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.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Sunday, June 3, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, May 28, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, May 21, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
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.
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.
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