Not My Will for One Week

If feminism means doing it all, that is a really sucky deal.

I don't think it does, even though if you look at my life, you would swear I do.  Things look pretty good from the outside.  But inside things are melting down fast.  I attempted to tell Jeff about it this weekend.  That's a really nice way of framing what happened.  The result was that Jeff asked if he could take the laundry chores from me, I said no, and he proceeded to throw things with zippers in a load with delicates without telling me.  "They were all colors," he said.

So that didn't go too well. He did agree to stay away from the laundry.

We tried to figure out what he could do to lighten my load.  What I tried to tell him is that I want to be the boss of the house and he can just do what I ask.  He kept pretending like he didn't hear me and over and over said, "What can I take over?" What is it with men wanting to take over stuff? Well, I don't want him to take over anything that I have been handling.  Finally, I got tired of arguing and said that he was in charge of homework and school papers.  I would no longer be checking backpacks.  I would no longer be running around looking for kids' permission slips the morning they are due.  But then my heart seized up a little and I begged him to keep me in the loop like I do for him. I can't pry my fingers off of home duties that I have convinced myself are my sole responsibility, but I'm going to kill myself and alienate my family if I don't cede more ground.

Work is worse.  My program is facing real trouble. I am secretly fearful that its not helping our participants. 
And I have been spending lots of energy and time working out models and researching and making presentations.  I get asked to trouble shoot, get none of the credit , and the real power lies to make the decisions of consequence lie above my pay grade.

Last week, we had a speaker come in and talk to our participants about stress relief.  The lady was kind of new-agey and into wheatgrass and chakras and stuff that can be easy for me write off.  She had us doing these relaxation exercises and I admit that I do like relaxation exercises.  She gave us this sheet of stress-relief techniques that made my heart kind of twinge in the way that makes me wonder if God might be trying to get through to me. Nah. I am not superstitious.  I must be practical and clear-eyed.

We broke up with our church awhile ago. Yeah, that's one of those ugly little things about Christianity - we can't coexist in one big church.  Anyway, we have been visiting other churches.  There is one that Molly really likes - and if I had to choose today I would pick that one as well.  The pastor has been going over "incredible moments of Jesus' life," and it is the kind of series that makes me say, "Yep - that's why I stick with this. Because of him (Jesus)." Molly and I were discussing the most recent message, which was about how Jesus' last act of freewill as a human being was to bring healing to an enemy who didn't deserve it, and to tell the disciples - "No - stop trying to bring my kingdom your way (mad acts of violence)!" The pastor challenged us to check a box on this card in the seats that said "This week I will pray 'Your will be done, not mine.'" I partly checked it as a test - if anybody calls me, strike for that church.  But I have a meeting tomorrow at work that it will be very beneficial for me, after all of the plotting and politicking and planning I've done to sit back and do breathing exercises and say, "Not my will, but yours." I partly checked it because of this stuff that I have been handling in my own strength with my own brainpower.  Being smart enough and strong enough only goes so far and then its just exhausting and empty.  If that argument can even be made; the view from the other side is that I've just made things worse.

Anyway, Molly said she always wonders what that means - letting God's will be done.  Does that mean we sit back and let things happen and don't make plans or do anything?

Great question, kiddo. Teenagers can ask the best questions sometimes.

I said I didn't think so - I think it means we don't work ourselves into knots after we make our plans.  You do your best, and then at some point you let it go.

And then I think God said something like "So why did you presume that I don't speak though the new-age lady, Miss Smartypants?" Or maybe that's what God would have said if he were speaking through me, which thank Him, He probably doesn't do all that much.

My will gets me only so far and then it trips me up.  I haven't figured out where the line is where helpful switches to hurtful. I let go and then I lunge forward and grab.I want to release but I am afraid to.

Breathe in, breathe out, not my will but yours be done. I'm trying it for one week (let's pretend I've not failed repeatedly today). It has to be better than what I've been doing.

Everyone Needs a Housewife, Including Me

My oldest daughter checked a vegan cookbook out at the library, and as we sat looking at recipes I had this "well, we could try that" mentality.  Until I started calculating the time it would take to boil water and pour it over cashews, let them sit for hours, then drain off the liquid and add lemon juice, etc.  to make "cheese." To make one ingredient.  That's not even an actual step in the recipe.  Taking care of kids and feeding them is really hard work, even when they are not trying to be healthy vegans who run off 500 calories a day. And when they are infants - good grief! Every nursing mother should get a year off from every other responsibility in her life. Isn't that in Leviticus or something?

I want to go on record saying that I agree with the stance that housework and kidwork is undervalued in our society.  And also the stance that the previous statement is so because it always has been considered "women's work."

My husband is sort of fascinated by the Mormon faith.  He finds it interesting and reads up on it.  When I am feeling thoroughly rotten I joke that he just wants to look into getting another wife.  You know, younger, cuter, not rotten like me. 

Then I got to thinking.  I  want another wife in the house. (Ok, I fully acknowledge that most Mormons do not believe in polygamy).  Someone to help cook, clean, run errands, get the kids to where they need to be, make sure everything is running smoothly in the household, keeping track of doctor and vet appointments and making lunches.  Filling in on the nights I am too tired.  Of course, maybe I wouldn't be too tired if she were around to assist me with my house/kids workload.  And I would have time to get my hair cut and colored and all those other things women do to feel attractive. 

Stuff needs to get done. Either you pay someone to do it, or you do it yourself.  But our economy is such that it is very, very hard for most people to give up an income to take care of things at home.  And our economy is such that those women who are paid to clean people's houses and watch people's kids can't afford to have anyone do that for them.  And if they were paid enough to make a real living, we couldn't afford them. 

Men don't usually do full time kidwork and housework. They usually aren't maids and they usually aren't nannies. It's "unmasculine" and oh, look - we just found ourselves in the deep water of  societal expectations on men concerning masculinity. All I know is that when men iron or clean bathrooms they are sainted.  When women do it, no one notices that it even got done.  Probably because it was 2 am when those things happened and so everyone thought elves did it.  When I help throw that stinking heavy canoe on top of the car, no one saints me.  If I chop down the rogue branches in the yard and haul them out to the curb, I do not get any extra recognition.  I get, "So what are we having for dinner?" I do feel for men, being under so much pressure to be macho and tough and I'm not arguing that they have their own set of societal fallout to deal with.  I am also too fried to see my argument through to its conclusion. So I am just going to surrender my feminism and Christianity and say that housewives are a great idea - I want one too.

Mommy Guilt Does Not Discriminate

Summer is supposed to be relaxing.  Lazy.  At least a little less busy.

Ha.

I promise to not try to one-up you with what I pack into the hours between 5 am and 11 pm.  What I am going to tell you is that mommy guilt stalks the stay at home mom and the career mom.  I know because I have been both.

I used to feel guilty that I wasn't enjoying my children enough over the length of their entire summer break.  I used to worry that I hadn't provided them enough enrichment.  I fretted that I had not been patient enough, creative enough, fun enough, sweet enough.

Now I hate that I haven't been around enough.

To my credit, and I do need to give myself a little, I have let the house and yard go a bit in effort to make the most of lovely summer evenings and weekends with them.  To their credit, and they deserve a lot, they have bounced from camp to camp like troopers.  My high school cross country runner goes to a full day of camp, at 2 of which she would practice violin or dancing/singing/acting from 9 to 5, and then be whisked away to barely make it to cross country practice at 6, minus a real dinner.

We've had some great times.  But on the flip side of "Mom, I am so bored" is "Mom - can we just all stay home and do nothing today?" I can't remember the last time I did nothing.  Literally.  I can't remember the last time I was bored.  I don't think the kids can either.  Which sounded like heaven when I stayed at home with them.  But I'm exhausted.  And I'm worried that the kids haven't rested enough before the onslaught of school begins.  Especially my freshman.

I have been getting e-mails from the cross country parent group - the"tailgaters."  I totally understand if you just threw up in your mouth a little.  I do every time I see those e-mails.  They invited me to an event on a Monday at 11 am where families will be grilling for the runners and having a picnic after their mandatory practice - look and see what items are still needed and sign up! And to a brunch after practice on a Friday at 10 am.  I fumed to my husband, "Who do they expect can make these events! I don't even know how I'm going to get her to those mandatory morning practices let alone join in the party!" He looked at me and said "You could've last year." And I cursed him in my head and wondered if he remembers everything I have sacrificed for his career over the years.

This would be Mommy Guilt, the Career Mom version.

I think I would be fine if I had 6 weeks vacation. But I don't.  I have to decide whether or not I will spend my precious 3 weeks vacation on real vacation with family and friends or *gasp* just the four of us going somewhere for fun! God forbid! Or, if I will spend it making sure my kids get to where they need to go and aren't alone, etc.  And that we see family and friends who live far away.  I can't just take one day off to spend a lazy day with my children this summer.  Guilty. If I do, I can't come home for Christmas. Guilty.  If I do, I can't go on vacation with Jeff's family. Guilty.  Or with our friends. Guilty.  If I take a day off during winter break, that's one less day on summer break.  Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

Then again, thank God that I can afford after school child care for my little one.  Thank God that I can afford to send them to summer camps where I know they are being enriched.  Thank God that I have a job that while demanding, is exciting and fulfilling (well, the good parts are, most of the time).  Thank God I have a husband who can share in some of the transporting.  Thank God that we are all healthy.  Thank God that I have any vacation at all.  And if I really think about it, thank God that my children don't have to work. They are downright spoiled, those kids of mine! And so am I! (It goes without saying that my husband totally is - right?)

And now I'm feeling guilty that I have it so good.

Whatever your situation, Mama, I know you feel guilty sometimes.  We can't be perfect.  We just can't. I don't know that we will ever learn how to get over that.  Does it help to know that I know you're doing your best?  I may not have time to call you or facebook you, but I honor your effort.  Stay at home mom - I know how tough it is to do that.  Working mom, it's tough too, in an entirely different way.  Neither gets enough appreciation, recognition, or space to be human. I suspect that whatever it takes to slay Mommy Guilt once and for all, it will take all of us working together, resisting the urge to believe one of us has it harder than the rest.

But first I am going to envy you a little if you get to sleep in tomorrow;)

A Sort of Freedom

I was driving on the Northside, where it is always fun to people watch.  People from all over the world live on the Northside, alongside many whose families have been there forever.  It's such an interesting part of town.  An Italian deli that's been there forever might be next to a new Somali market.  Tattoo parlors are housed in buildings that look like a drugstore with a soda fountain should be in them instead.

And then I saw her.  A little old lady who in certain ways, did not look like an old lady at all.  Though she kind of hobbled, she still had that 1940's movie star sashay.  She was dressed in a perfectly pristine dress that was the height of fashion in the 1940's (well, judging by what Ingrid Bergman wore in Casablanca).  She had a scarf tied around her head to match her dress, just like Ingrid Bergman.  She had on big sunglasses and pumps that matched her handbag.  And she was smiling up into the sun as she sashayed/hobbled down the street, as if she were just so glad to be out on such a beautiful day. She totally pulled it off. I wanted to pull over and ask her to go grab a cup of coffee and with me and tell me about her life.

Do you ever wonder what you'll be like when you're that age? We don't like to think about being old.  It seems scary to acquire more wrinkles and sagging and less agility and mental capacity.  We fight to stay young.  We chase trends and dye our hair. There is a sort of freedom that comes in getting older, though, I suspect.  A permission to not diet or worry about cellulite.   A release from keeping up.  I'm starting to feel it.  And I like the deeper sense of who I am that is taking the place of worrying about stuff I spent way too much time worrying about when I was younger.

When I am that lady's age, I want to sashay down the street dressed up in the clothes that still make me feel good.  I have always wished I could pull of 1940's clothes because I think they are somehow still very chic.  But I can't now so I probably won't in my 70's. I hope I'm not trying to look like a teenager.  I also don't want to adopt the standard old lady wardrobe.  I wonder what I'll wear?  A bandana and t-shirt and cut-offs and canvas sneakers? Khakis and a button down collar shirt and loafers? (I am positive that's what my husband would be wearing: it's what he's been wearing since 1999.  But I would wear a cute little bright colored sweater around my shoulders too). A flowered tunic dress and sandals and a big floppy hat?

 I hope I'm smiling up at the sun, happy to be alive and about on such a beautiful day.

Blind Enough to See

 Some of the most rewarding things that have happened in my life have been the craziest - the ones I thought I might not make it through, or didn't want to do in the first place, or had others questioning my ability to make grown-up decisions.  This is the pep talk I'm giving myself this Sunday evening leading into yet another week at work I can't quite figure out how I will get through, but somehow will.  Truly though, it's that crazy stuff, not the house, the car, the degree, that had any success satisfying real soul thirst.

The project I am doing now has parts of it that make me want to mouth off or walk away.  But I also get this amazing privilege of hearing people's stories and their hopes of what their lives could be.  A husband dying in a refugee camp, the widow bravely starting life in a new country with 6 children alone. A young man's dreams of being a doctor thwarted by war and famine, but finding hope again of pursuing a medical career. If these people get good jobs and are able to finally find security, I can think of few things less wonderful to have been a part of.

Recently my children have been talking to me nonstop about fostering or adopting another child/children. They have been asking me what happens to kids who don't have families, who don't get adopted. They are especially interested in the plight of unaccompanied minor refugees, and with breathtaking honesty and purity, they explain that even if we are from a different culture, our family would be a nice place for a kid who doesn't have one.  "We could do it, Mom!" In my practical adult mind the math of us becoming a foster family doesn't add up.  But when I stuff down my adultness and come to the situation as a child, the same incredulous, "Why are we not doing this?!" is what I think too.

I told my husband about the kids' campaign, half expecting a long, back and forth conversation about pros and cons ending with "Let's think about this." Instead he responded with, "Why have we not started this process yet?"  I started to articulate a pros and cons list and was promptly silenced with  "Call your contact this week." The cons he began to pick off, like a sharpshooter, one by one.  

There's this song we sing at church that snotty me thinks is outdated and tired: "Open the eyes of my heart." The music starts and I inwardly groan and try to think up a new harmony to sing along with so it doesn't feel like torture.  My first grader, however, stands on her chair and sings it with all of her heart at the top of her lungs.  For the record, my first grader is the one with the open eyes and heart and can see God in things like bringing children who need families into ours.  The chances of me ever liking that song again perished sometime back in 2004, but I keep trying to think up new ways to express the prayer embedded in that irritating tune.  Like a mantra, I keep repeating its essence over and over as I prepare for the week: let me see clearly enough to make good decisions, but blind enough to trust the hand that guides me. Tough enough to shoulder what I need to carry, but soft enough to still be re-molded.  

Not so Great Expectations

Mother daughter relationships aren't always as wonderful as Hallmark cards make them seem.  Nor are they often as bad as made out to be on TV dramas.  No matter what the reading of the stage of relationship with my mother happens to be at any given moment, I realize that I am blessed to have a relationship with my mother.

Today is my mom's birthday.  My mom has lived most of her life being a mother.  For some reason, that fact impressed me when I thought about it.  It's not like she stopped being a mom when I turned 18. Or 21.  Or when my baby sister turned 21.

Of course I remember lots of her bad mom moments. But I've forgotten some of the good ones.  Not the big good ones like when she came and cleaned my house every two weeks when I was on bedrest when expecting my youngest daughter. Incidentally, many forgotten good moments occurred during my teenage years I was not even aware at the time were good mom moments.  

I have a teenage daughter.  I am not patient about her decision making process during shopping, the way my mom was.  I find that swimsuit shopping for my daughter is almost as bad as swimsuit shopping for myself.  Not for the same reasons.  She is absolutely adorable and looks cute in anything.  She is the world's slowest decision maker, however.  And almost too tiny for adult sizes and slightly too big for kid sizes.  And not allowed to wear super skimpy bikinis.

Moms do not get appreciated for sitting through hours of swimsuit shopping with teenager daughters when they could be making dinner or gardening or at least shopping for themselves.  Nor do they get appreciated for spending 60 bucks on the only swimsuit within a 50 mile radius that both mother and daughter agreed upon.  They are actually expected to do this, I realize now. Just as I am finding out moms are expected to make stains vanish from favorite shirts, fix scheduling glitches, and reveal the secrets of Algebra.

I always had clean jeans in my drawers, but always having clean clothes was another expectation, not revered as a small miracle. I expected that there would be food in the pantry when I came home hungry from school.  I expected her to respond in a sweet, motherly way even when I took things out on her. I expected her to drop everything and listen to me when I wanted to talk and to not even ask how things were when I was in a bad mood and didn't want to talk.  And she was expected to know when I wanted which.

 The time is not that far away when I will have been a mother for more of my life than not.  Moms don't stop being moms; they are expected to adapt to the ever-evolving expectations of their children.

The older my oldest child gets, the less I analyze the decisions my mother made and just appreciate that she cared enough to be there and make them. I used to say my mom was a great mom of babies and small children.  And she was.  But of course, I was an idiot and had yet to learn that there are a million more parenting decisions to make when one has teenagers, and therefore a million more opportunities to make mistakes. I should have said she was a good mom. Period.  But I was still editing the script of my teenage years.  When my mom was figuring out what the heck to do with a hormonal teenager, and the next one right behind her in line, as well as still pay sufficient attention to the kindergartner.  She was adjusting to living in a new state away from everything she knew - a woman who hates change and loves security.  She was trying to bring up her family on half the salary her husband used to make.

I appreciate my mom.

The Wisdom To Know the Difference

Ok, I am calling "Uncle!" But wait - I'm the one who twisted my own arm!  So I'm stuck. At least until this phase of the pilot program is over.  In an effort to release some of the pressure building to unbearable levels inside me, I posted on Facebook that I have about 2 weeks left of being sane.  Just in case any of you had anything you really needed me to say or do before then.  One wonderful lady joked, "Oh, there's an expiration on that too?"

My dear friend Ami remarked, "Nope, we're here to keep renewing."

In the pea soup fog of the moment, I often forget that renewal feels an awful lot like losing sanity sometimes.

The wisdom lies not only is knowing the difference, but also in knowing how to keep perspective while it is happening, and acting accordingly.  Does acting insane cancel out the progress that happens in renewal? *Sigh*

Lately, I have questioned my sanity for stepping into the land mine that is this pilot program born of a partnership between two good nonprofit organizations.  Today was the first day of the workshop, and things did not go smoothly.  Both partner organizations were on the brink of calling it quits (but there are 15 people who have their hopes pinned on this now!)  My job could still blow up before this is all over.  And I knew that I was gambling not only with that partnership and our programs, but also with my very own employment status when I took this on.  And I still did.

Now you're questioning my sanity.

The other side of this story is that things went so well if viewed from a different angle.  15 interesting, wonderful people have hope.  There are people from the Democratic Republic of Congo, Nepal, Burma, Cuba, Iraq, Sudan, and the United States all sitting together at a table, helping one another, sharing with one another, and cheering one another on.  They are ready to take on new jobs in either a new country or a new career field.  They are in the process of renewal and not acting the least bit insane. They are putting a whole lot of chips on this new endeavor. And whether or not I am a wildcard that someone should not have used to bet: I am the facilitator. That, I think, is God's way of making sure that everyone is clear about who is responsible for renewal. (Hint: not the Wildcard Facilitator).

Renewal hurts.  Sometimes it takes awhile to look pretty.  Sometimes it looks like foolishness. And it has to happen over and over again in order for us to stay fresh. For us to become wise.  And did I mention that it hurts?

No pain, no gain.

Here

My family and I missed each other during my absence.  It was the longest that me, solo, had been away from the three of them.

My first grader bravely and enthusiastically reported the happenings of every day on the phone, always ending with, "but I REALLY REALLY miss you. Every second."  She was waiting right at the screen door when I got home, standing taller than I remembered and ready with a big hug.

The dog wormed in front of her to greet me with his paws up on the screen door, tail wagging furiously with his whole self shaking.  He has followed me into every room I enter, and graciously shared "his" couch with me for a little nap, snuggling against me.

My teenager spent a long time on the phone with me Friday night, vetting my story about my flight problems and inability to come home when planned.  She asked to accompany me to the grocery and if we could resume our tradition of reading before bedtime again.

My husband caught my arm as I rounded a corner with a sack full of laundry. He looked me straight in the eye and said in a very humble voice, "Honey, I really tried to keep up on laundry and not have the house be a mess.  But we still managed to make a lot of work for you." (I PROMISE I hadn't said a word about the house or laundry! I hadn't even sighed! I was so happy to be home I didn't even feel one bit upset about it!) I smiled and assured him that I understood how difficult running a household is. "I'm really glad you're home," and he pulled me into a big bear hug.

I was feeling a bit of pressure to do something fun with the kids.  I had promised myself that I would intentionally spend quality time with them.  But after their hellos, everyone sort of scattered and resumed previous activities.  The house had a comfortable feeling of being.

It was as if they were just happy that now I am here.  The world of our family is right again.

When I was leaving, Anna said, "I don't like when you go away, Mommy.  I don't like when Daddy goes away.  Believe it or not, I don't even like it when Molly spends the night at a friend's house.  I like when everyone is at our house the way it is supposed to be.  Me, you, Daddy, and Molly.  And Biscuit."

It is one of the nicest things about being part of a nice family.  You belong there.  When you show up, everyone is like, "Well, it's about time you're here!" and the space you are supposed to occupy is filled with you, and everything continues.  My business trip so happened to carry me to the town where my parents and one of my sisters and her family lives.  The same thing happened there.  Of course there was a spot for me on the bleachers at ball games. No fuss, just cozily there.  I can't explain that feeling.
I was born into it.

Not everyone has that experience, I have learned over the years as my awareness spread beyond the borders of my own family.  People crave belongingness. It's one of the things that Circles®, the national project the agency I work for is part of, seeks to provide.  We call ourselves a family. I believe it's why people stick with it when the going gets tough and they can't meet their goals.

Churches are supposed to be places where people can feel that belonging.  Feminists are supposed to try to make the world a place where everyone belongs.  Jesus offers that to all in himself. I think it is part of the work he wants us to carry on - to invite people into his big old family.

We don't do that well.  Not well enough.  Too many people are on the outside looking in.

What if we challenged ourselves this week to be glad people are here?  What if we acknowledged the belongingness of our families, coworkers, people we come in contact with in anything we attend this week?

There's nothing more soothing to a soul than knowing that just being here is enough.

All We Have to Offer

There are real Christian Feminists in the world.  (I am pretty sure that I don't qualify on a few technicalities).  Anne Lamott is a real one.  And a real author.  And a funny person. (Again, things for which I am disqualified on a few technicalities). 

Recently, my husband earned an $800 gift certificate to Penguin, a publishing company that still prints REAL books!  It was like winning a mini-lottery.  Kind of.  Except it was his and he earned it and we really could have easily tripled the amount and still not been done ordering real books.  Our shelves are now stuffed with lots of classic spy novels (like Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy), obscure and ancient writings on faith (think Thomas Aquinas), and Russian classics (like War & Peace). My husband kindly let me elbow some room for a little Toni Morrison and Japanese classics and such.  He also scooped up a few recommendations from friends whose opinions we completely trust.  A few Lamott books joined our new collection.

Having acquired a windfall of time waiting on airplanes (Look, quick! That's me mustering good attitude and correct perspective!) I read one. Now I have lots of food for thought, some great new quotes, and a new friend. I am assuming she felt the cosmic connection and I can call her a friend. Anne and I do not see eye-to-eye on every topic, but I find her opinion interesting and energizing, thoughtful and beautiful, and I am officially recommending Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith to you, readers.  Yes, you Amanda.  Tash - are you reading?  Ami, Cathy, Beth - you will hear more about this on Monday night.  So you might want to secretly stage a cancelled meeting if you don't want to hear about it.

In one chapter, Anne chronicles a story of conducting a service at a nursing home with her son and friend.  She describes the scene: "the people here are shipwrecks, and sometimes there is not much left, but there is a thread in them that can be pulled and still vibrates." 

I have done my own visiting in nursing homes, and I am going to be doing so again in a few weeks. I also work with people in poverty, and there this quote is applicable as well, in a different sense.

Then again, we are all in different states of shipwreck.  Some of us haven't crashed yet.  Some might be in the clean-up stages or the re-building stages. But we don't always see it that way.  As happily cruising along sailors or sunbathers or perhaps captains, we may not be aware.  When we see the actively shipwrecked, the ones in danger of losing hope and life, we don't always know what to do.  Maybe we want to jump in and start helping, throwing life preservers or money or something.  Maybe our hearts just break and we look away because we don't know what else to do.  I've also spent a whole week at a training for my work and have had some time to reflect. 

Sometimes, I think our best response is to recognize the thread of connection in our situations.  The human condition applies to all of us.  Lamott's response to the very old who were sick, unresponsive, frail, or not in their right minds: "I realize again and again that this is all you have to offer people most days, a touch, a moment's gladness.  It has to do, and if often does."

You may think this sounds calloused and cold, but it beats the Savior complex so often present in non-profit work.  It lends perspective when the the number of lost souls aimlessly bobbing about the sea seems to be multiplying, and more seem to be slipping beneath the surface.

I have been out of control of my traveling situation this past week, at the mercy of airlines. This kind of non-control keeps me aware of the house of cards that is my life; control is really a borrowed commodity of moments, dependent on so many fragile balancing acts to keep it at hand.  Poverty, old age, mental illness, addiction, etc. are just more obvious shipwrecks, fallen card houses, and such.  All we honestly have to offer is that acknowledgment of the Divine present in the human.  "I see you, person of immeasurable value.  I know you are here." Anything more we might have to give at any point in time is just another borrowed commodity.

New Life

There should be two feet of snow still on the ground. That was the coherent thought that pushed to the forefront of her brain as her eyes followed her daughters around the park.  Nothing about this winter had been typical, however, including the weather.  The sun penetrated unusually warm through bare tree limbs, the way spring sun does in a more Southern climate.  The effect made Tracy feel as though she were transported back to one of those more Southern springs of an earlier decade, which was not an altogether pleasant sensation. She was more recently used to Northern springs where leaves sprout in the slightest warm up and when the sun picks up any kind of strength, the shade filters it.  

There had been lots of bickering in the house this morning, and it seemed to be continuing into this afternoon at the park.  Her youngest daughter was stomping towards her with an exaggerated frown that foretold of tattling.  Tracy sighed and waved her away with a tired, “I don’t want to hear about it or we’ll go home.” Lucy turned on her heel and began stomping back towards her sister, probably to announce the injustice of Mom not listening to her.  

There were many other families taking advantage of the unusual spring-like weather in what was technically still winter.  The park was packed with families in a way Tracy was unused to.  Perhaps that was because in the past, Tracy only visited this neighborhood park during the week.  When she had been a stay-at-home mom, there were bigger excursions on the weekend, and this playground was a time filler for weekdays only.  The sight of all of these families trying to have fun and enjoy the weather somehow depressed her.  Ridiculous!  Maybe she was projecting; her attempt to do something fun with the girls this afternoon was not turning out quite as uplifting as she hoped it would be.

“Mom!” This was her oldest, running up to her with urgency.  Tracy squinted into the sunlight, puzzled.  Nothing seemed obviously wrong.  There was no telling what her quirky eldest would find bothering her.  “Have you seen the creek? What is all of that disgusting green stuff in it?”

There was a clear creek that ran through the park.  It was always very cold, no matter what the temperature, as it originated in one of the glacier-formed lakes not 10 miles away.  It was a popular place to wade in the summer, and one of the highlights of coming to the park for Tracy’s children.  As Tracy walked over, her heart sank as the sight of unending green glowed under the surface of the moving water.  She noticed some boys downstream fishing huge swaths of the slimy matter with fallen tree branches.  

“Is it safe to wade in?” Isabelle pushed her glasses up until they jammed against the bridge of her nose.

Tracy shrugged, “I don’t know.  It is gross, though.  I wouldn’t get in it.”

“I don’t mind it,” Lucy announced, coiled and ready to spring into the water.  Tracy shot out a hand to restrain her. 

“No, Luce.  Let’s stay out of it today.”

Her two daughters responded in unison. Lucy, wailing loudly: “Maaamaa! That’s the whole reason I wanted to come here!” and Isabelle, frantically: “Will it stay like this all summer, Mama?  Will we ever get to wade in it again? Why is it like that Mama?”

“Lucy, we can go home if you keep it up.” Story of our lives, Tracy thought. “Isabelle, I really don’t know.  Maybe it’s algae bloom.”

“Why does the algae grow, Mama?” Isabelle continued to maintain her habit of slamming her glasses up against the bridge of her nose.  Tracy wondered how there wasn’t a permanent bruise there.

“Well, maybe fertilizer and pesticides and weed killer from people’s lawns, or something like that got into the water and threw off the equilibrium.” I sound like Jim, she heard in her head, as if the thought came from someone else.

“People wouldn’t do that on purpose, would they, Mama?  They don’t know that stuff is going in the water, right?” Isabelle’s faith in the goodness of the human condition was unwavering.  

“Probably not.” Tracy, as usual, chose to let her daughter’s innocence carry on. It seemed more humane than bringing her own current cynicism crashing in on her child’s party.

“I’ll bet it’s because we didn’t have winter this year,” Isabelle hypothesized.  Lucy had snuck upstream and managed to fall in. She was casting furtive looks over at Tracy and Isabelle, wringing out her wet soccer shorts and trying to look as if she was casually strolling over towards a sunny set of swings.  

“Whatcha mean, Love?” Tracy chose to ignore Lucy.  

“Well, we didn’t have all that snow this year.  The creek didn’t get cleaned out.”

“Ohhh - you mean because it didn’t freeze?”

Isabelle continued before Tracy had finished, “Maybe the algae always tries to grow but winter usually knocks it out.  It’s too cold and stuff for it to grow.”  Isabelle looked pleased with herself, and assured that she had found the reason.  “And Dad said he didn’t need winter!”  She tossed her long hair and ran after Lucy.

Tracy was disappointed with the condition of this lovely creek.  It was another sign that things were different, and not really for the better.  Just as she couldn’t take her daughters here during happy summer break weekdays anymore, the creek-wading days might be over as well.  Just as the entire happy family doing something fun on Saturday times were gone too.  

Tracy was surprised that she wasn’t an obvious mess.  She would’ve thought that her husband leaving her would’ve caused her a great deal more sadness and anger, and that maybe she would’ve been a nervous wreck.  He had moved out around the holidays, even, and she had allowed herself one good cry or two before moving into a resolve to not just survive, but thrive.  She moved into working full time again relatively smoothly, and the switch to single parenthood, while difficult, was manageable. 

Except on days like today when she had to be fun and play with her kids.  Had she become incapable of doing this?  She could navigate the busyness of weekdays like a champ, but unscheduled weekend time with the kids....there seemed to be a disconnected wire inside that prevented her from enjoying that anymore.  Maybe the part of her that turned off in effort to pull through the divorce was connected to that. Right now she should be basking in a lazy afternoon at the park and instead all she could think about was needing to do yard work or go to the grocery.  Maybe it was easier to focus on what needed to be done every day than it was to explore her feelings.  She really hadn’t spent much time doing that.  She was known as an over-analyzer, a person who talked out everything.  In fact, this had exhausted Jim.  Ironically, now that it didn’t matter, she couldn’t talk or analyze or even think through whether or not she missed him.  Her heart was probably quite a mess if she started really looking into it.  She didn’t want to.  She preferred to stick with the view that showed how tough she had been, and how capable. 

She called to Isabelle and Lucy.  It was time to walk home, she decided.  They had played for over an hour, and she had to give the dog a bath, see to it that the kids got baths, make dinner, and throw in another load of laundry.  She promised the whining girls ice cream sundaes if they cooperated, they stopped whining, and the three of them began the uphill walk home.  

100 years

My kids were on Winter Break last week, which made for a lot of improvising at our house, complicated by me getting a stomach flu, ending with my husband dropping pizza all over the oven Friday evening. To the rescue: the gift card my aunt and uncle had given us for Christmas to The Spaghetti Warehouse, which we also had coupons for. 

While we were there, my youngest had to visit the ladies' room.  If you, by chance, have never visited a Spaghetti Warehouse, you should know that the decor is circa 1912.  Even in the restroom.  As I waited for my daughter, who took a really long time, I became engrossed in one of the articles of the old newspapers lining the walls.  It was a posting of opinions of proponents and opponents of women's suffrage.

I don't know what angle the editor was spinning from, but there were a lot of men supporting women voting, and a lot of women against it.  I was most intrigued by the statements from women saying that being able to vote would not be a good thing.  Their arguments seemed odd  100 years later, and almost don't even make sense in hindsight. To me, voting is a basic human right.  People who cannot vote simply are not full-fledged members of their society, nor true citizens.  Why would anyone choose that?  "Oh I can influence things from the periphery." Wouldn't you rather exercise your voice? 

The article has stayed with me, and I wonder what we hold on to today that will seem unfathomable 100 years from now.  In what ways are women opponents of what may, in the future, seem like something so elemental on the human rights scale? Or maybe women have toppled all of the walls keeping them out, and there are other strongholds to storm along lines of race, age, etc.?  It's interesting to think about, anyway.  I wonder if we'll even have any newspapers left to cut articles from.  Maybe there will just be like huge Ipad screens everywhere and with a move of your finger you display what you want on the walls.  You may not have to ever look at anything on a wall by chance.  That would be kind of a shame - how many times have I been struck by something that I wouldn't have chosen or even thought to look for, but it enriched my existence by crossing into the field of my consciousness.  Maybe that sentiment will seem silly 100 years from now, when my grandchildren will be wondering why I have boxes of books or letters in my attic. Or old newspaper clippings. 

When the Church Gets It Right

Sometimes, one does not want to call oneself a Christian.  You know - the news stories that make you cringe and think, "I do not want to identify with this."

And other times, you hear or see of something that makes you think, "This is what it's about. Sign me up."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=msaU6yR3bA4

I think that generally Christians represent Jesus poorly on high horses and better on our knees.

How Do I Look in This Shade of Gray?

There are lots of changes in our household as a result of my husband's diagnosis, added to those that we are still trying to adjust to as a result of my still-new career.  My identity shifts so much that I am having a devil of a time balancing and staying on my feet.  With the new "normal" comes some decisions that cause me to wonder if the way I am actually living is consistent with my character (or what I thought was my character).

My husband, as a political enthusiast who is on rest, has had the television tuned into coverage of the Republican election hoopla close to 24/7.  There is a lot of talk about flip-flopping and moral character and adherence to party values and such.  The candidates love to point out inconsistencies between one another's actions and words.  This has fed into my examination of my own tarnished record, so to speak.

It's a question I have wrestled with a lot as I travel through adulthood, because it is very difficult to live up to ideals.  Making real life work often requires the moving of lines drawn in the sand.  My favorite quote in all the world about parenting came from one of Jeff's former colleagues, delivered when we were talking about what we end up doing in the middle of the night to get our babies to go to sleep: "those lines we draw... it is after all, just sand."  We feed them when we said we weren't going to, give them pacifiers we took away, bring them to bed against our pediatrician's advice, etc.  We might have had really strong convictions about these things at 3pm.  But at 3 am, the world looks like a very different place.  Just as the world of parenting looked so much different from the non-kid side.

When I wrote the MLK day post, for instance, I wondered if people would think I believe I've made flawless choices in building bridges for those on "lonely islands of poverty."  I have not.  When my husband and I moved to Syracuse we made a decision to live out in a suburb.  It just about killed me, the idea that I was deliberately choosing to contribute to what goes on in our urban deserts in order to benefit my own children.  Real life presented me with a situation: I had a sensitive 6th grade girl about to start middle school in a brand new state, and I could put her in a safe school with good ratings and a good orchestra or I could put her in one where only 40% of the students graduate, extra-curricular activities are dismal, and not one person could assure me she would not be assaulted in the hallways every day.

Real life is a negotiation between what actually works and what we wish could work.  There are many times parents say, "Before I was a parent, I said I was never going to _____. And now look at me."  That is not just true for parenting.  As a feminist, I have felt hypocritical about taking the luxury of staying home with my children in their pre-school years, and am trying to determine whether I am oppressing or providing a good job for a woman by considering getting someone to clean my house for me now that I have a career. And who do I think I am that I am considering not cleaning my own house anyway?  It's not like I'm a lawyer or have 4 kids under age 5 or live in 4.000 sq. feet.  The nutrition standards I would like to adhere to do not seem attainable at the moment. I see myself backing off of more and more church commitments, which nicely contributes to Christian guilt.  I wonder if I'm being a bad wife by considering going to work tomorrow or a bad employee for considering calling off again.

How do we live with ourselves, when we make decisions that go against our beliefs?  Are we hypocrites for erasing those lines in the sand and drawing new ones, or simply battle-tested soldiers trying to stay alive?  A little of both, I would venture to guess.

 The trick to the functionality of our bones is their ability to be both flexible and strong.  If they were totally inflexible, they would shatter at our slightest movement.  If they were rubbery, they could never support us enough to let us stand up.  Their usefulness lies in the combination of both qualities.  But what's the formula where perfect balance is achieved?

I think it's ok, as well, to run the results against a litmus test of sorts. Otherwise we can justify anything we decide to do.  We may find some of our decisions still bother us, even if we would make the same ones again.  Or maybe we can find ways to offset our carbon output, so to speak. We learn every time we hold ourselves accountable for our decisions. So I would love to hear from you.  I find these conversations important, and would love to hear about how you have chosen your own personal shade of gray.

Standing on the Edge of a Nightmare

There is a term from nursing school that I adopted into my vocabulary because sometimes it is an incredibly accurate description. 

Sense of Impending Doom. 

While Jeff was in Kenya for 2 weeks, I would get this overwhelming feeling that I was truly single, all alone.  He couldn't really call and we could barely communicate by e-mail, so perhaps that was contributing. 

Then he came home, but for some reason I couldn't rest.  Something was wrong with him.  He would have what we thought was an asthma attack every time he exerted himself at all.  He slept constantly.  He was irritable.  It was like he was here, but not really.  I tried to tell myself it was jet lag; the long plane rides must have triggered his asthma.  I tried to get him to go to the doctor.  Today he finally went.

Tonight he is in a hospital room and the girls and I are alone again.  I hope he comes home soon.  I think everything is going to be ok, but maybe not.  The doctors can't make promises. I know just enough from my nursing school days that half of medicine is guesswork.  And I know exactly what pulmonary embolism means. 

He has a large blood clot in each lung.  The one in his left lung is so big that it has killed lung tissue.  The doctors say that if something "catastrophic" was going to happen, it would have probably happened. 

I have rehearsed this day in my nightmares several times.  I know what comes next in the nightmare, so I hope I wake up soon, before that happens. I want him home safe.  I want the doctors to tell me everything is going to be fine. 

Do you know what I mean when I say that I feel as if I'm calling upon the emergency version of myself that I hoped I would never have to use?  The one created in response to the lurking fears that pop up every now and then, the one invented "just in case" ever happens?  The strong woman who can pick up the pieces of life and put them together in the event of a disaster ... I really never wanted to test drive her.  I'm sure she's better in theory than practice.  My friends are wonderful and supportive and I love them dearly and know that however strong Disaster Response Tiff happens to be that she is powerless without them.

I also know that Everyday Sustainable Tiff, whatever postmodern Christian feminist she fancies herself to be, is half of who she is without Jeff. 

No Bridges to Lonely Islands of Poverty

I admit that a 3 day weekend is a windfall, for whatever reason it comes.  It makes my weekend actually relaxing instead of just the days I work really hard at home and church instead of at work.  And I don't have to worry about what to do with my children and can just hang out with them, guilt-free.

That being said, I have been thinking about Dr. King's contributions to the world this weekend.  Every day now, I find myself working against the segregation that still exists in society. My boss is holding a sort of mini-summit tomorrow about getting serious about eradicating poverty in Syracuse, and we are supposed to come to the table ready to discuss 4 questions

1. Why do we have people in poverty?
2. How do we eliminate poverty in our county?
3. What will it take to get people out of poverty?
4. What do we (our organizations represented at the table) need to do in 2012?

In preparation for that conversation, I  found an article I remember Jeff telling me about. (Actually, Jeff had shared with me a conversation with the author after attending her talk, and I had to go find the article it was based on).  It is entitled "Living in Each Other's Pockets: The Navigation of Social Distances by the Middle Class Families in Los Angeles" by Alesia Montgomery in 2006 in City and Community.  The article reports that when parents (in this article, African American parents on the outer edge of the middle class) are trying to "do better" for their children, they spend a lot of time and money shuttling their children to safer parks and recreational areas and schools with higher test scores.  A major difference between families in the "lower class" and the families in the "middle class" is that the activities of children in the middle class are highly orchestrated by their parents, with a lot of the legwork being done by mothers (can I get an Amen, somebody?!)

What ends up happening are 2 significant things.  One is that the neighborhood being "left" declines even further.  The second, and the one that I think is a sucker punch in the stomach to people in my line of work, is that when those families started attending the whiter, more resourced, higher test score schools,

the families at those schools starting moving further out or sending their kids to even nicer private schools.  

The circle of advantage moves further and further out, leaving an even bigger donut hole in the middle. 
At my agency, we run a workshop called "Bridges Out of Poverty."  It is all about building a way for middle class people and those in poverty to have real conversations and relationships in order to change things for the most disadvantaged families.   But, I have said this to my boss before: Does the middle class actually want to build bridges, or do they like protecting the gulf?

So I can cite many theories as to why there are people in poverty in our county.  I can propose solutions like employment and real banks and grocery stores in depressed neighborhoods.  I can even talk about making communities more viable and getting the middle class interested in the plight of the poor.  But how do we actually do  that?  I know how we can plan to do that, but in the end, we work against what seems to be a universal human tendency to distance ourselves from those less advantaged from us.  I say universal because this is as old as serfdom or older.  It's as globally present as a caste system in India, severe social class separation in Brazil, and urban sprawl in the United States.

Dr. King's dream is realized in that there are not signs hanging on establishments saying, "For Whites Only" anymore, but I strongly feel that still for some, in Dr. King's words, "basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one."

A New Year's Blessing

That I made up. Which will be obvious.

May you not feel you must adhere to the decorating, entertaining, and other standards found in magazines or on HGTV. Nor the standards set by your neighbors.  Or that snotty woman in your book club.

May mountains of laundry not raise your anxiety level one fraction of an inch.

May Zillow lead you not into temptation to peek at the value of your house.

May you be oblivious to the high fashion demands that only look good on those with the dimensions of my thirteen year old nephew (5'9, 108 lbs).

May your best haircut and color last you well into 6 months without needing refreshing.

May blissful blindness obscure from you such things as blueberry muffin batter splattered all over your walls, floor, and dog.

May you have the shrewdness to determine whether your children have a genuine need or are simply attempting to manipulate you.

May you perfect the art of saying no to the PTA, Sunday School, or other requests for you to volunteer time you really don't have.

May all of your houseplants be healthy and hearty and not die.

May the deer not know your garden even exists.

May you order appetizers, drinks, and dessert with your meal sometimes, and not worry about it in any way.

May dust not accrue on the surfaces of your home.

May you get to go on more dates with your husband.

May you delight in down time spent with your children. May you take it.

May you muster a little courage to try something new.

May you love with abandon and be deeply rewarded for it.

May you discover that you are more at home with who you are than you ever have been.

May the sun shine on you this year more than it did last year.  But kind of like filtered through 30spf sunblock. Yet still providing sufficient amounts of vitamin D.

May you know that I appreciate the connection we have through this little nook of cyberspace.

Happy New Year!