Tag Archives: parenting

Exposed by Proximity

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Children scare me. Even my own children. I do not like this, and admit it reluctantly. Children make noises at the wrong times, go where they shouldn’t in the blink of an eye, and express emotions with their bodies. In a word, they are unpredictable. 

The most likely culprit for my fear and discomfort is a desire to feel safe by being in control. This is also something I don’t want to admit. Isn’t it better to go with the flow? Not to mention that control is largely an illusion anyway. And Jesus not only loved children; He suggested we emulate them.

But that doesn’t help me with in-the-trenches moments with kids. I can’t ever find the one right answer I’m looking for. Should a kid have snacks or eat only at mealtimes? If I give someone else’s kid dessert, or put on a TV show, will that be the end of life as we know it? If two toddlers fight, and both hurt each other, do we call it even and move on, or should they be punished or lectured? How do I know in what moments to expect my children to toe the line, and in what moments to suspend expectations and get ice cream? And don’t even start on the pros and cons of vaccines. 

No matter the age of a child, my response to them could affect them for the rest of their lifetime. I am not okay with this. Will I be the one who offers grace or wisdom or a listening ear that gives permission for a child to like themselves? Or will I give advice at the wrong time, be lenient when the consequences are life threatening, or give peanut butter crackers to the kindergartner with a severe peanut allergy and get locked up for murder?

The stakes are too high. Somebody please lower them. Tell me I don’t have influence, I’m not culpable, my instincts can never go wrong. But no, once more I must make peace with uncertainty. I must receive the truth that I will both harm and help my children and other children. Sometimes I will hurt and another will heal. Sometimes I will heal what another has hurt. And some hurts won’t be healed. 

No matter the stakes, I am not superhuman. I will break what needs to be held together, and I will clamp down on what needs to be released. Damn, I hate that. 

Then again, maybe the children in my life are my greatest ally in accepting my humanness. I doubt the fear will go away. But maybe it could prompt a mantra: I am in this moment, with this child, and we are both getting to know ourselves. There’s something sacred under the scary feeling, a gift of mutual vulnerability that exists here where I am exposed.

Mothers Are Stalkers

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Every mother is a stalker—stealthy as a fox, or loud and proud as a heckler. 

She may try on other hats—friend, playmate, shopping buddy, or cook. But she will always return to the well-worn stalker cap. 

No one knows exactly why. Perhaps all those years of sleep deprivation affected her brain. Or maybe her partner has become boring and she needs to trail someone interesting. Or her dream of being a paparazzo never panned out and she’s done repressing her hunger for juicy stories.

Could it be revenge—on her own mother, or on her child—for needing her when she didn’t want to be needed? Is it fear, masquerading as care? Control masquerading as curiosity? Perhaps sheer boredom is the culprit. 

Or it could be force of habit—one that began while watching an infant’s chest rise and fall, then following a toddler through play structures, teaching a child how to use a toothbrush, then how to handle a kitchen knife. A long stint as chauffeur cements the habit, and by the time a kid has wheels of their own, stalking is like a nervous mother-twitch that can’t be medicated.

Whatever the case, mothers are stalkers, and children are their prey. They follow, but never shoot. They scribble notes and report to their partner in bed at night. They buy new camo when the old is detected, and they keep on stalking even when the tap-tap of their walkers is a dead giveaway.

And, depending on your religious beliefs, upon death they have the best of all—that birds-eye view they always wanted, the ability to hover without being detected, and maybe even a direct line to put in a few suggestions to God about how their child’s life should go.

A Mother’s Mundane Conundrum

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“You’re just making me do it!” my daughter says with a surprising amount of conviction. “You just decided I have to do it.” She’s not wrong. Nothing will happen if she doesn’t clean her room. No one cares about it except me. I feel called out as an unnecessarily controlling parent, just as I do each time one of my daughters confronts me with these sentiments.

It seems I have arbitrarily decided most of the content of their lives. I require showers, food other than fruit and juice, feeding pets, getting out of the house for school—with clothes, lunch, piano books, shoes appropriate for PE, and a sweater. Would anything dire happen if all those things were left undone? No. One or both daughters could go to school late, in PJ’s, without a lunch, wearing the wrong shoes, and sweaterless. In fact, she could probably do that for a week before anything interesting or significant took place in response to her choices.

I dislike this feeling that I am the only reason she does most of what she does. And I don’t like it when she confronts me about it. I don’t know what to say. I agree with her. Most expectations really are arbitrary—for adults as well as kids.

There are plenty of things I could say that I don’t want to say. I could say, “Someday you’ll have a job,” but that has no meaning whatsoever to a nine-year-old. Or, “You have to learn to do things now so I’m not still reminding you when you’re thirty,” but is there any real danger of that? Or, “I’ll be embarrassed if you go to school in pajamas,” but do I really want to teach my kids to make decisions based on my embarrassment? Or, “Nasty things will start growing in your room if you don’t clean it,” —okay, maybe a month from now, so is that really motivation to tidy it up today? Or, “I’m your mom and I get to decide what you need,” except that I don’t think anyone should decide another person’s needs for them. You get the idea.

So here I am with nothing to say, a truthful human being looking me in the face, questioning my demands—and why are they demands? Perhaps because requests and suggestions haven’t worked, or because my emotions are now fueling this high-octane—but nevertheless mundane—occurance.

“You’re right,” I say. “I can’t actually make your body and your arms and legs do anything. But I can remind you there will be no screen time until chores are done. And if you don’t do chores today I might give you an extra cleaning job tomorrow.” This comes out sounding a tad desperate, and something like a threat—not exactly what I was going for. But you do what you have to do.

Motherhood seems to be a mix of desperation and compassion, empathy and threats, logic and insanity. Is that what childhood feels like too?

She whimpers. She complains it’s not fair. But eventually she trudges to her room and starts picking up clothes off the floor. My heart rate returns to normal as I breathe a sigh of relief. With any luck, I’ll have at least five minutes before this conversation repeats itself with my other daughter. Meanwhile, I whimper and complain internally as I return to a pyramid of dirty dishes. I guess we’re not wholly different.

Two New Holes

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Shortly after my May birthday last spring, I acquired two new holes in my body. I had my ears pierced.

One aspect of the conservative Christianity I grew up in is an aversion to body piercings. And tattoos, lipstick, and clothing that reveals feminine curves. When I left home as a I teen, I bought a padded bra, colored my hair with a box of dye from Walmart, and called it good for my rebellion. As a young adult I said I didn’t want to pierce my ears or get a tattoo because I have a low pain tolerance. Also, I faint for vaccinations, blood draws, and if I hit my knee or elbow too hard. (I fainted at the dentist once, and I fainted when I went to the college clinic to get a wart removed from my foot. The nurse sent me to Walmart to buy the kind of wart remover you paint on yourself.)

Why this sudden body piercing urge, you might ask, as I’m nearing the age of 40?

Last year, my nine-year-old daughter Kyli decided she wanted to get her ears pierced. “Why don’t you have your ears pierced, Mom?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t like pain.”

“Well, if you really wanted them pierced you would do it,” she countered.

Point taken. So I thought about it. I hoped quiet reflection might reveal something profound, but my reasons were a grab-bag—it hurts, most of my friends don’t wear earrings, it feels weird to do it now that I’m middle-aged, it seems unnatural to poke a hole in my body (morality aside), my parents won’t like it, and so on. Like I said, random, blah, blah, blah.

So I decided to give it a shot, get my ears pierced with Kyli, and see if I like wearing earrings. Rather than take the lead because of lived experience—my usual role as mother—I had the same questions, concerns and curiosities as Kyli. We’d be figuring this one out together.

We waited for the school year to finish since the kids attend a Christian school that doesn’t allow earrings (or colored nail polish—go figure). Kyli wanted to get earrings the moment school let out, so we made appointments at Ulta Beauty for 1pm on May 31st—one hour after school dismissal on the last day of the school year. We snagged Kyli’s bestie, got a bite to eat, and drove to the salon. Inside, past the rows of creams and powders and scents, we found a plump young lady ready to pierce our ears.

I signed the thing they handed me—a waiver?—while Kyli picked out studs. Her bestie pinched her arm hard to show her how much it would hurt. The plump lady drew dots on Kyli’s earlobes, asked us to examine them and approve the placement, then inserted a stud in a white hand-gun. Punch!—right ear done. Kyli’s eyes were wide, a combination of curiosity and alarm, as she took in the experience and tried to categorize it. Painful? Scary? No big deal? Before she could settle an answer, punch!—left ear done.

For the next minute, Kyli’s hands hovered around her ears, her instinct to squeeze them through the discomfort, at odds with her determination not to touch. I watched, ready to comfort. But I wasn’t needed. Bestie dragged her around the store, applying makeup until Kyli’s face was caked with several shades of foundation and blush and her fears forgotten.

Meanwhile, I warned the employee holding the ear-piercing gun that I’m a fainter. Judging by her look of alarm, I guessed she didn’t have a lot of experience with people fainting—either that or she had a memorably bad experience. “I’ll know if I’m going to faint, and I’ll tell you,” I assured her. She proceeded to draw dots on my ears, punch, punch, voilà! Little silver hearts rested on my earlobes. During those thirty seconds, I felt the same wide-eyed, uncertain curiosity Kyli’s face had conveyed, but when it was all over, decided the pain wasn’t worth mentioning. We took pictures, documenting this mother-daughter experience trying something new together.

All summer we cleaned around our earrings, front and back—twice a day at first, then less often. We cleaned them after showers, after swimming, after getting dirty in the yard. We twisted them around in the holes as we had been instructed, and left them in 24/7.

At first, earrings were more unnerving than I expected. It felt wrong to intentionally punch a hole in my body and take special care of it to keep it that way. Usually when I cut through my skin and flesh, I tend it carefully to facilitate healing. This was different. Also, for the first month or two, I felt slightly anxious about having something attached to my body that I couldn’t take off. When I went to bed and took off my watch and glasses, I wanted to put the earrings on my nightstand too. I wanted to take them out so my body could be just my body. During the night, I tried different positions with my pillow to put the least pressure on my earlobes.

After the prescribed six weeks, I hesitated to remove my earrings since they still oozed or bled occasionally. Kyli, tired of waiting to wear a favorite pair of earrings, took out the original studs and sported cute, sparkly flowers for a day. This joyous occasion deteriorated when I couldn’t find the right hole to get the original studs back in her ear. I had erroneously thought a hole was a hole, but the tip of the earring took it’s own course through the fleshy part of Kyli’s earlobe and came out the back in a different place!

Blood, tears, and parental concern and confusion ensued. We survived this try-to-find-the-right-hole circus two or three times over the next week, and eventually Kyli’s left ear was so unhappy she let it heal shut. When school began again in August, she wore a tiny clear stud in her right ear—which still oozed and bled sometimes. She didn’t want to remove that one, but also refused to get her left ear pierced again. We were deadlocked in pirate mode.

The first pair of earrings I bought came from a rock-and-mineral shop in a falling-apart historic building we stumbled across during a bathroom break on a road trip. They’re tiger’s-eye stones. I nearly passed out when I first put them in, but after lying on the bathroom floor and breathing deeply for a minute—usually an effective method to maintain consciousness—I returned to normal.

At this point, I’ve probably had as much fun buying earrings as wearing them. For more than six months, I didn’t leave my earrings out any longer than an hour—the holes still appeared tenuous. Either the original studs or one of my half-dozen new pairs of earrings stayed in my ears at all times. At last, a month or two ago, I slept truly naked for the first time. It felt good as good as I imagined.

In a few months, it will be a year since we pierced our ears. During that time, Kyli’s right ear developed big scabs and pus came out when I cleaned it, over and over, so a few weeks ago she took out the clear stud. It’s healing now, and she’s done with earrings for the time being. Meanwhile, I’m growing into the fun of it. My sister gave me a beautiful pair of iridescent hummingbird earrings for Christmas. Michael gave me a pair of book earrings for Valentines Day—I’d been looking and found surprisingly few options, and these are adorable tiny blue books with real pages. I wore them to the library this week, and felt that same satisfaction I get when my bra and underwear match—a covert sense of matching.

So, friend, if you’re forty-ish and thinking about earrings, here’s what I’ve learned: It’s a small adventure, and hey, maybe that’s what makes it fun. These years lean low on adventure—outside of parenting. And come to think of it, this adventure was tangentially brought to me by parenting—two new holes, the result of a question from my daughter.

How about you—any new holes in your life? Or body?

In Five or Six Hours the House Will Be Quiet

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I’m not okay. This is how I know it’s time to write.

I’m sitting in the kids’ room by the fire I lit for them—my attempt to dote on them since they stayed home from school today.

Sore throat again this morning—it has been almost daily for weeks with my younger daughter, Kyli. The older one, Kayt, said probably nothing is wrong with her but she doesn’t want to go to school. Middle school “friendship” has been sucking the life out of her. I can’t help but wonder if her chronic exhaustion and headaches are as much social as they are physical.

I shone a flashlight down two throats this morning. Kyli’s looked red, and Kayt’s had a weird white blob that dr. google says is a tonsil stone. Never heard of those before.

By the time I sit down to write, it’s midafternoon. Homework time downstairs has devolved. My stomach clenches in response to unharmonious sounds, insufficiently diminished by their travel up the stairs to my ears.

Now Kayt has come upstairs to whine and writhe. Technically she came up to say Kyli is bugging her and won’t stop. Since I made clear arrangements for Kyli to come upstairs if they weren’t enjoying sitting together, I feel a gallon of frustration and a drop of empathy. So I tell her to send Kyli upstairs, and that’s why she’s begging, moaning, and asking unanswerable questions in a nails-on-chalkboard tone of voice. She has a weird thing about not being alone.

At 7:15 this morning, when I usually would have been seeing the girls off to the bus, instead I set up appointments at the urgent care center. This change in schedule involved calling the bus driver and texting, let’s see,—their teacher, my yoga instructor, my husband, and several people I had plans with later in the day.

Did I mention the power outage? Just got yet another automated call from the power company. I have an outage that should be restored by 4:30pm, says the message. The power has already been back on for half an hour, and it’s currently 3:30. Not to mention just a few minutes ago I received an automated call informing me that the outage was caused by wildlife (read “squirrel”), and my power had been restored.

I think I’ve received five automated calls, including one that announced an outage had been reported in my area and a truck had been dispatched. Yes, I’m aware. I reported the outage when an explosive BANG and corresponding flash of light outside the dining room window resulted in all powered devices in our home going blank.

My husband is in Denver for work.

My sister is home with a sick kid as well.

My younger daughter made a “fun cutting station” on the floor in her room, where folks can experience the satisfaction of cutting various materials—like blue yarn (now in pieces all over the floor), tiny foam squares, a rubber armband (okay, that actually is super satisfying), and a plastic packing sleeve.

On the kitchen counter downstairs is a bowl of homemade slime that looks like a hot-pink pile of animal intestines. The dining table is covered with rubber stamps and paper, ink pads and embossing supplies, dirty dishes, purple slime, saltines, and homework.

Finally. I breathe. Here’s a moment of peace. Kyli is taking a break from homework, so I allow Kayt to study upstairs with me.

Kyli is quietly making a creature out of air-dry clay (a substance which already covers a significant portion of the bathroom counter due to a previous creative session this morning).

I don’t like the multiplying messes.

Sibling snarkyness nauseates me.

Most of my day has born no resemblance to the Wednesday I thought would unfold when I opened my eyes this morning.

But I ran on the treadmill and took a shower this morning, and in an unplanned burst of self-care I even dried and straightened my hair, and put in earrings. I’m sitting here by the fire, cat on the hearth, journaling. I did a marvelous breathing meditation from The Artist’s Rule, and I laughed with my girls.

After our visit to urgent care, we went to school and picked up homework (the current quarter ends in two days and there is a small state of panic about grades). Then we filled the car with gas for “real low cheap”* at the station near the school, stopped at Walmart for grocery pickup, and came home for the whole slime-making, lunch-eating, power-outage bonanza, followed by the Sibling Homework Crisis of 2024.

So I’m not okay.

But also I am.

Because it’s okay to not be okay.

And I’m grateful my kids don’t have strep, and … this just in: Kyli is cutting a stick of gum into pieces, holding the scissors above her mouth so each piece drops in … back to gratitude—for the fire warming my feet, for furry and purry kitties, for a relatively small pile of dishes in the kitchen sink. I haven’t yelled at my kids, and I have listened to them. I’m going out with girlfriends this evening.

And—bless Mother God—in five or six hours we’ll (fingers crossed) be tucked in bed and the house will. be. quiet.

*If you want to acquaint yourself with the phrase “real low cheap,” watch this.

Toothpaste

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Toothpaste

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Queen of the Universe,
for chocolate chips
melted into a couch cushion,
bandaids on the shower wall,
and toothpaste. so. much. toothpaste—
crusted onto the tube,
smeared on the bathroom counter,
cemented to sinks and walls.

Blessed are You
for Cheerios on the kitchen floor
crushed into powder,
coat wet and dirty
from a night in the back yard,
sandal forever lost
in the mud of Anthony Lake,
chip crumbs in the bunk bed.

Blessed are You,
Lord our God,
Queen of the Universe,
for candle wax dripped
down the cupboard door,
Q-tips cut into pieces,
gum saved on the dining table “for later.”

Two young humans dwell here
who create often and live large.
May they always have
permission to be messy and alive,
and enough money for toothpaste.

“Sell Your Cleverness”

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“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”

– Jalal ad-Din Rumi

I wish I’d had a good enough read on the market to sell my cleverness before it plummeted in value, which happened sometime after my second daughter was born. Cleverness worked like a charm when I was employed. Often I held the unnamed distinction, boss’s favorite. So I brought cleverness home when I quit work for full-time momming.

In retrospect, I should’ve sold cleverness the moment I stepped out of my office for the last time. But at that point bewilderment was nowhere on my radar. I didn’t know anyone who traded it, had never even heard of it.

Fast forward three years. Everything about my children was unpredictable—what they’d eat, when they’d sleep, which emotional roller coaster they’d ride next. Their chaotic reach extended far beyond the length of their dimpled arms, changing my relationships with friends and extended family, my calendar, the size of my purse, and my mental health.

Cleverness steadily dropped in value. Too exhausted to do anything about it, I felt relieved when my portfolio manager stepped in and started buying… wait, what? You’re buying bewilderment? How does one trade with a currency that by its definition means you don’t know what you’re doing?

Before I knew it, cleverness held only 5% of my total investment. Bewilderment dominated my portfolio. I didn’t like it one bit. But, over time its value increased.

I mourned cleverness far too long, pining over it and remembering its heyday. I wanted it back. I took some small amount of comfort in knowing that every parent before me learned to invest in bewilderment. But mostly I missed cleverness. I went to therapy. That helped. I deconstructed my faith. That helped. I got on medication. That helped. I dropped most of the balls I was juggling and concentrated on just a couple. That helped.

Reluctantly, at the growth speed of a bonsai tree, I grew into ownership of bewilderment. I kind of started to like bewilderment. It gave me permission to have no idea what I’m doing as a mom, to not know what God is up to, to let my marriage be messy, and my friendships be spontaneous.

Truth be told, had Rumi sat me down on my last day of work and advised me to sell cleverness and buy bewilderment, I would’ve told him cleverness had always served me well and motherhood would be no exception. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

At the time of this writing, my daughters are 9 and 11 years old, and I’m settled quite nicely into bewilderment. But I have a suspicion that my portfolio manager is on the hunt for something, maybe a new investment that will climb in value during the kids’ teen years. I am definitely not okay with this, but I have a feeling I’m gonna have to run with it. I mean, it couldn’t be worse than selling cleverness to buy bewilderment. Could it?

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.

Ain’t No Love Got Time for That

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I’m on the couch, 6:30 a.m., hungry for the re-membering presence of the Spirit. I feel anxious and sad and heavy. I also feel grateful and loved and okay. The kids were in my office so I came downstairs to journal. Phrank, our cat, is on the couch with me, his foot on mine. He meowed a very loud request to come inside, and I actually stood up and went to let him in.

I am not a high-energy person. In scientific terms, I have inertia. Once I sit down it’s hard to get back up. Once I get going on a project, it’s hard to stop. Everything is a project.

Sedentary pastimes are my go-to: crochet, reading, scrapbooking. I know how to do gardening and canning, but I don’t want to. Long days in the yard and kitchen sound overwhelming. These days my commitments are at a bare minimum. Other than taking my kids to school and participating in several small groups, my time is flexible. I am utterly spoiled, living in the extravagance of an unburdened schedule.

This state of unhurried flow is almost comical, given my upbringing and my high-energy plunge into teen and adult life. I always worked during high school—babysitting, custodial, cashier, fruit picking, door-to-door sales, school office, yearbook editor. I was never idle. My boyfriend in college, whom I married after my sophomore year, pushed me to work a little less and play a little more. Conversely, I pushed him to play a little less and work a little more. Marital conflict ensued. But, eventually I could watch a movie without crocheting at the same time to feel productive, and he could mow the lawn before it got out of control.

At age 27, after five years working full time, I quit work to stay home with our newborn daughter. That was the beginning of the end of having energy. I didn’t know sleep was my drug of choice until I could no longer reach for it at will. I became afraid, always afraid, of not having enough energy. I was too much of a purist to drink coffee, too independent to ask for help, and too naive to realize I was depressed.

Fast forward three years. I had a three-year-old and a one-year-old, who still often woke me at night. Exhaustion was so normal I couldn’t remember any other state. I was resentful and angry. I was too stubborn to consider working instead of staying home full time, too lonely in marriage to lean into my husband, and too resentful to take refuge in gratitude. At this point I became tired enough of myself that I started seeing a therapist. Her name was Beth. Together we turned directly into a swamp of pain that would take seven years to wade through.

It’s May 3, 2023. My babies are ages ten and eight years old. Tomorrow I will be 38. I like myself, more than half the time. I enjoy a hundred things—including hot showers (which I previously hated), my children (whom I previously resented), coffee (which I am no longer too much of a purist to drink), and friends (they’re not as scary as they used to be). I’m taking antidepressants, enjoying life-changing intimacy in my marriage, and practicing asking for help. I write poems of gratitude. I blog for fun. I rarely write a to-do list, and I’ve given up controlling my schedule and my loved ones (at least some of the time).

I am free in a dozen ways—fruit of the last five years spent dredging my murky depths. An ability to hold the stresses of life lightly is one of these freedoms. I could stress out when a friend stands me up on a lunch date, or I could enjoy the rare time alone and the gossipy conversation of sweet-smelling, wrinkled ladies at the next table. I could shame myself for not getting groceries until two days after the milk runs out, or I could enjoy making peanut butter and banana sandwiches for breakfast. I could be angry when a kid wakes up in the middle of the night, or I could be grateful I’m able to be there with them.

Please, please understand this is not about choice. I have very ugly, unresolved feelings toward whoever says we can choose to be happy. Maybe I’m an exceptionally difficult case, but I did not have access to the “power of choice” for many long years. The ability to choose love, grace, and the quirky flow of life—wow, it’s relief, like a warm bowl of soup after gardening in the rain.

I think God is having the last laugh when it comes to my anxiety about never having enough energy. After ten years (ten years!) it is apparent to me that stressing about everyone’s behavior (including inanimate things—watch out if the utensil drawer sticks when I try to close it) takes an incredible amount of energy. Possibly more energy than loving. I know, it’s a long shot. Finding my wholeness has given me courage to take long shots.

Here I thought God was asking me to do more, but actually He was inviting me to do less. My new mantra is: Don’t try so hard, don’t analyzing everything, just live. Love doesn’t have time to mull over every unmet expectation or frustrating inconvenience. It turns out open-handed receiving takes less energy than tight-fisted control.

I breathe, and my oxygen-starved heart says, “It took you long enough.” I smile, because I don’t have the energy to feel bad about ten years of struggle. Ain’t no love got time for that.

Mess to Meadow

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Mess to Meadow

Reflections – week 6

Welcome to week six 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: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness. This is week six of eight.
I’m finding joy here, and I’m pleased you’re with me on this journey.

“Messy.” This word resonated with me as a descriptor of my inner world for most of the past ten years. Also, “Complicated” and “Untrustworthy.” Being at home with a newborn baby introduced me to my inner world, and brought to light a toxic relationship with myself that had been flying under the radar most of my life. Twenty-one months after quitting work to stay at home, my second daughter was born, and in between cuddling warm, squishy babies and washing loads of laundry that left only pink lint in the dryer screen, I learned to hate myself.

Self-hate is like having the world’s worst roommate, and reading only bad news in the paper. On some level it feels normal, but there is always the hope that things will improve. I had no idea what would be involved in learning kindness to myself. Mercifully, it was not a journey I took alone, but in the company of my husband, favorite authors, music, and God.

I didn’t know it, but I needed to learn what parts of my inner world are truest. What parts can influence or control other parts? Why did I feel powerless so much of the time, and why did I increasingly try to control myself, my children, and my husband to combat those feelings of powerlessness?

One aspect of learning to be friends with myself was practicing acceptance of all the parts. This has been a vital key in finding peace. But I still want to know, when different parts are at war, what is the most real part? In a broader sense, who am I?

Gregory Boyle writes, “When the homies arrive, they have not been properly introduced to themselves.”1 I can relate. While caring for two little ones, I was introduced to myself, but it wasn’t a proper introduction. I got acquainted with what Father’s House calls my soul—made up of mind, will and emotions.2 These always seemed at war with one another. I thought my will was the control center, the part of me that could call the shots for everything else. But it didn’t work. My emotions jumped into control, my mind spent most of its time cowering in fear, and my will unceremoniously shoved me through the duties of each day. After a few years of getting to know myself, I was thoroughly done with being me, and I was madder than hell at whoever said my will was supposed to control my mind and emotions. I was also angry with myself. So angry, from trying to control my emotions with my will, and my will with my mind, and failing. Always failing. Defeated, lying on the ground, exhausted, dirty.

In the video teaching for Father’s House Session Six, Rachel Faulkner Brown introduces the idea of a spirit center.3 The soul (mind, will, emotions) is around the spirit center, and is informed by the spirit center. In other words, everything moves outward from my spirit center. This means I don’t rule myself with willpower. I cannot tell you what a relief this is. Willpower is an unfaithful partner, an accident waiting to happen. I either wield it to the detriment of the soft parts of myself and my children, or I don’t use it, also to the detriment of our most tender parts.

A spirit center changes everything. There is a whole and holy part of me, a quiet place, a finished place. After being properly introduced to myself, the haggling between my will, mind, and emotions took its proper place outside my spirit. The authors of Father’s House write, “In the Kingdom, who you are releases what you do. The enemy tries to convince you what you do determines who you are. That’s why Satan attacks what you believe about yourself the hardest.”4 I have been caught in a vortex of doing, not knowing that being comes first. Spirit is my center, and my center is Spirit. I don’t need to control my spirit.

So, the truest—by which I mean the most unwavering—part of me is my spirit center, around which all the other parts find their places, and the whole becomes a residence of freedom and meaning.

Rachel Faulkner Brown suggests that I ask God, “What do You call me?”5 This is Papa’s response: “Meadow. You are now a place of beauty, stillness, rest, wonder, creative activity. Seasons may change the blooms or the flow of water, but you will always be these things.”

Mess to Meadow.

Wrestling to resting.

Despicable to divine.

The coming hours of this day are not a treacherous trudge over land mines, but an adventurous afternoon in a meadow.

Endnotes:
1The Whole Language, page 94
2Father’s House, page 100
3Father’s House, Session Six video teaching
4Father’s House, page 99
5Father’s House, Session Six video teaching