Tossing my jersey in the fire...

Disclaimer: This post is being written frantically before Monster's nap is over. I am keeping one eye on the video monitor and one eye on what I'm writing. And I probably won't edit.

So I've been thinking a lot about the new year. And about who I want to be in the new year. More than any other year of my life, the events of this past year have changed me. I am not the same person I was in 2009. Just ask my husband. Motherhood has done that to me. Some changes have probably been good, I guess. I'm a bit of a mama bear. I'm more aware of the kind of home and world I want my son to grow up in. I have a love in my heart that I've never known.

But many, most, of the changes motherhood has brought about are not so good. I'm more impatient. I'm less aware of anything and everything that exists outside of Monster.  My sense of humor apparently got thrown out with the dirty diapers months ago and I'm still hoping that it's frantically trying to claw it's way back to me like those toys in the Toy Story movies. I am easily overwhelmed. I am, surprisingly, more selfish. I thought motherhood would make me more selfless but it seems that the constant attention to Liam and his needs has made me pretty selfish about my own needs whenever I am not attending to him. I carry a chip on my shoulder, harboring some constant level of resentment towards anyone who I think "has it better than me." I say and think really ugly things.

The change that bothers me the most right now is my self promotion to captain of the Blame Game Team. I am queen, captain, star player and water girl for the Blame Game. I am quick to blame, swift and concrete in my desire to cast all my problems on someone else. If things go wrong with Liam my gut reaction is to try to figure out who's ineptitude or inability is to blame. When I do something wrong I am scrambling to cast my blame net as wide and far as necessary. I forgot to return that movie? It's YOUR fault for asking me to do one more thing! I have enough to worry about without trying to cover your stuff too! I am sad/unhappy/overwhelmed because YOU aren't doing your job of making me feel better all the time!

I don't even know when I made this allegiance to Team Blame Game. I don't remember trying out. All of a sudden I'm deep in the thick of a heated game and I'm leaving a trail of chaos and hurt in my path. So my goal for 2011 is to quit this game. To say no to any requests to come out of retirement. To instead take up the practice of self reflection, panning through my days with an eye towards what's mine to own and accept.

During Advent I, inconsistently, practiced the prayer of examen. It's a form of prayer that takes you through the previous 24 hours, looking for what gave you gratitude, and what needs confession. This practice, when I remembered to do it, led me towards some of the most honest self-discovery. It led me to ask forgiveness from those I had hurt. It kept me out of the blame game. It is something I need to do every day.

As I look ahead to 2011 I desire to pray this prayer daily, in the hopes that it keeps me away from that tricky Blame Game. The Blame Game makes me focus all my energy on myself by giving all my attention to everyone else's flaws. The prayer of examen allows me to focus my energy on others by drawing my attention towards what's mine to own.

Things I Don't Do...

I was pretty profoundly affected by Shauna Niequist’s book “Bittersweet.” Her chapter entitled “Things I Don’t Do” especially moved me. Shauna writes about learning to give up some things in order to do the things you really care about. As I read her list I felt the liberation she must have felt in letting go. And my mind began to race with all the things I didn’t want to do…all the things I was suddenly free to choose not to do. It was exciting! Freeing! And slightly overwhelming. Some of these things were so deeply ingrained in my sense of self that it felt naked and vulnerable to walk away from them. I hold so tightly to the person I want to be, the better, shinier, more together person; letting go of some of the things I think I should do is inevitably tied into letting go of the person I keep hoping I someday will become. But I am slowly, carefully trying to let go of that person in favor of accepting the reality of who I am…and embracing that reality with all the grace and love I can muster. So here are the things I don’t do (and a few things I do).

I don’t consistently remember people’s birthdays and send them cards and perfect gifts. Sometimes, when the stars align just right, I have the foresight to anticipate the upcoming birthday in enough time to buy a card and get it out in the mail to arrive on said birthday. Most of the time, though, I realize it’s a dear friend’s birthday at about 9pm on the day of said birthday and frantically call before I’m officially deemed a crap friend. I love, love, love to send “just because” cards and gifts as the inspiration strikes and feel that this gesture comes from a much more authentic, and non- guilt driven place.

I don’t wear make up most of the time or leave my house looking 100% together. I used to before Liam was born. And maybe someday, when I know for sure that I can squeeze a shower in before 5pm, I will again. But in this season I’m ok with only the occasional cute outfit and blown out hair.

I don’t feel bad about my house, especially after I visit a house that is much better decorated than mine. The thing is, I don’t watch HGTV or decorate my house. If inspiration strikes I may find something cool to hang on that blank dining room wall, but only if I really want to- not because I just visited a home that is cuter than mine. Instead I just ask those friends with cuter houses to help me.

I don’t let a lack of time or desire to cook prevent me from entertaining or attending a party. When I want to, and the mood strikes I’ll bring a homemade dish, or make dinner for quests. Otherwise, take out or a bottle of wine is usually better than whatever I make anyway.

I don’t read things on the Internet that stress me out or make me feel like a bad mom/wife/friend/Christ follower. I don’t read things that leave me feeling anxious that I’m not doing something right or accomplishing enough with my life. This includes, but is not limited to facebook profiles and pictures, blogs, websites, and amazon.com reviews of books written by people my age that a may or may not have met at some point in my life. (For the record, this is a really, really hard one and I may or may not need some hardcore accountability on this one J)

I don’t hang out with people who make me feel like life is a race and I’m not keeping up.

I don’t confuse caring about other people’s feelings with taking responsibility for their feelings. Because I don’t take responsibility for other people’s feelings. Nor do I take responsibility for the things they refuse to speak up about on their own. I have the right and ability to speak up for myself when I am hurt, angry, sad, happy, frustrated or overwhelmed. Everyone else in my life also has that right. I don’t take responsibility for their feelings when they choose not to exercise that right.

I don’t spend a lot of time beating myself up for my imperfections. This is one of the hardest to let go of, and what I think I will be most tempted by. Sometimes I will forget that I don’t do this, but I will remind myself to stand in grace and move on.

I don’t feel guilty about the things I don’t do.

And now….what the heck to I do??

I love God and I work to make my life a song that makes him smile, laugh, delight and brag. I strive to keep Christ at my center and core and to continue to grow and stretch and change as he leads. I work towards remembering that life with God is cyclical and not linear, so at times I will appear to circle back while moving forward. I pray and read and think and write as acts of worship and means of growth.

I prioritize my relationship with my husband. I work to love him better, know him more intimately, serve him more selflessly, and believe the very best about him. I save energy, desire, laughter, and humor for him. And every once in a while, at 4:45 pm, I change out of the yoga pants and nursing tank I’ve been wearing all day and into something cute and stylish that I could actually leave the house in just so that he can come home to the version of me I would like the rest of the world to see…every once in a while.

I give my freshest, most focused energy into raising my son. I build forts and read books and spend as much of his awake time as possible engaging him and kissing him and making him laugh. And I fervently pray that he will grow to be a man of character with a heart that is sensitive to the holy spirit and the work of God, that he will be kind and loving and happy, that he will have a peace and contentment that comes from knowing he is loved first and foremost.

I take very seriously my role as wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, teacher and mentor. I give time and energy to nurture these relationships and love those who I have been blessed to have in my life. I create communities where I can and strive to bring a sense of God’s love and presence into my interactions with people throughout the day.

I try in large ways and small to leave this world better than the way I found it. I move the conversation surrounding racial reconciliation forward; I love justice and fight for it in as many ways that I can; I use my resources in ways that promote equality and fair, ethical practices; I try to educate myself and stay aware of what’s happening in the world. I recycle.

I stand in grace every day. Grace for others, and for myself. I hold these things I do and don’t do loosely, allowing myself grace again and again when I don’t quite meet the standards I set for myself. I hold expectations for others loosely as well, allowing grace again and again when those in my life are human.

Necklaces and Mom Friends

I have a necklace that I wear pretty much every day. Not being a necklace person, it says a lot that I wear this one so frequently. It was given to me by my sister, the kind of for no reason gift that she is so prefect at giving. A gold pendant engraved with the letter “L” hangs from a simple gold chain. It is simple, quiet and sweet. I added a tiny red ladybug charm from another necklace that I used to wear all the time. The L on the pendant stands for my son's first name. And the ladybug charm came from my “Colleen” necklace. One of my friends, a jewelry designer, created this necklace as part of her “C” collection. Each season she puts out a new collection of jewelry all named after girls, beginning with the same letter of the alphabet. The simple, very tiny ladybug charm on a simple gold chain was the Colleen necklace, named after me because I reminded Becca of a cute little ladybug. If the L pendant represents Monster, than that ladybug represents me.

I wear these two charms together on my new favorite necklace. But what people see first is the L pendant. It’s about 5 times the size of the ladybug, often covering it up when the ladybug falls behind the pendant. Then, if they are looking closely enough they’ll notice the ladybug. This necklace feels an awful lot like my identity right now. I have a five and a half month old. What people see first in me is motherhood. They see Monster, they see me as Monster’s mom. Then they notice the ladybug, the Colleen parts of me that existed long before Monster was even a thought in the back of my mind.

There is something about motherhood, like my “L” pendant, that is so totally eclipsing of everything else. And I can’t decide if I am going to embrace it or fight it. I love my son. I love him with more than emotion I can really adequately explain, more weight than I can truly feel, more energy than I thought I had. And we are connected in ways that are inexplicable to me. He seems to be able to sense me, moving ever so slightly on the video moniter when I walk in the door. When I’m nursing him his stomach grumbles, and I honestly can’t be sure if it’s his stomach or mine that is making the noise. “I” has become “we” in my vocabulary. “We’re doing well, thanks!” “We’re having a rough day.” And while there is beauty and wonder in this connectedness there is also a sense of loss. Am I losing myself? Am I losing the parts that make me Colleen in order to make room for all that makes me Liam’s mom?

I’ve made a few new friends since Monster came into my life. These are my mom friends. Mom friends are great. I’m pretty picky about my mom friends. For example, the transition into motherhood may have been sunshine and roses for you and you have nothing bad or hard or difficult to confess about those early weeks (months, years) of motherhood. If that’s the case, awesome for you, but we probably can’t be mom friends. I need people who are honest about the hard stuff, the negative stuff, the part that wasn’t sunshine and roses. So my mom friends are the ones who don’t make it seem effortless and easy. They’re willing to complain about the hard phases and don’t act like their little one was born from the perfection mold. Cause mine certainly wasn’t. Anyway, you become close to your mom friends rather quickly; similar life situations have a way of doing that. And most of these women would probably never be in my life if it weren’t for the fact that our kids are the same age. Kate is one of those people. She has lived 2 doors down from me for the almost three years we have lived in this house. And yet it wasn’t until Monster was born two weeks before her son that we even talked to one another. Now we text almost everyday, take our kids on walks together, and even leave the boys home with their dads while we go out for a drink. My husband was telling me that Kate used to be a sick field hockey player. Jordan, her husband, told Tommy, my husband, that when she was on the field she was always the best one out there. I didn’t know this about Kate. I don’t know much about her life pre- motherhood at all actually. I know about her son’s sleep schedule, his day-to-day activities, how Kate spends her time with him. But I don’t know much about who Kate was before she was somebody's mom. It makes me wonder what she doesn’t know about me, about who I was before I was Monster’s mom.

Right now the demands of being Monster’s mom far outweigh the time and space left to be me. It is this season of infancy that requires me to be Monster’s mom first. But what will be left of me, of Colleen, when my strongest identifier is not longer that of Monster’s mom? How do I embrace the fullness of motherhood and still fight its eclipsing nature? For me, these questions don’t stem from an issue of time and space to do the things I love. I have a job that I go to 20 hours a week and a husband who’s more than willing to allow me some “me time.” It’s more about the mental and emotional factors. How do I mentally and emotionally separate myself from my son? How do I mentally and emotionally let go of what his needs are, if only for a few hours, in order to take care of my own? Do I? Should I?

These are just some questions I’m wrestling with…

Granda

My dad is the primary caregiver for my son when I work. My mom was around this summer while school was out, and my sister pitches in. My mother-in-law takes her turn, but my dad is my number one go-to person. My dad is retired, and therefore home during the day. He’s also one of the most patient, loving people I know. And he’s hands-down the best dad in the world. You can argue, and my husband will be a close second to him, but my dad is the best. Seriously.

He’s not perfect. In the few short months of my son’s life my dad has managed to give us some fodder for the family tales. There is this infamous picture of my father, deep in conversation, holding my 2-week old son. Both Granda and baby are blissfully unaware of the fact that Monster is spilling out of his resting place; my father is deep in conversation and Monster is sleeping.

And this morning, when I went up to say good-bye to them before I left for work, my dad was about to button Monster’s onesie over his pants…sort of an underwear outside his pants look. After I informed him that the onesie snapped underneath the pants he told me that he would have figured it out eventually. And I believed him. I guess.

But really, I trust that Monster is in good hands with my dad. He loves Monster. He hates putting him down for a nap because he just wants to play with him. He sings Irish tunes to Monster when he’s fussy, and always offers to change diapers. When I show up at my parents’ house, Monster in tow, my dad rushes outside to carry the car seat in the house. He is calm when Monster is not, patient when Monster is screaming his head off, and always, always happy to see him.

But the best thing my dad gives is unconditional love. My dad loves with a grace that astounds me. I never questioned if he loved me. After my fourth (or sixth) car accident my dad still defended my driving skills. After a mistake or failure my dad always told me he loved me. I’ve had conversations with many people whose fathers weren’t the loving, forgiving men that fathers should be. It never fails to amaze me how deep those wounds lie. Years later the most confident, self-assured people panic in the face of abandonment, reliving freshly the pain of a father who left long ago. And the smallest failure can cripple an otherwise very successful person when it takes them back to a childhood of never being good enough for his father. The father wounds lie deep.

And it makes me all the more grateful for my dad. When it feels like I’m all alone a conversation with my dad reminds me that I’ve got people who have been and will be with me for the long haul. When I’ve failed again a phone call with my father reminds me that no matter how hard the fall, I’ve still got a fan club. And when I just need to be loved, my dad’s voice carries all the love in the world.

So maybe Monster will wear some weird outfits on days that Granda takes care of him. And maybe he’ll get into something he shouldn’t when my dad’s attention is elsewhere. But I’m excited for the bond that will form between them. I think Granda will be one of Monster’s most favorite people. He may even become his best friend. I couldn’t ask for a better buddy for my son. Regardless I know my dad will give Monster the gift of unconditional love. A sense of “ok-ness” in a world that tells you to be more. And that makes me giddy and at peace and hopeful all at once.

Things I'm Thankful For..

My husband’s family owns a tree farm in Wisconsin, a large amount of land in a small town called Kellner. The Farm, as it’s known, is a magical, special treasure. A place that’s hard to find in these times. There are no T.V.’s at the Farm, it’s not wireless, and there are only a few actual bedrooms, and those are claimed first by the Yodi (as the oldest generation are affectionately called) and those with the youngest babes. Everyone else sleeps in the attic’s open dormer, or out in the barn- a converted barn that holds enough bunk beds for the boys and a few brave girls.

I just got back from a weekend at the Farm. This weekend’s theme was “Greek Fest.” On Saturday night we ate lamb with cucumber dressing and feta cheese and tomatoes and olives with pita bread. We wore togas and participated in our own version of “Greek Olympics”; young and old competed in challenges called “Dizzy Mummy” and “Bite Me.” Past themes of “Pirates and Rum” and “70’s Disco” have yielded similarly epic costumes and tables of food. As my mind falls back over the weekend images flash forward. Most involve laughter and happiness and lots and lots of food.

I can see a group of people around the large table on the inside porch, ages ranging from 8 year old Aubrey to 75 year old Byron. Their hands pound the table as one person flashes bunny ears and then a quick scratch of the head. Someone else scratches their head and then shoots an imaginary arrow. Bales of laughter erupt as the arrow receiver’s hands twitch and convulse, unable to think of another signal quickly enough as he loses this round of “Indian Signals.”

I see a table full of food made by many different hands. Amy’s Grecian Squares, Jill’s flaming cheese, Andy’s famous Orzo salad, the leg of lamb Dave spent all evening grilling, bowls of pita triangles and platters of tomatoes, cucumbers, feta cheese, and olives. This table is weighed down by too much food to be consumed by that 26 people standing around it, waiting to dig in.

I see little Brett, a peanut of a 6-year with an impish grin, clad in a green toga he has worn faithfully all night. He bravely agrees to compete in “Dizzy Mummy” and soon he is off spinning like a top, wrapping toilet paper around himself as he spins faster and faster until he tumbles over dizzily giggling.

And perhaps my most favorite moment of the weekend was one that I almost missed. Jim, recently retired from a job he’d worked at most his adult life, comes in the house calling for “Toots.” He grabs his bride by the hand and leads her outside where I can just barely make out their figures, dancing on the porch in the moonlight.

These images stand out in my mind because they are perfect snapshots of what is so wonderful about the farm. The farm is a place where generations gather. Where grandparents play games with children and no one is too mature to make a fool of them self. It’s a haven where meals are events and emails fly around for weeks before divvying up dishes and drinks. It’s a play land where kids are treasured and encouraged to be kids. You can’t be bored at the farm when there are is a go kart named Blue to be driven and a trampoline for hopping and always someone your age to play with. The farm is special because families enjoy each other and marriages last the test of time. It’s rare and somewhat mysterious to me, but divorce has not touched this clan. There are 3 sets of grandparents and 8 sets of married couples- all of which are still together. I don’t know any other family that is like this. Being surrounded by this kind of commitment makes me feel secure. It gives me hope and helps me trust. My husband grew up with a family that valued commitment.

The Farm makes me thankful. I’m thankful Monster will grow up with a place to be a kid. I’m thankful he’ll learn how to chop wood and pee on a tree outside. I’m thankful he’ll have lots of adoring older cousins to dote on him and some his own age to explore with him. I’m thankful for a rich history of people who love each other. Of husbands who stay for the long haul and don’t trade up for a younger and prettier wife. I’m thankful for a group of people that enjoy sitting around a fire together. Who choose a weekend without their blackberries or video games or television shows in favor of silly games with toga wearing cousins and good tunes. They don’t just choose that kind of a weekend, they very much look forward to it.

Why I Now Love Leviticus

I have a confession. I’ve avoided reading many parts of the Bible, mainly the Old Testament. It’s not that I haven’t tried. I’ve committed myself to reading it from start to finish and always end up giving up somewhere between Genesis 33 and Exodus 13. I get bored, I lose my place, I don’t understand anything that I’m reading. But mostly I quit because I have a hard time reconciling that God of the Old Testament with the Christ I know in the New Testament. I get skittish around Bible stories that don’t fit the God I want to believe in. I don’t always trust that the God of the Old Testament is a God that I will love and adore as much as the Jesus I know in the New Testament. As a result I avoid much of the Old Testament. But I am a youth pastor now (or something like it) and I am embarrassed to admit that many of my students have a better knowledge of the Bible than I do. So 2010 is the year that I started a Bible reading plan. Usually I have a little Old Testament and a chapter in the New Testament and maybe a Psalm thrown in there for good measure. It’s a doable amount (less doable is the 3-5 days of catch up I end up doing when I continually get behind…but alas, I’ve got no one to blame but myself).

I’ll never forget the sense of accomplishment I felt when, at the beginning of February, I finished Exodus! I’d never gotten that far before! I understood why I’d never made it to that point before; God was protecting me from the pages and pages dedicated to the description of the tabernacle. In an earlier time, that might have put me over the edge. But I persevered. I powered through. And I was rewarded with…Leviticus. Oh Leviticus. My eyes hurt just thinking about it. But, in some beautiful foresight made by someone smarter than me, my Bible reading plan had me reading Leviticus along side Acts. Thank you Jesus.

I loved reading Leviticus alongside Acts. I love Acts. I love the bold faith, the crazy miracles, the energy of the Holy Spirit. But I appreciated both Acts and Leviticus more when I read them together. As I read list after list of what was clean and what was not in Leviticus, God lovingly brought me back to what He told Peter in Acts 10:15- “Do not call anything impure that God has made clean.” As I read page after page about sin offerings and guilt offerings in Leviticus, I realized through Acts just what Jesus’ death did. In the times before Christ’s life and death people had to make atonement and pay for their sins. They had to kill goats and drain the blood and do all sorts of other gross things. Christ’s death has taken that away. Goats and bulls and lambs do not have to die anymore. Christ paid the price! He freed us from the tiring game of evening up the score. Without Leviticus I never understood just how chained to this cycle of sacrifice and atonement the Jews were. It was a profound moment at Caribou coffeehouse when I realized the full weight of what Christ was freeing the Jews from on that cross and the extent of how life changing that message would have been to the people in Acts.

Leviticus shows me the depth and detail of the law and Acts constantly reiterates how Christ took all that away. It is not through the law, through circumcision and keeping Kosher that we are saved. It is through the grace of Jesus. Leviticus showed me grace in a new way. And so I plug along through the Old Testament, riddled with questions and wrestling to understand who God is in the midst of mind numbingly detailed rules and people being wiped off the earth in a moment because of their failure to obey. I realize that I need to study the Old Testament because I need to know who God really is and trust that I will still really like Him on the other side of it. And revelations like the ones I received in Leviticus and Acts are helping me to do just that.

Who's YOUR Story For?

IWho is your story for?

I love a good story. As a kid I was a voracious reader, devouring books as though they were Hostess Swiss cake rolls (by far my favorite “banned” treat as a child). My favorite part of meeting new people is getting to know their life story, and then, as I get to know them better, learning how that story has shaped and formed them. In my younger days I used to wish for a different story, one with more adventure, grit and danger. I have a pretty picture perfect life story. I’ve been incredibly blessed with two loving parents, family and friends that make life good, and virtually no major disaster or drama. I was a goody two shoes who played by the rules, which was easy because I was never really tempted in the first place. The closest I ever came to drugs was when the smelly kid pulled out a bag of weed on the bus home in 9^th grade. I immediately joined every possible after school activity to insure I would never have to take the bus again. Dork.

Anyway, the white picket fence suburb I grew up in gave me a story that is tame, and safe and would never inspire a made for t.v. movie. I always found myself daydreaming big dramatic moments. Even my conversion to Christ took about three years longer than it needed to because I kept waiting for that “moment.” Something akin to God speaking to me while being held hostage in a bank robbery. Telling me that he would spare my life if I promised to finally give it to Him. A moment that ended with me sharing Christ with the bank robbers who then gave their lives to Him and let all the hostages go. You know, no big deal….dork.

I think that’s why I love Paul’s story. Oh the drama and excitement! My overactive imagination could not have written it better myself. You have this hardcore Jesus hater, on his way to relentlessly hunt down the people of “the Way,” struck blind as he hears the voice of Jesus. By the time God restores his sight he is not the same. Saul became Paul. He is now in the temples, preaching that Jesus is the son of God. He has become like those he once hunted.

I love in Acts 22 when Paul speaks to the Jews who are trying to arrest him. He clearly shares his story with them, boldly telling of what Christ did to him, for him and through him. Paul was the perfect person to share this testimony to this group of people because of who he was before Christ changed his life. He was once like them. As Saul, he would have been in that crowd, calling for the death of the one who proclaims Jesus as the Messiah. If anyone’s story had a hope of softening the hardened hearts of this crowd it was Paul’s. The scene makes me imagine a modern day picture of Bill Maher attending some atheist convention as a changed man, sharing with the crowd his and God’s story, impacting them as only he could.

It also makes me wonder whom my story is for. Tame as it may be, it is the story God and I share and it has potential to impact someone. Who is your story for? Does your story contain parts you are ashamed of? Segments you wish you could edit out? I’m sure Paul cringed when he thought of the damage he caused while he watched Stephen being stoned to death. I’m sure he would have liked to gloss over why he was on the road to Damascus in the first place. But who Paul was is what makes his story so compelling. What Christ redeemed and saved in you is what will give hope to others. And if you’re like me, wondering if you would have a greater impact if your story had a bigger rock bottom moment, or some crazy loud message of hope and redemption…well, there are so many people who’s lives haven’t been so rocked to the core that they have no place to turn but God. Maybe those people need to hear how God works in the mundane moments of life and woos ordinary people in ordinary ways. Maybe those people need help becoming aware of the voice of God in the tamer moments of life. You are unique. God has worked uniquely in your life. Who can be impacted by your unique story?