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.

This Girl...

She is my middle child. My snuggler. My sidekick.

She collects trash for her special projects. Every disposed toilet paper roll or cardboard box becomes a cell phone or doll house.

And oh, how this girl loves tape.

When she is proud of herself, she effervesces. Beams. Glows.

When I pick her up at preschool, she runs to me, arms open wide, yelling, "Mommy!"

She has a tender heart and sweet nature. She needs an immeasurable amount of hugs before she can fall asleep at night.

She is a free spirit. She loves to dance and when she does, she can really shake her little groove thang.

Every idea proposed by her big sister is solid gold.

She has enormous brown eyes that make it difficult for her mommy and daddy to be angry, even when she draws on the hardwood floor or removes all clothing from the waist down and pees in the backyard. In front of the neighbor mowing his yard. But I digress...

She will try just about anything at least once. Including broccoli.

She is a developing a little conscience. Three weeks after she promised me that she did not cut off a chunk of her hair (even though it looked that way), without prompting, she fessed up and in tears, admitted her guilt.

She prefaces almost every statement or question with, "Can I say one thing?"

When I give her kisses at bedtime, she holds my face in her little hands and looks straight into my eyes.

This girl...
has my whole heart.

Green Grass

I am adjusting to being a stay-at-home mom.

That said, my house between the hours of four and five 0'clock are the closest thing I have ever experienced to the utter pandemonium often associated with being a full-time mom to three young children. Especially lately with Sam's new found mobility and accompanying curiosity. It's pretty much unbridled chaos around here. All three kids are home. Dave is not. They are tired. They are hungry. I am ready to have a conversation with someone over the age of six. Try as I might to find my happy place sauteing vegetables, I am inevitably interrupted (as I was this evening) by a child in need of a timeout for sticking her finger down her brother's throat, or by having to run outside to stop my little entrepreneurs from trying to sell their toys to our next door neighbors, or by fishing a full size grape out of the mouth of my ten month old...and then comforting him after he slams his face down on the kitchen floor, bloodying his lip as a means of protest. At this hour, the witching hour, I must remind myself that I chose this life.

I chose this life because right now because I've been on the other side. I've had the chance to dress up and put on make-up and go to work and bring home a paycheck and have an identity outside of my home and come back to my kids at the end of the day. And the grass is not always greener, though some days it seems that way.

Even on the hardest days, the green grass of my stay-at-home motherhood experience has been the new bond I've formed with my children. I drop them off in the morning. I pick them up every afternoon. I know what shows they watch and what they eat for breakfast and who they played with on the playground. I know how to calm a tantrum and what sets them off. I know their favorite books at the library and what kind of slush they will order at Sonic for Happy Hour. I am there to enforce chores and I know which consequences carry the most weight when they start to whine. I knew most of these things when I worked, too. But now these are the most important details of my day. The only things I have to remember. They are my job. I will not say that this life is the kind of domestic heaven that I always dreamed of as a girl. I have WAY too much laundry for that to be true. But I know my kids. And I know them in a way I've never known them before. That is priceless.

Times three.

Lessons

Here a just a few things that I have learned over the course of the past year:
*Lessons that were re-learned this year and will be probably need to be re-learned in different ways every year for the rest of my life are delineated with an asterisk

-I am entitled to nothing*.
-Substance pretty much trumps aesthetics in every situation*
-One can buy electrocution-style mouse traps
-I can survive with only one bathroom
-I must never leave my wallet in the car. Ever.*
-Blood is not necessarily thicker than water
-Baby boys eat WAY more than baby girls
-Sixteen straight hours in a car with three kids is pretty much as bad as it sounds
-I am more than what I do (or don't do) for a living
-Nature should be both feared and respected...as should tornado warnings.
-One of the best things in life is to have a friend who can relate
-I love my creepy basement
-Ten successive snow days are only manageable with a case of diet coke in the fridge
-Chick-fil-A is the best fast food restaurant EVER.
-Grass is very seldom greener on the other side*
-My kids are awesome. All three of 'em
-The book is ALWAYS better than the movie*
-Excessive licorice consumption will give you cavities
-What doesn't kill you will sometimes make you stronger, and then sometimes it just really, really hurts*
-Avocados are freakin' expensive
-My husband is one of the biggest blessings I've ever received*
-God is good. All the time. Regardless of what is happening around me, God is always good.***

Who knew?

Back to School

In many ways, this summer has seemed interminable. As a parent, I am running out of creativity, grasping at straws for ways to entertain my kids. On Tuesday, in a hazy moment of desperation, I bought a package of Oreos and let them scoop the centers out to make a giant frosting ball. Not my finest parenting moment.

And summer began abruptly this year. It began without good-byes or end-of-the-year parties or any trace of sentimentality. The beginning of summer was, in fact, largely overlooked. Overshadowed. Overwhelmed.

Three weeks in, we began, almost reluctantly (and guiltily) to do some of the more normal summer things: trips to the pool, afternoon drives for ice cream, a vacation to Branson with friends. Even though life was anything but. Normal, that is.

Because there is nothing normal about your kids "playing" tornado. Or asking people wherever they go if they can see their basement. Or their crawl space. Just in case. And normal is not a field of FEMA trailers outside of town. Or little ole' Joplin, Missouri making headlines on CNN. Or letting your kids consume the frosting from an entire package of Oreo cookies.

But there is also nothing normal about weekly church dinners for the volunteers (over 400 at last count) who we have housed on our campus all summer. Or the way strangers help strangers without thinking twice. Or the way people in this city have learned to live with a sense of purpose for serving others. Because those in need live in their backyard. And there is nothing normal about free backpacks and school supplies for all 7,000 students. Or hundreds of people working around the clock to make sure our children, all of our children, have a place to go to school next Wednesday. Not normal can be a good thing. It can be a great thing.

On Wednesday, I will have a first grader. And a new start. A new routine. And a new normal. Back to school means more this year than a few new outfits and a new teacher. Back to school in Joplin will be a return to something that was lost on May 22nd. I am sure that I am not alone when I say that I crave the day-to-day normalcy of school drop-off and pick-up, the monotony of making lunches, of signing and returning paperwork, and of driving my kids to their dance lessons or soccer practice. Though life as it was ended on May 22nd, all of these "normal" things are really symbols that life, though changed forever, does goes on.

Debris

Last Friday, Dave and I spent the morning clearing rubble and sorting debris at an apartment complex destroyed by the storm. There is something incredibly intimate about sorting through the contents of someone's home. Or what is left of a home.

Raw. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Hidden among the debris- blocks of shattered concrete, shards of wood, bricks, and broken sheets of plywood, we found treasure: family photos, one dollar coins, a piece of a locker with a purple lock still attached from the high school a half mile down the road, a crock pot, a few pairs of panties, a bra, a set of greeting cards and an old second grade journal from a girl named Ashley. The first page was dated September 16, 1994. In a childlike hand, the entry read, Today we had a tornado drill.

Raw. Exposed. Vulnerable.

Their lives have been laid bare for the whole world to see. Or at least, our small group of volunteers. We separated the concrete and metal and larger pieces of wood. And we returned whatever personal items we came across to the site headquarters to be reclaimed by the former residents. And then we went home, humbled, shaken, changed.

Hampton House

My blog post lately have been a little on the heavy side. So I am going to lighten things up a little with the story of my house. It's probably not very interesting to anyone but those who know me (and love me), so feel free to navigate away from this page at any time.

Before moving to Joplin last summer, Dave and I looked at more houses and apartments than we had time for, even spending three exhausting and fruitless days during his parents' 50th wedding anniversary and family reunion. We found this house on the very last day of that search, with only a month to go until the big move. The pictures we had found online left a lot to be desired, but it was within our budget, it had four bedrooms, and we didn't have time to be picky. Walking in for the first time, Dave and I were instantly impressed. We were able to see past the old-chewed up Wrigley's gum colored walls and the teal and white striped wallpaper in the bathroom. It had beautiful hardwood floors, original fixtures in the bathroom, and crystal doorknobs throughout the house. There are so many things I would like to do to make it our own ; its imperfections are many, but I have found that the imperfections are what give a home its character.

The Exterior
The part of the house that I like the least. I would desperately like to lose the green all-weather carpet on the steps, but when I tried to remove it I realized there was a four inch gap between the house and the steps. That's an expensive fix so I've decided for now to embrace green all-weather carpet. We may temporarily compromise and switch to brown all-weather carpet down the line. Less conspicuous.

The sun porch was built as an exterior porch and we would someday like it to return to its original function. Because most of the time, this room looks something like this:

Dining Room


Kitchen- second least favorite thing about the house. Budget may never allow a total kitchen makeover, but I would like to paint the cabinets, lose the border, replace the couter tops, and change out the hardware someday. Needs more counter space. Right now, I use my old chest of drawers as an island. Besides that, it's a pretty functional, cozy little kitchen.The technology center in our kitchen. I use this Willow House fruit basket as an office caddy.

Sun porch off the kitchen. This is where we eat all of our meals, play, and do crafts. But only in warm weather. This room had snow drifts during last winter's blizzard. I love all the light from the windows on three sides of the room and how it's surrounded by trees. I wish we could use it year round.

Family room. Pretty standard. The bookcase is gift from Dave's parents. It has been ours since we've been married, but this is the first time we've lived close enough to bring it home. I love it!

Hallway. Note the small white door on the right. Nevermind, it's covered by the big, white door. Anyhow, it's the laundry chute. This is maybe one of my favorite things about this house. I love throwing laundry down the chute and pretending it has disappeared forever.

This is our only functional bathroom. And I really don't mind sharing. Talk to me again about this ten years from now when I have two teenage girls. The best thing about this bathroom is its original hexagon tile pattern and the cute built-in vanity.



Bath toy purgatory


Sadie's bedroom. We store most of the girls' toys in the armoire that we bought at a second hand store in Eufaula. There are lots of things I'd like to do with Sadie's room, but we're still on the fence about putting the girls in the same room.Amelia's room. I love the color of this room. And the window seat. And the built- in desk and glass front display cabinet. We let her choose which room she wanted because she's the oldest, and she got the best deal in the house. Don't tell Sadie.

Sam's room is the best color, though it's hard to tell from this picture. It's a very muted sage green. Very soothing. It's also the only bedroom currently with hardwood floors. If the girls ever share a room, we'd like to make this an office and put Sam in Sadie's room. Dreams...

We love our bedroom. It's the only upstairs room in the house (the stairway is behind a door in the dining room) and we have kind of liked having some distance from the kiddos. They have a little bit of a hike to try and get in bed with us at night. Also, because it's upstairs, once I go down for the day, I usually never make it back up so the bed very rarely gets made. I used to be a stickler for bed making. Oh well.


and....Hope you enjoyed the tour. The good, the bad, and everything in between.

Thirteen Hours and a Million Miles Away

This time last year, I was in a car somewhere between Memphis and Little Rock, a car packed full of moving van leftovers, two tired little girls, a long suffering husband, two Beta fish, and my six months pregnant self. This time last year, that car had Alabama plates and my girls still dropped the occasional "Yes, ma'am" or "No, sir." This time last year, I felt scared and alone, uncertain of the future and sad for what I was leaving behind.

In the past year, so much has changed: new house, new job, new church, new schools, new baby, new friends. These things are blessings.

In the past year, there has been loss. And lots of it. I don't have any theological perspective on that right now.

I have done a lot of looking back over the past 12 months. I will admit that I am glad to finally be in a place that when I play the "Where Was I a Year Ago" game, I will find myself here, in Joplin. When I wake up tomorrow, I will remember signing loan documents. And meeting Sallie at the house that she and a small task force lovingly cleaned and painted for us. I will remember buying Subway for the moving crew and how beautiful the paint colors (chosen in about five minutes at the Eufaula Wal-Mart) actually looked on the walls. I will remember the girls' excitement (short lived as it was) over the prospect of sharing a room for the first time. And I will remember the hot, musty smell that came with our sweet, old house. With the return of the summer heat, it smells like that again. I love it.

Looking back can be a great thing, but unchecked, it can and will drain today of its joy. I don't want to live in Alabama anymore. Not because it's not a great place to be, or because I don't like the people, or even because its average summer temperature is just slightly lower than the temperature of the sun (you get used to it). It's because it's time to stop living there when I no longer live there. And it's because I have a new home. A wonderful home. I have had it for a while now; it's time to lean in to it, as my friend would say. There is joy to be found here.

Stripped

The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me...
To comfort all who mourn, To console those who mourn in Zion,
To give them beauty for ashes, The oil of joy for mourning,
The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
That they may be called trees of righteousness,
The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified.
Isaiah 61:1-3

Driving through Joplin last week, I was startled by the way in which the landscape had significantly changed over the course of the past month. Mountains of rubble (in many places) are now clean concrete slabs. The trees, mangled with sheet metal and stripped bare, have been taken down. The abandoned carcasses of homes have disappeared one by one, devoured by monstrous machines and deposited in a landfill outside of town. Entire neighborhoods have simply ceased to exist. Wiped away. Wiped clean. Waiting.

For the families who have lost homes, I have heard that this part of the process has been both excruciating and cathartic. For the volunteers who have been helping to clear the rubble and take down trees, the work has been backbreaking and tedious in the ruthless summer heat. For those who were the first to clear their properties, the waiting game for building permits is agonizing and frustrating. Because before you rebuild, you have to tear down. And the tearing down is not yet finished. The work is slow. It hurts. It is hard to see beyond the emptiness. And for a season, we have to live there. In the emptiness, in the void, with the pain. For a season.

The conversation is beginning to turn towards restoration. At an open forum last week, residents were invited to share their vision of the new Joplin. In the paper, I read that one long-time Joplin resident wanted the city to be rebuilt exactly as it was before the storm. Good or bad, there is immense comfort in the familiar, the known, the way it was before. But it will never be the same. It can't be the same. Because in this season of emptiness, with its clean concrete slabs and treeless open fields, a vision will take shape. It will not be like it was before. It will be better. Because death is not the end. Destruction is not the end. The trees, stripped of their bark, stripped of their leaves, stripped of their beauty, will be replanted. The city will be rebuilt.