Learning grace

**First published on the Ministry and Motherhood blog on 3/9/16**

As a preacher, I often write the sermons I most need to hear.  But as a mom, I rarely practice what I preach.  My toughest "congregants" are my children, who have the misfortune of having two ordained ministers for parents.  I can joke about the stereotypes of PKs (preachers' kids) and their misbehavior, but I worry that story of the cobbler's children having no shoes might one day apply to us.  

Is it possible that two parents who have devoted their hearts and lives to following Christ may raise children who don't value religion?

In the evangelical church of my childhood, we held tightly to the King James Version promise of Proverbs 22:6-- "Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it."  But we are living in a time where church commitment is shifting.  More and more of the college students I serve, even those who profess an active faith, see no need in belonging to a church community or don't make it a priority to find one.  Others have left the church with scars or have been excluded for their sexual identity or beliefs.  As former church employees, my husband and I bear our own bruises and we have left broken churches feeling more broken ourselves.

As we find healing in a different church and tradition, I watch my kids to see how faith is taking root in their lives, how they are growing through worship.  How much do they understand about why we go to church?  How much do they remember about why we left?  Are they even listening?

One of this past Sunday's lectionary passages was on the prodigal son, and it happened to be a week I was scheduled to teach my son's Sunday School class.  The third through fifth graders had a great time acting out the story, particularly relishing the killing of the fatted calf.  They empathized with the older son's anger at the “unfair” treatment his brother received in being rewarded for his foolish behavior, and shared plenty of personal anecdotes of their own. 

Then we shifted to talking about grace.  In this story, the father is gracious to his wasteful son, accepting and loving him, mistakes and all.  He warmly welcomes him back home even though the son had left his father without a second thought. He shows unconditional love and forgiveness, celebrating his beloved child.

As a parent, I long to offer that grace to my children and to myself.  I don't want to hang on to the frustrations and disappointments of our daily battles.  I don't want to judge them for not being who I expect them to be and miss the goodness of who they truly are.  

Instead of measuring out things in terms of what is fair, I want to love them as God loves us, extravagantly and without measure.  I want to embrace them fully as they are, while also encouraging the potential I see in them.  

I was not in this graceful frame of mind when we returned home from church, however.  In my haste to get the kids in bed, I was frustrated and short with them.  My son was quick to reprimand me for not showing the grace I had just been teaching.  It was a powerful lesson that he had heard, but even more, he was learning through my actions.  Likewise, I learned from him and realized how often he shows me grace in my failures.  I see it in his trust that each day is a new beginning. 

“God’s mercies are new every morning.  Great is your faithfulness.”

Part of this journey of grace for me is trusting the work of God in their lives, seen and unseen.  It is having faith in God’s presence that is always with us, wherever we may roam.  Grace shows up in forgiving past hurts and starting each day with a new hope.  Grace is teaching through our words and actions, but ultimately trusting in the power of God’s truth and love to transform all our lives.

I know that it must begin with me.  I pray for God’s grace to transform my anxious heart.  I seek God’s grace in my failings and in helping me to forgive myself and others as I have been forgiven.  May my children see God’s grace in me.

I pray that one day, when we send them out to make their own way in the world, that grace will always guide them back home to find God's love.

Hope for a new year

Advent has begun--the countdown to Christmas and also the start of a new church year.   I realize the gift of grace in having so many new beginnings, from New Year's resolutions on January 1st, to the beginning of the school year in September (and again for me personally in June), and this new church year before the end of the calendar year.  As someone prone to setting high (unreasonable) expectations and then watching in dismay as they crumble all around me, I need these second (and third and fourth) chances to begin again.  It's appropriate that we light the candle of hope first on the Advent wreath, a reminder that we must hang on to hope to make it through the darkness of the season, and the dark seasons of our life.  I can't envision a more powerful metaphor than the light of that single candle.

I seem to lose hope about a hundred times a day, and yet, thanks be to God, it hasn't quite lost its hold on me.  There is a greater power, a Divine love, that whispers to me that this is not the end, that all will be well...that all is well, even when I can't see or feel or understand that.  I was having one of these moments this weekend.  In a conversation with John, I was bemoaning my fears that for all the hard work of our parenting, nothing of value seems to be sticking with our kids.  As both of us are ordained, I specifically worry about how we are sharing our faith with our kids (and worry that we are not intentional enough about it).  It's so much harder than the faith environment of my childhood where the answers were so certain.  Granted, I bear the scars from that and wouldn't subject those I love to the rigors of fundamentalism, but as my faith and belief has grown and become more open, sometimes it seems so big and nebulous that I'm not sure how to share it.  I have cut out so much of the language that excludes and limits, but what words are left to show the ultimate grace and love that has captured me?  The best way would be to show it, to model it, and yet in my exhaustion and frustration, I fear I teach them the opposite of what I would have them to know.

But tonight we sat together in church, as we usually do, and I hoped that the prayers, scripture, and message would seep into their hearts.  I pointed out the change in the liturgical color and we talked about what Advent means.  During the service I looked over to find Maryn drawing an Advent wreath on her paper.  While we were singing the offertory, Brady put down his Pokémon book and siddled up next to me to sing along.  In the communion bread and the wine, we shared a ritual that reminded us of our place as beloved children in the family of God.  What grace.

After getting the kids in bed, I was readying their backpacks for school when I found a paper bag crumpled up in the bottom of Brady's.  I started to throw it away, but something stopped me, and I glanced inside.  There were multiple strips of paper, and I realized there was one from each of his classmates sharing why they were grateful for him.  The reasons included: 

He played with me when no one else would.

He helped me with a project.

He is a good friend.

He cares about others.

He works hard.

He is my BFF and is always there for me.

He is kind.

He is grateful.

These are the things I want most for my children--for them to be kind and loving, using their God-given gifts in service to others.  Reading these reflections from kids who are mostly strangers to me, I realized that they have seen the truth of our sweet boy.   How many times do I miss this?  How often do I overlook the goodness, the spirituality of our children and instead focus on insignficant and temporal things?

Deep down, I know that our children have good hearts.  They are created in the very image of God (and the imperfect but loving images of their parents).  They teach me about love and grace and forgiveness each day.  When I look past the daily annoyances, I understand that they are my own spiritual guides, pointing to God's grace and love.  They accept me as I am, while also pushing me to grow...much as I hope to do for them.

As we enter into Advent and wait for Christ to be born again within our hearts, may we celebrate how God is already with us, within us, and working through us to bring new life into our world.  May we hold on to hope that life is ever new and ever bright.

Labor of love

There was a period of years when I obsessively watched pregnancy and childbirth shows like "A Baby Story" and "Deliver Me".  It included the two years it took me to get pregnant (in which each show dramatized my hopes), the 18 months I was pregnant with my two babies (and the shows served to alternately elevate and alleviate my worry about the impending births), and the two years following the birth of my second child (in which I was mourning two traumatic birth experiences, and wading through the fog of postpartum depression).  In the latter case, I think I was seeking redemption as I teared up at the moment of each on-screen birth, imagining a different scenario, empathizing with those whose experiences didn't follow their plan, and always celebrating the miraculous joy of life.

I've written an essay published in the book A Divine Duet: Ministry and Motherhood that shares my organized approach to impending parenthood.  It makes sense considering my type-A personality and the work that went into getting pregnant (schedules, testing, planning, and  minor medical intervention).  I wanted so badly for things to happen, and once they did, I wanted it all to be perfect.  I read all the books, followed all the advice, and felt totally in control.  My husband and I joked about our little "Apex", the baby of perfection that we had created (with God's help...and a little prescription Clomid).  Yet reality has a way of flipping our expectations and showing how little control we truly have.

The day of our son's birth, I was 38 weeks pregnant and heading to a routine doctor's visit with a bit of a stomachache, figuring my lunch was not agreeing with me.  I was measured and weighed, poked and prodded, all to be expected.  My husband and I were just anxious to celebrate with an ice cream date after the doctor, and I had a baby-prep to-do list to attend to.  I was not prepared for the doctor's concerned look and his insistence on measuring me again, followed by an ultrasound, even though I had just had one.  Without much explanation, I was being hooked up for a "non-stress test" (an oxymoron if there ever was one) to measure the baby's activity as the doctor suspected that he was not growing as he should be.  After the test, he met us in his office and told us calmly but firmly that we were to go to the hospital directly, "Do not pass go, do not collect $200."  We sighed over missed ice cream, but laughed over parking in the "stork parking" for labor and delivery at the hospital, feeling like we were cheating the system.

We were shown to a room and my vital signs were checked.  It wasn't until they put on my i.d. bracelet that I figured out something was up.  We asked the doctor what was happening, and after another ultrasound she confirmed the other doctor's guess.  My placenta was breaking down prematurely, the baby was smaller than he should be, and I was in the early stages of labor.  Within an hour, we had arranged for someone to care for our dogs, called our parents, and I was prepped for surgery.

It was my first hospitalization, and an emergency c-section was not in my plans, especially as we didn't know what challenges our baby would face.  There were tears, but the doctor was kind and tried to lighten the mood with jokes.  As she wheeled me into the operating room before John was allowed back, music was playing and she said I would have to pay attention to the song that was playing when our son was born so that it could be a special song for him.  With horror, I realized the song that was playing was "Tears in Heaven", the song Eric Clapton wrote about his son who died.  Fortunately, John appeared soon after, and the music was forgotten as we prepared to meet our son.  Brady James was born at 7:07pm with a brief cry that brought tears of relief to my eyes.  They brought him over briefly for us to see, and he looked right into our eyes, silent but intense.  He was then whisked away to be cared for, and John followed, leaving me with the doctor to be stitched up.

After enduring an eternity in the recovery room alone (although John was able to send me pictures of Brady), I was able to return to a room only to learn that Brady was having some struggles and would have to remain in the nursery to receive oxygen and an IV to regulate his blood sugar level.  He was 4 pounds 12.5 ounces and would have to learn to fight like a big guy before he could escape the machines and the hospital.

It was almost six hours before I could briefly see him and hold him for the first time, and he was in the hospital for almost a week.  We knew that we were blessed, especially as I read an article several weeks later about a similar situation that had ended in a stillbirth as the fetus has been without adequate nutrition for too long.  Brady did not suffer any serious or lasting complications.  It was a struggle for him to eat and grow at first due to his size, and he was sick for much of the first year of his life due to a weak immune system.  But he has grown into a healthy, resilient, stubborn, and brilliant boy.  He looks amazingly like he did as a baby, and there are times when he glances at me in just the way he did the first time we laid eyes on one another.

Brady was 18 months old when I discovered that the stomach bug that never went away was actually another pregnancy.  It was so easy the second time around that I was caught by surprise; the Clomid prescription was filled and awaiting my pickup at the pharmacy.  When I asked him if he was ready to be a big brother, he crumpled to the ground in sobs.  Fortunately, by the time I was due, he had come to accept the idea of another baby.  With this pregnancy, I was more carefully monitored, and had the luxury of monthly ultrasounds.  We loved watching the baby grow normally, and were happy to learn on Christmas Eve that Brady would have a sister.  Things were going so smoothly that I discussed my desire for a VBAC (vaginal birth after Cesarean) and my doctor agreed I was a good candidate.

I went into labor at 38 weeks, but it wasn't so bad initially.  When I called the hospital, they gave me the choice of coming in or waiting until the morning.  After finding out the doctor on call was the male doctor that I didn't care for (although he was likely the one who had saved Brady's life by sending us to the hospital), I decided to wait until the morning.

John's dad had already arrived at our house to take care of Brady, and my labor playlist was packed away in my bag.  I got settled in, happy to learn that my nurse was one who had taken care of Brady in the nursery two years earlier.  I watched a little TV, rocked in the rocking chair, and breathed through mild contractions.  It wasn't bad at all...until it was awful.  The contractions started to come more frequently, and they brought sheer panic more than the pain.  My legs would start shaking before I could even feel the cramping, but when it started, I couldn't breathe.  When the doctor checked me, there hadn't been much progress, even after breaking my water (which is just as much fun as it sounds).  To my amazement and frustration, she declared my contractions to be "insufficient".

I was incredulous...she was not feeling what I was, but I guess the monitors told a different story.  Although I had watched Ricki Lake's documentary The Business of Being Born and was armed with the knowledge of how doctors push medications like pitocin and prefer c-sections to save time, when the doctor ordered an epidural "to relax me" and pitocin to make my contractions stronger, I did not argue.  I already felt out of control.

Within minutes, though, the epidural brought a sense of calm, and I enjoyed watching the severity of my unfelt contractions on the monitor much like an entertaining TV show.  But the doctor was watching with an intensity I was not feeling.  She checked and rechecked, leaving the room, and returning minutes later to check again.  She warned me that things were not looking good, and that the baby's heart rate was decelerating with the administration of pitocin.  The nurse suggested stopping the medication, but the doctor argued that I needed the stronger contractions it was creating, and either the baby would have to tolerate it, or I would have to have a c-section.

Fear seized me.  I knew the dangers of a VBAC, and was required to sign multiple waivers stating that I understood the possible risks to me and to the baby, including death.  When the doctor returned for the third time, I saw the fear in her eyes, and suddenly she was jerking cords out of the wall and telling the nurse that I was taking the place of her next scheduled c-section.  She unlocked my bed, and wheeled me through the doorway, running as she pushed me down the hall.  I was slamming into the sides of the hallway, and another doctor passing by laughed and said, "Be careful."  My OB/GYN responded, "There's no time!"  I started sobbing, imagining that I had lost my sweet girl.  I barely caught sight of my husband and my mother, and then it was just the lines of lights in the ceiling, blurred from my tears.  When we reached the operating room, there seemed to be 20 people in there, and the first thing the doctor said was, "Turn off that damn music!"  I didn't have time to think before I saw a mask being placed over my mouth and nose, and I was out...

...I awakened as I was being pushed down a hallway again.  I couldn't tell if it had been minutes or hours.  A nurse saw my open eyes and said, "Your mom sure is worried about you."  In frustration and despair I asked, "How is my baby?"  She looked confused and said, "I don't know."  Again I waited in the recovery room for an eternity, full of grief and fear.  But this time, John sent a video of our girl, Maryn Elana, and just the sound of John talking and laughing on the video assured me that she was okay.

I would later learn that our pediatrician was on call, and when she looked at Maryn, her words were "Now that's a healthy baby" and she left to go check on the babies with more pressing needs.  Our girl weighed in at almost 7 pounds, and when they brought her to me shortly after I returned to my room, the nurses were talking to me about feeding her and how she might not latch on right away.  After struggling with Brady's feeding issues, and making multiple weekly visits to the lactation consultant with him, I expected this.  But I noticed that as they held her out to me, her mouth was open, and even as they were giving instructions, she latched on immediately and began to nurse.  Laughter filled the room and relief filled my heart.

It could have been the beginning of my healing, but that road was longer than I had hoped.  I had much to grieve, and much to learn.  The demands of caring for an infant and a toddler was more than I felt that I could handle most days, and my body was wrecked by yet another surgery.  We were in a state of limbo as John had lost his job and I was burned out from mine.  I kept replaying the trauma in my mind--the scenes out of an "ER" drama without George Clooney and background music.  I felt the anxiety of potentially losing my daughter, and I heard the fear of my doctor who later told me that I gave her an awful scare--she thought my uterus was rupturing and she was losing me.  I heard about John's agony in waiting for news, and also trying to keep my anxious mother calm.  We didn't even have to discuss it to agree that this would be our final delivery.

It was the death of a dream in a way.  It shouldn't matter how our babies came into the world, just that they were ours, and as a great blessing, were healthy and well.  But it did matter to me.  I felt that I had missed out on something; that we had been cheated.  I felt that I had failed at something that should have been natural.  I struggled with guilt that I had put my babies at risk, even though I did all I could have done.  I felt bad feeling bad, as I know so many who struggle to get pregnant, who have lost so many pregnancies through miscarriage, and who have dealt with health complications much more serious than ours.  And yet my grief doesn't understand these rational thoughts...it just feels.

Although I did not experience birth in the "traditional" way I so longed for, over the years I have come to appreciate my delivery through the painful journey of letting go of what I did not have in order to embrace what I do have.  My two beautiful and precocious children remind me every day that I am being purified through the process of becoming the best mother I can be to them, and accepting their place in our lives as the God-given gift that it is.  The road to recovery was about more than the two visible scars that remain, but in surrendering old dreams for new ones.  It is a reminder that we are all broken in our own ways, and yet as Leonard Cohen says in his song “Anthem”, “There’s a crack in everything.  That is how the light gets in.”  I have seen the light of God shining through the broken places, and I have felt the healing presence of God’s love, bringing redemption into our stories through the labor of love.

It's only a phase

As my kids' birthdays approach, I've been thinking about the phases that are behind us.  It was a bittersweet moment when we got rid of the wooden trains and tracks that had been the focus of playtime for years.  Now we are deep into the worlds of Minecraft, Lego, and American Girl.

As a friend prepares for the upcoming birth of his baby and shared a lullaby playlist that he created, I remembered the songs that were the soundtrack of our lives for the years they fought sleep.  I can picture Maryn toddling around in footie pajamas and miss when she could so easily be scooped up in our arms.  She used to dive from our arms into her crib, and for a little while enjoyed sleeping as she had the comfort of her pacifier.

Brady called his multiple pacis his "eyes" as he had to have one in his mouth and one in each hand that he would click together and stick in his real eyes until sleep overtook him.  Once we made our toddlers surrender their beloved pacis and "eyes", sleep was not as enticing to them.  We still catch Brady making sucking sounds with his mouth in his sleep, as if he has found his beloved "eyes" again.

At my grandmother's house this weekend, I came across a series of photos of Brady as a baby that I had forgotten.  He was all smiles and chubby cheeks which was jarring to me as I remember him as being silent and serious, and getting him to put on weight seemed to be our biggest battle.

I have stopped writing down the milestones as we have passed what seem to be the big ones--first steps and first words.  But I'm wondering what I may be missing.  I only notice in hindsight the little changes that occur and I'm melancholy that I didn't realize when the transition took place.  Will I be paying attention when she no longer calls the morning meal "breathfast" or when baby wipes stop being "wep wipes"?  How much longer will she need us to cuddle with her at bedtime?

He is solid instead of skinny, and I can't lift him anymore.  On the rare occasions he climbs into my lap, I can't see over his head.  I remember resting my head on his, when he could be comforted by the sound of my heartbeat.  How much longer do we have of him wanting us to eat lunch with him at school?  He already thinks kisses are yucky, but still allows us to hug him, thank goodness, and isn't yet embarrassed to be seen with us.  I know the days are numbered.

The kiss part of this promise has already expired.

Maryn is reading chapter books now, and I think back to when she didn't like books.  I would try to read with her in our my lap, and she would close the books saying, "The end!  The end!"  It baffled me as books are so central in my life, and Brady taught himself to read when he was only three.  She grew to love cuddling with us on the bed with a stack of books, and was reluctant to read on her own.  But now that she has gained confidence, she is unstoppable, and received a star reader award from her teacher last week.  Sometimes she even asks if we would like her to read to us.

So much of parenthood has been tougher than I imagined as it is an ongoing surrendering of self.  It is the letting go of the idea that we are in control and that it is all about us.  It is being open to transition and growth, both in ourselves and the little beings we have helped to create.  When things go wrong, people are quick to assure, "It's only a phase; it will pass."  Now, when things are going unexpectedly well, my husband jokes, "It's only a phase; it will pass."

But isn't that the essential truth?  It is all a passing phase whether we are mindful of it or not.  We have a limited time to share what we want to impart, knowing that we don't know what will stick.  It's easy to get caught up in the nostalgia or the fear of how fast the time passes (when it's not passing by so s-l-o-w-l-y), although another surprise of parenthood has been recognizing the gift of each new phase.  I can sigh over the sweetness of the tiny baby clothes and the cute pictures of first smiles, but I also have the memory of how exhausting that time period was.  The toddler years were a blur of activity and finding our rhythm in a house of two kids spaced two years apart and juggling two full-time jobs plus family between us.

Now we worry about behavioral issues and whether they are learning the values we are trying to model, but they are gaining independence.  There is so much more to enjoy now as they are able to share their thoughts and experiences with us, and so much more to look forward to as they hopefully learn how to regulate their very strong feelings and wills.

In the same way, I think of the phases of parenthood.  I hope that I'm gaining my stride now and that my kids can see that I'm growing alongside them.  I've cycled through the overwhelming exhaustion and pride of new parenthood, the joy of experiencing each milestone, the frustration of each setback, and the celebration of each success.  Throughout it all, there has been so much love, even in the hard times.  My greatest hope is that in the frustrating moments when I lose my cool and don't live up to the example I want to be for them, my children will be able to look at me and see my love for them.  Hopefully they will be aware enough to forgive my mistake and think, "It's a phase; it will pass."

An open letter to my children after uncountable snow days

Dear little humans,

You know I love you more than anything.  You have been my heart since I carried you beneath my own.  You are composed of pieces of your daddy and me, and that's most evident when I see the stubborn set of your face.  I would give my very life for you...and there are moments when I feel like I have (who am I again?).

But there are a few things I need to share with you to make our living arrangement more peaceful for all of us, especially in the cruel winter when we are trapped inside for days at a time.

1.  You may not realize this, but I give you screen time because I need a break.  No, I don't want to know how the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles defeated their nemesis or how many questions you answered correctly on American Girl trivia.  And while I appreciate your creative work in Mindcraft, I don't want to learn anything about how to make the different types of swords.  Throwing a fit when I have to turn off the screens make me second-guess whether giving you screen time is worth the bit of quiet time I get in return.

2.  You're bored after our third snow day in the house?  What a luxury.  I'd be glad to come up with another chore list for you.  Don't mind me; I'll be over in the corner enjoying the boredom of staring off into space.

3.  I'm so very glad you're enjoying the new "Annie" soundtrack we bought you.  But the next time I'm awakened at 6am on a non-school morning to the blaring beats of "It's a hard knock life" accompanied by your stomping and shouting, I may have to take a few hard knocks to your cd player.

4.  When the temperatures are in the single digits I will never, not ever, accompany you outside to play football or any other such ridiculousness.   That is not my spiritual gift.  Continued whining and repeated asking will result in that football being thrown so far into the snowy tundra that it will never be found. Such days are for reading in bed.  You have approximately 400 books.  Get reading.

5.  Don't bother asking for more pets.  We have a dog; his name is Max.  He would like you to feed and water him since that is your job.  When you say you don't feel like it, it doesn't support your case of getting another animal.  Yes, I realize that puppies are cute and playful and Max is boring and just likes to lie around.  He is family (and has been longer than both of you) and we appreciate his undemanding laziness (and his patience with you two slackers).

But most importantly, no matter how many times I lose my patience and have to make up later (approximately equal to the number of times you slam your doors and come downstairs to interrupt "quiet time" with "Hey Mommy..."), I love you completely.  You are worth the sacrifice of my time and sanity.  You are not an interruption to my life...you are my life.  And when you are peacefully sleeping and all the demands of the day (and the demands of you) are silenced, I can breathe a prayer of gratitude for the gift of two unique creatures, made in the image of us and of God, who remind me each day that it's not all about me.

Someday I'll miss all the noise and needs and demands (or so I'm told, anyway*).  I know I will miss the opportunity to be so closely entwined with your developing selves, to see you learn and grow, and be surprised by your individuality.  I will miss when you no longer turn to me for comfort or answers, and may even find the quiet more lonely than I anticipate.  I already miss all the smaller selves you've been, but I look forward to seeing the unwrapped gift of who you are becoming.  So I will work to appreciate the time we have together now, with all of its noise and mess and constant interaction.

I can even smile when I think about it (but mainly because daddy is on his way back home after four days away.  Yay!  God bless stay at home parents forever and ever.  Amen.)

As I read in that insipid book that you loved,
"I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always,
As long as I'm living,
My baby you'll be."

Love you forever,
Mommy

*P.S.  I doubt I will ever miss snow days and the "Annie" soundtrack.  But from the smiling pictures of you playing in the snow, and the exuberant dancing to the music, I am happy to assume that you enjoyed them.  It is perfectly okay for us to like and appreciate different things.  You be you and I'll be me and I'll continue fighting my instinct to remake you in my image.

An Open Letter to My Child's School Explaining Her Tardiness

Dear School Administrators,

Let me start by saying I appreciate your work.  I believe you have a job that is as difficult as it is important.  You are educating our future leaders on fewer and fewer resources each year.  When we send our two children to you each morning, I say a little prayer of gratitude and strength for you while I'm doing my victory dance for the eight joyful hours I get to spend at work uninterrupted by their needs.

That said, I was a little peeved to receive the letter yesterday about my daughter's "excessive tardies."

I realize that you must send a form letter out to all parents of students with excessive tardies as we also received one last year (ahem).  You asked for our response, so please allow me to share my thoughts:

1. Yes, these tardies have been under our supervision.  She is six, so she has not been driving herself to school late or sneaking out of the house to skip school.  My husband has been the one that has personally delivered her to the school office on these occasions.

2.  While you are highlighting the 5 days she was late, I would rather celebrate the 98 other days that she was on time.  Do you realize what a miraculous occurrence this is?  While the tone of the letter is punitive, I was pretty amazed the number was so low.  I'm giving my husband a big high five and myself a pat on the back for managing to get two strong-willed children awake, showered, dressed, fed, and to school for five months now. 

3.  You're threatening to get a social worker involved?  Great!  Please let her/him know to arrive at our house at 6:15am daily to wake up said child.  Please warn the social worker that alarm clocks, soothing music, gentle nudges, and cuddles are not effective at getting her alert.  Threats, rewards, bribes, earlier bedtimes, and engaging conversation are also no good.  Protective gear is suggested due to the threat of kicking, hitting, and scratching.  Prepare to engage in a battle of wills for at least half an hour, which will be followed by wrestling the child out of bed and getting her dressed without any cooperation from her.  Tears and screaming must be ignored in order to reach the bus stop by 7:07am so that she will not be tardy!

4.  Does she have a chronic medical condition that prevents her from attending school on a regular basis?  Hmm...well, not a diagnosed one, but see #3 and judge for yourself.  Note that we did not receive a similar letter regarding her brother.

5.  Please note the child DID attend school on these days.  It's not like the year (ahem, last year) when the kids missed 5 days for a Disney Cruise.  We do value their education.  I am the girl who had perfect attendance from kindergarten through high school graduation.  Yes, that was once a mark of pride for me, but now seems rather sad.

6.  I deal with enough guilt as a parent, woman, and person of a religious background.  Perhaps you should try talking with my daughter, who doesn't seem to have enough to motivate her into action.

Thank you for your concern.  We are with you.

Sincerely,

A parent who is doing the best she can.

Wholehearted Parenting

Image from Brené Brown

My word for this year is wholehearted, and in no area of my life do I need this idea more than in parenting.  I've always known that I wanted to have children one day.  My husband and I talked about kids on one of our very first dates.  I had pretty much figured out how to parent before we ever conceived.  I knew what I wanted to keep from my own family of origin and what I wanted to heal and transcend.  As a voracious reader of parenting books and blogs, I'm also a critic compiling my lists of how things shouldn't be done.

And then I had children.  And it was amazing, and holy, and terrifying.  Not only did I have no idea what to do, but these tiny creatures surprised me by having their own personalities, needs, and wills that I had not taken into consideration.  Nor did I realize how much the act of becoming a parent would change me and have me grieving over my own loss of self and my own inherent selfishness.

I echo the lament of many parents that "the years are short but the days are long."  It is simultaneously scary that there are twelve more years to get our youngest to college...and that there are only twelve more years until our youngest goes to college.  There is so much to pack into each day between the superficial demands of homework and general upkeep, to the deeper values and lessons we hope to instill.  I easily become frustrated at the "one step forward, two steps back" nature of little human development.

As I wrote in in my "Parts of the Whole" post, 

"My struggles (particularly with parenting) often come when I am unable to see the bigger picture.  Stuck in the frustration of a single moment (or daily reality), it's easy to fall into the faulty reasoning that things will always be hopeless and impossible.  Sometimes I think things will never change for the better.  Then some moments I turn around and wonder at how an often-taught lesson has finally clicked.  I can catch a brief glimpse at the big picture that is slowly being created and I find hope once more."

I have seen parenthood as a sacrifice--of my time, myself, the way I think things should be.  I realize the self-centered nature of this and how it sets me up to feel defeated.  But I heard something that has the power to change that.  In the audiobook The Gifts of Imperfect Parenting, Brené Brown speaks of her priest sharing that the word sacrifice comes from a Latin root that means "to make sacred."

What would happen if I viewed parenthood as sacred?  I think back to that first moment we held our firstborn, and in spite of the fear, there was an overwhelming sense of holiness.  There was grace; evidence of God's very real presence in our lives.  Sometimes I let that sense of wonder and mystery become overshadowed by the messy reality in front of me.  But then there are moments when our kids point right back to the Creator and I'm aware once again of the miracle of it all.

As I created my vision board for this year, I knew that I wanted to incorporate a vision for how I can embrace the messy reality of my life and be able to see the beauty in it.  My goal is to be more mindful in my interactions with my children.  I want to have the eyes to see each moment as an opportunity to model and receive God's love.  May my connection with them be a lifeline for all of us, a sacrament that points to God's grace.  May I begin to see the sacrifice as sacred, and parenting as holy work and play.   

Oh Joy

As we circled the dining room table to light our family’s Advent wreath, the kids got into a fight over who would light the pink joy candle.

I was not feeling very joyful after a full day of trying to keep them engaged and at peace along with working a few hours, attending an evening church service, and participating in our annual tradition of driving around to see the Christmas lights.

I was tired and frustrated, and wondered why the reality of our family traditions never matched the glowing image in my head of how it “should” be. I was ready to give up on the Advent candle-lighting entirely, but my son reminded me that we had skipped our Bible story reading the night before and had promised to do two tonight.

Should it really be this hard for us to have regular devotions in a family where both parents are ordained ministers? I often feel like I’m failing in the spiritual development of my children, a difficult irony as I have devoted my life to faith and ministry.

To read the rest, please go to the Ministry and Motherhood blog.

Sacramental Grace

During the church service, my children appeared to be off in their own worlds.  My son was reading a Geronimo Stilton book while my daughter filled out all the pew membership cards with information on the American Girl doll she hopes to receive for Christmas.  Sometimes getting them to sit quietly and still wins the battle over fighting them to pay attention, as I hope that I might take something away from worship for myself.  But as a minister, I often feel guilty that I’m not more intentional about the faith formation of my children. 

We’ve recently joined an Episcopal church, which came as a bit of a surprise for us lifelong Baptists.  But there is something about the liturgy and the evening service of this particular church that drew us in.  I love that communion is the heart of the service and that it takes place weekly (instead of monthly or quarterly like the churches in which I grew up).  And instead of ushers passing golden trays of stale wafers and plastic cups of grape juice to those saved and baptized members of the congregation, in this church we all come forward to receive the elements and share a common cup.  It is open to all, and there is a special joy in watching tiny children toddle up to the priest or stretch out their hands from their perch in a parent’s arms to take a wafer.  There is a welcome in seeing smiling faces as they pass by and in hearing the words of blessing, “The body of Christ”, “The cup of salvation” shared again and again.  The kids want to sit in the front so that they can be first in line, and even though I’m more of a “back row Baptist”, I’m just glad they are eager to be part of the service. 

This week, as we filed back into our pew, Maryn showed me the wafer that she had not yet eaten.  She held it up, broke it, and whispered to me, “The body of Christ,” and I knew that God was there, in that moment, in that bread, in the grace of a child who is learning faith through imitation.  The mystery of faith can’t be any more real than this. 

After the church family shared a meal and the children and adults separated for Christian education programs, I joined other adults back in the sanctuary to talk about the primary meal that connects us as Christians: Eucharist, the Great Thanksgiving.  The priest, who is as new to this church as we are, shared his thoughts on the sacrament of communion, saying that in our gathering around the communion table, we “are given a model of how all other meals should function, as an opportunity of grace.”  I had to smile as he started off saying, “Whether Baptists, Catholics, anything in between, or nothing, we are naturally sacramentalists.”  While I’ve been struggling to reconcile a new conversion of sorts, it was a reminder that it may not be as big of a shift as I make it out to be.  We are all branches of the family of God, and all humans seek meaning in the ordinariness and mysteries of our lives. 

I took notes so I could continue to ruminate on the sacramental theology that was shared by Rev. Eric Long (quotes are reconstructed to the best of my memory and notes):

“In the sacraments, God uses the stuff of life to bless our lives.  God breaks in and shows us the depth and possibility of life.  God gets our attention and offers [God]self.”  I learned that communion is based on the Emmaus story, when Jesus’ disciples are walking on the road to Emmaus after his crucifixion and a man joins them and asks why they are troubled.  They tell him what has happened, not knowing that it is the resurrected Christ that walks with them until they stop to eat and he gives thanks and breaks bread, just as he had done at his last meal with them, when he had told them his body would also be broken for them.  They remembered and they knew him in the breaking of the bread.  Just as my child, who shows little interest in church, still knows Jesus in the breaking of the communion bread.

“God uses the physical to touch and bless us.  This is what we refer to as sacraments.  Jesus is the greatest example…God became a physical being and entered our world, our stories.  He took his body, gave thanks for it, and broke it.  He did not hoard the gift, but shared it with us.  In communion, we literally take Jesus into us, receiving him, and trusting that he will help us to become who God says we are.”  We trust that we can be full in our empty and broken places and that grace can transform us into who we were created to be.  “The act of communion becomes a sacrament only as we join together in community, remembering who we are (not self-made, disjointed individuals, but made one in our baptism).”  In the brokenness of our world reflected in the bad news shared in the media, in the division of hatred and polarization, we are sorely in need of this reminder, this challenge to gather together like a dysfunctional family around the Thanksgiving dinner table.  We may not ever agree, but we can learn to listen to one another as we seek to live together in peace and work together for justice.

On a smaller and more personal level, I couldn’t help but think about how often family meals are a great frustration in our house, yet communion, the model for all meals, is the highlight of the church service for my children.  How can I shift from the stress and frustration of my own expectations and provide space for God to be present and offer grace?  What if in saying grace (when I remember to do so), I actually expected Grace to show up?  What if I invited Jesus to be present and believed that he was with us in the breaking of bread together?

What if I could see all of my struggles, my joys, my daily endeavors (parenthood, career, relationships) as sacraments and give thanks for them, offer them up for God to transform, and give them away instead of holding on tightly in fear? 

What if we treated all of life as a sacrament, an opportunity to let grace enter our lives and transform us? 

This Thanksgiving, I offer thanks for unexpected grace and pray that it continues to show up in beautiful, mysterious, transforming ways.  Come, Lord Jesus.  May it be so.

In Praise of a Small Life

Sometimes I want to feel like I have made it big (whatever that means).  As much as I believe it's all about the journey, there are moments when I want to realize that I've arrived somewhere.  I fantasize that I would like to be known, when the little bits of recognition and affirmation I receive lead me to crave it on a larger scale.  What would it be like to get that kind of attention on a regular basis?

I know it's not exactly appropriate for a minister to desire these things; I should be a humble servant of God and others.  But last night I dressed up and went to a fancy dinner.  There was wine and good conversation and names I recognized.  I thought, "I could do this."  I can be somewhat social in these moments, and I'm not afraid of speaking in public.  The spotlight is not so blinding and the stage is not so very high.  The praise goes to my head and I think, "I could be a speaker."  Perhaps one day I will be touring and sharing about my book.  But the inner critic reminds me that to get there, I would actually have to be working on a book.  Meanwhile, there is the work that I am paid to do (which blessedly I love), a calling that takes me in a different direction.  There are my kids who are growing so fast and are at the age where they still want me to be involved in their events.  I want to be there as well, and it is a gift to be able to be present with them at their school and activities.  But it is a sacrifice in other areas.  There is more gray in my hair every day and time keeps moving ahead even when I feel behind.

I've been having more conversations lately about work-life balance, about the pull between career and family. We have been told we can have it all, but it rings false when you're playing the juggling game.  What if we don't want it all?  There is so much already, good things, but there can be too much of a good thing.  Perhaps we can have it all, but not everything will be in balance at the same time.  It's a shifting scale that is simply exhausting at times even though I'm grateful for all my gifts; I'm grateful for the ability to choose a lifestyle that many have sacrificed to earn and many have not yet achieved.  I am only here because of the work and support of those close to me who make it possible.  There are still things I have to say "no" to in order to say "yes" to what is necessary and important.  I made my choices years ago, but I'm learning they are choices we make each day.

So tonight I finally felt as if I had arrived, but it wasn't at the fancy dinner.  I arrived when I came home to my cozy house with my sleeping kids and my husband waiting up watching football.  It was when I took off the painful high heels and got into my comfy pajamas that I felt like things were as they should be.  It was in thinking ahead to the weekend with the promise of some Sabbath time and maybe some books that I found fulfillment. Sometimes bigger is not better, and sometimes fullness is not about lots of activity but the peace of fully engaging in what truly matters to us.

Sometimes I just want a small life.  I want to be known.  And suddenly I realize that I have it made.

Changes

He cried when they took the old couch away.  I moved to hug and comfort him, but he pushed me away in anger.  "This is your fault!  You know I don't like change.  I liked the old couch and you bought a new one on purpose!"  The reasoning and logic of an 8-year-old is not always sound, but his heart is true.  Never mind that the springs were broken on our old furniture from years of bouncing children and many forts.  Never mind that brand new furniture was on the way.  The old held the crumbs from many movie night snacks and the memories of us snuggled together reading books.  It is the furniture that has always been in this house.  I know that it is so much more than an old worn couch, and in the quiet moments after the anger has given away to sadness, I get it.

It's so hard growing up.  I forget that in all the silliness of their play, in how each day seems so carefree, full of wonder and possibility for them from my perspective.  But I'm an outsider.  I've made my way through childhood and have arrived at adulthood.  It all seems so simple looking back, watching them.  I have forgotten how time seemed to stretch impossibly through childhood and everything I wanted was always "later", days or years away, out of my reach.  I have forgotten how it felt to have so little control and say in life, that everyone made decisions for me, about me, that I was supposed to just accept and "get over it".

He likes to remind us how he hates change, and there has been so much recently.  He moved from the fun of first grade, where he excelled and was cherished by his teacher, to second grade, where each day was a struggle, the workload grew exponentially, and he was just a face in the crowd.  Our beloved pastor at church resigned, the only pastor and church he remembers.  Over the past few years, I began working longer hours at a new job that I love, and daddy became the primary caregiver at home.  We lost our dog of ten years.  But if you ask Brady, he will tell you that "It all started when Maryn was born."  Ah yes.

I remember being ready to go to the hospital to have our girl and being suddenly struck with such guilt and fear over what we were about to do to our small son's life.  He was only two, and had been the center of our world.  He had no idea what was about to change and had not asked for his life to be so radically shifted.  After her birth, I asked that he not be brought to meet her until the next day.  I was still reeling from a dramatic delivery and didn't want him to have to see me in the state I was in.  I honestly was struggling to come to terms with the changes already evident in our lives.  It was my first night away from him; the first night of our family of four.

It was the biggest change we had ever faced.  It was tough and painful and redemptive and beautiful.  It was lots of tears, long days and nights, and John sleeping on the floor with Brady for months while I slept with Maryn in my arms.  It was dying to our selfishness each day and realizing it was not about us (sometimes begrudingly); it was wondering if we would ever find our way back.  We still have those hopeless days, but not nearly as often.  The thing about change is that it changes us.  It's not just our circumstances, but our selves that are transformed.  Sometimes, like Brady, we mourn those old losses, the familiar bits that we want to cling to.  But if we are willing to surrender, something much more beautiful finds room to grow.

The empty living room echoes without the furniture and rug as we wait for the replacements to arrive.  Maryn is thrilled, running laps around the room at any opportunity, laughing at the sound she creates.  Brady stays away glowering for much of the day.  But when it was time to wind down before bedtime, they brought their bean bag chairs in and watched a movie together, side by side. Their laughter filled the room.

Sometimes change is like that.

Size Matters

Back to school shopping is always a chaotic endeavor, but especially these days when my kids demand to pick out their own clothes and supplies.  Usually we do a scouting trip where they can show me what they like as I prefer to return on my own and shop at my leisure.  This time I went armed with photos of their picks, but as I went back through the store, I had to improvise.  The "shorts" that my six year old had picked out turned out to be a tight denim mini skirt, and I had doubts that the skinny jeans she wanted would fit her.  I sighed in frustration, knowing she would be disappointed and wondered to myself whether this ridiculous skinny jean fad will ever end.

While I have been grateful in past years for "slim fit" adjustable waistline pants for my small children, it's a little jarring this go round as it's the first time that slim fit doesn't fit.  The kids are a perfectly healthy size and weight, but it's impossible not to notice the change.  I try so hard not to obsess about size, but it is hardwired in me, and reinforced with a culture that emphasizes a certain look.  In sorting through the dozen pant options for my girl, I couldn't find many in her favorite store that weren't slim fit or skinny, and the scant options were not the trendy ones displayed on the mannequins.

And again, let me remind you that she's only six years old.  It starts early.

We've had to think about size since our first child was born.  Our boy weighed in at under five pounds and was slow to eat and put on weight.  We counted every ounce of breastmilk and formula he received for months, waking him every two hours to eat through the night and day.  He was weighed and re-weighed and each ounce seemed to be the measure of my success or failure.  "Failure to thrive" gets pretty personal when you're breastfeeding.  He wasn't even ON the growth chart for years, and even when he grew stronger and healthier, he remained the smallest in his class.  It has only been in the past year, since he turned eight, that he has finally reached the clothes size corresponding to his age, and is catching up in height with his peers.

We were envious of the chubby-thighed babies of our friends when feeding our tiny son and keeping him healthy had been such a full-time battle for the first year of his life.  It was a relief when our daughter was born weighing almost seven pounds and was pronounced slightly above average in size.  Now ages eight and six, our children are healthy eaters and they are growing well mentally and physically.  But with a history of obesity, diabetes, and heart conditions on both sides of the family, I want to instill within them healthy habits without it becoming a source of anxiety and shame.  I see them mindlessly eating when they are bored or immersed in screen time, and I realize I need to set a better example.

I have struggled with my weight for years and have watched the shame that my mom carries about her weight.  In middle school I was teased for being chubby, and I responded with a diet that slimmed me down, earning me the nickname "little Jenny" from one of my high school teachers, along with more acceptance and confidence.  But it was a battle I never completely won, and the negative voices remain in my head.  My weight goes up and down with my level of stress and lack of self-care and exercise.  I don't want my kids to have that struggle (either internally or externally), and I certainly don't want to be the one that puts the idea in their mind that they are not enough as they are.  They hop on the scale now with pride to see how big they are; I hop on with the opposite goal in mind.

We are a culture obsessed with numbers and measurement.  We want to know how much money we can save as we shop sales.  Meanwhile, we MEGAsize our drinks and our waistlines with unhealthy (but cheap) food.  We try to squeeze into skinny jeans because the number on the label is more important for our acceptance by others than our comfort with ourselves.  I remember Maryn tearfully trying to squeeze her feet into too small shoes last year, telling me that she would rather look good and be in pain than wear ugly but comfortable shoes that she didn't like.  I measure myself differently, but it is not without pain.  I anxiously await my school grades so that I can see where I stand.  It is where I found my value and motivation in childhood and that internal standard of judgment and anxiety remains, even though my current grades are pass/fail.  We are always measuring ourselves based on some standard, comparing ourselves to others or to society's expectations.

Churches have bought into this, too.  We count our attendance, mourn the decrease, and have visions of megachurches while Jesus says the Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed, a little child.

We seem to have lost all sense of what really counts.

We measure ourselves against yardsticks and scales when God reminds us that the true measure of a person is in their heart, in how they love.  God provides the ultimate model by knowing us intimately and accepting and loving us as we are.  I wonder what it would be like if I truly embraced my favorite scripture as my measuring stick:

Psalm 139

¹O Lord, you have searched me and known me.

²You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away.

³You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways.

⁴Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely.

⁵You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.

⁶Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain it.

⁷Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?

⁸If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

⁹If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,

¹⁰even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.

¹¹If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night,”

¹²even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you.

¹³For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

¹⁴I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.

¹⁵My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

¹⁶Your eyes beheld my unformed substance. In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed.

¹⁷How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!

¹⁸I try to count them—they are more than the sand; I come to the end—I am still with you.

May we be known and loved completely, realizing that we are fearfully and wonderfully made just as we are in God's abundant presence.

Family Sabbath

I believe in church, even when it is messy and hurtful.  It has often been a sanctuary for me, although I'm not unaware of the pain it can also cause.  I trust that we gain more in seeking together in community than we do individually.  I believe that there is room for the "spiritual but not religious" and "the religious and spiritual" to coexist and learn from one another.  Religion (and church as the institution that makes space for it in my traditon) gives us a foundation for exploring and practicing spirituality together.   Spirituality brings us into the mystery of the divine, a sense of awe and wonder greater than we ordinarily find in ourselves.  I have found that beauty in church and I hope to find it again.

But sometimes, my soul longs for Sabbath, for rest and re-creation.  Sometimes this introvert needs to hide away to rediscover my soul, and to rebuild community with the ones that share the most central places in my heart.  Sometimes I find God when I stop pushing so hard, when I stop seeking in the same expected places and am surprised to learn that I have been standing on holy ground all along. I was looking for burning bushes when instead God is in the messy pile of drawings and half-eaten bowls of cereal on the table.  When I can't hear the still small voice, God is in the laughter and arguments of my children.  

Sometimes it takes a change of plans to awaken me to the holy ordinary of my life.  On these days, Sunday morning church looks like this:

"Surely the LORD is in the place and I did not know it!"

My Mom is god

This is perhaps the most meaningful and humbling note I have ever received.  I found it in my daughter's school journal, sent home by her teacher at the end of the school year.  According to Maryn, the students were given a writing assignment to complete each morning of kindergarten.  Sometimes they would be told what to write, and other times they were free to choose the topic.  I'm pretty sure this is an example of the latter.  Although her teacher had corrected my emerging young writer's "god" to "good", I wonder about the original intent.  Aren't parents the first images of God a child has?  Isn't our goal to model God's love and affirm that our child is a beloved and good creation of God?

Ah, this is what cuts me the deepest in parenthood...the sense of failure at this primary responsiblity to train up a child in God's way, in God's love.  So many times I become like an Old Testament god full of wrath and punitive retribution.  It becomes all about the law instead of the Spirit, until the rules and my standards become gods in themselves.  I forget the grace I have been shown.  I forget to share that gift with those closest to me, whose eyes are always watching, always learning.  But, oh, the grace they show.  When I least expect it, they are reminding me that I am good, instead of the other way around.

She is just beginning to see herself as separate from me, although sometimes the line is blurred as we are so alike in temperament.  I want to be a reflection for her of the beauty and creativity and love of God.  I want her to see her worth not only in my eyes, but in God's.  I long for her to dream vividly of what her world can be, full of faith and meaning.  I hope that she will connect her life to the ongoing work of redeeming creation, to help bring about the Kingdom of God here and now.  I want my work and ministry to be a model of that, but sometimes all the little "g" gods of success and busyness get in the way.  I become impatient and too quick to judge.  But I thank God for grace, particularly shown through a little blond-haired blue-eyed angel on earth that sees no distinction between good and god and me.