activity of daily life long enough to acknowledge my emptiness, my flaws, and my genetically predisposed lack of serotonin. Over the past three months, terror has sunk its claws into me and won't let go.

I've had fleeting bouts of this kind of paralyzing fear all of my life. When it descends, it envelopes me entirely, stealing joy and leaving a drowning sense of helplessness in its place. It's a lonely place because no one can reach me there, no matter how much I awkwardly try to reach out and no matter how much others try reaching back.

Even in my lowest moments, it would probably shock most people to know the depths of my internal struggle. Because I fight against it like crazy. And I've learned to become an expert at holding it all together. I work harder. I run faster. I take on more and more. And beat myself up for not doing enough, for not being enough. For my husband, for my kids, for my students, for my friends. I stay busy to crowd out the voice that repeats the mantra You will never be enough.

And then there's a snow day. Or two. Or three. And the world stops and so do I because I have no other choice. In these moments of quiet, terrifying to me as they are, I realize that there is redemption in days like these. I can take a deep breath and allow myself to exhale. To read. To reflect. To be and not do. In my lucid moments, when I allow myself to stop and breath, the fog clears and I see myself and the world as it is, not through the lens of fear. If only for a moment.

Though I know that these times of fear will continue to come and go throughout my life, they don't last forever.  I also know that though while I feel alone and isolated in times like these, I am certainly not. And to those who also walk this path silently and anonymously, whoever you are, wherever you are, I say the snow will melt and the sun will shine, even if some days it feels as if it never will again. It always does.

Everyday Thankful

As a chronic worrier, my cup, through this warped lens of worry, tends many times to appear half empty, even though I know that it's almost always full and spilling over with good things. I'll go out on a limb and assert that in this anxiety-ridden culture in which we live and take our cues, I am far from alone.

It's not something I'm proud of. I push back against my inclinations. 

I have come to see thankfulness in my life as a discipline to be honed, refined, and practiced often. It is foundational and essential. It is sustaining and life-giving.

This year, I have thought a lot about what a blessing is and what it isn't. I've also thought a lot about what blessing has to do with gratitude. Here is my conclusion:

Happiness is not a blessing.

Health is not a blessing.

Circumstance is not a blessing.

Thankfulness for all of it. Regardless of any of it. That's the blessing.

Summer, for me, is a time for me to slow down, reassess priorities, and take a deep breath of thankfulness.

Sustaining, life-giving, intentional thankfulness.

When I am able to do this, my cup spills over.

I am thankful for the gift and responsibility of motherhood,

For little girls who are readers,
For this one, who still wants to share with me

I am thankful for love notes to daddy

For green grass and lazy afternoons in the sprinklers

And for fireflies.

I am thankful for the farm on Bluegrass Road,
For legacy and tradition

 For good-byes,

And new beginnings

I am thankful for giggling girls on porch steps and recycled bikes

I am thankful for the messiness of finger-painting

And for hermit crabs in the bed

I am thankful for little arms around my neck,

For red hair and new freckles

 And for  time alone with my baby boy, who is really not a baby anymore

 (but don't tell him that).

My cup, in the chaos, in the mess, in every moment, overflows. 

I Love You More Than Anybody Can

I'll walk in the rain by your side

I'll cling to the warmth of your tiny hand

I'll do anything to help you understand

I'll love you more than anybody can...

One of my favorite childhood hobbies was flipping through my parents' collection of folk records, singing and dancing away the afternoon in our living room on Barkley Avenue. Gordon Lightfoot, John Denver, and Creedance Clearwater Revival always topped the playlist, but the album with the most play was, without question, Peter, Paul, and Mary. More specifically, For Bobby, a lullaby written by a mother to her child, was a song whose melody wrapped its comforting arms around me like a thick, warm blanket. It was a song my mother sang to me, in happy and sad times, and one I sing so often to my own children that even my three year old knows all the words by heart.

My very early childhood was a host of hazy, golden, backlit memories in which I knew for certain one very important thing: I was loved. While the circumstances of my childhood changed and my worldview was tarnished by the reality of ruptured families and broken dreams, I never questioned that I was loved and loved deeply by the person who mattered most. For that, I am thankful.

Now as a parent myself, I am all the more grateful for my mother's selfless, unwavering love for me. It's a love that was never stretched too thin as she assumed the role as a single parent to three young children; it's a love that saw me through to the other side of a significant teenage rebellion; it's a love that has imprinted itself on the hearts of her grandchildren, even though she lives on the other side of the country. And in the completeness of my mother's love for me, love becomes a reciprocal force; it is accepted and passed on, while imperfectly, to a new generation. That's a beautiful thing.

 Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Thanks to you, I know all the words by heart. 

and I love you more than anybody can...

Parenting is Like Writing

Parenting is a lot like writing, I think.

First, writing, like parenting, is a laborious process. It can be cathartic and fulfilling and life-giving. This is why people do it and continue doing it, regardless of the angst that seems to be a prerequisite for the job (see Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald). But before it can be cathartic and fulfilling and life-giving, it will suck the ever-loving life from the deepest marrow of your soul (see 4am with a toddler who is learning to sleep in his own bed for the first time). The patience and tedium involved in sitting, sometimes for hours, in front of a blank screen, typing, deleting and retyping the same sentence, can cause you to question the sanity of the process (see also time-outs and tantrums and bedtime routines). It can cause you to question your own sanity. Clearly, not all writers make that cut. Not the really good ones, at least. 

And if you want to be good, you have to show up. Not just occasionally. You have to do it everyday, pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, whether it feels good or not. However in writing, as in parenting, sometimes simply showing up does not elicit our best work; sometimes it means stumbling, bleary eyed, down the stairs, switching on a "Sponge Bob Square Pants" marathon, slapping a box of cereal on the table, and falling asleep again on the couch (see Snow Day #11).  To bring the very highest quality that is in you and to do it again and again, everyday, forever, is a discipline. It does not happen overnight, and let's be honest, sometimes it doesn't happen at all. We know realistically, that our very best does not and cannot always materialize (see also today's car ride home from church), but we must continue to try with all that is in us to wake up every morning with our very best as the goal.

Hopefully, in showing up every day, you will have a wealth of material to work with. You will wade through Snow Day #11 and Sunday's car ride home from church, and somewhere in the midst of that you will find a snowy Spring Break afternoon of making doll dresses from the kit our seven year old received for her birthday; you will find heart felt apologies that end always with "I love you," and if you're lucky, you might even find three giggling children doing Velociraptor impressions in the living room with their daddy (see Cretaceous Period). You see, with all of the material that you have from simply showing up, you find words, sentences, maybe even paragraphs that work. The stuff that remains. The stuff that is life-giving. 

Let's also remember, that some people are born to be writers. It doesn't mean that they don't have to work at it, but there might be some kind of instinctual gift for the precise word or a certain appropriately placed modifier. For others, they write because they love it, though maybe they haven't had the best instruction; maybe their subjects and verbs don't always agree or maybe their stories read with redundancy. It's ok. Let them write, free of judgement. Let us be a community of writers who supports those who write, regardless of how or what they write, because of our love for the craft. Because, after all, people become writers in many different ways, and for many different reasons. Their stories do not belong to us, and we often can't begin to understand their subtext. So, let us also be a community of parents who support other parents, regardless of how they parent, because of our love for children. All children.

Most things that are worth anything, like writing, like parenting, require hard, hard work. They require showing up and remaining present, even when we don't have it in us to do so. And they require our sweat, our tears, and various other forms of DNA (see couch we are about to donate to the Salvation Army). At times, dark times, they require our hearts being ripped out and torn to pieces. However, there are few, if any things more worthy of the great investment of writing and the even more noble investment of parenthood.

At the end of it all, there is no guarantee that the final product will be what we had planned, or even what we had hoped, because somewhere along the way, the subject of our greatest labor will undoubtedly take on a life of its own. This can be heartbreaking; it can be exhilarating, or it can be both at once. And regardless of the outcome, we have to have the courage and ultimately, the decency to say, "that's ok, too."  Because it is ok, and only because we have poured ourselves out abundantly, through a process, for a purpose far beyond  ourselves. 

In seeing the process through to completion, we will have discovered the key, not to a life that is perfect, but to a life well lived.

Painting Over Knotty Pine

My husband once said it's a sin to paint over knotty pine.

This was his response when, one Sunday afternoon, brush and bucket in hand, I told him I was going to paint. Every last square inch of our dirty, knotty-pine, 1940's sun porch.

Three and a half years ago when we moved to Joplin, we bought a house. I loved its original hard wood floors, crystal door knobs, and authentic honeycomb tile in the bathroom. But it was a tired, old house. And it was dirty and drafty and in desperate need of a family who would put some life back into its sturdy, yet creaky old bones.

The problem was that when we moved in, I didn't have the heart and we didn't have the money to give it the attention that it deserved. I was 6 months pregnant with our third child. Dave was starting a new, more demanding job. We were yoked with the burden of a house that would not sell in our previous town. And truth be told, I was miserable. I missed the friends and church and house I had left behind. I didn't want to be in Joplin; I wanted to be anywhere but Joplin. And, for a while, even though I knew I shouldn't, I hated the house. I hated the cracks in the plaster and the crooked floor in the hallway and the uninsulated upstairs bedroom that we slept in with a newborn and a space heater through an extraordinarily long Missouri winter.

But then, that long Missouri winter gave way to a violent Missouri spring.

 And a mile wide tornado.

That devoured a third of the town.

And there is a pregnant pause in this story.

Because that day life changed. For me. For lots of people. For everyone in Joplin.

 I could not hate what many no longer had. This creaky, drafty, outdated house had four walls and a roof and a basement that had been our refuge.

This house was a blessing.

One Sunday afternoon, not too long after, I told my husband I was going to paint our knotty pine sun porch. And, sinful or not, that's just what I did. I stayed up all night long. I painted the walls. I painted the ceiling. I painted the window casings and doors. I even painted the old plywood floor. It took four coats. It was an exhausting and cathartic and even a bit of a meditative process for me.

I needed to paint over the knotty pine. Coat after painstaking coat. I needed the restorative process of making something beautiful again.

We continue to embrace this little house. We replaced the roof and finished the basement and added a bathroom and a great, big walk-in closet. It isn't fancy or beautiful or special. But we adore it, probably more than any other we have owned.

It has always had character, but now it has soul, a soul born of deep gratitude and a night painting over knotty pine. 

God With Us

I tend to write a lot about the messiness of my life: the timeouts, the tantrums, the unfinished dishes, a dog who eats large pieces of furniture, the grading that is never finished, the husband who, when I must leave early for work, sends the kids to school dressed as extras for a Grapes of Wrath film shoot. This place of messiness is my current street address and zip code. I can't escape it, so I try to live there and laugh about it. Sometimes I cry, though mostly I laugh. Most days I am thankful. 

The messiness of my life is no different during the Christmas season, though modern culture seems to set the bar a little higher. There is a Hallmark set of expectations that come with Christmas: "Bing Crosby and chestnuts, on a friggin' open fire", and"What did that silly little elf do last night?," and "It is hard enough to take a picture, any picture, of my three kids standing together at the same time, let alone color coordinated, clean, and smiling for a Christmas card" and the "What kind of parent are you that you can't be at your kids' class Christmas parties?" version of mom guilt. 

Sometimes, the messiness of life is deeper than just blighted expectations. For those who are alone, this time of year can be lonelier. There are unrealized hopes, memories of better days, and loved ones who are no longer with us. There is failure and fear and the fact that sometimes doing all you can is not enough. There are students of mine, on this very cold night, who I know are without a warm home, who will receive very little or nothing at all for Christmas, whose deep pain at which I have only a glimpse. 

It weighs me down, these expectations, this messiness. During this time of year, I tend to laugh less and cry more. 

Why? Because I am not perfect. Because life can be messy and arbitrarily cruel. 

 And I want so very badly for just one month a year to create a version of the world where I can pretend that life is not messy. My own shortcomings and the world's failures, when set against the backdrop of our heightened set of expectations, are on more prominent display than the lopsided Christmas tree in my front window. 

Then I think how skewed my perception can be. I am reminded of how sinful and selfish and First World-ish is this picture of Christmas I have manufactured. 

Because Jesus came down at Christmas to us in a mess. He came to us in a messy world, much like the world we live in now. He was born among animals, in imperfect circumstances, to flawed parents. And he went on to live a scandalous, messy life. He healed people when they told him not to, spent time with those who were unclean, who were on the fringes of society, and who the religious establishment had deemed unworthy. He widened the boundaries and broke the rules and made enemies. But he did all of it in love, for love, so that two thousand years later, we could experience the messy, scandalous love of His presence.  

Christmas is Immanuel. God With Us. 

God With Us is the joy of Christmas, even in the absence of happiness, because joy is deep contentment that has nothing to do with the temporary messiness in our midst. God With Us is the hope of Christmas, even in the gritty reality of our circumstances, because this finite world is not the end of the story. There is so much more. Maybe best of all, God With Us is the promise that we are not alone in our mess. 

It's Christmas Eve, the apex of all ridiculous and worthy holiday expectations. If you are like me, there have been and will be tears, forgotten casseroles, or a fifteen minute late arrival to the Christmas Eve Service in which your husband is preaching. With a child who is crying. Because she ripped her tights.

Let it go.

Let today be a day that we anticipate the deliverance from the messiness that is our world, from the messiness of this life. Let us cling, despite ourselves, despite expectations, to the hope that is Immanuel. 

God With Us. 

Because life is messy, but we are not alone. This is joy.

Merry Christmas, friends. 

The Yin and the Yang

I'm just going to say it. I am so mad at my husband tonight. And, conversely, he is so mad at me. What's the rub? Laundry. A basement full of clean and unclean laundry, so scattered and disorganized that I have worn summer skirts to work all week because I can't find a single pair of clean slacks. Don't EVEN get me started about the amount of unmatched socks currently in our possession. It's another level of Dante's Mismatched Sock Inferno down there, and I'm mad as hell about it (Ha!).

So, here's the story. Like many American families, we juggle quite a bit: three kids, two full-time jobs, and one feral dog who is better suited for a farm. Because of this, we don't have clearly defined roles when it comes to housekeeping. We do what needs to be done. Sometimes I mow the yard and sometimes he does. Sometimes I do the laundry and sometimes he does. He makes school lunches. I do the grocery shopping. We bicker from time to time about the way in which a task should be completed, and we playfully compete over who gets to do the more desirable chore, which in our household, happens to be whatever allows us to slip in our earbuds and tune out the busy world for a while.

Over the course of our ten year marriage, I have, at times, had a sense of pride in our indistinguishable gender roles of managing family. However, at other times, like tonight, I realize that this lack of clearly defined roles is one of our biggest sources of conflict. These conflicts arise because I want things done my way and he wants things done his...and nary the twain shall meet. And occasionally the twain can't take it anymore and they have a big fight about it in the basement after the kids go to bed.

You see, I like order and despise clutter. I want things done and I want them done efficiently. The more quickly I finish a task, the more tasks I am able to complete. This means that I can accomplish a large amount of chores in a short amount of time and it is unfathomable for me to leave something unfinished. How awesome am I? Well, not really so awesome. In order to get things done quickly, I cut corners. I often ignore washing instructions and shrink things, sometimes things that don't belong to me. I have seven junk drawers too many (out of sight, out of mind). I am sometimes wasteful because if I'm honest, I value peace of mind over being a responsible global citizen.

I realized tonight that some of the things that make me the angriest, that get under my skin the most, that send me out on long, cathartic Target outings, are also the same root of my greatest admiration and love for Dave. The basement looks like a Los Alamos test site because he follows ALL of the washing instructions on each item of clothing. He washes loads of our children's clothing together, while I do them separately, because it KILLS this man to do half a load. A waste of water, he says. And he's right. My side porch, which I spent hours and hours and hours painting, is currently filled, like some mild version of an episode of Hoarders, with Triscuit boxes and Diet Coke cans and wine bottles. But this is because he is a passionate and thorough recycler. We recycle EVERYTHING, so living with trash piled in areas of our house until we can get to the recycling center has become a part of our lives. He buys nothing if it's not on sale, irregardless of trend or fashion. It troubles him to spend money superfluously, especially when there are others who are in need around us. This characteristic, above all, is what I love the most.

He thinks about things deeply and critically. I am impulsive and just the slightest bit reckless. He's the substance; I'm the fluff. And it works.

Most of the time it works, this yin and yang of our marriage. Without Dave, I would have clean, neatly folded clothes, all of them two sizes too small; without me, he would be sitting in an enormous pile of mismatched socks, saving the world one Triscuit box at a time. Our marriage allows me to see how the failures in myself are shored up by the strengths in him. And vice versa, of course. It's beautifully imperfect, and at the very heart of the complimentary nature of a marriage relationship.

And so it is. The anger that began tonight in the laundry room of broken dreams has become an opportunity to reflect on why Dave and I work, and for the most part, work well. Tonight I remember why I fell in love with him, and continue to love him deeply. He is the yin to my yang.

That's something to be happy about, mismatched socks and all.

.

Us and Them

I had a lump in my throat today as I drove away from Skateland after dropping off my oldest daughter for a birthday party. I knew I was leaving her with a group of girls, one in particular, who had been unkind to her most of the year. But she wanted to go, and one thing I have learned as a veteran teacher and an amateur parent is that we can't prohibit heartache. It has a way of finding its way around our best intentions to prevent it. And as I prayed for my little girl, I also said a prayer for myself because this kind of "us and them" unkindness taps into some of my biggest insecurities and my very deepest sense of injustice.

Us and Them. Cool kids and nerds. Haves and have nots. Liberals and conservatives. Public school and private school. Presbyterians and Baptists. Citizens and illegals. White and black. White and everyone else. Us and Them...

Some of my early "Us and Them" experiences have created a life-long empathy for "Them," and, unfortunately, a bit of a chip on my shoulder towards the "Us" in our midst. This is probably why I am a teacher; why I align myself with more liberal causes; why I bristle at organizations that operate on an invite-only basis. The cruel reality is that we live in an invite-only world, and the "Us" invitations are few and far between. 

Fetal Position. Dark room. Gallon of cookie dough ice cream, please. We've all been there. 

Really, though, there isn't time for that. I have three children. Three beautiful, talented, intelligent children who, regardless of how fiercely their father and I love them, will undoubtedly face heartbreak and rejection. So, it's time for me to stop nursing the chip on my shoulder. It's time for me to teach them effective ways to thrive in an "Us and Them" world. It's time for me to grow up a little, too. Because, truly, it would pain me as much to watch my children go through life with a chip on their shoulder as it would if they were to adopt the mentality that allows people to dole out acceptance as if it were their right to do so. 

Last week, my husband gave a sermon on just this thing, though it only really resonated with me today as I was driving home, tears rolling down my face, praying for my daughter's spirit to survive this "Us and Them" world. The paraphrased version, and the part that I take to heart, is that when our world wants to box people in, widen the boundaries. Jesus did. He didn't see people with a label. He saw people. Widen the boundaries. Love people- all people, all the time, no matter what. Everyone is invited; no one is excluded. 

It turns out that Amelia had a great time at the party. She didn't even mention the girls who had been mean. But she glowed as she described how much her best friend loved her sewing kit, and she giggled as she rubbed her sore behind and recounted the number of times she fell on the hardwood floor. Her boundaries are still wide open.

There is a lesson in that. The lump in my throat wasn't as much for my daughter, but for myself, for my own feelings of inadequacy, because of my own narrow boundaries. If I give in to the chip on my shoulder, I am just as guilty of propagating "Us and Them" as those imposing the labels. "Us and Them" has no power unless we yield to it. 

Amelia was able to have fun, able to smile and join in with the girls who had hurt her in the past, because she isn't fully aware of the rules of "Us and Them." It doesn't exist for her. She just assumes she is always in, and it confusing to her when she is not. This is how I should live, how I have to live, and how I will teach my children to live. Because it's truth, as long as we give that truth the power it deserves.

The boundaries are wide open.

Death of the Bedtime Story

Amelia, though thoughtful and loving and sweet, is not a cuddler. She prefers not to be kissed, especially in public. Hugs are ok, but she is usually not the initiator, and you can bet they don't linger. She is often averse to snuggling; she has too many other things to do. It's just the way she is, and it's the way she always has been. As her mom I've learned to accept that, unlike her sister whose arms have to be pried regularly from around my neck with a tire iron, she gives and receives love in a different way than I do. Her need for intimacy is as real and profound as that of my other children, but the roots are further below the surface and require less traditional maintenance; I have to dig a little deeper in my parenting toolbox to facilitate closeness with her.

Early on, I discovered that one of the best ways to bond with Amelia is at night, through the ritual of reading bedtime stories. Day is done, teeth are brushed, rooms are clean, and for fifteen minutes and often times more, this child who never stops, who doesn't want to be cuddled, will listen quietly. If I get really lucky, I might get a head on my shoulder, or an arm around my waist, or a little leg draped over one of mine. It's our time, lost together in a world of Ramona Quimby, or Laura Ingalls, or James and his enormous peach.

But I fear those days are over. The training wheels are off. For good. Bedtime stories are still a before-sleep prerequisite, it's just that I have been factored out of the equation. She doesn't need me to read to her anymore because she can do it on her own, and rather proficiently, too. Like most things that Amelia has figured out how to do by herself, any involvement from me is now considered an insult. And I get that. But it doesn't mean I like it.

Because I don't.

The other night as Amelia lay in her bed, reading contentedly, and I sat, a little bit lost, on the couch in the living room, I had the realization that this was only the beginning of these kind of growing pains. There is a kind of push and pull in parenthood of wanting your children close to you, and at the same time fostering the kind of independence where they can navigate this crazy world successfully on their own. Autonomy is the pinnacle goal, after all. Really and truly, I love that she can read independently. I love that she wants to read, constantly. Some nights I even love the freedom that not having to read to her affords. But more than anything, I miss that little red head, buried against my chest, feeling the closeness of her breath, and knowing that she needs me.

She still needs me. Even if she doesn't always show it. But she needs me less and in different ways than she did yesterday, or last month, or three years ago. As we close the book on bedtime stories, I have confidence that we will, with some amount of trial and error, find a new, more "grown-up" way to tap in to that mother-daughter intimacy that we both crave. We have found it before, and I have to remember in the push and pull moments of motherhood when I feel like I am no longer needed, that what has been found is difficult to lose.

 She still needs me.

And  hopefully, with or without bedtime stories, she always will. 

The Other Side of a Year

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

                                                a time to mourn and a time to dance...

Ecclesiastes 3:1

The other day on the way to Sadie's dance class, we took a left on to 20th street, and then a right on to Indiana and past the old site of Joplin High School, still a mountain of bricks and glass and metal, waiting to be cleared. As we drove by, Sam pointed at the rubble and cried with great purpose and intensity, "Uh-oh! Uh-oh! Uh-oh!" Almost a year later, it is clear to even an eighteen month old that something very bad happened here

A year ago today, something unimaginable happened in this town. As the anniversary loomed inevitably on the horizon, my thoughts began to turn inward and I have unwittingly returned to the horror of that day. I have returned to mourn, and mourn deeply. For individuals, for families, for the collective pain of this city. And to mourn properly means to also acknowledge the depth of our own feelings, our own experiences, even if we bear the burden, as I do, of immense guilt because my family and my home were left intact.

Intact, but not unchanged. 

###

Dave was at youth group at the church, so it was just the girls, Sam, and me, hunkered down in a canvas playhouse under the stairwell of our basement. Four years in Alabama had taught me to immediately heed the wail of a tornado siren, but with more annoyance than fear. It was dinner time and now we had to go sit in the basement. I was annoyed. I brought the computer down with me so I could monitor the storm and entertain the kids with a movie if I needed to. Most of the time, these things didn't last long, but occasionally, it took hours for a warning to be lifted.

We hadn't been down there long when a second siren sounded. I remember from living in Alabama that a siren meant that a tornado had been spotted on the ground. I could only guess that a second siren meant more of the same. I immediately called Dave at church and asked him if he knew what was going on. He hadn't even heard the siren, but had since received calls from me and many worried parents and was now headed across the street to the church basement. Concerned, but not yet scared, I quickly ran upstairs to grab snacks for the girls, and a few jars of baby food for Sam. It was past their dinnertime, after all, and they were hungry. I thank God that I had no idea what I was looking at when I arrived upstairs and looked out my kitchen window. If I had understood then what I understand now about the character of tornadoes, I would have panicked. It was only a little past 5:30pm, but the sky was as dark as night, with a eery greenish hue. Hail was hammering the roof with full force. Thunder and lightening were crashing incessantly, shaking the entire house. However, it was the rain that I will never forget. It was blowing sideways. I grabbed what I came for and hurried back to my children.

The four of us huddled down there, safe in our musty basement,and waited out the storm. I fed Sam pureed turkey dinner and sweet potatoes. The girls ate their crackers. I had been going back and forth between checking facebook and weather.com, though I still had no idea what was happening outside of our little canvas cocoon. Finally, the rain lessened, the thunder and lightening stopped, and the warning was lifted. At a little before 7pm, it was finally safe to go upstairs. I checked facebook once more before heading up and I'll never forget that first post, indicating all was not well. It was made by Sadie's preschool teacher, who lives on the other side of town. I hear sirens.

The kids and I went upstairs, and I told them to get ready for bed. "You have school tomorrow and it's getting late," I told them. I tried calling Dave but no calls were going through, though I could send and receive texts. Are you ok? I heard there were sirens. He immediately responded that everyone was fine. He hadn't heard anything yet, either. And then the texts began pouring in, from California, Alabama, Arkansas: Please let us know you're safe. We saw Joplin on the news. Are you guys ok? I've been calling your mom to see if she has heard from you. If you get this, please text me! I turned on the television (thankfully, we hadn't lost cable). On every station were images, unfamiliar and devastating, of flattened homes, broken buildings, and shattered lives.

And so it began. There are so many stories to share, and I struggle to find the words to express what those first few weeks were like. We sent the kids to Springfield for the week. I didn't shower. I could hardly eat. I barely slept. I would go to church early in the morning and stay all day answering phones because I needed to feel useful and productive. Though mostly I felt useless and in the way.

I didn't take pictures of what I saw. Not one. Not because I didn't want to remember, but because it felt like an invasion of something incredibly personal and intimate and tragic.

I didn't publicly share any of the stories I was hearing, stories of incredible suffering and loss, nor stories of miraculous survival. Not because these stories didn't pierce me to the depth of my soul, but because they were not my stories to share.

And I didn't share my own story. Not because I don't have one; we all have a story, but because my story was peripheral. And there was so, so much to do for those who were in the center of this storm.

Now, finally, I feel free to share my story. 

###

Something very bad happened in Joplin. But today is a beautiful day, so unlike last May 22nd. The sky is blue and cloudless, and the morning air is cool, crisp, and free of humidity. Today we will walk the partial path of the tornado in memory of those who lost their lives, and in solidarity with those who are still recovering from their loss. We will walk with our neighbors, our friends, with those we love, and with those whom we don't always see eye to eye. Last May 22nd was a bad day. The worst day. But for as bad a day as it was, today will be as good. A good, good day.

 It is a time to mourn, and mourn deeply for what we have lost, but it also a day to celebrate how far we have come, and how we have been transformed by and through the storm.

There are tears of joy mixed with tears of grief.

Mother's Day Musings

On Saturday, we were moving stuff around in our basement, cleaning things out, getting ready for summer. And stuffed into one of the cubbies of our old computer armoire, I found this poem, written in April of 2004:

Discovered today in joy
A surprise to the not yet father
A not yet mother in awe


The is a two line result
Small in comparison to multiplying cells


Are you real yet?
I concede I cannot yet imagine you
I wonder how fast you will grow


My beloved in my beloved
Certainly a time like none I have ever known
You are beautiful because this is beautiful
How you will grow and grow


And then, someday we will meet
What joy surrounds on a day we will never forget. 
For the first time I care for what I do not even know- and I care completely


-Dave (ehrrr...dad)

I remember coming into the bedroom that night, seeing him jotting down words on a page, tears of wonder glistening in his eyes. He read it to me. And we cried together. Because we were in awe, because we were happy, because we were scared. Really scared. The bliss of ignorance, the fear of the unknown, the promise of a new life. It was all of that and more.

He folded it, put in the middle of a book he was reading, and there it stayed. Sentiment set aside for the busy-ness of life.

Our little girl was born, with red hair like mom, and dimples, like dad. She grew and grew, and we loved her more than we could have ever imagined that warm April night.

Dave was offered a job across the country and we sold our first home and moved away. Somewhere between one child and another, the poem was found by one and read again, together. Again, there were tears, tears because we remembered our joy, and our innocence, and our fear. And it is all still there, just below the surface, but the feelings are deeper. So much deeper, because now we know, and know intimately, what it was we did not yet know.

Another move behind us, our family now complete, the poem reappears. This time, we are too busy to spend more than a few minutes reflecting on those early days when life was but a dream. Because it is no longer a dream. Life is loose teeth and Saturday afternoons on the trampoline. Life is What do you want for breakfast? and  Tell your sister you're sorry and I promise there will never, ever be a tornado here like that again. You are safe. Life is beautiful, uninhibited laughter, and  lots and lots and lots of tears. Only some of them your own.

 Life. It is enhanced by poetry, inspired by dreams, but lived in the grass stains and sticky fingers of the everyday.

Not always fun

Sometimes messy

 Unfathomably beautiful.

Five White Ballerinas

Last week, Amelia came home with a proposition for an art contest: draw a picture of what "community" means to you. As a first grader, she needed a little more clarity on the concept. So, over an afternoon snack of apples and Life cereal, we had a chat. I explained to her that a community is a bunch of people who spend time together because they have something in common. We talked about the differences and similarities that can exist within a community and how these differences make our communities stronger. And we talked about the different communities in her life: school, dance class, Sunday school, church, our neighborhood, and our families. And we talked about Jesus and how Jesus showed us how to live in community with each other. We talked and talked and talked. It was a great teachable moment, and it really made an impact on her. Yep, it sure did.

She rushed to her room to begin her art project. She got it. I was so proud. In my mind's eye I pictured the masterpiece she would undoubtedly create, thanks to my brilliant and politically correct interpretation of community: several people, each a different ethnicity, holding hands and encircling a globe (drawn to scale, with perfect perspective). And also Jesus, maybe holding it all in his hands or something. Like, the accurate middle-eastern, first century Jesus, not the blue-eyed, perfectly-manicured-beard and white robe Jesus. This experience, igniting a deeper understanding of the world around her, would inspire a career as an international diplomat, and undoubtedly a nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize (at least). 

Ten minutes later, Amelia returned with her art project: five caucasian ballerinas (though I will concede, all with different color hair) in tutus at ballet class. A community of ballerinas. Little, white ballerinas. At dance class. We did talk about that, after all. It's just not really what I had in mind. And then, finished with her study in Crayola on the concept of community, she asked if she could go draw with sidewalk chalk at her friend's house down the street. I nodded my head, got out my Crockpot, and started dinner. Because what else can you do when your hopes for your child's future in international diplomacy has been dashed against the cliff of homogeny? You make Crockpot lasagna and go on with your life.

Flash forward to this evening. A Wednesday, we had rushed from swim lessons to our weekly church dinner and Bible study. We began this mid-week fellowship shortly after the tornado, and invited the volunteers who were staying in our building that particular week to share a meal with our church family. We had groups from all over the country with us every week up through late October, but since the then, and through the winter, Wednesday nights have been mostly the same handful of faithful church members. Well, tonight, the girls, Sam, and I straggled in fifteen minutes late and were met by an awesome sight. The fellowship hall was filled to capacity with a combination of our church family, volunteers from Pennsylvania and Indiana, and a bunch of college kids who traded in their Spring Break for a hammer and a pair of gloves. Every single table was filled and there was a line to the door. Amazing.

We don't sit with our church friends on the nights when our volunteers show up. We share a meal with our guests, and we get to hear about where they have been working, and what they have been doing in our community. We hear about their hometowns and their children, and their grandchildren, and they want to know about our lives here in Joplin. And it feels good to share these things. Over a meal. With people who have come to help because they love Jesus. And who, because they love Jesus, love us, a bunch of people they don't know. We may have nothing else in common except for this, and this is enough. Community.

Tonight, as we marveled at all the people in the dinner line, Amelia turned to me and said, "Mommy, church dinners are my favorite community." She gets it. And not because I talked, talked, talked about it (which I like to do, especially when it comes to my children), but because she has experienced the richness of true community at work.

And shouldn't that always be the way? I think so. Less talking. More loving, more experiencing, more being. The latter are the things that build bridges: from isolation to community, from grief to comfort, from cynicism to faith, from death to life. Talking can help, too. But not without the other things first. I'm convinced of that.

But I forget sometimes.

And tonight it took a seven year old, some white ballerinas, and a roomful of volunteers to remind to talk less, and be more. For that, I am thankful because my heart is full.

Oh, and Amelia, church dinners are my favorite community, too.

As it Was and Ever Shall Be...

"For how can one know color in perpetual green, and what good is warmth without cold to give it sweetness?" 

-John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley

 To me, snow is a kind of miracle. It comes stealthily while we sleep, covering this entire broken city in a blanket of glistening white. There is a deep peacefulness that accompanies each snowfall, and something miraculous about the way it changes a landscape. The barren lifelessness of winter, the grimy streets and uneven sidewalks, the withered flowers and mangled trees, are redeemed in the beauty of a clean blanket of snow. As quickly as it appears, it is gone. We are left once again with the cold lifelessness of winter; we are left yearning for redemption.

And our yearning is always fulfilled through the miracle of spring. The daffodils, dormant since the previous year, push their way through the once frozen soil, and announce the promise of better days. We can put away our winter coats, take a walk in the fresh air, and enjoy the sweetness of green grass and budding trees. Sweet, because we have yearned for it through the long, difficult winter. Sweeter still, because it is temporary; the warmth will fade, the leaves will fall, the beauty of spring and the fullness of summer will inevitably retreat to the emptiness of late autumn.

And so it is again and again.

And again.

Life.

Death.

Rebirth.

Each season brings with it a yearning for the next.

Each season has its own redemption.

Again and again.

And again. 

This or That

When Amelia was born, I worked in Orange County, and we lived in San Diego. On a good day with little traffic, I could make it to work in an hour and fifteen minutes. On a bad day, of which there were several, it could take up to three hours to get home. It was a tough gig. I'll never forget the cloudy January morning when my maternity leave expired and I had to leave my still sleeping, six week old infant and return to work. It's what I thought I had wanted. I loved my job. I loved my students. I loved teaching. I wasn't ready to give it up. But then I also adored the sweet-smelling, vulnerable, red-haired little girl, who not two months earlier was literally a part of my flesh. As I drove up the coast on that cold January morning, the sun still resting behind the invisible curve of the horizon, I felt like I had been torn in half.

Seven years later, not much has changed. Except that now I'm torn in thirds. And, by the grace of God, and the shameless exploitation of kids-eat-free restaurants, I have been able to stay home for the past few years.

I have appreciated these years. I have needed these years. My kids needed these years.  We moved, we added another baby, we had a devastating tornado in our community. There was a lot to process, a lot to endure, and a lot of comforting that needed to be done. Amelia needed a mom who would show up at school once in a while and sit with her during lunch, to help her adjust to the realities of a new school, new teacher, and new friends. Sadie needed an extraordinary amount of hugs and kisses to reassure her that she was not being replaced by the new baby. If I had let her, she probably would have crawled right back inside the womb, cuddled up, and taken a nap. It was neediness at its finest, truly. Sam needed me as a source of food, and now he needs me to make sure he doesn't swallow a battery, or stick his finger in an outlet, or lick the toilet seat. And while it isn't all sunshine and butterflies (some days are more like poop and tantrums), I can't imagine not having been here in the thick of it all. It's where I needed to be, where I have wanted to be.

Last night I updated my resume. Honestly, it felt good. It felt like a reintroduction to my old self, the self that could use words with more than two syllables properly in a sentence, the self that had kids across the country rolling their eyes at my alter ego, MC Grammar (Can't parse this!). Reviewing a list of my former employers brought back memories of students and colleagues, lessons I had prepared, and books I had taught. It energized and inspired me. And then I began to think about the all-night grading sessions, and missed  preschool class parties, and the kind of vague guilt that permeates like dust every aspect of the working mom life.

The decision to return to work has not been definitively made. A clear, distinct answer, served up on a silver platter and accompanied by angels singing the Hallelujah Chorus? I have this funny feeling the answer is not going to arrive like that.

Why?

Because to work, or not to work, that is not really the question. The question is how to make it all work out, even when it's not easy, even when we've (gasp) made the wrong decision, even when we have fallen and have to pick ourselves back up. That's kind of the essence of life, with moments of grace sprinkled in for good measure. I have lived long enough now to know that life, however you live it, is not a series of Hipstamatic pictures, taken at the right angles, with just the right lighting. Nor is it a sentimental montage set to the perfect music. It's not all sunshine and butterflies, nor all poop and tantrums. It's a little of this and a little of that.

Not perfect.

Not always in tune.

Hardly ever balanced.

Torn.

Not a question of this or that; of good or bad; better or worse, but a question of how to live with a little of the good and a little of the bad; a little of the better and a little of the worse; a little of this and a little of that.







 

Once Upon a Time

 I don't think I was meant for the 21st century. Ever since I was a child, I have always been attracted to things of the past. Stuff with a little history. Places with character. I can spend hours in antique stores, just looking and imagining and dreaming. I love museums and musty basements, built-ins and breakfast nooks, vintage postcards, forgotten letters, and dusty National Geographic magazines.

My fascination with the past has also permeated my world-view. I have a great reverence and a certain amount of awe for that which came before me, and for those that laid the foundation on which I now stand. I am constantly aware that my existence is only a link in an extraordinarily long chain. And I very often find myself wishing that "the way things used to be" were "the way things still are."

I appreciate a slower pace of life. I prefer speaking with people one on one and face to face. I am humbled by the thoughtfulness and time invested in a hand written letter. I love it when my kids make creative use out of last night's pizza box, or choose to spend the morning writing stories rather than watching television. I enjoy family walks on a Saturday morning and I cherish the community that a small, traditional, multi-generational church family provides. I feel like many of these simple things have been devalued in the name of "progress," yet these are the things that fill my soul.

Don't get me wrong, I love my straight iron as much the next girl, and I am extremely thankful for dishwashers, the Civil Rights movement, my hard-won ability to vote, and the polio vaccine. Technology isn't all bad, either. I have a cell phone, a digital camera and a laptop. And as a stay-at-home mom in a new city, email, blogging, facebook, and Pinterest have been my portal to the outside world. In many ways "progress" has made our lives a little more interesting, and a whole lot more convenient. I can admit it.

But how much is too much?

And does convenience fill the soul?

And is being connected becoming more important than the connection?

These questions challenge me daily. Because I don't want Facebook friendships to replace face to face friendships. I don't want to spend the day pin surfing when I could be doing. I don't want to confuse busy-ness for real, honest-to-goodness, deep down in your being fulfillment. You have to be more savvy these days because culture tends to advertise the two as one and the same.

 The way things used to be. I kind of remember those days. Or at least I remember reading about those days. I remember hearing about those days. And  I want to remember. I want to remember to be quiet sometimes, so I am able to hear what is authentic within me. I want to remember how to wait, so I don't forget my very vulnerable and inferior place in this universe. And I want to remember to simplify, so what is truly important isn't swallowed up by what isn't. I want to remember, and in remembering and honoring the past, somehow enrich the present. 

***The irony that I am writing this in cyberspace and posting it on facebook for all of my virtual friends, and that I am doing so while my husband sits next to me and plays video games is not lost on me. Oh, and did I mention that I wrote part of this post while I anesthetized my four year old with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse so I could concentrate? Really and truly, this is an ideal, and one I do strive for, though sometimes I do not succeed. Such as in the writing of this blog post.

First and Last

 

Tomorrow Sam turns a year old. His first birthday. My last first.

I love first birthdays.

I love them because of the miracle that occurs somewhere in the midst of twelve months that turns a completely inert and utterly dependent newborn into a drooling, waving, toddling, self-feeding, grin inducing child.

I love first birthdays because of the miracle that has allowed me, the girl who can barely keep her indoor herb garden from withering, to provide a child with the roots and soil needed to thrive.

Truth be told, I love first birthdays because I love, I mean LOVE to watch my little ones, covered head to toe in frosting, smashing handfuls of cake into their little pie holes. Talk about pure joy...for them and for me.

Tomorrow Sam turns a year old. It is the bittersweet end of an era in our family. But we all know it is really another new beginning. And that's kind of fun, too.

Happy Birthday to my little man. You are an immeasurable blessing to us all. 

Amelia Burgess, Age 6 3/4

In the early morning hours on December 15, 2004, the nurse on night duty handed this little being to me, this little being we had just named Amelia, her crazy pouf of bright red hair secured with a lavender ribbon. Daddy was still sleeping. So, for a quiet moment, it was just the two of us, Amelia and me, and all of my hopes and dreams for the life before her that I could not yet begin to fathom.

Amelia Elizabeth and her crazy pouf of bright red hair are now almost seven years old. She is in first grade. It has been a milestone year, to say the very least. Her life, which began in that little room, with her tiny lavender bow, has begun to unfold.

It is colorful. 

It is dramatic. 

It is a joy.

She spent a toothless summer learning how to swim the length of the pool without assistance. 

She is on a no-joking-around soccer team. The kind where they make her run laps when she makes a mistake during practice. Mom thinks it's too much for a first grader. Amelia loves it...

So much so, that when it comes to a ballet vs. soccer showdown, she chooses soccer without any hesitation. Even though the kid is a dancing fool. Of course, I say that in love. 

You see, this kid is a striver. She has a will like steel and a mind that rarely stops. When I put her to bed at night, I have a ritual where I "turn" her brain "off." Amelia does not like to slow down, even for sleep. 

She learned this past weekend to ride a bike without training wheels. She fell down and got right back up again. Multiple times.And has the bruises and scars to prove it...

And she reads. She reads and reads and reads and reads. She reads billboards on the side of the road and the bulletin at church and board books to her baby brother. 

 Amelia, reading to her entourage

Amelia also adores it when I read to her. She doesn't let her daddy do it very often. That is our special time. This summer, we read the Ramona Quimby series. Next, it was Nancy Drew. Since school began, we have read abridged versions of Little Women, Pollyanna, and Heidi together. This is the only time that Amelia will snuggle with me. I hope she never gives it up.

And my favorite thing of all, the thing that makes me the most proud is her emerging creativity. Her kindergarten teacher encouraged them to use "kid writing," spelling words the best way they can in order to increase writing confidence and fluidity. Though my mother fears that she will never learn to spell correctly, I am in awe of how she is able to express herself. Here are some samples (translation as needed):

 "Mom is not being very nice because mom won't let me have an ice cream cone. That is how I feel."

 She makes worksheets for Sadie. I think Sadie may have had some help with the math.

 "Once upon a time there lived two princesses"

 A map of her life. "Hatin Place" is actually "Hampton Place," the street we live on :) 

 One of her favorite television shows is "Shake it Up, Chicago." Chicago is a tough word to spell.

An abstract self-portrait. I love that she always draws herself with orange hair. 

In those early morning moments, when it was just Amelia and me, I could never have dreamed how this little being would fill and enrich my life.

Amelia Elizabeth Burgess

My determined, creative, energetic, precious, orange-haired little big girl.

I am so blessed to be your mom.