For Those of Us Still Longing on Christmas Morning...

I haven’t really known what to do with Advent this year.  In these weeks leading up to Christmas I’m hearing a lot about Anticipation and Hope and Light and, well, my life right now is not that.  It’s hard to anticipate the coming King of hope and light when life feels a little hopeless and dark, you know?  It’s hard to exist in the joyful spirit of Christmas when your spirit is anything but joyful.

A few weeks ago I attended an Advent service let by my friend Charity’s mom, Ruth.  For some reason I always seem to sense God’s presence more thickly when I’m in Ruth’s company.  She has a way with words that pierces right into my soul, making room for God to flood it more fully I guess.  So when some plans shifted around and I had the chance to attend her Advent service I made it a point to do so even though it meant meeting my family late for dinner.

I was a little nervous about the service, afraid it would be all about the joyful anticipation of Christ, about how the world was about to get a big ole’ dose of Hope and Light.  In other words, I was worried it would be about a whole bunch of crap that would make me feel even more out of place in the world around me.

But instead Ruth talked about longing.  About how our heart longs to see light.  About how we are longing for light in dark places.  And, as though she were talking directly to me, Ruth talked about how some of us are sitting in places of deep longing right now.  Longing that goes unmet. 

For an hour I sat in that service thinking about what my heart longs for.  There were obvious longings, and some less so.  I sat in the deep, aching longing and knew some of the things I yearned so gut-wrenchingly for would never be met. 

It’s easy to feel sort of lost in this holiday season when your state of being goes so far against the grain of everyone else’s.  You start to resent everyone who is so excited about the magic of the story of Christmas, the story of how God brought light and hope and love to earth in the form of a tiny human baby, when you are longing so deeply for light and hope and love and feeling so lost in darkness.  It’s hard to feel any sort of anticipation for God when you’re left feeling a little unsure of whom He is in the first place.

So this is for those of us who are left longing for light in this Advent season.  The ones uncertain that God really is who He said He was and can do what He promised He could.  The ones who will wake up on Christmas morning still feeling alone even though Immanuel, God With Us, has supposedly arrived.  To those of us who hate the story God is currently writing for you I can only offer this:  You are not alone.  I’m holding space for you, with you.  Sometimes my grief feels as though it’s a small child mid-tantrum, trying to break free from the hold I attempt to contain it in.  I like the idea of holding space in these moments, of giving my sadness room to thrash and wail and beat. 

I could tell you about how I’ve thought a lot about the Israelites that first Christmas who longed for a Messiah.  Things were dark, the future uncertain and their hearts longed for light.  And it came in the form of a baby.  I’m willing to bet that more than a few were a little unsure of God if this was his master plan for a Messiah.  I’m willing to bet that more than a few were still left longing in the face of that tiny human baby.

And sometimes, I can find comfort in that.  Sometimes I can be reminded that the story isn’t finished and light will eventually be revealed.   That Jesus is Immanuel even if I don’t feel it to be true.

But sometimes there just really isn’t any way to wrap all the darkness up with words that bring light.  Sometimes darkness is still just darkness, and longings remain unmet.  And in these times I’m finding that comfort only comes in the form of those who simply let it be what it is.  Who sit in the darkness with us and don’t try to force light.  Who don’t short-change our longings with inadequate substitutions.

If this Christmas finds you sitting in it, just know you aren’t alone.  I’m here.  Holding space for you.  With you. 

Denial and Anger and Other Stages of Grief I'm Not Ready to Deal With

Denial and anger are two of the first stages of grief.  I understand these emotions more than I could have possibly imagined.  I seem to vacillate between the two in these weeks following my dad’s death, continually moving back and forth between disbelief and rage.

Denial is a strange one.  I think I understand why it’s necessary to process death though.  I don’t know that our brains can fully comprehend the idea that someone is here one day and simply gone the next.  I’m not sure we would be able to allow another person to immerse themselves in our day to day lives so fully, depend on them so completely if we really understood that in a moment they could be gone.  And so when that very thing happens you must function with a certain amount of denial, believing the person to just be on a long trip or out to pick up coffee.  You do this until you can get used to life without them.

It’s funny, even though I saw the death certificate with my own eyes, hugged his hard, decidedly un-lifelike body at the wake, even hid the box of his remains after his cremation from my mom, I still have this strange little hope that I’ll come home one day and see him reading the paper at the table.  Or that he’ll come walking through the front door, explaining it was all a misunderstanding.  Or even that I’ll run into him at Mariano’s where he’ll marvel at what an amazing grocery store it is.  Even if I never see him again there’s a part of me that thinks he’s out there somewhere else in the world, alive still and blessing the world with his Irish eyes, just not able to be with us anymore.  I understand why people find comfort in reincarnation now.  I understand a lot of things I never used to. 

Before all this I thought that it would be the worst to have a loved one missing, their whereabouts and status unknown.  It seemed like torture to wonder year after year if they’d come home, to hope day after day that this would be the one on which they’d walk through the door.  It seemed easier, to me, to know for sure that they were gone than to be stuck in that endless cycle of mostly false hope, unable to move on with your life.  Now, I would give anything for a shred of hope that my dad would one day walk through that door again.

Anger bubbles beneath the surface and I never know when it will lash out inappropriately.  I yell at Toots for changing her mind about milk or water when really I want to yell at God for writing this part of my story.  Hard to open packages infuriate me and when my kids and I all got sick two weeks ago and no one slept I literally pounded on a wall at 2 am and considered taking a carton of eggs outside in the middle of the night so I could throw something that would break. 

I’m afraid of getting stuck in these stages, trapped between anger and denial.  I don’t want to become a person who lives only in states of fury or disassociation from reality.

I find myself running through a list of reasons of why this is still so hard.  I defend myself not being able to interact normally when the subject of my dad comes up or make it through the day without crying.  We’ve been living with him for seven months.  That was seven months in which he had become an indispensible part of my every day life.  He was so young; we were still so dependent on him, all of us.  It was so sudden; we didn’t have time to prepare.  He was just so good.  There really aren’t enough words to encapsulate all the wonderfulness that is now simply gone.  And maybe these are all significant reasons for why this still feels almost as hard as it did three weeks ago.  Or maybe death is just this hard.

I understand that acceptance is the final stage of grief in as much as I understand that I have not reached acceptance.  It almost feels as though my whole being fights against acceptance these days.  I think about how my mom will have to attend weddings alone from now on or how he’ll never take Toots to the park or build a Brio train for Monster and something deep within fires up, actively pushing this truth away.  My lack of acceptance may just be the truest thing about all of this right now.

On Being a Principal Mourner

As I said in my post last week, I'm reeling from the sudden, unexpected death of my beloved father.  I haven't been able to write, or think, about much else these past two weeks.  I wasn't intending to post much of what I am writing these days- unsure if I should share in the thick of it.  But I came across this post from Laura over at Hollywood Housewife today. In it she writes "About my summer meltdown, I feel a little differently about it after a few month's distance.  But I am so glad that I wrote what I did when I did.  I'm glad I have those thoughts from when they were raw.  And I'm glad I shared them.  If we waited until we had enough perspective to wrap it all up with a bow, then you're not actually capturing the experience.  You're masking it in the lesson, in what it meant later.  But I crave to read about (and write about) what it is now."  And that's what I want to do.  Write about what it is now.  In the thick, heavy, tear soaked mess of it.  And write about it again when I've gained some perspective.  And so here goes… it's going to be a little heavy around here for a while…

Principal Mourners.  That’s what they call them.  The ones who lay awake that long, first night listening to the sobs of their loved ones echo through the house.  The ones who cry as they pick out flower arrangements and choose songs.  Who stand for hours receiving the grief of all those who came to the wake and are given privacy to say their last good-byes.  Who walk behind the casket down the long church aisle, their sorrow on display for all to see.

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People arrive almost immediately.  How did they know?  How did they find out so quickly?  The news of death spreads faster than fire it turns out.

And the people come bearing gifts.  No one arrives empty handed the first few days.  The groceries and meals I expected.  But how did they know we were running out of toilet paper and paper towels?  Who told them I’d been searching the house for a fragrant candle to bring some light into our darkness?  What made them pick out the softest, most perfect blanket and did they know it would be the only comfort my mom sought out those first days?

People surprise you in so many ways those first weeks.  The number of people is shocking.  I never realized how many people cared about us enough to show up.  And then you find yourself leaning on someone you never expected to be the rock you needed.  And others you always thought would be that rock surprise you with their distance, too lost in their own grief to help you with yours.

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Whenever Monster catches me crying he takes my face in his little hands and searches my eyes for tears.  Upon finding them he proclaims, “Mommy’s happy!  Mommy’s happy!” with manic desperation, as though he could will me into a state of happiness.  I understand his behavior completely as I watch my mom sob over my dad’s body.  It is all I can do not to grab her by the shoulders and shout, “Mommy’s happy!  Mommy’s happy!”

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My grief overwhelms me.  I’m afraid to overwhelm others with it.  I feel dangerous, as though my sadness has the power to extinguish all the happiness from a room forever.  It’s a heavy burden I carry everywhere with me.  A burden I’m afraid to unload because it means I’m moving on, moving further away from my dad.  The first week an image of him making a characteristic face or gesture would flash vividly and brilliantly in my head, then violently sucker punch me with the reminder that I would never see him make that particular face again.  The second week I sobbed and sobbed because those images were becoming a little less vivid, had already started to dull around the edges in his second week of absence.

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The irony for the Principal Mourners is that everyone you’ve every loved shows up to offer support of one kind or another but you are unable to fully acknowledge or appreciate it.  You can’t survive without it, but you don’t have the mental or emotional capacity to connect with just how wonderful people really are.  You have no choice but to receive and receive and receive, keeping a list of all the thank yous you hope one day to be in a place to genuinely offer.

I feel like I’ve been initiated into a club I never wanted any part of.  The Principal Mourners Club.  I suppose I know now what to do the next time someone dies.  I know what to bring (candles, toilet paper and blankets) and I know what to say (there’s nothing to say.  Nothing can ease this pain.  All you can do is be with.).  Still, I’d rather have my dad back than the insider knowledge on what to do for a Principal Mourner.  Selfishly, I’d rather bumble around ignorantly with my father still here.  I’m not quite ready to look for any positive in this shitty, shitty situation.  One day I’ll find light in the darkness.  Today is not that day. 

my dad's eulogy

My dad died very unexpectedly last Sunday.  This is the eulogy I gave at his funeral yesterday.  I've debated internally as to whether or not to post this.  It's longer than something I would usually post, and I'm not really sure everyone would care to know about my dad.  But, his absence is felt deeply, profoundly and achingly right now and I'd like to try to keep his spirit alive somehow.  He was an incredible man, deeply loved by all who knew him.  

My dad meant the world to me.  And judging by all the wonderful things you said to us last night about him, my dad meant the world to a lot of you all too.  My friend Shannon told me, “when we lose people like your dad, I feel like the whole world should stop for a while and take notice.”  I’ve heard similar sentiments over and over again.  It seems people put my dad in a special category that not everyone makes it into and felt his death should be marked, the world should pay attention and grieve that he no longer exists in it.  This makes me happy to know that other people recognize what I’ve always known about my dad- he was one of the exceptionally good ones.

My dad was perhaps the most selfless person I know.  It’s been said before today, but you really can’t talk about my dad without talking about his constant, quiet, selfless acts of service.  He was continually putting others before himself.  Whether it was putting his name at the bottom of the ballot for the sake of the republican party, never, ever taking the choice cut of meat (and often eating whatever parts I had burned the most), or quietly moving all the cars around in the morning so everyone could get out of the driveway, my dad was always serving others.  He would never have admitted it, but since we moved in with my parents seven months ago he’s been cutting his workout short every morning so he could get back and help me get the kids breakfast. 

In these ways he humbly showed me how to live with regard to others, to serve and love them by helping.  He did it all so quietly, never admitting these selfless choices, insisting that he wanted that burnt, gross portion of meat, it was easy to forget he was sacrificing and serving his loved ones.

One of the reasons I think my dad was so eager to help others was because he simply loved people so much.  He really valued any time spent chatting with someone.  And he was always chatting with someone.  When I lived in Forest Park he came once a week to watch Liam.  Usually he took Liam out and about around town.   And proceeded to make friends everywhere.  I can’t tell you how many times I would be at a park or the library with Liam when someone would say, “Your Liam’s mom.  We know Liam’s grandpa!” By the time we moved from Forest Park I’m fairly certain that my dad knew more of the stay-at-home moms there than I did.  Everywhere he went my dad took time to get to know the people around him. 

If strangers felt welcomed and known in my dad’s warm presence, how much more did those who actually knew him, who had opportunities to spend time with him. As my uncle said earlier this week, “everyone is here because this man loved all of us at one time.”  My dad had warmth about him that made every person he encountered feel loved and valued.  He genuinely cared about what was going on in the lives of others and found authentic ways to connect with everyone he met.  He loved being around people, loved his friends and loved turning strangers into friends.

But the people he loved most were his family.  For my dad, family was everything.  He couldn’t get enough.  Growing up, extended family get togethers were a regular occurrence in our family- not just something that happened on the holidays.  And yet, for my dad, it still wasn’t enough.  He would often comment on how it had been too long since we’d had a family get together.  And we’d remind him that we’d all been over at Annie’s ten days ago.  He looked forward to time with his siblings and many nieces and nephews- one of the first to arrive and often the very last to leave.  Nothing made him happier than having our home filled with family. 

And he reserved his greatest time, energy and love for us, his wife, kids and grandkids.  I consider myself lucky to know without a doubt that my father was devoted to us.  He showed us that in a million different ways.  He welcomed my husband Tommy into our family almost instantly and seeing the friendship between my dad and husband grow over the past seven years of our marriage has been a particular highlight.  They were buds; in Tommy my dad found a partner in crime and in my dad Tommy had a fellow patriot in the war against meatless Mondays.  I am so thankful for how close they were able to get in these past few months living together.  Not everyone would welcome living with their in-laws, but I think my dad made it fun and enjoyable for Tommy.

Mom, living with you guys for the past seven months has been a wonderful peek into just how much Dad loved you.  He loved you so much.  My dad held my mom in the highest esteem and reserved the priority of his love and attention for her.  Every morning I watched my dad take a cup of coffee up to my mom so she could enjoy it while she was still in bed.  Even though they’d been married for 33 years my dad still called my mom his bride.  In recent years we watched them do more together, have more date nights, enjoy more nice bottles of wine, share favorite shows.  It thrilled me to see how their relationship seemed to thrive in the absence of the daily grind of parenting. 

As a dad I think I speak for all of my siblings when I say he was simply the best.  He was at every soccer game, school play, football game, and speech team regional night.  He coached at least one of each of our park district sports teams.  He was the kind of dad that got on the floor and played board games with us.  My dad wasn’t the most successful, the richest, the smartest or the most driven.  But he was the guy that loved his family so much he made choices to be home with them, to invest in them, to spend time with them.  How lucky we were to call that kind of man dad. 

The greatest gift he gave to us was unconditional love. My dad loved with a grace that astounds me. I never questioned if he loved me. After my fourth (or sixth) car accident my dad still wholeheartedly defended my driving skills. (At that point even I was ready to admit that I sucked.)  I never grew up feeling like I had to be anything more than I was in the eyes of my dad.  He gave us all a sense of “ok-ness” in a world that is always asking for more.

And yet, as amazing of a father as he was, I think the highlight of his life was being “Granda.”  My dad was made to be a grandfather.  It is utterly devastating that this, his best role was also the one he had the least amount of time in.  I could literally go on for hours about my dad as a Granda, but I will settle on these few glimpses: of the 263 photos on my dad’s phone 255 of them were of Liam and RyRy, most of my text messages from him said something like, “how are the kids?  Can you send me a picture?  I need my fix!” (of course signed love, dad) and after we moved in with him if we left for the weekend without fail I’d get a text, usually on Saturday morning from my dad saying “what time are you guys coming home?"  It’s too quiet here!  Please send a picture!”  He used to build brio train track formations while Liam was taking a nap so he would have it to play with when he woke up.  If he felt especially proud of the track he created my dad would take a picture of it with his phone so he could build it again.  For the first month that we lived with them I don’t think Ry’s feet touched the ground- my dad held her any and every time raised her little arms up towards him in request, which she did constantly.  My dad loved Liam and Ryann even more than he loved us.  I know this because he accidentally admitted it one day.  The greatest grief I have had in my dad’s death has been around the fact that he will no longer be here as “Granda.”  Tim, Ryann and Jack- I am so sorry that your future kids are robbed of this relationship.  It makes me sick to my stomach to think about all they are missing.

One of the more comforting things that’s been said to us this week was that over time we would see and hear our dad in those that loved him.  His sayings, characteristics, qualities and love would be reflected in his family.  I’ve been looking for him this week and I’m comforted to see him everywhere already.  Mom I have felt dad in your love for us.  You love us and others the same way he did and I’m thankful that his love will live on in you.  Tim I’ve seen dad in you this week in all the ways you’ve stepped up and been a rock for us, comforting us in our moments of grief and quietly serving us in hundreds of small and large acts.  Ry, I see dad in your way with people.  You have that warmth and grace with others that makes a small gathering feel like a party and a huge get together feel intimate.  You make people feel the same way dad did.  Jack, I’ve always seen him in your sense of adventure and travel and in your extreme kindness.  Lately though, and most comfortingly, I’ve seen him in your interactions with my kids.  You love them patiently like dad did and if they can no longer live with Granda I’m so thankful they still live with Uncle Jack.  And I suppose my dad’s stellar driving skills live on in me.

I heard somewhere that the whole of our lives gets reduced to our birth year and the year we died with a dash in between.  That dash is everything we did with the years we were given.  At any rate for my dad that dash was all about people, family and all the friends that he considered family.  He had it figured out.  He died at peace with everyone in his life, there were no grudges left bared, no regrets about how he treated someone, no hours he spent chasing after the wrong things.  He knew what mattered most and he spent his life acting accordingly.

I could go on for hours more.  I didn’t even touch on the amazing mentor and co-worker, friend, brother and uncle he was.  I didn’t even mention his realized dream of elected public office and his service to his community.  But I look forward to hearing your stories later today and in the weeks and months to come.  In the meantime I ask you all to keep my dad’s spirit alive by living as he lived.  Help others, value people and give your best time to your family and friends.  It makes for a great life for those around you. I can speak from experience. 

Thank you.

That One Time Where I Link You Up: It’s Getting Colder Edition

Read this in one of my new favorite books, Sticky Faith by
Dr. Kara Powell and Dr. Chap Clark

It’s getting cold.  I’m getting grumpy.  I’m one of those big time fall haters.  I am a summer girl and fall just means the end of happy to me.  And also- fall is a giant tease.  Around here it lasts approximately 3 hours and then BAM.  Winter.  And the only thing I hate more than fall is winter.  I don’t like coats or sweaters.  I’m constantly in search of the perfect mittens/scarf/hat combo and every season I’m disappointed.  I hate being cold.  Give me flip flops and sundresses.   

Anyway.  This week felt cold.  I busted out the winter coat for Monster and he instantly became obsessed with his mittens and hat.  That kid looks forward to school every day just so he can wear his winter gear.  Again, sometimes I question his maternity. 

We’ve got jr. high youth group and birthday bonfires tonight and then we’re headed up to a lake house with some dear friends for Saturday night.  Our weekends have been rich and full these past few weeks and this one is no exception.

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For you’re weekend reading pleasure I’ve got a few of my favorites from the week (or two- it’s been a while since I posted links!)

I loved reading both sides of this competitive sports argument (NY Times).  For the record, I’m pretty sure I don’t want my kids to get too involved in the intensely competitive sports field (unless Monster or Toots is the next hockey wiz kid).

I loved this parenting tip and have already employed it with my kids.  Each night I tell them one thing I loved watching them do that day. (The Talent Code)

Kristen over at Rage Against The Minivan always makes me think (and has my favorite blog name of all time).  This post was particularly compelling for me.  (Rage Against the Minivan)

If:Local may be the single greatest thing that has happened to the Christian conference of all time.  The women planning this conference realized it wasn’t accessible to everyone so they tore up the ticket price, made it pay what you can, and opened it to everyone!  All you need is an Internet connection and a gathering of people and you can have access to the webcast of the whole conference!!  Any of my friends want to get together for an If: Local? (Jen Hatmaker)

And finally, this was beautiful in the most haunting, aching way.  (Laura Ortberg Turner)

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Have a great weekend pals!  What are you all up to?  Hoping your weekend is rich and full as well!

Every Family has a Few Crazies

I came across these verses today:

9 Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. 10 Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers.

It’s from Galatians 6.  I was heartened by verse nine, but then, to be honest, I wanted to stop there.  I don’t particularly like that tenth verse, the last part of it at least.  It makes my stomach turn a little.  Verse ten is always hard for me and I find myself cringing a little when I come to that final command, wishing Paul had just stopped with “let us do good to all people.”  I can handle that part.  It's the "especially those who belong to the family of believers" that gets me every time.

On the surface I could say I don’t like that second part of verse ten because it has an “in vs. out” quality.  It implies, to me, that one group is better than the other.  That one should get priority.  And, it part, this is true.  I don’t like this verse because it makes me a little frustrated on behalf of those not in the family of believers.  Why especially them?

But my “gut-reaction” to the second part of verse ten has a lot more to do with this family of believers that drive me crazy.  Particularly the ones that think differently than me.  The ones who claim to be the same as me but act (in my opinion) poorly.  The Mark Driscolls and Westboro Baptists.  I don’t like that last part because I don’t want to be called to help those believers.  I feel they give me a bad name and I don’t want to associate with them.  Their words and actions make my blood boil and I don’t want anyone to mistake me for them.  I don’t want them to be “in.”

But isn’t this attitude just as bad as that of those rallying to keep the “sinners” out of the “saints’” table?  Isn’t that caring more about my identity than my identity in Christ?  My blood boils when I see Christians treating my non-believing friends as unworthy, unloved and less than.  And then I turn around and treat my brothers and sisters the same way.

I may not get to pick them, but they’re still family.  And I suppose that grace towards even the most frustrating and repugnant family members is an excellent way to prove that “everybody’s in.”

The End of Dreaming

I have a confession to make.  I’ve been struggling with some big feelings.  Some ugly jealous/crazy resentful feelings.  There seem to be a number of people as I scroll through my Instagram and Twitter feeds that are doing. big. things.  Living the kind of dream life I’ve long given up.  Traveling all over the world for work or pleasure.  Creating something from nothing and actually following through on the things that I’ve always thought I’d like to do someday.

The part that really frosts my flakes is that these women are in my life stage.  The “living with littles and desperately trying to survive” life stage.  Only they don’t seem desperate to survive.  They’re thriving, actually doing the things I gave up on, chalking it up as impossible to do with kids this young.

I used to be a big dreamer.  I loved envisioning what great adventures my life would hold.  When I was sixteen my psychology teacher had us create a “life to do list” where we listed all the things we wanted to do in our life.  No aspiration was too big or too unachievable to be put on the list.  At sixteen I knew I had all the time in the world to touch a giraffe, win an Oscar, perform on Broadway and go on a cruise.  For the next ten years I kept that list at hand copying it in the first page of every new journal I started, crossing off the things I’d done and adding more dreams as I imagined them. 

In high school and college the endless possibilities of “what life could look life” were exciting and enticing.  Where would I go to college?  Who would I meet?  What would I study?  And then, whom would I marry?  What would my career look like?  Where would I live?  The endless combinations of decisions left to be made created an environment ripe for dreaming for me.  Anything could still happen.  I had no idea what my life would look like.  I loved it.

I’m finding myself, in my more dramatic moments, feeling as though I’ve reached the end of dreaming.   So many of the “big” questions have been answered for me.  I know whom I married.  We are currently shopping for our forever house, answering the question of where we will live.  Two kids in, the “what will I be?” feels pretty limited, at least in this young kids stage.  We’ve begun to settle into our life in a way that feels pretty final.  Somewhere in the last few years I stopped putting that life to do list on the first page of my journals, stopped reminding myself of the adventures I wanted to have, stopped dreaming up new adventures to add.

I’m a “P” on the Meyers-Briggs personality test, which means, among other things, that I am more comfortable before a decision is made.  I like the open-endedness, the unknown, the anticipation of what may be.  Making a decision always comes with a little bit of a let down for me.  It’s why I never find out the gender of my kids beforehand, why I never let Tommy tell me what he got me for Christmas and birthdays and why, while I love my tattoo, I still had a bit of a hard time with the permanence of it all.

Tommy on the other hand is as “J” as they come on the Meyers-Briggs.  He loathes the decision making process and just wants to come to a conclusion.  I can see him getting more and more excited as we settle into life.  He needs roots and permanence to feel comfortable.  It’s something we are constantly navigating in our marriage.

It’s normal, necessary even to find ourselves in this place of settling in.  And in quiet, still moments I can be honest enough to admit it’s a cheap fix to blame my end of dreaming on this season of life.  Having forever questions answered doesn’t mean it’s really forever.  Or that there’s nothing left to anticipate.

No, if I’m being really honest, I’ve stopped dreaming because I’ve given up on myself a little.  It was easy to speak aloud my dreams in high school and college because there were so many of them and the possibility seemed endless.  As I’ve gotten older I’ve had to take a crash course in “realistic limitations.”  A job where I travel and teach and write?  The logistics of figuring out how that works with kids and the part time job I already have feels like a mountain not even worth attempting to climb.  Traveling the world with Tommy?  That takes real dollars and those little people cost a lot.  And don’t travel well.

Facing the reality of what it will take to make some of these dreams happen have me too exhausted to even start trying.   It feels too impossible to see the light of day.

And if I’m being even more gut-level honest here (and I might as well go all the way) there is nothing more vulnerable and risky to me than saying I’m want to do something that may not come to fruition.  I have been known to follow through on things I absolutely don’t want to do anymore only because I declared publicly that I was going to do that thing.  (This is the only reason I’ve completed three marathons and participated in natural childbirth.)  The potential shame of putting it out there and failing keeps me from dreaming at all.

But I’m trying to walk into vulnerability these days.  And I think the practice of imagining adventures for my life is important in and of itself.  I need there to be possibility and anticipation or I start to feel full of ennui.  I get all Ecclesiastical and begin declaring everything to be meaningless.  I need to dream big dreams because it keeps me engaged in life, makes me hopeful and happy.  I need to dare to dream despite the realistic limitations because it is a practice in faithfulness to God and myself.   I need to share those dreams with others because it keeps me open and vulnerable and accountable to at least trying.  And I need to have grace for those dreams that are deferred or simply left undone in twenty years.  I don’t chastise or shame my sixteen-year-old self for daring to believe she could win an Oscar or perform on Broadway.  Rather I smile at the bigness of her goals and breadth of her self-belief.  I expect fifty-year-old me will feel the same about my thirty-year-old dreams as well. 

Do Something-ers

In second grade we had a “Science Day.”  We got to take a break from our regularly scheduled programming and travel room to room with packs of other second graders to perform different science experiments with parent volunteers.  I don’t remember much else from that day except the stickers we wore after going to the “Space Room.”

In the Space Room one of our tasks was to convert our weight on earth to what we would weigh on the moon.  I remember this vividly because after weighing in and calculating our new weight we were given these little stickers where the parent volunteer had written our weight on earth and our weight on the moon.  In second grade I didn’t yet have weight shame, so I don’t remember what my number was or being particularly concerned about it.

I do remember a boy named Seth’s tag.  Seth was a big kid, the biggest in the class, and word spread quickly that Seth weighed over a hundred pounds.  We all knew this, of course, because poor Seth had to walk around for the rest of the day sporting a sticker that revealed the thing that made him different from all the rest.

I remember kids talking about it.  Remember the way this news spread like wildfire throughout the second grade.  And I remember what Roger did.

Roger was the least popular kid in second grade.  He was a nose picker, and a glue eater.  He had ADHD before it was the super diagnosed disorder it is today and we knew because he told everyone.  Constantly.  He was the target of every mean trick and cruel game grade school kids are so adept at playing.  The kind of kid who mistook any attention as good attention, Roger often seemed to egg on his attackers.  He never appeared all that bothered by the teasing; rather at times he almost welcomed it.  You felt really bad for Roger but at the same time, it was hard to stick up for him when he picked his nose and flung boogers at you.

At any rate, at some point during Science Day Roger switched tags with Seth.  Roger walked around with a tag that screamed “heavy kid” and Seth wore the one with a more typical second grader weight.  When asked why he switched, Roger denied doing so.  “What?” he’d say.  “This is my tag.”

Despite his attempts to come across as unscarred by the years of torment, I think Roger was a kid who knew how much it hurt to be the target.  And so, in one of the most profound acts of compassion I’ve ever witnessed among grade schoolers, he took Seth’s target.  And wore it proudly. 

I’ve thought about this story today for some reason.  As I raise my own little people I think about Roger.  I certainly don’t want Monster or Toots to bear the burden of being the kid picked on all the time.  I don’t ever want them to be the odd man out, the last kid picked or the only one sitting at a lunch table.  I don’t want them to be the targets of cruel jokes or mean comments.

I do, however, want them to be like Roger.  I want them to be do-something-ers.

In grade school and middle school I was not an alpha dog.  I wasn’t confident or popular enough to be mean.  I didn’t pick on the Rogers of the playground and, when no one was looking, I was usually very kind to them.  But I was painfully, compulsively driven by a need to fit in, to be liked, to not be the target of ridicule.  So while I wasn’t cruel, I also wasn’t good.  I didn’t want to risk becoming one of the teased by putting my neck out for someone in trouble.  I was a do-nothing-er.  I didn’t hurt, but I didn’t help.

I don’t want this for my kids.  I want Monster to be the kind of boy who willingly, happily takes the target off another kids back and wears it on his own.  I want Toots to be so sure of her worth that she’s free to do something, anything, to stand up compassionately for her peers.  I want them to be do-something-ers. 

It was easy for me to stand by.  Too easy.  But as an adult I have so many regrets about standing by.  I can remember distinctly the times I didn’t do something when I could have, when I should have.  My kids are little, and I’m not quite sure how to raise them to be empathetic do-something-ers.  I’m paying attention, asking questions and trying to praise that behavior when I see it. 

Imagine what would happen if we all raise a generation of do-something-ers…

That One Time When I Link You Up: Late to the Game Edition

It’s Friday night and I’m watching West Wing (duh).  Seriously man, this show.  As my husband says when the credits roll of every single episode, “this is the greatest show of all time.”  We’re waiting for two of our dearest friends to land at O’Hare from the west coast.  Their flight is two hours late.  Stupid O’Hare. 

I’ve got a few great links from the week for your weekend reading pleasure. 

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I’m not one to read obituaries, but this is perhaps the best picture of life lived sweetly and fully.

I love Louis C.K.  I love this clip.  Good comedy should always have a dash of philosophy.

This new Pope, man.  He's a little bit rebellious and a lotta bit social justice-y.  He almost makes me want to return to my catholic roots.

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Enjoy your weekend friends.  It’s been a long week and everyone’s ready to relax a little.  We’ve got lots of fun plans in the city with our friends including dinner at one of my all-time favorite restaurants.  I’ve been dreaming about it all week.  Mostly I’m just looking forward to sitting across the table from our good friends and enjoying their company.

Be well pals.

My Tribe

I was the first of most of my friends to have a baby.  Forging the way to motherhood had its difficult moments, but all in all was not really that bad.  I did, however, struggle with the whole “mom friends” thing.  Those of you with small children know that you need people, other adults, to hang out with during the day or else your brain will turn to mush and you will pounce on your poor introverted husband the second he walks in the door to talk all about what that crazy monkey did today on Curious George.  Poor introverted husband just wants a few moments to decompress, but as he’s the first adult you’ve had contact with all day, that’s not happening, amiright?  Enter the mom friend.  Someone you can walk to the park with and talk about real grown up ideas and not feel bad about the saggy diaper your kid is sporting.

The problem was I already had really great friends who just weren’t moms yet. My wonderful, compassionate, hilarious friends weren’t accessible during the day, as they had jobs to go to and non-yoga inspired clothes to wear, but they were amazing friends, nonetheless.  It seemed sort of silly to try to make a whole bunch of new friends, particularly when the only thing we had in common were little tyrants that now accompanied us everywhere.  I hated trying to force connection based on similar life stages so I decided to just wait it out.  Eventually at least some of my friends would have babies too and I’d finally have some adults to hang with during the day.  The only real friendship that came out of this waiting period was Kate who lived two doors down.  Both of our kiddos are born weeks apart and she doesn’t really feel like a mom friend because we would have been friends whether or not kids were in the picture.  It just so happened that we came across each other pushing newborns all around town in an attempt to keep our sanity.  We would continue to provide sanity saving comfort to each other for the next few years until we both moved off the street that made us neighbors.  

At any rate I am finding myself in the glorious stage of life where some of my friends have now become moms.  And we live close to each other.  For the past year or so, I’ve had a few mom friends in particular with whom I’ve been doing life.  It’s amazing, this mom friendship thing.  We know each other’s schedules.  We plan outings to help break up the monotony of the week.  We understand the monotony of the week!  We understand how a day with a small child can be so insanely, whiplash inducing crazy, while also being so incredibly, mind-numbingly boring.

I got into the car after an outing with these friends and our kids feeling full to bursting.  We had spent the morning catching up and sharing hearts all while continuing to do the parenting thing.  And, as we’ve all grown particularly close over the last year of doing life together, our kids were all interchangeable.  One friend pushes mine in the stroller, I help her kid go potty, we all dole out lunches and sippy cups and snacks.  She makes sure mine doesn’t run into the street, I watch hers while she pees.

I love that we take care of each other’s kids.  That their kids feel like my kids.  I love that it doesn’t matter who’s watching whom- I know it’s covered.  Our kids look forward to seeing each other, squealing with delight upon sight.  They feel comfortable with not just each other, but with all the adults.  These are familiar faces they know and love.  These are safe people they see every week.  It feels like a tribe, these friendships.  Like we’re all raising our kids together, that we’re invested in the lives of all these little ones, not just the ones we birthed.

My tribe will only grow from here, as I have many more friends not quite ready for kids yet, and many future babes to know and love.  I’m thankful for it all, but particularly for this sweet season of doing it day in and day out with women whom I knew and loved before kids and know and love even more now as mothers.

More Things I Don't Do...

A few years ago, spurred on by Shauna Niequist, I set about participating in the incredibly liberating practice of creating a list of Things I Don’t Do.  It was wonderful and empowering and all around freeing to say aloud the things I refuse to succumb to the “do this too” pressure.  As I find myself in a new season of life and weather I’ve been ticking off a few more things to add to the list.  I don’t know about you, but new school years and new seasons have me feeling the weight of DO ALL THE THINGS!!!  And also, this back to school time of year tricks me into thinking I need to reinvent myself, become more, better, bigger.  That this year is the year that I am finally all the things that I’m really not.  And so, here are a few more things I don’t do.  As always, if they are things that you do, bless you for it.  There is no judgment from me and I hope no judgment from you for my slacking.  I’ll probably solicit you to do them for me.

I don’t grow gardens, can vegetables, or make preserves or apple butter from scratch that I can save for the winter months.  I don’t actually know what apple butter is.  I am in awe of those of you who can do this.  Absolute, one-hundred-percent awe.  But seeing as my mom asked me to water her tomato plants while she was out of town for two days and the whole garden operation came tumbling down and my mom is still complaining about the poor crop she got this year, I’m ready to throw in the green thumb towel.  I would love to be able to walk into my backyard, hand pick all the produce necessary for a delicious salad and then serve it for dinner that night.  But I want someone else to do all the work to make that little scenario possible.  Same with being able to go to my pantry in four months and pull out a can of something that I grew myself when the sun was still warm and the green grass grew all around.  Alas, I’ve given up this dream and I feel ten pounds lighter saying it aloud.

I don’t do arts and crafts with my kids.  I’m not crafty.  I loathe glitter and pipe cleaners and glue.  I’ll read Go Dog, Go ‘til I’m blue in the face, will have one million tickle fights and will even sing the itsy bitsy spider (though that’s pushing it) before I get crafty with my kids.  I’m probably ruining Toots' and Monster’s creative potential, but judging by what they bring home from school and the gym kids program there may not be all that much there to begin with.  I just don’t have it in me.

I don’t do bento boxes or artistic lunches.  Monster may feel bad one day when his turkey sandwich, grapes and pretzels are haphazardly tossed in Tupperware while the kid next to him is munching on a lunch that would make the sous chef at a five star restaurant squeal with delight, but I’m not going to feel too bad about it.  I hate making lunches, so I’m going to call it a win that he has something in his monkey lunch box at all.

I also don’t get too perfectionist about Monster’s homework.  I want to.  His “Student of the Week” poster went back to school today looking like a three-year-old put it together and there was a small part of me that wanted to fix it all.  But then I remembered that a three year old did put it together and that three year old is pretty dang proud of his work.  Upside-down pictures and all.

What don’t YOU do?  What freeing things have you stopped doing for the greater good that I, too, can give up?

That One Time Where I Link You Up: Distracted Friday Edition

It’s Friday, Hallelujah!  This morning I poured coffee in my cereal and watched it happen for several seconds before what I was doing registered.  Then Charity and I attempted to take a Piloxing class at the gym (Pilates + boxing apparently) but the instructor never showed up so we ended up jumping in on the class next door.  I can’t even remember the name of this class but I will never, ever forget the 25 minutes of jumping, lunging, mountain climbing torture that I endured today.  Seriously, if you want to feel like an overweight fifty-six year old smoker who hasn’t worked out a day in her life, take this class.    So anyway, that’s the kind of day I’m having.  Thank goodness for the weekend! 

And now, for your weekend reading pleasure, here are some of my favorites from the week!

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Momastery is always, always my favorite.  This will restore your faith in humanity.

This one from A Deeper Story will make you long for Jesus to come and fix it all, while still being humbled by the author’s grace.

Hollywood Housewife is probably the first blog I ever truly followed.  I’ve been reading her for a few years and she always makes me want to hear more.  She wrote two things I loved this week.  This one is honest and vulnerable and this one will make you laugh.  I have a feeling she and her husband interact in ways very similar to Tommy and I. 

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We have youth group kick offs, school picnics and family parties this weekend.  Lots of good stuff.  Hope your weekends are delightful pals! 

It's the Second Week of September and I'm Already Over School...

We’re only a few weeks into school and there are some things that I’m already over.

The bus arriving at 7:30 am for starters.  Every morning is a fire drill no matter how prepared I am in advance.  I am absolutely, positively “that” mom who gets her kid onto the bus while wearing her pajamas every morning.  Pajamas and usually no bra.  And also often my husband’s shoes ‘cause there the only ones by the door.  Fortunately my kid’s “bus” is a big, white suburban that comes right to our door, so my only interaction is with the bus driver and not other parents.  (Which don’t even get me started on how thankful I am that Monster is on a bus that comes to our house and not one at a stop that he could miss every day.  Cause he would miss it.  Every.  Day.)

I miss lazy mornings where we could all wear our pj’s until like 10am.  Monster and Toots used to wake up at 7 and then come hang out in my bed for like an hour.  We eased into our mornings.  Now I’ve got to get Monster up and running by 6:45 and I’ve only managed one sip of coffee before he’s out the door at 7:30

And lunches.  I’m sick of lunches.  By Thursday nights I’m sick of peanut butter and jelly or turkey and cheese.  I’m tired of trying to find fruit that hasn’t rotted.  I’m tired of trying to find something “treat” like for his lunch because I put gummy bears in his lunch on the first day of school like an idiot and now he needs a treat every day.  Every.  Single. Day.

And the papers.  I have one pre-schooler and I’m drowning in a sea of paperwork.  How do you parents with multiple school age kids do it???  That kid brings home more things for me to read and coordinate.  And I can’t just tuck it away because I have that “out of sight, out of mind” syndrome where I immediately forget anything that isn’t right in front of my face (hence the million to do lists I operate by).  But I can’t leave it out because eventually our whole house would be covered in stacks of paper from pre-school like an episode of “Hoarders.”  I need someone to come over and deal with the papers.

And the communicating.  They need to teach a class at curriculum night entitled how to keep your spouse informed about all the school things.  By the time Tommy gets home it’s a mad race to get those kids in bed and then at 7 it’s wine time and I’ve already forgotten about all the papers and everything else I was supposed to tell him. 

Like an idiot I signed up to be a room parent and now I’m supposed to come up with some sort of “theme basket” to auction off at the fundraising gala.  The email went out yesterday requesting the room parents to reply back with their theme.  It’s been less than 24 hours and everyone else has responded to the email.  Except me.  As a matter of fact, I’d forgotten all about it until I started writing this post.  I’m going to be that room parent this year, aren’t I?  Our basket is going to be the sad-looking one with an unidentifiable theme and nothing of any value.  Crap.

Someone please send help.  Paper organization systems are acceptable.  Or “theme basket” ideas.  Or wine.  Wine is always helpful.

Happy School Year, friends.  Anyone else over it already?