Category Archives: Other Stuff

For 18 Years

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For 18 Years

Blessed are You
Lord our God
King of the Universe
for 18 years of marriage,
of love—
bitter / sweet
comforting / unsettling
lonely / intimate
full

Blessed are You,
for I have seen You
in Michael’s face
in his words
his steadfastness
forgiveness

Blessed are You
Lord our God
King of the Universe
for duck pond dates
pillow talk and pillow tears
Ted Lasso
role reversals
one-liners
friendship

Blessed are You
for we have loved and endured
each other
and each other’s families.
We have learned by participation
what hurts and what heals.
Seeing, seeing
seeing each other
and then again
forever

Naked, Sacred Spirits

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Friendship drama. I feel it in my body. I watch my daughters ride the waves of acceptance and rejection in the classroom or at play dates. I listen to adult friends struggling with relational tension. I talk about my own social anxiety and parasitic desire to look good and be right. I try to help my children understand their own and others’ behaviors, to see with a heart of grace. But when there’s nothing left to do or say, tension lingers in my body. Why?

Relationships are tenuous and fragile. I don’t like that. The clock ticks, lies are believed, trust breaks, narratives are written into the brain, and suddenly I am aware that I still question my value, my belonging, my place. Maybe I was skating by on trusting that everyone, including myself, would behave maturely. Then a moment of triggering or misunderstanding cracks me open, revealing a child who is still asking if she belongs here. Is she worthy of love?

Seeing through the crack to another person’s inner child is as frightening and vulnerable as being seen through my own cracks. I don’t feel authorized to talk to another person’s inner child. I sense the import of this mutual seeing—my inner child gazing at hers through our cracks—and I freeze. The stakes are high. I know that even if she is gracious to me, I may hide in fear; and even if I reach a gentle hand toward her, she may perceive a monster, commissioned to hurt her or keep her in her place.

How will our spirits see and feel and hear each other? I have no control over this. Maybe our faces and our words will look like friendship, but our spirits will henceforth sleep with one eye open when the other person is in the room. Maybe our spirits will come out of hiding, hold hands.

Her naked spirit and my naked spirit are sacred. They live in the company of the Great Spirit, God who shaped and breathed and spoke them to life. The connections I make to prove myself, or break to save myself—God imparts holiness to each one.

The overused analogy about how we’re all God’s children may be useful here. We squabble. We finagle to divide God’s affections or allegiance, but He is unaffected. “You are my favorite,” He says. “You are my favorite,”—to a sibling who took the lion’s share of ice cream, or lied about what I did, or made a face at me when He wasn’t looking, or apologized in a sour tone. Ugh.

God is 100% on my side. God is 100% on her side. I will lean in to this challenge. I will say Namaste—the divine in me greets the divine in you.

Freedom! From My Husband

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“You have time for everything but me.” Michael spoke with resignation from his side of the bed.

I sat tense on my side of the bed. We’d had this conversation many times, and it always sounded the same. We knew it so well we probably could’ve saved time and argued in our sleep.

Not sure what to say, I listed a few of the times I had spent with him recently—a three-hour conversation Monday night, a date last Thursday, a movie yesterday after the kids were in bed. It didn’t matter. He was talking about his heart, not my schedule.

We have been awkward partners in the dance of intimacy since we met. We were head-over-heels for each other and spent up to sixty hours a week together—every moment outside of sleep, classes, and our part-time jobs on the college campus. Sometimes I wanted space, but I didn’t know how to say that. Since I didn’t ask for space, I created space with busyness or emotional distance. This had the opposite of the desired effect. Whenever I created space, Michael came closer. He wanted more time, more talking, more touching—always more. I generally tried to keep showing up, but when I inevitably created space in an under-handed way, Michael would be hurt and ask for more from me to reassure him that we were okay.

This pattern continued into our marriage. We were happy together, made decisions with minimal drama, enjoyed each other’s friendship and company, and survived many difficult conversations. But the pattern of me moving away and Michael moving closer (until he lost hope and stonewalled) stayed the same, and perhaps became even more pronounced. When kids came along and being alone was my deepest desire and most cherished dream, it didn’t help the situation.

That thing they say about the only way out of your pain is through it?—they’re right. Over the last few years, we’ve had some awful days and weeks walking through our pain. We’ve both had to make peace with feelings of rejection. Michael feels rejected when I move away from him, and I feel rejected when he can’t respect my desire for space. We both feel wrong sometimes—about ourselves, about each other. But it turns out you can’t mechanically fix a person or a relationship.

Mainly we talked, we listened, we cried, and we felt a lot of pain we had been avoiding. Michael slowly came to believe that I like him and I’m not going anywhere, even though sometimes I crave space. I slowly came to believe that Michael likes me and will still be my friend even if I move away from him. I think this is called trust.

Earlier this month, as Michael was preparing for a work trip, I kept reminding him to give me his flight times so I’d know when he would be leaving and getting back. The info was on his work computer and never handy when I asked. One evening when I brought it up again, I handed him my laptop and asked him to put the info in my calendar. He still didn’t have it nearby. Instead of flight times, he blocked out four days with the heading “Freedom!”

While he was away the following week, I chuckled each time I looked at my calendar, and every time it felt like a small miracle that we could joke about me enjoying some alone time. What used to be a trigger, a subject so dreaded that we tiptoed around it, is now an open conversation and a relational dynamic to laugh about. Oh the joys of setting the thermostat however I want and having the bed to myself.

I can’t tell you how it happened, and I guess that’s why I use the word “miracle.” Yes, we walked through our pain, we went to counseling, we fought and cried and believed lies about ourselves and each other and had to pry those lies up with a crowbar to find the truth. But then there was an element of magic, a change in the weather, a glimmer of hope that turned into quiet trust. And that is something no amount of work can bring about.

Freedom!

One Year on Antidepressants

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The year after my daughter Kayt was born felt like three years. I guess that’s when my depression began. I often said I would’ve rather given birth a second time than gone through that first year with an infant. After a lifetime of receiving praise and recognition at work and school, the transition to an unnoticed 24/7 job was rather like being plucked from the heart of New York City and dropped in backwoods Alabama. Nothing worked the way it had before.

Kayt was perfect. Even the nurses in the birthing ward said she was one of the cutest babies they’d ever seen. I liked many aspects of caring for her, but I didn’t like being tired all the time, and I didn’t like having little control over how I spent my days. As months and years passed, my resentment grew. I was angry that I didn’t get to rest. Rest always felt like a liability because it could be interrupted at any time by someone else’s urgent needs.

Depression runs in my family—both sides—but I understood little about depression. I thought it meant feeling dark all the time, being unable to get out of bed, unable to accomplish anything. Since my go-to when I’m stressed is to do more, my productivity was rarely affected by my sense of well-being (or lack thereof). I plodded on, day and night. Cook, clean, shop for groceries, open mail, plan birthday parties. Nurse babies, read to toddlers, remind preschoolers to get dressed, fight with kindergartners about the letters of the alphabet, drive kids to and from school. I was often up at night. My kids never did that magical thing the parenting books call, “when they start sleeping through the night.”

When Kayt was 21 months old, our second daughter, Kyli, was born. A year later we moved to a larger house in the same town. The girls woke several times every night for weeks after we moved. A few months later, I started counseling. I was perfectly miserable in my perfect life, and I wanted help.

My counselor, Beth, became a trusted partner on my journey. She saw me—the real kind of seeing—and she started me on the path to seeing myself with compassion. But after seven years of intermittent personal therapy and marriage counseling, Michael and I found ourselves in a dark period. My depression deepened around April that year, and by the time it leveled out in June, it had made a significant negative impact on our marriage. I resisted our marriage counselor’s nudges toward trying antidepressants, until the moment I decided that if I could do something to spare my husband from a hollow wife, and my kids from an angry mother, I ought to try it.

My kind doctor offered to see me one morning before her first patient, so I didn’t have to wait months for an appointment. She prescribed Fluoxetine, and in mid-July last year, I began the drug experiment. Four days in I wrote, “I have had a significant increase in difficulty with sleeping (which is usually a non-issue for me). I have had trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, and going back to sleep, and twice I’ve been awake long enough in the wee hours of the morning that I start to feel nauseated and have to eat something before I can go back to sleep. Michael and I both feel that I do have improved emotional capacity. It has been a tiring week, but my ability to handle things without getting overwhelmed and shutting down seems to be better than usual. And I would say I feel less dark and discouraged, despite the difficulty sleeping and the resulting tiredness.”

A few weeks later my sleep had mostly returned to normal. By October I was settling into feeling more alive than I had in ten years, so when Michael suggested that the medication was affecting my libido (it was), I told him in no uncertain terms that I would not sacrifice my mental health for an orgasm. After working through that with our counselors, it was smooth sailing.

Fall became winter and I marveled at my capacity to enjoy life. I felt a renewed sense of agency as I regained the ability to choose a response other than anger to life’s frustrations. I knew I was lucky to have responded so well to the first medication I tried. A few friends had cautioned me or expressed concern about antidepressants, and I was well aware that a wide range of negative effects were possible. But the primary effect the medication had on me was to make me feel human again.

As spring approached, I wondered what my annual spring depression would look like. Three years in a row I’d darkened inside as the days grew longer and trees blossomed. My doctor said I could increase my dose of Fluoxetine if needed. Three weeks into April, I did. In my notes I wrote, “To this point, I have only positive things to say about being on Fluoxetine. I have come alive, enjoy so many things, and am more flexible and joyful. Started feeling my spring depression a few weeks ago, so I’m planning to try the higher dose for a month. Then hoping to go the opposite direction and maybe stop taking it later this year.”

Five days later I wrote, “I feel blank, like this higher dose of antidepressants has removed all ability to feel, all motivation, and almost all thought. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep it up for a month. I write from my mental and emotional activity, so if there isn’t any, I’m not sure I’ll be able to write. I do have three topics in mind though, so I will try to write, and I will drink coffee and text friends and maybe do some yard work, definitely take a shower, force myself to cook, invite myself to enjoy the sunshine, maybe color some birthday cards for friends. I know I am okay, but I miss feeling it. I guess the plus side of being emotionally numb is that I don’t respond to everything with anger.”

Ten days later: “Thirty mg of Fluoxetine is a mixed bag. Motivation is down, libido is down, I don’t feel much emotion, haven’t cried except when Phred died (the family cat), and it seems like writing is more of a struggle. I’m just more numb, more blah. On the other hand, I feel pretty calm, not very angry. I’ve been more easily in touch with what I like and what I want, instead of what I should do, and I’ve been doing more fun things with the girls—a little less focused on tasks and more oriented to quality time. It’s weird to in some ways be more connected and in some ways more disconnected.”

After only two weeks on the higher dose, I was unable to refill one of my prescriptions and I dropped back to 20mg of Fluoxetine. A few days later I wrote, “I’m feeling good about it, now. I was pretty ‘muted’ and I’m feeling a bit more alive the last couple of days, and not too heavy.”

My spring depression slowly receded, and this summer has been the least stressful summer since kids came along 11 years ago. There’s no way of knowing how much of this has to do with antidepressants. My relationships, personal growth, the ages of my children, and even what I choose to eat and read are all in the mix. Ultimately, I’m glad I threw some drugs in there. I feel like I got my life back this past year, and I rediscovered the version of me that isn’t bitter and exhausted.

What have I learned about my mental health during this past year? I’ve noticed some things that don’t help me: exercise, to-do lists, a full schedule, guilt and shame (which can come from self-help books, religion, and—most often—my internal dialogue). There’s a longer list of things that do help me: small groups, one-on-one time with friends and with my spouse, coffee, writing, stillness, being flexible (I’ve learned this significantly reduces anger), learning to stay in friendship with myself and live out of my Spirit center, time in nature, recognizing when I fear myself, and allowing myself to experience intimacy and connection out of my imperfections (not my perfections).

My doctor encouraged me to take antidepressants for one full year and go from there. I’m a few days past the one-year mark, and trying to make a decision. I slept like shit last night and I feel like shit this morning, which makes me hesitant. On the other hand, I know what to watch for when I decrease medication: anger, loss of friendship with myself, feeling overwhelmed/helpless, moving from enjoyment to duty, feeling afraid. I’ll start my lower dose on Friday and see how it goes. There’s nothing to be afraid of. God and I and most of the people in my life are on my side. I’m not in a battle against myself (despite what the church taught me). I’m part of a big, dysfunctional human family, where everyone belongs simply because we are alive. And ultimately, belonging (and drugs) is the way out of depression.

My Love of Children?

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“I don’t like kids.” This is my response when anything kid-related comes up—Vacation Bible School, babysitting, homeschooling, school field trips. Please, please, please don’t put me in charge of a bunch of kids. I don’t know what to do when they fight, or when they won’t be quiet in a group setting, or when they say a bad word, or cry, or have an allergic reaction. I don’t know what to say when one person gets left out or when there’s drama over seating arrangements.

Truth be told, I’m a little scared. I’m afraid of not having the “right” answer to all the little and big things that come up. This is likely a form of decision paralysis. (I didn’t know I had decision paralysis until my counselor asked me if I did, and I was unable to answer yes or no.) I’m afraid I’ll do something a parent doesn’t approve of, or that a kid will ignore my instructions and I won’t know how to enforce what I’ve said.

Simply put, I’m afraid of me. I lack confidence in my ability to relate to and care for children, and I’m scared of letting myself down or letting a kid down or letting another parent down. I watch my friends parent any kid that is in front of them—resolving conflict, redirecting wild energy, correcting selfish behavior—and I am amazed. I feel anxious in those scenarios with my own children, let alone someone else’s.

Imagine my surprise when I accidentally discovered I love children. I was following a writing prompt from Julia Cameron’s book, Write for Life. My assignment was to complete this sentence ten times: “What I’d really like to write about is …”

After my first four answers, the next phrase that came to mind was, “… my love of children.” Surely someone had injected a foreign thought into my vein of thoughts. I almost dismissed it and moved on, but it insisted on being written down. So I wrote, “What I’d really like to write about is my love of children.” Then I added two question marks to make it clear I didn’t take full ownership of that answer. I finished the list without any more rogue thoughts.

The second part of the exercise was to choose one item on my list and write about it for five minutes. I chose number five, my love of children. Here’s what I wrote.

I love the children I know.

I love their faces, their voices, their giggles and tears.

I love the questions they ask, and the answers they give.

I love their trust, accepting help with hair-brushing and snack-opening and shoe-tying.

I love their creativity.

I love the drawings and crafts they give me, and how we can be fast friends after one stick of gum broken in half and shared.

I love their bird-nest hair and their smooth braided hair.

I love how they fart in their sleep, and talk in their sleep, and complain about how “terrible” they slept, just like a grownup.

I love the way they hug, with vulnerable hearts and trusting bodies.

I love the ways they imitate—words, TV shows, other kids, parents, animals.

I had no idea.

This exercise gave me permission to exist in both spheres: the one where I don’t like kids, and the one where I love kids. I experience the same fears of myself and of the countless moments that require wisdom or intervention, but at the same time I enjoy a new awareness that I love the kids I know. I really, really love them. And I like them too.

Husband of a Mother

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6:30 am. One bedroom door slams. Then another. Kids are scream-crying. Mom is crying behind one of those slammed doors, quieter but just as desperate. Dad was hoping to sleep until his alarm rang, but there will be no such extravagance today.

6:35 am. Dad slowly gets out of bed and stumbles across the hall in his boxers to hold and hear his distraught children. When he returns to the bedroom, Mom is in bed, spurting bursts of tears and anger, like a poorly-contained science experiment. Dad sinks back in bed to hold and hear the despair, and to quietly wonder how long this season of life will call on him to be more, always more.

Father’s Day was sweet and satisfying this year. We ate out at The Maple Counter for breakfast, shared gifts, and watched soapbox car racing on YouTube. As I was thinking about my husband, Michael, and how fortunate I am to parent with him, it occurred to me that perhaps as difficult and meaningful as it is to be a father, it is equally difficult and meaningful to be the husband of a mother.

A mother is immersed in emotions she often doesn’t understand. She sleeps much less than advised for mental and physical well-being. She is drenched with guilt and fear, which sometimes masquerade as control. A mother is on call 24/7—for days, weeks, months, years. She is on call for baby cries and soiled clothes, doctor appointments and play dates and skinned knees, temper tantrums and broken hearts, scissor and glue supervision, holding hands and finding shoes and wiping faces that don’t want to be wiped.

Who would sign up to be a support person to a mother? Such a person will be called upon to understand in times that defy understanding. They will bear witness to exhaustion, weeping, anger, and a beautiful body that is tired of being touched. They may endure the pain of watching a once-energetic woman become a hollow, methodical soul who can’t summon the energy to answer a question and has forgotten how to have fun. They will watch a mother pour hours into the planning and executing of a birthday party and have no capacity left for a goodnight kiss. They may stand by feeling helpless. They may step in to help and be criticized or ignored. They will be the object of resentment simply because they sleep a whole night or eat lunch while it’s still hot.

To stand with a mother, to witness her life, to love her, is a difficult prospect indeed.

Michael loved me as his wife for seven years before we were parents. He has loved me nearly 11 years as a mother. The demands on my time and emotions are less now than they were in the early years, but they will never end. I will always be a mother; my loving attention will never be only his again. He will witness the lives of our daughters not only as their father, but as a husband to their mother. He will forever be on this ride defined by unexpected turns and raw hearts, the kind of ride that remakes you with or without your permission, and invites you deep into love. Husband of a mother.

To all the men who love a mother, and to my husband especially: thank you.
Thank you for noticing.
Thank you for staying.
And thank you, too, for being selfish and annoying and knuckle-headed.
I couldn’t bear to be imperfect alone.

Motherhood, My Invitation

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Motherhood, My Invitation

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for motherhood—crucible,
mental health course—no way to opt out,
sleep—a mocking specter,
messes—everywhere, always;
but this too: my first real invitation to be kind
to the uglier parts of myself.

Blessed are You
for seeing me when I was unseen;
for holding my hand
when motherhood was a mirror.
I saw things I didn’t want to see,
didn’t want to be,
and became afraid of myself.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
King of the Universe,
for being my companion in the night,
a place to belong
when I didn’t belong in my own self.
You waited, waited for me to hear You,
hear You above the shame,
because You loving me when I hated myself
was the invitation to know my wholeness
and love myself, and in so doing,
to love my children, too.

It’s Me! Run!

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It’s Me! Run!

Reflections – week 2

Welcome to the second week of reflections inspired by my current small groups. Together with some of my favorite women, I’m exploring these books: Father’s House: The Path That Leads Home, and The Whole Language.

This is week two of eight. I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

The Paddle

When I was a child, a wooden spatula was the “paddle” at our house—used for spankings. I chuckle now, remembering the occasional days when my mother would carry the paddle in her back pocket. How well I know those kinds of days now that I have kids of my own.

I have two specific memories of spankings, one of which must have happened when I was quite young, I’m guessing preschool age. I don’t know what brought it on, but I had a meltdown of epic proportions, involving kicking, screaming, and the works. My parents put me on my bed to spank me, but I was kicking so violently they couldn’t paddle me. To solve this conundrum, one of them sat on my legs and the other spanked me.

As this memory accompanied my growth and development, it grew into a belief: the proper way to handle big feelings is to punish myself for them. Or better yet, try not to have them at all. I’m certain that’s not the lesson my parents intended. They probably figured they were enabling me to grow up and behave like an adult. (No one appreciates a 30-year-old who still throws epic tantrums.)

Fear of Self

Week two in Father’s House is about being lavishly loved. The authors write, “To live as a fully loved and accepted daughter in your Father’s House, He’s inviting you to let go of your former identity. You are no longer bound to your past, what anyone else has spoken over you or even what you say about yourself. As you journey Home, saturate yourself in who your Father says you are.”1 (emphasis added)

As I read and wrote through each day of the study last week, fear of myself emerged as a common theme. Starting as a young child I learned to fear myself, to fear my emotions and desires, my imperfections, my capacity to make mistakes. The religious community further intensified this fear by teaching me that I was sinful and needed constant spiritual supervision to avoid indulging the unforgivable person that I was. I became afraid of turning away from God. I figured He’s pretty nice—you know, amazing grace and all that—but if I intentionally, or unintentionally, turn my back on Him, He will be pissed off.

So there I was, internalizing my parents’ responses to me, into a belief that my emotional experiences are unacceptable; internalizing the religious community’s sin-message into the belief that I am a walking liability; and what did all that do? For twenty years, nothing. I was so good at being good that these fears lay dormant. It was unnecessary to face them when I managed myself exceptionally and performed well for every person in my life who expected something from me.

If you’re familiar with my story, you know when the upheaval began: stay-at-home momming. Suddenly, with loss of sleep and the demands of parenting, I was reacquainted with my emotional self in the most savage way. My best efforts to control and punish myself weren’t working. Anger, frustration, fear, and emptiness consumed me, and—given my beliefs about emotions and mistakes—it’s not surprising that a dark shame enveloped me.

Temper Tantrum

A few months ago when I went through Father’s House for the first time, during the activation exercise (meditative visualizing and listening), I had a (visualized) temper tantrum. It was just as I remember from childhood, heels hitting the floor so hard it hurt, as I lay on the ground screaming and sobbing out of control. Papa God lay beside me. I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t engage with Him. I could not receive comfort or accept reason or respond to reprimand. Mercifully, He didn’t expect anything from me. When the waves of emotion began to subside, I rolled into Papa’s arms. I was ready to receive comfort, and He was waiting to comfort me.

Papa God suggests there is no distance between Him and me. He is not cooled by the things that chill the people in my life: turning away, having needs, being impolite, tired, sick, stressed, confused, emotional, forgetful. God is warmly present with me when I am out of control. All of me and my experiences are folded right in, received without question or critique or hesitation. No part of me is a liability.

Holy Imagination

“Visualizing your future as a lavishly loved daughter is critical to your life,” I read in Father’s House. “In fact, it helps engage your heart with your head when you involve your divine imagination. Describe what that life would look like in as much detail as possible. What would you be doing, thinking, or feeling?”2 Here’s what comes to mind:

  • My insides will be still (not agitated). I will be at peace with myself, not warring against myself.
  • I will have energy to create and to love (not compulsion).
  • I will take more risks.
  • Forgiveness will come as naturally as breathing.
  • Suffering will fall into my embrace rather than being held at arms length. It may hurt like hell, but it won’t be fragmenting.
  • Pain, anxiety, depression, fear and anger will be experienced with God, rather than as separating or isolating experiences.
  • I will be whole, not fragmented, not always looking for parts that have been forgotten.

Not As Scary As I Thought

I assumed God was in on the idea that I cannot be trusted with myself. I am shocked to discover God trusts me with me. The shame is lifting. The fear is shrinking.

Lie: I am loved and accepted if I reject myself so I can be what I “ought” to be.

Truth: I couldn’t be better. I am loved entirely independent of my level of responsibility and emotional control. Papa received me first, to clear the way for me to receive myself. He invites me to love myself as He loves me. Now that’s crazy!

Gregory Boyle writes, “Ensuring, then, that we are never strangers to ourselves will give us access to our deepest longing.” I have been a stranger to myself, but I am learning to roll out the welcome mat, receive myself with open arms, and explore my deepest longings.

Endnotes:
1Father’s House, page 29
2Father’s House, page 34
3The Whole Language, page 18

Memories

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This year I lost three people who are dear to me. I was not especially intimate with any of them, but each had an impact on my life, and I find myself thinking on that impact frequently in the weeks and months after their passing. In the stillness of their absence, there is something sweet about remembering how their lives intertwined with mine, and allowing them to become larger-than-life. I am grateful for each of them, and wish to honor them by remembering in writing a bit of the fullness they brought to my life. [Disclaimer: I do not believe my memory to be wholly accurate, and I am certain those people closer to these individuals will find errors in my recollections.]

My mom’s mom passed away in January. I always called her Grandma Sawyer, but when I had kids she suggested they call her “Grandma Caroline,” using her first name. She always lived in the same house, from before I was born almost until the end. I didn’t get to visit her in the care facility she was in at the end, so all my memories of her are in that house. She rented out rooms, so I remember having to be quiet when we were in the hallway next to those rooms, and we were not allowed to use the restroom the renters used. We were, however, invited to play in her back yard, which was full of the wonderful fruit trees that grow further south: lemons, oranges, mandarins, kumquats, avocados, and more. There were also a variety of flowers, and a shed that contained board games among other things. My sister and I played out in the yard, making concoctions of plant materials, and skipping about on the stepping stones. We made fresh orange juice in her kitchen, watched shows on her tiny television in the dining room, and always went home with avocados and mandarins to enjoy long after our visit.

Grandma always wore her hair the same way, and I imagine there must be a name for the style, but I don’t know what it is. Just that there was a large curl at the bottom, near chin level, and the rest was smooth but thick. My complete lack of fashion knowledge also makes it impossible to describe her wardrobe with any accuracy, but I remember she always wore the same style of flat comfy shoes, and she often wore blouses. She nearly always had a boyfriend, so when our family descended on her house, she would spend her nights at her boyfriend’s house. My sister and I slept in her room (where my sister got flea bites sleeping on the floor), and my parents would sleep in the family room. We took over the kitchen, making our own meals, as my grandma would not have cooked for us even if she had been there. She ate very simply and basically did not cook or wash dishes, a fact which my mother says was true even when she was raising five children. We often found spoiled food in her fridge, and more than once we found a can of orange juice concentrate in the freezer which had been partially used and left to turn a very dark brown shade of orange. One redeeming feature of her kitchen was the drawer containing dates and nuts. And she always had toasted wheat germ, which I thought was a treat.

Grandma Sawyer liked cats, and for many years she would have one or more cats, but they were usually scarce when we came to visit. I don’t remember her having any toys, but she she lived not far from the ocean, so between that and her back yard we had plenty of fun things to do. There was a bin on her coffee table with scissors and tape and other handy supplies, and her combined living/dining room also held her desk, and a book shelf full of interesting titles like “Eat Right For Your Type.” She was something of a health (read “supplements”) enthusiast, and I remember one drawer in her bathroom contained cups of pills portioned out for each day. I don’t think she was on any prescription, so those large handfuls of pills were all supplements resulting from her own research. She could swallow a whole dose at once, which I found very impressive. She enjoyed travel and learning, and I remember on one visit she told me about the country of Burkina Faso with it’s capitol city of Ouagadougou – I think the primary reason was the joy of those funny sounding words. She didn’t give a lot of gifts, but she did always send a birthday card with money, and I still have a mug she painted with my name on it. She was skilled at beautiful, delicate china painting. She also played the piano, but I don’t think I ever heard her play or saw her paint.

Her memorial was a picnic lunch at a park near the beach, and I think I knew more about her after the brief fifteen minutes of sharing among family members than I did in all my years of knowing her. I enjoyed the descriptions of other family members to round out my memories of grandma: able to converse on any topic; curious; positive, cheerful, joyous, and didn’t speak negatively (or positively) about anyone; loved all kinds of arts; always ended with a chuckle; a feminist; wonderful mother-in-law; original and witty; good mother who was proud of all her kids and grandkids; knew a lot about the natural world, including the names of many plants. I do remember her showing me a gingko tree once when we were on a walk. I think the reason it stuck in my memory is that she told me gingko trees had been around for millions of years, and being from a family of young-earth creationists, I remember thinking she was wrong but keeping silent on the subject. The thing I secretly wished to emulate about my grandma was her ability to dance. She loved to dance, and although I never got to see her dance in public, she did teach me a dance step once, and I’m proud to say I can still do it. She took time to do the things she loved, and although she had strong opinions, she always ended with a chuckle and a twinkle in her eye. I am grateful I got to be her granddaughter.

Not long after my grandma passed away, a neighbor from my childhood also passed away. Her name was Sandra Smith, but we called her Sandy. She and her husband Billy had a surprise daughter later in life who was about my age, named Suzanne. They lived a few miles up the hill from us, where there was no electricity or phone lines, and every so often we would hear their old diesel Mercedes pulling in our driveway so they could make phone calls (we were the last house on that road connected to the phone lines). As far back as I can remember they invited us over for Thanksgiving and/or Christmas dinner every year. Sandy made the entire meal on a wood burning cook stove, and everything was cooked to perfection and served hot. Since my health-conscious family made tofu quiche and vegan pies for holidays, Sandy’s table laden with real turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes (that undoubtedly had butter in them), pistachio salad, yams (which surely had sugar and butter on them), and every other dish you could wish for at a northwest holiday dinner was a highlight every year. After homemade hard ice cream, fresh whipped cream, and too many pies to sample, we would relocate to the living room where we played the old player piano for hours, talked about Billy’s countercultural ideas, and enjoyed the warmth of the wood stove.

The Smiths were a family living in older times. Billy logged and mined gold to make money off his extensive property. He was proud that he didn’t pay Social Security, held strong views about politics, had a moderate collection of firearms, and enjoyed quack medicine like pycnogenol and frequency-generating “zappers.” It was an odd friendship between our families, mainly consisting of those annual feasts together and their visits to use our phone. I think Sandy was the grounding presence in the family. She was practical, intelligent, calm, and her eyes often sparkled. She wore her gray hair pulled up in up a decorative leather piece with a wooden pin through it. She was always kind. When I moved away from home, she extended an invitation to make a turkey dinner for me when I visited home, even if it wasn’t at the holidays. Her generous offer surprised and touched me. I don’t think I ever took her up on it, but I did get to take my husband to dinner at her house at least once, and I’m grateful I was able to share that part of my childhood with him. Sandy passed away rather suddenly, and I miss her kind presence on this earth.

In an expected turn of events a person who had largely shaped my career (if you can call it that at my age) became ill and died, bringing him sharply back into my awareness. I quit work a month shy of seven years ago to become a stay-at-home mom, and soon after my boss, Jerry Mason, retired. We were both in our own new worlds, adjusting to life at home after the workplace, and didn’t keep in touch. But this parting of ways in no way lessens the impact Jerry had on my life during my college and post-college years.

I entered college with a job at the Grounds department, mostly because I got hired over the phone and it was an easy in. At that time the department was undergoing some changes, and Jerry had a vision for student leadership that was emerging at that time. I found myself co-managing the department with a few other students a month after I began working in Grounds. Jerry had a way of entrusting me with responsibility with so much confidence in me that I hardly had the chance to stop and think about whether I could do the job or not. His trust, mentoring, enthusiastic support, and hands-off style gave me the incredible opportunity of managing the Grounds department all four years of college (and being awarded the Washington State Student Employee of the Year award in 2007). By the middle of my sophomore year I was studying for a business degree with a concentration in management, so there was a happy marrying of what I was studying to what I was doing at work. I wrote handbooks, wrote interviews, hired, fired, created schedules, purchased equipment, conducted training, and did everything else the job required with the zest and energy only a college student has. All the while, Jerry proudly cheered on us student leaders, paid us a little more than made sense, stood in our defense when problems arose, challenged us when we were heading the wrong direction, and continued steadfastly in his confidence in my abilities.

After I graduated I worked one year in a clerical position, and then Jerry was standing there in front of my desk handing me a proposal regarding bringing the custodial function of the university back in house. In other words, creating and managing a new department that would be under his direction as Plant Services Manager. Again he was handing me much more than I was qualified for, just as confident as could be, eager to give me the opportunity. And as I took the job and went to work for him again he continued to support me in the same generous ways that he had when I was a student.

Jerry was private and shy and had a strong aversion to parties and most social events. He was a straight shooter and didn’t take excuses; short in stature but still slightly intimidating because after all he did have the power to end my employment. But never once was I worried about calling him or walking into his office. He was always kind, friendly, honest, and the best superior a person could ask for. Over the years, he went out of his way to recognize my work and support me – nominating me for student employee of the year, taking me and other managers out for dinner, providing cell phones when they were still relatively rare, procuring a set of two monitors for me to make desk work easier, encouraging and supporting me in attending Leadership Walla Walla, and no doubt instrumental in my recognition as Rising Staff Member of the Year in 2010. I always felt valued, and knew someone was standing behind me.

After I quit work I asked Jerry for a reference letter, as I knew I would be a stay-at-home mom for a while and I wanted to have something to use as a reference when it became time to return to the work force. He never wrote one, but he did give me his email address when he retired, and we conversed briefly about my desire for a reference letter. His reply in part said, “I am working outdoors a ton this summer. Have an old couple across the street I am keeping their yard up. Fun and it keeps me busy.” I was a little peeved that he couldn’t find the time to write one letter amidst all his yard work, but looking back it really was just like him. He always hated writing reference letters, and I also think he was just ready to be done with work. I chuckle over it now. And besides, he did give me a wonderful reference in the form of those two jobs that shaped my skill set, and the opportunity to work with many wonderful people (who would probably be happy to write me a reference letter).

I cannot think about my college experience or my career without thinking of Jerry. He was human, but the best sort of human you can find, and a person who so quietly had an incredibly large impact on my life. I am grateful for all the ways he believed in me.

As I think about these three people, what stands out is how simple their influence was. None of them gave me advice. None of them spent any great amount of time with me. They just gave to me in their own unassuming way. There is power in simply living your life – the moments you believe in someone else, or invite someone over for a meal, or impart curiosity and cheerfulness by living it out yourself – perhaps those are the moments that someone else will be recalling when you are called Home.

Fear of Parenting, Part 2

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As I explored in my previous post – Fear of Parenting, Part 1 – parenting has undone me in many ways. The truth is, I was already selfish and overwhelmed and angry, I just didn’t see it until I became a parent. This wide revelation of my inner self often leaves me feeling naked and ashamed. Yet I am confident this is not where God intends me to remain, because He says things like “So now there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” (Romans 8:1)

When I state in plain words the things I am thinking and believing (the lies listed in my previous post), it gets really clear how far my head and heart are from the truth. This provides the opportunity to explore with the Holy Spirit what the truth is. As I have done that, these truths have emerged:

  • There is not one right answer. Perfect parenting is not the goal. It’s ok. Jesus is here with us.
  • God’s power to redeem is much greater than my power to destroy.
  • Enough faith to come to Jesus is enough faith to be healed by Jesus.
  • I CAN change. But where I’m going is God’s work in me. I am neither a slave to bad behavior or good behavior. I am free in grace.
  • The only thing that recommends me to Jesus is my great need.
  • Mistakes are not preventable. They are normal. They are evidence of showing up and living life.
  • The goal of parenting is to love my children (imperfectly) and model trusting Jesus (also imperfectly).
  • God gave me the full range of emotions. None of them are bad. He experiences them all too. I am made in His image.
  • I am exactly where I need to be. I can rest now (NOT after I become a “better” parent). Jesus’ fullness is the perfect match for my emptiness.
  • I don’t have to be ashamed. His mercies are new every morning. There is grace, grace, and more grace.
  • I can give myself permission to be calm and centered after a difficult day or experience (i.e. parenting fail). I don’t have to wallow in the bad (God has no desire to punish me). I can move on, grateful for grace and the newness of the moment.
  • There will always be problems and unresolved issues in parenting. I can welcome them, knowing 1) they are normal, 2) there is not one right answer, and 3) Jesus is walking me through them.
  • My children are not disrespecting me and acting like brainless wild creatures on purpose. They are weak, desiring my love and guidance.

Isn’t it nice that Jesus doesn’t think I’m acting like a brainless wild creature on purpose, but instead moves closer to me to love and guide me? Every now and then he reminds me not to take myself too seriously. Perfectionism has a way of turning every moment of life into an opportunity to be “right.” That much pressure is bound to make even the best of us into the worst versions of ourselves. When I feel overwhelmed, it helps to imagine my Savior smiling at me and reminding me, “Don’t take yourself too seriously.” No condemnation.

I still struggle with feeling that I am ruining my children. I joke that we have a therapy fund for the hours of therapy they will one day need in order to recover from growing up in our home. But somehow softening the edges of my struggle is the truth that it’s not about me, and it’s not about perfection. Someone Bigger is in charge, and He is God, which means I don’t have to be. He is Big and I am small. He is Creator, I am created. He is Redeemer, I am redeemed. He is Perfect, I am flawed. He is Potter, I am clay. And He is all this to my children as well. I cannot mess anything up so badly that He cannot redeem it. This is truth, this is freedom.