Category Archives: Invitations

God Is Not in Control, Epilogue

I never intended to write four posts about how God is not in control. What began as one question has evolved into piles of questions, most of which remain unanswered. But today I really am going to wrap up with a final post on the topic (at least for a while).

As I’ve reflected on what it looks like to move away from “God has a plan” and “God is in control,” I’ve found those sentiments everywhere—in books, emails, prayers, small group conversation. We are so desperate for control that we have assigned it to God with certainty and force.

Dare I say evangelism springs from a desire to control? We want people to be on our side. We want them to be “saved”—from what? Eternal burning? I don’t believe in that. Pain? We’re all on the pain train. A meaningless life? Okay, but fitness or family or any number of things can provide meaning in life. Are we proving we’re right by convincing other people to think the way we think? Are we earning God’s favor? Trying to avoid eternal separation from people we love?

Doggedly we seek to control how our lives turn out, how other people’s lives turn out, how the world and eternity turn out. We want to do our part. We want God to do His part.

Jesus wasn’t big on asking people to agree with Him before they followed Him. What if we invited people to follow us, to see what life is like for a human well-loved by God, taught by Jesus, and emotionally intimate with the Spirit? What would it look like if evangelism focused on showing what a messy life looks like with God, rather than on cleaning up the mess?

Church people like to talk about being “in” or “out” of the church. “Our neighbors aren’t in church any more.” “Her oldest boy stopped going to church.” When a kid is “out” of church, the parent doesn’t rejoice and say, “I’m so happy I have no control, and so grateful that God gives the power of choice. I can see the spiritual freedom in my daughter’s choice to not believe in God. It illustrates God’s character beautifully.” Nope. We go to battle, employing rigorous prayer and subtle (or not-so-subtle) manipulation; we adjust our theology; we feel sad and helpless; we obsess about it or refuse to think about it at all.

While eager to praise God for free will and the power of choice, we simultaneously do everything possible to control the people She puts in our lives. Is that because we’d rather trust Her control than Her goodness? Would we rather eradicate addition than accept discomfort? “Better safe than sorry,” we say, not realizing that our version of safety insulates us from God. Am I willing to trust in God rather than trust in the safety She provides? Harry Shaumburg put it like this, and it gives me pause:

As I learn to trust God, I acknowledge how little I really know of what it means to rely on God and demand nothing. I’ve seen only a glimpse of what it means to put my confidence in God in a way that goes beyond a demand for safety and comfort. Yes, I have tasted what it means to have faith in God … but I’ve only begun to trust … [T]rust is a decision to enter the reality of a fallen world that is at best disturbing.

False Intimacy, by Harry Schaumburg, page 87

I used to think trust ought to take me out of reality. Schaumburg suggests the opposite—that trusting God will immerse me in the reality of our disturbing, broken world. Do I really want that? On the other hand, do I want God to control this spastic world into submission? I don’t respond well to the people in my life who control. I move away from them, subvert their efforts, focus on our differences, and even flaunt my choice to not do what they want. That’s not the response I hope to evoke in friends, or strangers. Am I willing to trust God while feeling the discomfort of humanity? Willing to not know what He’s going to do about this mess?

God invites me to exhale the need for life—mine and everyone else’s—to turn out well, then inhale love. Love is spontaneous, annoying kindness; food and forgiveness; boundaries and truth—in all places at all times. When control dies, an unexpected stream of creativity emerges and confirms my identity: made in the image of God who creates.

Rich Notes

Rich Notes

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Queen of the Universe,
for music—
the sound of feelings;
the sound of deep knowledge
too meaty, or mystical,
for words.

Blessed are You
for my favorite song,
captivating me still,
aural delight,
richer even than I remembered.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Queen of the Universe,
for music—
a pile of invitations,
to laugh, weep, dance,
sing in the kitchen,
turn up the radio,
raise our hands, as if reaching
to toast Heaven with a glass
of our best and richest creation,
notes and words,
instruments and voices,
breaking us wide open,
intimacy with You,
our divine Mother.

God Is Not in Control, Part 3

When one person wants good things for another person, does that lead to a desire for control? In my relationships with my children, my parents, and my spouse, I’d say Yes. I have felt controlled by every family member, and in my turn I have tried to control them—often because I want good things for them. I want my kids to develop skills that will help them thrive as adults. I don’t want anyone to hurt them. I want them to be kind and confident and responsible. I want my spouse to get plenty of sleep and maintain a healthy weight. I want my parents to enjoy life.

But is the basis of all these good desires the fear of what may come if these things don’t happen—if things aren’t this way? Do I want a better marriage for my friend because I fear the marriage she’s in? Do I want better health for my spouse because I fear what poor health would do to our lives? Do I want my friend Alana to have better mental health because I fear her depression will affect the atmosphere of our small group? When life goes off the rails it may cost time, money, reputation, quality of life. Isn’t it better to stay on the rails?

I used to think so, but now I’m not sure. At what cost does a person stay on the rails? What is lost to the god of control? I don’t want to admit it, but likely what is lost is what I was trying to protect—peace, safety, belonging.

God’s way of moving in the world hardly resembles mine. He wants good things for us but has no desire to control. He is not fearful, because He is love. He is not trying to guard His resources or His reputation—He already gave both to us. God’s love is a love intertwined with loss and longing. It’s a love that accepts pain, and repeats the same loving action a 100th time even though there was no response the first 99 times. It is a voracious love, eager for more encounters.


Stacey Bess spent seven years teaching transient or homeless children, grades K-12, in a homeless shelter. Many of these children attended The School With No Name for only 90 days, the typical length of stay at the shelter. In her memoir, Nobody Don’t Love Nobody, Bess introduces Karen, a woman she connected with at the shelter through conversation and nights out. Later, when Karen had a baby, she moved in with Bess’s mom, who helped care for baby Liza. Bess and her mother provided safety, midnight taxi service, food and clothing. They did everything they knew to do to help Karen create a healthy life. But things didn’t turn out how they hoped. In Bess’s words:

Karen brought us to feel and know about tragedy in a completely new way. We wanted desperately to fix her. I picker her up every time she called, day or night, and my mother put up with her tantrums and drug use, both of us full of hope and confident in the power of love alone to heal all wounds. But what we learned from Karen was that sometimes the giving has to be enough.

Nobody Don’t Love Nobody, page 42

Karen didn’t lean in to a healthy life. Love didn’t “do the trick.” My immediate response is that Bess and her mom were overly optimistic. They needed better boundaries and a reality check.

But Bess’s conclusion was, “sometimes the giving has to be enough.” In other words, what they did was enough. Nothing was lost.

C. S. Lewis wrote, “Love is never wasted, for its value does not rest upon reciprocity.” This feels right and true to me, but … isn’t the value of God’s love that it saves us? What is the point if no one responds? Bess and her mother loved Karen and Liza, but it sure looks like the saving part didn’t happen. It is often said that Jesus would have died to save only one. What about none?

After “God so loved the world that He gave His only Son,” we have, “so that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have everlasting life.” Everlasting life—even if interpreted as fullness of life rather than living for billions of years and then more—is an outcome. Love does something. What happens if there is no “so that”? Could it be that God’s love affects us even if it doesn’t save us? Is that effect worthwhile?

I have no record of Karen’s inner world, but I’d bet she knew those women loved her. She certainly trusted them. Does God covet our trust more than a change in our behavior? More than a longterm relationship? Does He want us to know He loves us, more than He wants to save us? That could change everything.

A quick look in my Strong’s concordance reveals that the word “plan” isn’t in the Bible. I’m not by any means an advocate of returning to the King James Version of the Bible, but I find it intriguing that much-beloved Jeremiah 29:11, usually quoted as, “I know the plans I have for you,” reads this way in the KJV: “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil.” Maybe God’s will isn’t a plan, so much as it is His thoughts toward us. Maybe Jesus showed us what God’s will looked like, more than what God’s plan entailed. Maybe love, the absence of control, leads directly to spontaneous liking, which is the soil of belonging.

Spontaneity is the antithesis of control. It requires presence more than planning, and curiosity more than control. As humans we often forgo belonging in pursuit of acceptance, “the action or process of being received as adequate or suitable, typically to be admitted into a group.” Pursuit of acceptance gives us control. If I can perform or conform my way into a group—if I can make myself suitable—I have some control. Belonging cannot be wrangled, and has a rather slippery definition: “an affinity for a place or situation.” I looked up the word “affinity” to put some flesh on that very short definition of belonging. Affinity is, “a spontaneous or natural liking for something or someone.” So, belonging is spontaneous or natural liking for a place or situation—or, I would add, for a person.

“Spontaneous liking” sounds terribly out of control. But it leaves room for imperfection and it embodies joy. If love is the pain of not being in control, is belonging the joy of embracing imperfection? Maybe I can want good things for a person—work for them, even—but ultimately allow the giving to be enough, and allow trust and belonging to matter more than saving.

Evolution of Joy

Evolution of Joy

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for happiness, unexpected.
I feel buoyant, excited even.
How did this happen?

For more than twenty-five years
I thought my life
was a job well done.
For ten more years
I served my life
as a sentence.
Today? Life is
an invitation.
Blessed are You, Lord,
for this evolution.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for inviting me
to a preexisting fullness
and a predetermined wealth,
the pleasure of being me.

Imagine it—joy,
not because I earned it,
but rather,
here it is in front of me—
the sky at dawn,
fleece leggings and slippers,
London fog to warm my hands and belly,
Phiona-cat’s antics,
pomegranates divided into bumpy wedges,
JJ Heller Christmas songs,
the smell of gingerbread in the oven.
Blessed are You, Lord,
for this revolution.

God Is Not in Control, Part 2

“God is not in control” opens a can of worms. Worms don’t line up neatly or make a sharp illustration, but they are certainly alive. Over the last few weeks I’ve jotted down a number of quotes, and perhaps each one is a worm in the can. In this post I’ll pick them up one at a time to observe and question, before putting them back.
Next week I’ll wrap up with Part 3 of “God Is Not in Control.”


The God we’ve settled for is red in the face and pretends he doesn’t know us at parties. But the God we actually have is never embarrassed by us.”1

Beginning with my parents, and right on down the line, no human has exactly wanted me to be me. I don’t even want me to be me. But God is cool with me being me, despite the fact that on some level it costs us both. God would rather know me than control me.


It seems clear there’s no way to manipulate God with how we pray or what we say.”2

This statement feels obvious, but when I came across it in the book I was reading last week, it stopped me. Somehow it doesn’t match what I’ve learned in church and Scripture. Doesn’t God respond to prayer based on our persistence, faith, and asking according to Her will? The Bible tells us to pray in these ways—for what, if not for results? Yet anyone who prays with regularity finds out there is no formula and God is unpredictable.

Do I really want a formulaic God? Although the unpredictability irritates me at times, manipulating or controlling God would put our relationship in a tenuous position. Once I’ve manipulated someone, I no longer know if they’re doing what they’re doing because it matters to them—or because I whined or threatened. I want to know that God does what matters to Her, and I suspect she, too, values authenticity from me. He is willing to accept some amount of pain and chaos as the cost of not manipulating or controlling. He actually wants me to be me.


“… love is wild territory. It’s where people who don’t have control go and linger … Finding the self inside the skin.”

How does a person love when they are alone? What does love look like when I’m awake in the middle of the night? Did the saints in solitude—whether by their will or against it—love while they were alone? Did they love anyone other than God?

Could I give another person my attention when I’m not with them?

Perhaps loving when I am alone is a practice, a lingering in love’s wild territory. Rehearse forgiveness. Remember my favorite things about my husband. Release control of situations I want to fix. Would loving someone while I’m not with them have an impact on them? On me?

If love is attention, could I gift myself my attention? Find “the self inside [my] skin”? Can I love when I’m brushing my teeth and notice my mind overheating, trying to make everything logical? Receive God’s love when I’m alone? This might look like peace or enjoyment—knowing I am centered, enough, delighted in, and aware more of who I am than what I am doing.


That love gets me every time / My heart changed my mind / And I gol’ darn gone and done it.4

Does a heart change a mind, or does a mind change a heart? I suppose it doesn’t matter. God is active in my mind to change my heart, in my heart to change my mind, in my body to mold my spirit, and in my spirit to touch my body. He may not be in control, but He makes up for it by being the thing that wouldn’t quit. What doesn’t yield to control may yield to loving persistence. Like the woman in Jesus’ parable who kept after the unjust judge, God keeps after us. She persuades us, not because of our morals, but in spite of them. He connects to our center, from which everything else grows. She is with us to be with us, not to control the future.


Then he said to the woman, ‘I will sharpen the pain of your pregnancy, and in pain you will give birth. And you will desire to control your husband, but he will rule over you.’”5

I’m not sure I believe in the devil, but let’s assume for a moment that s/he does exist. Is the devil in control? Certainly his character doesn’t preclude control. And if love is not control, I’d say the devil is controlling—the opposite of love. From the Serpent’s first appearance in the garden, she has been suggesting that God controls us—“Don’t eat that.” “Don’t go there.” I can believe the lie and slip into a life attempting to manipulate God and hoping He’ll control me into salvation. Or I can say, “Love’s not like that. Love moves toward me with goodwill, not to force my hand, but to hold it.”

I’m made in God’s image, with agency and love. This leaves the devil in a difficult position. The thing she wants most is out of her grasp. It is only in deception that he has power. And what better way to deceive than to promote the message that God is in control?


The one thing all of us—gay, straight, male, female, conservative, liberal, and on the continuum between the absolutes—have in common is the fear that we won’t be accepted, the fear of what we’ll lose if we are ‘known.’… being known is worth fighting for. It’s worth betting everything on. It’s risky. It’s terrifying. But it’s the only thing that matters.”6

God knows this, and it’s why He won’t control. He’d rather know me than control me, and He’d rather be known by me than controlled by me. God is not in control. She’s in something much better. She’s in love.

Endnotes:
1Boyle, Gregory. The Whole Language (page 7)
2Hill, Jeffrey D. Seeking the Triune Image of God in You (page 144)
3Raybon, Patricia. My First White Friend (page 12)
4lyric from Shania Twain’s song, Love Gets Me Every Time, https://www.musixmatch.com/
5Genesis 3:16, NLT
6Davis, Cynthia Vacca. Intersexion (pages 223, 232)

Twilight

Twilight

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for evening.
Trees slip into black pajamas
as color drains from the sky,
pooling at the edges,
vivid feather boas draping the sun.

Blessed are You
for slowness of twilight,
a dissolving that escapes notice
until I get distracted,
and looking back to the sky,
find it changed.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for those things that spark alive
even as I dim.
Owls and mice open their eyes,
stars twinkle, dew forms,
and streams gurgle night music.
My ears attune as my eyes rest,
kissed to sleep by the softness of twilight.

Get To Know the Couple

November 20 marked 30 years since Pastor Bryson baptized me at the Milo Adventist Academy Seventh-Day Adventist Church—my home church. I attended that church, beginning in utero, until I moved away for college at the age of 18. An evangelistic series in the school gymnasium pulled me to baptism in an emotional rush. Less emotional were the pre-baptismal Bible lessons. On a cold day in November, my older sister and I donned baptismal robes and took the plunge in a warm baptistry.

I’ve never looked back. Although today I’m less certain about the words on the baptismal certificate I signed, I’m more certain about the relationship.

To celebrate thirty years with a little fun, I’ve compiled questions from “Get To Know the Couple” games and answered them for God and myself.

Where did they work when they met?
Tobi was a full-time child and God was a full-time lover

How long have they been together?
Pretty much forever

Where did they get engaged?
In the Milo Adventist Academy gymnasium

What did they do on their first date?
Go to church (sorry it’s not more glamorous)

Are they cat or dog people?
Tobi is a cat person, God can’t decide

Who said “I love you” first?
God

What is something they have in common?
A desire to create safe spaces where people can share their inner world, their stories

Who is more high maintenance?
Tobi

Are they morning people or night people?
Morning people, although they can have a good time at night too

Who is the most patient?
God

What is the bride’s middle name?
Danielle

What is the groom’s middle name?
He has too many to list. One of the bride’s favorites is El Roi

What is their favorite type of food?
Fruit

What are their pet names for each other?
Tobi’s current pet name for God is Love, and his current pet name for her is Meadow.

What is their favorite place?
Anywhere still and quiet—especially a chair by the window

How old is the groom?
Nobody really knows, but he still looks good

What is their favorite thing to do together?
Write

Who is the better cook?
Tobi

Who is more stubborn?
Tobi, she hates changing direction

Who takes longer to get ready?
God, he has no idea how to hurry

Who spends more money?
God

Where was the bride born?
Canyonville, Oregon

What does the groom do for work?
Still a full-time lover.

What was their wedding date?
November 20, 1993

What is one thing they want to do together in the next 30 years?
Start a nonprofit writing group

As I mentioned, God has lots of names. Also—and this may seem weird—he doesn’t always look the same. So if you see me out with someone you don’t recognize, or hear me talking about a guy with a different name, text me before you freak out. It’s probably God in one of his other bodies or using one of his other names. He’s a dynamic fellow. I’m honored to be his bride of 30 years.

God Is Not in Control, Part 1

“God is in control.” Words meant to comfort. Words spoken when I lose control—whether through error in judgement, the economy, the uncensored hand of death, actions of those I love, or the wildness of the elements. Is it because I cannot bear to lose control that I grab God by the shoulders and shove Him into the driver’s seat? “Jesus, take the wheel!”

“God is in control,” country singers sing and preachers preach and friends placate.

“God is in control.”

Some can’t quite get those words out of their mouth because they have looked around. If God were in control, wouldn’t She do something about the multi-billion-dollar porn industry in the West, and war in the Middle East? What about starvation? “Well, God is ultimately in control,” we say, as if God has a free pass to wait to use His control for our good until later.

It’s later.

“God is in control, but He gives us the power of choice.” This I have believed my whole life, but I don’t know what it means. Ministers explain it with scripture and compelling illustrations, but I’m lost. So, God can send an angel down here to save someone’s life (control), but She can’t tell me what to do (choice)? Wait, but She does tell me what to do and I’m supposed to obey Her. So She does control me, but only with my consent? Is that consent once-and-for-all, like a blank check for God to sign my destiny, or does my consent essentially stay in my bank account, spent only as I respond to God?

Perhaps parenting holds a partial answer to these questions. Last I noticed, I am not in control of my kids. I employ emotional manipulation, vocal volume, stonewalling, imposed consequences, removal of privileges, or plain old anger, but my kids do as they choose with their minds, their little arms and legs, their exasperating attention spans. My children did not consent to my control when they were born into our family, nor do they sign over their destiny as they reach a more mature age. They don’t think, Wow. Look at this adult who knows more than I do. I’ll let her make my decisions.

On the contrary, they watch me make my own decisions and think, I want to do that. When do I get to be independent? And they practice independence daily, as they leave food on their plates, sneak candy, take 27 minutes to dress, give spontaneous hugs, and say, “You’re the best Mama in the world.” Those words are meaningful precisely because I am not in control of them.

What if God is not in control? What if He doesn’t choose to comfort us, to save us, by being in control?

A visit to my Strong’s concordance reveals the word “control” is not in the Bible. At least not in the King James Version. More recent versions have a handful of instances. A Google search doesn’t reveal anything about the origins of this saying—that will be a research project for another day. I suspect somewhere along the line we devised “God is in control” to sidestep unanswerable questions. But this leaves us in a precarious position.

Gregory Boyle writes, “God no more has a plan than holds a grudge. There is, of course, a short hop between ‘God had a plan for me to become an orthopedic surgeon’ to ‘My four-year-old son just died of a brain tumor.’ Short hop. You can’t have this both ways. If God ‘plans’ you getting your medical license, God also has orchestrated your son’s demise.”1 I may not share Boyle’s certainty, but it makes me think twice about saying God is in control.

If God is not in control, what is He? In charge? This, too, is a question for another day. Today I want to consider what I gain and what I lose if God is not in control.

First, what do I lose? I lose the comfort of predictability. God is not holding the wheel. The blessings do not rain down as the prayers go up. The miracles don’t happen in proportion to my prayer life. Chaos is actually chaos, not just the appearance of it. Natural disasters are natural. Most disappointing of all is that if God doesn’t get to control me, I don’t get to control Her.

But, I gain intimacy. The word “intimacy” brings up other words, like “close” and “safe,” images of connection. Yet real intimacy is messy. In the book False Intimacy, I was surprised to find this statement: “Within the enjoyment of real intimacy, both partners experience fear of being exposed, fear of abandonment, fear of loss of control, and fear of their respective sexual desires.”2 I had assumed those fears indicated a lack of intimacy, yet when I reflected on this definition and my own experience of intimacy in marriage, the two were a perfect match. It was in encountering fear, speaking it and feeling it, that Michael and I escaped the confines of our good behavior and embraced being broken together. Belonging.

How does this work with God? Does He feel these fears? Is intimacy vulnerable for Her? “Intimate” may be the best word to describe getting stripped naked, beaten, nailed to thick boards, and erected like a monument. Intimacy—releasing control of image, of hateful people, of relationship. Watching those who love you run for cover, and those who loathe you crowd closer. Exposure, abandonment, loss of control—it’s all there. It’s our invitation to reveal our own exposures, abandonment, and inability to control, and in so doing to become one flesh with God.


Endnotes:
1Boyle, Gregory. The Whole Language (page 5)
2Schaumburg, Harry. False Intimacy (page 18)

Just Give Up

I thought the important people were doing away with daylight-saving time, but then I found out they argue about this all the time and nothing is changing. So, last weekend we set our clocks back. As I reveled in the productivity of an extra-long day, I thought back to DST the year our daughter, Kayt, made us a family of three.

Sleep is my drug of choice, so, naturally, I determined that my babies would sleep well. I may have been a wee bit obsessive. When Kayt was two months old, I began tracking her sleep in a spreadsheet. There must be a pattern to her nights and naps, but it wasn’t obvious. I hoped the visual aspect of a spreadsheet would help me find that pattern and answer some questions: How many hours does she sleep at night? Is her morning nap at 9:30 or 10:00? How long is she usually awake before she starts to get sleepy?

For nearly three months I kept notes as Kayt slept and woke, and diligently filled in the cells of the spreadsheet. It was color-coded, blue for night and pink for day. Total hours of sleep were tallied at the bottom. Cells highlighted in yellow indicated when Kayt was tucked in for sleep but was crying or otherwise not sleeping. Cells highlighted in red indicated the start time of any nap 1.5 hours or longer.

I still have that spreadsheet in my Google Docs account. It shows that at two months old, Kayt went to sleep for the night any time between 8:30pm to 1:30am. I’m not surprised my husband and I began “sleep training” with her.

In preparation for sleep training, I created a document to outline bedtime routine, nap-time routine, general schedule for nights and naps, and a description of the sleep environment: white noise, elevated mattress (suggested in a book on sleep), nightlight plugged in where it shed the least direct light on the crib. The document also contained a section titled “Other questions,” as follows:

- Is some of the soothing after swaddling? How much? Offer pacifier, or just forget it?
- What is the absolute longest we’re willing to let her cry without picking her up?
- Ok to check on her any time? Is facial expression important?
- Does one of us need to be on shift until she is asleep? If so, what does that entail? Do we need to be able to hear her just in case something goes wrong? Would it be a bad idea to sit in the room with her?
- If we are overwhelmed by the crying, what are the options? One stays while the other gets out of the house? Watch a movie? Are we concerned about having white noise cover her crying and then not being able to tell what’s going on in her room?
- Do we both do the bedtime routine with her whenever possible? Take turns?

Mercy.

Despite the mostly-unanswered questions, I felt warm and maternal that first night as I cuddled a clean, swaddled baby and gently placed her in the white wooden crib. I turned on lullabies and retired to the living room.

It worked! She fell asleep. For ninety minutes. Then the crying started. I turned up the lullabies so she could hear them above her squall. After five minutes of that, we switched to white noise. My warm maternal feelings deteriorated as I sat with my husband, watching the clock and listening to screams. No one slept until after midnight. The following weeks were not the easy three-night adjustment described in my reading.

On March 6, the week before “spring forward,” I stopped recording sleep in the spreadsheet. I had apparently been blessed with the one child in the U.S.A. who had no sleep pattern. Undaunted, I created another spreadsheet to prepare for daylight-saving time. I made a graduated two-week schedule to incrementally adjust bedtimes and slide right through DST without a hiccup. This was less than successful. I don’t remember the details, due to severe sleep deprivation at that time.

I feel weary as I look back. My own sleep was not rest, but a byproduct of exhaustion—a cold ration meant to keep me alive so I could keep a baby alive. The baby monitor woke me to listen, tense—would rustling sounds turn to cries? Hours in the rocking chair, purchased for looks and not comfort, gave me cricks everywhere.

I really wanted my kids to sleep well. I did not want tiny non-verbal people to trash my drug of choice and coo, unconcerned, while I suffered withdrawals. I read sleep books—the fat ones like Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child and the skinny ones like The 90-Minute Baby Sleep Program. I did what they said, to no effect. The Universe tried to teach me a lesson about control—something about not having it—but I wouldn’t listen. It must be possible to manage one tiny girl with white-blond hair and long fingers.

I’m a self-help junkie who consumes a pile of books each year filled with new and old philosophies on relationships and spirituality. Until I had children—our second daughter was born 21 months after Kayt—it was of little concern that the wisdom in those books typically had no lasting effect. As a mom, I needed those books to work. Instead, reading often left me feeling something was wrong with me or my children. I needed hugs more than solutions. But even I didn’t know that.

My girls, now 9 and 11 years old, still wake me up at night—they heard a noise, had a bad dream, sister is snoring too loud, thinking of scary things, too hot, too cold, worried they’ll be too tired in the morning because they’ve been lying awake. My years of laboring over their sleep left us all stressed. But, this year on “fall back” day, they slept in. When they woke they played quietly downstairs. I stayed in bed until 8am. It was glorious.

Days are easier now, and so are nights. I’m a much nicer person, too. Is it because eleven years of parenting improved my character? Or because I get to sleep at night and send my kids to school during the day? I’d like to think if a surprise baby joined our family I would take things in stride. Maybe I’d worry less and laugh more. Maybe I’d be more willing to receive the discomfort of not being in control.

Do sleep deprivation and stress bring out a person’s true character, or cause them to act out of character? Honestly, I don’t know. What I do know is that sometimes trying hard makes a problem worse. There are aspects of life that cannot be prevailed upon by hard work, and children are on the list. I doubt anything I did or didn’t do in those early years could have produced a sleep situation happy for all. What I truly needed was to be seen and affirmed, and I found that in friendship, not sleep books.

So, if I dare give advice to battle-worn heroes of the nursery, here it is: Take the books with a grain of salt, lean in to the friends who divulge their struggles, and just give up. Peace may be hidden under the fear of losing control.


P.S. If you’re wondering whether sleep training worked, I’m not sure. Kayt’s hours of sleep between 8pm and midnight increased significantly. Unlike the books promised, the crying didn’t happen at bedtime and result in a long night of uninterrupted sleep. It happened throughout the night, and at different times on different nights. It was an ongoing struggle that defied prediction. But by the time Kayt was one year old, I believe she was typically sleeping 12 uninterrupted hours a night. When our second daughter was born, that quickly ended. If I could start again with babies, would I do sleep training? Maybe. I hope I would follow my gut feeling and drink more coffee.

Damn Housework

I’m angry with housework. I know anger is a waste of energy, but still I seethe and sigh. The kitchen counters and bedroom floors lie to me. “Clean us,” they say. “Just 20 minutes a day and you’ll have a tidy, happy home.” So I clean them. Only to find the bread bag stuck to the shelf in the fridge where something spilled two months ago, and the kids’ latest glue-paper-glitter project all over the dining room table and floor. “You’ll never catch up,” hiss the fridge and dining room. “You thought you could have a clean house, but you could clean 20 hours a week and your house would still look like this.” This isn’t fair. I’m darned if I do, and darned if I don’t.

After two weeks of cleaning more than usual, I have escaped to a coffee shop this morning because I can no longer stand my dirty house. I feel more than a little silly. After 11 years of mothering and 18 years of wife-ing, how am I at square one in housekeeping? The kids are in school full time, and I don’t work full time. Surely this is the golden age of housekeeping, the time of life where I wash the dishes and tidy the kitchen after supper, put away a pair of shoes, and straighten couch pillows on my way upstairs to put the kids to bed. Maybe I wash the windows every season, and clean grout in the bathroom. An insane little laugh escapes. What a crock, that picture, that dream.

Life is a mess. I’m angry my house doesn’t get a special exemption. Why does it have to be messy too? May I please control this one thing? I beg the Universe. It responds with cracker crumbs on the couch and cat hair in the corners.

What do I hope to find here at the coffee shop? It’s a cold morning, temperates in the 30’s for the first time this fall. I’m seated in a red vinyl chair with my laptop, and I’m the only customer under 60 years old, other than a little girl, maybe three years old, here with her grandparents. She never stops moving. She’s up on her chair, then down, now playing with a stuffed animal, now taking her grandma by the hand to look for the stuffed animal, which she has hidden. “Where did he go? Let’s keep looking,” she speaks in a strong, sweet, toddler voice. “Can we go to the park on the way home?” she asks. “It’s too cold,” says Grandpa. Why are adults always so practical?

Grandma strokes little-girl curls while Grandpa dresses the stuffed animal. Now they are getting ready to leave and the sweet sentences turn in to squeaky No!’s as Grandpa scoops the little one and takes her outside. How does this couple who must be 70 years old have the energy and patience to play hide-and-seek in a coffee shop and listen to endless chatter? How do they find the desire to follow around this busy little girl? Is it because they are grandparents and this ball of energy comes one hour at time? Or have they learned something about life that I have yet to learn, something I could apply to housekeeping?

No answers float to me through coffee-scented air. My feet are cold and I wish I had worn warmer shoes. Two men at a table near my seat are planning the HVAC and electricity for a home. One of them has a southern accent. The other has a shaved head and carries a man-purse that matches his gray-green coat. Their conversation is friendly, and turns to dog-fur trimming.

Movement outside the window alerts me to the flight of a heron above the business strip. Its steady, quiet flight calms me. I pause and sip my hot mocha. Maybe everything is okay, even though everything is not okay. I will go back to my messy house and I will not have a solution. No schedule, no discipline, and no amount of bribing or shouting at my children will produce a clean house. We do live there, after all. No one lives here at the coffee shop. Most folks have come to visit with someone they like, love, or work with. It’s nice to visit in a clean place, with a ready-made hot drink.

But I don’t want to live here. I want to live at home, with my favorite, messy people. I want my girls to be creative, even if it means scissors all over the house and cut up cotton swabs on the bathroom counter. I want my family to eat well, even if it means dirty counters and sticky floors and an overstuffed fridge. I want to provide clean clothes, even if it means piles of unfolded laundry on the couch, mixed with popcorn remnants from movie night. I want to clean dried water spots off the wall beside the bathroom sink, even though no one will notice. I want to have two cats and a rabbit, even though the house would be easier to clean without them.

I want all this, but I’m scared. If this season of life is the ideal situation for keeping a clean house, and every room is a mess, does the dream have to die? I can’t blame this dirty house on full-time work, or full-time parenting. There’s nothing left. I just don’t keep a clean house. I have friends with social lives, kids, and clean houses. But that is not my lot. Some friends have spouses who like things clean and tidy, and participate in daily routines that promote cleanliness. Mine doesn’t.

I will kill this dream before it kills me. I cannot argue with it any more. I will not abide its mocking, and I will not let it speak to me from stained toilet bowls and dusty windowsills. I may curse when my slippers stick to the kitchen floor, but I will also chuckle. I will find my way to a healthy relationship with my messy house because I want this for myself and for my family.

The average customer age in the coffee shop has gone down. A handsome man maybe a decade older than me asks if he can sit in the red vinyl chair on the other side of the table from mine. Three casually dressed men in athletic shoes assemble at the counter to order, while another group of four young guys enters the shop. Now there are a dozen male patrons and only three of us ladies. I wonder, what is it like to be on the lookout for new relationships with men? Is this coffee shop a good place to strike up a conversation? Does a different type do it here than the type who do it at bars? It occurs to me this is one area in which I am content. My husband is a ten and I have no interest in hooking up with anyone else. In fact, although Michael isn’t bothered enough by our untidy home to do much cleaning, he has taken to making the bed in the morning, for me. I love that. I love him. And damn, how lucky I am to be stressed about my house and not my marriage.

I guess I have found something here at the coffee shop. I have recaptured a modicum of gratitude. I have remembered that I am not a victim. I have received the calm of the Great Blue Heron, and the pleasure of writing in a clean space that is not my responsibility.

Two women in their forties are at the counter now, and three ladies with coiffed hair come in behind them. Gender balance is restored in the coffee shop, and goodwill is restored in me.