The Best Relationships You Never Asked For

Back in July my brother visited from Denver.  I’m one of four and my other two siblings live around here so anytime Tim is in town we all get to enjoy a reunion of siblings. 

I love my siblings and I love the relationships we have as adults.  Even more than that, I’ve come to love seeing my siblings as aunt and uncles.

It’s funny, that aunt/uncle/niece/nephew relationship.  It’s one of the few relationships in which you have no choice in the matter.  I chose to be a wife, a mother, a friend.  My siblings were thrust into this role because of decisions Tommy and I made.  They didn’t ask to be an aunt or uncle.  Didn’t have a say in whether or not they even wanted to accept that role.  The only other relationship like it, in this regard, is one of siblings.  (And believe me when my brother was thrust upon me at 20 months of age, due to a decision my parents made, I probably would have had a few things to say if I’d had the verbal skills.)

But my siblings are amazing with my kids.  Aunt Ry always has suckers in her purse and has more videos of my kids on her phone than I do.  Uncle Tim sends books from Denver.  Uncle Jack lets Monster crash his date when he asks to “come downstairs too?” and watch their movie in the basement.

Maybe it’s because I’m the oldest and not used to seeing them in the caretaker roles, but seeing my siblings with my kids never fails to make my whole heart happy.

They love my kids, these little creatures that, while terribly cute and endearing, are also sometimes (often) whiny, crying, obnoxious pills.  It’s hard to love a kid that’s not your own mid- temper tantrum.  And because none of them have kids of their own, I’m always a little surprised at their natural, easy love for them.

Somewhere along the way my siblings stopped being the obnoxious younger brother who stole my seat every time I left the room.  Or annoying little sister who copied everything I did.  My youngest brother was ten when I left home for college and in the 12 years since he’s become a full on adult who has a life of his own and still lets Monster pretend to play video games with him and has a weakness for Toot’s smile.  They grew up, became my friends and then became important people in my kids’ lives.  I still see pieces of the comrades I grew up with in them.  Watch as they teach my kids the games we used to play together.

Though they didn’t really have a choice in the matter my siblings have risen to the Aunt and Uncle occasion.  I’m thankful for this.  Thankful that there are so many wonderful adults in Monster and Toots’ lives.  Thankful that the three people who hold most of my memories are among that count.  Thankful that the three people I didn’t ever choose ended up being so perfect for me. 

Jesus and Oprah and Toilet Paper Rolls

I listen to a lot of the Oprah channel on XM radio.  Too much depending on whom you ask (Tommy).  I like it though and listening to old episodes from the 80’s never fails to entertain me.  Oprah talks a lot about living your best life, doing great things for others, finding what you’re put on earth to do and all that jazz. 

It inspires me, you know?  Driving Monster to school, I find myself contemplating all the ways I can help others.  What’s my niche?  What can I do for others that no one else can?  What did God create me for?

These are the important questions, man.

At work the toilet paper roll in the bathroom always seems to run out whenever I’m there.  It annoys me to no end and I never, ever want to change it.  Yes, I know it takes two seconds, but when I walk into the stall and see that it’s down to it’s last two sheets I always have to fight the urge to just use a different bathroom instead.

But I work at a church and it probably wouldn’t be very Jesus-like to ignore the situation at hand.  So I buck up and do the selfless thing and change the toilet paper roll.  I feel very noble for a few minutes and I find myself hoping that other people recognize what a very good Jesus follower I am when I change the toilet paper roll every single time it runs out.  I hope they know it’s me always changing that roll for them. 

I thought about these two things at work the other day when I, yet again, found myself with three sheets left on the roll.

I want to do big, good things for other people.  I want to help, to change lives.  I want to do big, important work for God, to change lives, impact the Kingdom, etc. etc.  I want to live my best life, Oprah style. 

But the reality is I also want credit for changing the toilet paper roll at work. 

I’m not all that sure I can be trusted with the big stuff.  God may have some work to do with me first…

And these are your deep thoughts for the day.  What selfless acts have you done today in the name of Jesus-following?  And how badly did you want credit for it?  No?  Just me?  Yeah, I thought so…

When the Best Thing and the Hard Thing are the Same

Monster has two ears again.  His implant was activated last week with little fanfare and stress.  He did great at the audiologist, cooperating fully with the mapping and all the things that went along with it.  He seemed proud of his new ears, showing them off to friends and family.  He asked to call Aunt Ry that first day so that she could “see new ears!”  I was so proud of my little man, breathing a little easier with that hurdle cleared.

And then the hard part came.

Part of his activation process is to spend some time each day using only the implant.  His hearing aid must be turned off for one hour each day to allow his brain to get acclimated with the implant.  Initially the cochlear implant makes everything sound strange.  The best explanation I’ve been given is that everything sounds kind of squeaky, like Minnie Mouse and differentiation between voices or different types of noises is all but impossible at first.  Over time his brain will be retrained to understand the electronic impulses but at first everything sounds like the inside of Minnie Mouse’ head.  Monster does not like this one little bit.

The first day I turned his hearing aid off while he was outside playing.  Immediately agitated, Monster kept crying, “turn back on, turn back on” while reaching for both devices trying desperately to return his hearing to normal.  My mom distracted him with a lollypop and he calmed down.  He asked for his aid to be turned back on intermittently throughout the next 40 minutes but overall he acquiesced to hearing with just his implant.  Unfortunately he did not appear to understand anything that was said during that first hour.   It was unsettling: the blank looks whenever we asked him a question.  Eventually we turned the hearing aid back on and let the tension of those 40 minutes settle, assuming it would be easier tomorrow.

It wasn’t.

Day two I put both devices into his ears after naps but never turned the hearing aid on in the first place.  It was an epic failure on my part.  I did it this way because I thought it would be smoother, rather than taking away the comfort of his “regular hearing” I thought it would be easier to not introduce it at all after naps.  In retrospect I think he thought this mode of hearing was permanent and everything had changed forever. 

At any rate he cried and cried devastated tears.  This time he didn’t even ask for his hearing aid to be turned on.  He just grieved.  I held my boy as he sobbed knowing he was being thrown unto an uncomfortable situation where he felt little control, knowing he was unhappy and frustrated and didn’t have the language to communicate or understand why.  Knowing he must be scared and confused and more than a little freaked by how different everything sounded.  I wanted desperately to take it all away, but I didn’t.

I don’t know what was harder, watching him cry and mourn and wrestle with these big feelings or knowing there was an easy fix and choosing not to use it.

Because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?  I could have turned his hearing aid on, problem solved.  It would have made everything better, lightened the load for my sweet boy who has already borne so much this year.  It was all I wanted to do really.  Just turn the damn hearing aid back on and make it better.

But, though it may have been better, it wasn’t best.  I’m realizing that parenting requires a lot of “doing difficult things.”  Some of these hard things are flung upon us, matters in which we have no choice but to put our head down and one foot in front of the next, each step more unbearable then the last because there are no easier options.  Those situations are hard, but in a way the lack of choice helps.  There is only one way to go, difficult as it may be, and so you go.

Sometimes though as parents we must choose to do the hard things even in the face of easier options.  Because the hard thing is the best thing.  It is the thing that will shape our kids, define their character, enable them to survive on their own.  Painful and torturous as it may be to send our kids into the fire alone, it is there where they are refined.  Keeping them safe is more dangerous in the long run.

And I remember my Jesus who chose the hard path time and again.  Who could turn water into wine and fish into more fish but chose to fast in the wilderness for forty days because it was the right, hard thing to do.  And I think of his Father who sent him into the world fully human to suffer not just death, but a life where he would be misunderstood and mistreated.  He chose to put Jesus into a life of hard things because that was the best thing.

And I realize Monster and I, we’re in good company.

She's Still Here...

We joke that it’s been the “summer of Monster.”  Since May when he started “big school” our focus, energy and thoughts have fallen on him a disproportionate amount.  There are good reasons to all of this; it’s been a summer of adjustments for my Monster.  Big school, an MRI, his cochlear implant and finally the implant activation this week, it seems that every few weeks Monster was thrown into some new and disorienting situation from which it took some time to recover.   And if my Monster is adverse to anything it’s new and disorienting situations that break his routine.  Through it all I’ve kept an eye on my Toots, unable to really do anything to change the situation, but frustrated by how often she was pushed to the background.  

Fortunately she is as easy-going as her brother is desperate for routine.  She's still here, seemingly content with our current situation and the lack of equal attention.  

Make no mistake, a wallflower this child is not.  She will, and does, demand attention when necessary.  She just does it most often with a huge grin or cheese face, easily placated by anyone, really, who will toss a smile her way.

sucking every last bit of ice cream out of the bowl

She has been a ray of sunshine in a summer of doing hard things.  Joy in heaviness. 

She astounds me, this child of mine so like me in so many ways.  While her brother will sit orderly and neatly right next to you when cuddling, this one sprawls all over, unaware or unconcerned if her foot is in your face or her elbow is digging into your stomach.  Much like her mother does with her father (to his chagrin).  She loves books, carrying them all over the house, pretending to read my copy of “Daring Greatly,” engrossed despite the lack of pictures.  I did this too when I was young.

Her personality is emerging in fresh, fun ways.  She instigates, often stealing toys just to get a rise out of her brother (who, bless him, inexplicably does not usually bite).  She flirts and plays, always engaging with the world around her.  Music makes her bop her little butt up and down. 

eating a whole apple because her brother is so, obviously she can too

She is also no longer willing to be denied the pleasures her brother is bestowed.  If he gets a sucker at Trader Joe’s, she must have one too.  Same with ice cream after dinner and new books from Nona.  I understand why you can’t keep things fair in the “introducing them to things at the same age” department.

I’m looking forward to Monster’s return to school and some one-on-one time with my best girl.  My friend Charity says that the birth of Toots brought out the best in me.  I came into myself more fully when she came onto the scene.  I think that if Monster is the kid that made me a mother Toots is the one that made me confident in my mothering.  She brought a sense of peace and settled-ness to my deepest self.  To see so much of myself in her and love her so fully has softened me towards myself a little more.

I mean, this face.  How could you not just love it?

For Whit

The Thirtieth Birthday Tour continues!  As my friends and I turn thirty I'm trying to honor some of them with words.  You can read a few others here, here and here.  Today, on the eve of Whit's birthday I toast her with love.  Happy Birthday friend.

Unlike my other college roommate, Sarah, I remember exactly when and where I first laid eyes on Whit.  Bid day, freshmen year of college.  I was on cloud nine because I’d been invited to join my first choice sorority.  It was the only one I hoped to claim membership to; the reason I continued on to each next stage of the rush process was because they kept asking me back.  I saw Whit across the big ballroom of the Union where we picked up our bids and waited to be picked up by our new sisters.  She was wearing a long red cardigan sweater, the thick cozy kind I always envisioned myself wearing.  She had really smart looking glasses (long before every hipster wore glasses as part of "their look") and Keri Russell curly hair.  It should be noted that for all of high school the television show Felicity encapsulated everything I dreamed of becoming in college.  There was Whit, looking exactly like the cool, independent college girl I dreamed of becoming.  She looked like someone who read high literature for fun, discussed feminism and justice while drinking beer and smoking cigarettes.  She looked like she belonged in college.  I was still wearing overalls and pigtails and couldn't wait for the next Harry Potter book to come out.  I did not belong in college.

I watched her for a little while that day because she intrigued me so much.  She was crying.  Not uncommon as many people ended up in houses they did not want to be in.  At one point I got close enough to see her nametag with her future sorority on it.  Chi Omega.  My house.  I had two thoughts in that moment.  Why is she crying, doesn’t everybody want to be a Chi O? and Man, we’ll never be friends.  She is too cool for me.

Oh how thankful I am to have been partly wrong about that last one.

Whit was too cool for me, but somehow in the course of that first semester of college we became fast friends.  We lived in the same dorm, in instant unifier when you are a college freshman.  Said dorm was an incredibly long trek from our sorority house, so there were many opportunities to get to know one another walking back and forth from various sorority functions.  Whit fascinated me.  She was funny and smart.  She had unique tastes all her own.  She was deep and thoughtful and sensitive, but would still throw herself up against the coffee shop window, startling the poor soul trying to study on the other side just to make me laugh.  She was in so many ways the kind of person I wanted to be, but knew I could never quite pull off.   

In Whit I found a friend so completely different than me in so many ways, but yet also so beautifully similar.  On the surface we couldn't have been more opposite, but there was something in her core that felt like family to mine.  I couldn’t understand why she would want to be friends with me, but I was always so, so thankful she did.

Over the years Whit has been the kind of friend who shows up time and again.  Half the time I can’t even remember my anniversary but I always, always get some sort of a card or gift from her on July 7^th.  One year she found out where Tommy and I were going to celebrate and ordered a bottle of champagne for us ahead of time.  Monster was born at 5pm on a Sunday.  By 8pm, Whit was at the hospital.  With balloons.  She's been to first birthday parties and baptisms and all the other important moments in between.    

Whit has always had a tender, compassionate heart.  As her roommates we had to safely capture the bugs in our apartment and let them out into the wild.   Now she is a vegetarian, dog rescuing, composting, green thinking lady.  She speaks for the trees and the animals and anyone else that need a voice.

Whit creates fun wherever she goes.  Last month in Nashville she showed up with coordinating fringe tops and cowboy hats for us to wear.  In college she had a bin of weird, crazy costumes and we wore those things out more times than I’d like to admit.  We were both English majors at U of I and our advisor gave us the (poor) advice take Entomology 105, the study of bugs, as our “easy” science credit.  The class was intensely hard; I pulled my only all-nighter for the last exam.  Whit wore a spider costume to the final.  When you are friends with Whit some sort of hilarious adventure is always just around the corner.

My sweet friend has been a “go-to” for me for 12 years now.  I can always count on her for a solid conversation that makes me think, lets me vent, spurs me on or joins in joy.  She is thoughtful and wise, witty and silly.  For 30 years this girl has been bringing joy and love into the world.  She was everything I instinctually knew she would be when I first spotted her all those years ago.  And also so much more.  She has continued to grow and change, soften and learn over the years.  Her friendship is a time capsule for some of my most favorite memories and deepest secrets.  I am so thankful to have been wrong that day in the Union.  Her friendship and the things it has taught me have profoundly changed my life.  There is no one quite like Whit.  And I don’t think there ever will be.

Happy 30^th my love.  You are treasured.   

Some (More) Thoughts on Grace

I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo recently.  I’ve sort of always been thinking about getting a tattoo.  It’s one of those things I’ve long desired to do, but never quite had the chutzpah to cross off the bucket list.  I sat in a tattoo parlor in Nashville once, watching as two inked up artists permanently branded two dear friends, wishing I had bit the bullet and joined in.

The thing that always holds me back (besides the knowledge that my mom will refuse to look at me for an unspecified period of time) is that I’ve never known what to get a tattoo of.  What symbol or words mean enough to forever reside on my body?  For a long time nothing carried enough significance for that kind of permanence.

A theme has been emerging in my life that I think may just be the only one worthy of tattoo status.  It’s simple and complex, age old and yet still fresh.  It’s probably the only thing I could write a whole book on and still have more to say.

It is grace.

Grace is perhaps the most beautiful word ever written.  When I think on it, my love of grace is not a new phenomenon.  Thirteen years ago when U2’s All That you Can’t Leave Behind was my favorite album I listened to the song “Grace” relentlessly, copying the lyrics into my journal, meditating on the words.  Stories of grace and redemption are always my favorite, the ones that linger with me the longest. 

Lately though I seem to be seeing grace everywhere.  I find that with grace I can encounter it daily and still see it as though I’ve never borne witness before.  I am still surprised by grace, perpetually astounded by the depths of compassion among humanity.  Acts of grace, from the grandest to the simplest, never fail to take my breath away.

A few weeks ago, in Nashville once again, I found myself in another tattoo parlor.  And before I could stop myself I was looking at the word grace in so many different “handwritten looking” fonts that the word started to look foreign.  

And then I was lying on my stomach with my forearms out, palms up waiting for the artist to begin his work.  Ninety seconds later grace remained.

My husband likes this picture because the fresh
blood peeking through reminds him grace "is
sometimes messy"

These five letters, this one simple word, residing on my body forever means something to me.  Originally I had planned to place the tattoo on my foot so that I am always standing in grace, but the more I thought about it the more I wanted the tattoo on my wrist.  I want to carry grace in my arms wherever I go.  I want to extend it to others and hold it closely for myself.  I want the regular, visual reminder to be a person of grace.   It’s a reminder to be gentle with myself.  To have grace in each moment.  For myself as much as for others. 

A few tattooed weeks later I’ve come to treasure the writing on my wrist.  g-r-a-c-e.  The scabbiness has peeled off and its permanence has set in.  After lots of time studying it I’ve realized it’s a little off-centered, veering ever so slightly to the right.  At first it bugged me, but now I kind of like it that way.  It reminds me that grace is for the imperfections.

According to that song I listened to relentlessly, grace is a “thought that/changed the world.”  “Grace makes beauty/out of ugly things…  finds beauty/ in everything…finds goodness/in everything.“  I can’t think of anything more lovely to mark me forever. 

I hope someday to have studied grace so thoroughly, practiced it so completely that it no longer surprises me.  I hope someday I have lived in grace so fully that I expect it, not taking it for granted, but recognizing it as a sure sign that God is present in it all.  His grace is complete and found it the unlikeliest of places.  His grace has changed the world, making beauty out of it all.  My wrist reminds me to keep looking for it, keep paying attention to it, keep living in it.  It’s there.   And it’s lovely.