“In visual art, mixed media describes artwork in which more than one medium or material has been employed.” (en.wikipedia.org)

My friend Jessica and I are not responsible for each other, and I believe our friendship relies on this independence, this mutual exclusion from the logistics of each other’s lives. We share books and ideas and emotional burdens, stories of our inner and outer worlds, coffee and laughter. We need each other, I think, but in a loose way, accompanied by the kind of gratitude that arises from walking through a beautiful flower garden or enjoying a homey meal. This type of relationship makes sense to me. 

Not so with parents and children. I have two of each, and they confuse and contort me in ways I didn’t know were possible. It’s as if my parents signed the deed for my soul at birth and have never relinquished their claim. My sense of self is uncomfortably tethered to them simply because they are my parents.

And my children. Oh, my miraculous children. Try as I might, I cannot find a fitting analogy for the ways we are connected. Are we spilled cans of paint running together? Magnets, by turns attracted and repelled? Is our relationship symbiotic or parasitic? Are we growing together like two trees planted in the same spot, or growing apart like two trees fighting for sunlight, so near we continually reach away from each other?

There is nothing simple about a parent-child relationship. I think one culprit for this disarray is that a parent is both emotionally and logistically responsible for a child. This creates an inherent tension, as my kids often point out when I attempt to comfort them in their unhappiness over a logistical decision I made. Can I really have it both ways? Can I be the perpetrator and comfort the victim? Can I pack lunches and arrange medical appointments and manage bedtime and screen time and also be a relational ally?

I watch as my husband checks in with our daughters out of care and curiosity, and I check in with them to see if their chores are done or ask how long they’ve been on TV or what they’ve eaten today besides Fritos and chocolate chips. Is the difference between my spouse and I a matter of personality, or is it because managing the logistics of my children’s lives precludes me from curious, sincere connection? How does a person do both?

This tension shows up in other relationships, including with the Divine. If God is logistically in charge of the universe, can She also be relationally intimate with its inhabitants? Certainly a God who allows discomfort and disaster (or causes it, depending on your point of view) cannot also fill the role of companion and friend. Can God be the perpetrator and comfort the victim? This puts God in an awkward position, if not an outright abusive one. And I feel the tension—preachers pretend God makes sense, parents bend rules to maintain friendships with their children, children follow rules to hold on to belonging in their family.

This overlap of logistical and relational responsibility is nonlinear, a rat’s nest, perhaps even unethical. As a parent, am I responsible for my children’s wellbeing, or their happiness? If push comes to shove, what gives? Might the loss of our relationship at a future junction actually contribute to their wholeness?

And what about God? In what ways is He responsible for my life, and how does that affect our friendship? Is God a CEO, committed to specified outcomes? Is She a mother? Is He a brother? A friend? A father? The owner of a vineyard? If God must choose, will They care for me relationally or logistically? Will He cure the cancer, prevent the accident, stop the abuse? Or will She feel the pain, inhabit the difficult spaces, and entertain the questions with me? I guess both.

God does both. Parents do both. I am annoyed by this. I am disconcerted.

Perhaps the realm where I most frequently feel this clash is marriage. Here my spouse and I are each responsible for ourselves, but also for one another. We carry responsibilities that affect the well-being of the other. Who makes the money, rakes the leaves, puts gas in the car and food on the table? If either of us drops the ball, the other feels it hit the ground. And while this juggling match requires attention and energy to keep the balls in the air, we also engage in a completely different kind of symbiosis, a relational companionship, an emotional load-sharing, a physical embrace.

I’ve lost count of the number of times my husband has let me know I’ve sacrificed our friendship on the altar of life’s logistical demands. We teeter back and forth between duty and delight, often off balance. The silver lining, I suppose, is that this balancing act has taught me not to expect, but to cherish, those times when both our delight with each other and our daily tasks hum along in harmony. More often one or the other weighs in heavier. And a marriage can’t survive much of this weight imbalance.

A logistical heaven may be a relational hell. And a relational heaven may be a logistical hell. Each extreme spells death for its opposite. But neither is mediocrity the answer. Neutral will not keep this thing together—not marriage, not parenting, and certainly not God-ing. We must show up with our passion intact, and our natural bent toward one extreme or the other. Mediocrity is at least as dangerous as the extremes. Living demands a passionate balancing act.

Does God care equally whether I am dead physically or emotionally? How then will He decide whether to allow my death in order to avoid heartache, or preserve my life to the detriment of my heart? Am I lungs and a heartbeat, or soul and spirit? I suspect both.

It’s always both. It’s logistics and friendship. Mental and physical health. Emotions and chores. And a rare opportunity for beauty. Because when I embrace the mess, I begin to weave and grow and build something—a work of art that could never be made with only one material. To borrow a term from the world of art, life is mixed media. Some of this for structure. Some of that for color. Some of the other for texture. All for living.