That Could Never Happen Here

During my junior year in high school, I started taking college courses, so that after a full day of honors classes and marching band practice, I drove across town to get credit for Intro to Psych and Microeconomics.  It was on that drive, one warm April afternoon, that my Top 40 pop songs were interrupted by breaking news.  Reporters and law enforcement had swarmed to a Colorado high school, responding to shooters inside, murdering their classmates and teachers.  I was perplexed, the same way I would feel on another drive a few years later, listening to the report of airplanes flying into the World Trade Center.  My thoughts were jumbled, trying to make sense of the notion that apparently this happens now.

Denver Rocky Mountain News

People were quick to talk about the WHY, whether the blame lay in bad parenting or violent video games or intense bullying.  It never seemed like much of a mystery to me, with our unformed frontal cortexes and hormonal surges, the anger and loneliness and grandiosity that hid behind our smiles on Picture Day.  The next day, I returned to my high school with a certain amount of fear.  It felt like anyone with access to weapons and a big enough grudge could storm the building and open fire.

I showed up in the school office, where I helped the secretary take attendance and filed paperwork for the vice principal.  We usually talked during the 45 minutes we spent together each day, although in the wake of Columbine, our conversation centered on the tragedy that had taken place on the other side of the country.  Almost 20 years later, I can still remember her words as she looked at me that morning.  "There were BMWs in that parking lot," she said.  As news helicopters had filmed students fleeing the building, her eyes had focused on the makes and models of cars the students had driven to school that morning.  "There are BMWs in our parking lot," she continued.  The peaceful, secure illusion of our affluent suburban town had shattered for her.  If it could happen in Littleton, it could happen here.

I'll admit, I had several years of not following breaking news very closely.  There have been incidents of violence and murder that have flown under my radar.  Yet every school shooting, every child gunned down on a playground or in a classroom, the thought has resurfaced:  that could happen here. Now that my own children are enrolled in our local public school, I watch the enhanced security measures that are put in place each year, the reinforced doors and student dismissal procedures, I hear about the "man with a gun" drill from my 6 year old, and I wonder how truly effective any of it is.  Because THAT COULD HAPPEN HERE, is another lock enough to stop a person with a loaded gun and a mission?

I said my usual prayer this morning as I dropped my boys off at their school, as I watched the police cruiser in the parking lot and the children streaming into the building, dressed up for Picture Day.  I prayed for their safety, for their teachers to be able to do their jobs in peace, for every child showing up at school that day to make it through the day unharmed.  An hour later, I saw the story, reported by our local paper.  It happened here.

Amid the confusion and the fear, there was that same sentiment that my high school secretary had expressed so many years ago, the shock that something like THAT could happen HERE.  As though the price of your home or the designer labels inside your clothes can protect you, as though money can buy your family happiness and inoculate your children's minds from corruption, as though some invisible barrier exists around your zip code and protects you from human nature, from the very worst that we are capable of.

Today was a typical day for our little family, inside the walls of our home.  But it was a very different story across town, on my Facebook feed, as parents held their children close and sirens and helicopters were heard outside.  The danger is all too real for a new group of families, for another community, as questions swirl and peace of mind is long gone.

"You're Not a Good Person" {it happened on a sunday} Day 8

At 18, a recent high school graduate moving into my college dorm and starting a new phase of life, I was disappointed, disillusioned, and bitter.  Things hadn't gone according to my plan; I was not attending the school I had hoped to go to, and this affected every area of my life.

The first Sunday I lived on campus, I walked to a Presbyterian church across the street.  The sanctuary was full, and it held a mix of college students and older adults from the community.  There was nothing wrong with it, the service, the people, but there was nothing to entice me to return.  No one talked to me, nothing in the worship music or message spoke to me, and no one was going to check to make sure I went back.  So I didn't.

I made a few attempts to hike a little further down the road to the local Nazarene church, since I'd been part of the Nazarene community through my teen years, and even participated in some of the denomination-specific activities, like youth choir, church camp, and Bible quizzing.  But the experience there was much the same.  I was bored, I was alone, I couldn't see the point in going.  The final straw was the week my roommate asked to come with me, walked in the building and an hour later had five different people welcome her, including someone who invited her over for lunch after the service.  These people would then turn to me, who had been there a few times already, and seemed completely unaware of this fact.  I felt invisible, and I decided to stop bothering with church.

That one time I went out on a Thursday Night 

I still carried the cultural persona of my religious upbringing, however.  I identified as a Christian, though my heart wasn't in it, and I still read my Bible and never quite got the hang of "partying".  The most fun I had on weekends was when my friends from high school would come visit and we would stay up watching Kirsten Dunst movies and making up dance choreography.  Otherwise, I would take a bus to go home for the weekend and visit with my family, do laundry, eat a home cooked meal, and spend time with my new boyfriend (more on him in another post ;).

Sunday evenings tended to be a time to hang out with my roommates, when everyone was back in the dorm, all the friends and other visitors had gone back home, and it was just us.  We liked to go to the nearby on-campus Ice Rink for dinner, because the concession stand accepted our meal cards and made the most delicious grilled cheese sandwiches and greasy french fries.  It was on one of these Sunday dinners at the Ice Rink that I got a reality check.

I was talking about someone, and referred to her as being like myself:  kind of a goody-goody, nice person.  One of my roommates stared at me, frowning.

"What?" I asked.

"You're not a good person," she said in response.

I was immediately defensive.  I preferred to be the one passing judgement on someone else's lifestyle.  "Uh, yes I am.  I don't have sex and I don't swear, I don't get drunk and I've never gotten high." (She was guilty of all of these things.)

First of all, I was surprised to learn that she didn't care about that stuff.  It wasn't an indicator of a good person, and she said that she had certainly never claimed to be anything other than what she was.  She owned her choices.  Second, she'd been watching me closer than I realized.  "You lie, you talk about people behind their backs, you're judgmental, you say you're one way, but you act another."

I had the sensation of being pulled into a spotlight without any clothes on.  I recognized that what she said was true, but I didn't want to deal with it.  I can't even remember what I said next, if I sputtered or fell silent or what.  But I can tell you that it's been 16 years since that conversation and I remember every single word she said to me.  I thought about it a lot over the coming years, a time that would ultimately be transformative in my journey of faith and the direction of my life.  That night, however, I had to go to bed with the realization that my criteria for being "good" were, at best, incomplete, and that I had been called out on it.

Picking Up and Laying Down

I don't think I will ever forget this conversation I had with my husband when I was in my final trimester of my first pregnancy.  We were at our home, probably eating a slow-paced meal or reading books or one of the other leisurely activities we enjoyed Before Kids.  My husband gazed at the ever-growing basketball under my shirt and said, "Do you know, when I go to work sometimes I forget we're having a baby?"  He said it in a voice of bemused wonder, so casual.  And inside my hormone-fueled, aching body, my blood boiled.

My son was almost born fatherless.

I entertained the thought of murdering my husband for a moment before deciding instead to yell at him.  (I'm not sure he ever got used to Pregnant Rachel.  He never could seem to tell what would make me angry, make me cry, or what I would shrug off or ignore.)  "It must be nice to walk out the door and completely forget about this baby," I shouted.  "It must be nice to get busy with something and have it just fall out of your head.  It must be nice to focus on something else, anything else, because the evidence of this kid's impending birth is not sitting on your bladder."

My husband had the privilege of forgetting what was going on inside my body.  I did not.  Even before I took the test that confirmed we were having a baby, my body was under assault.  I was exhausted, nauseous, flatulent, clumsy, then ravenously hungry, constipated, achy, emotional, and sometimes I was terrified, manically cleaning, wishing I could undo what was happening and go back to my old life.  I never got a break from my experience, from my feelings, from the
knowledge that my life was changing and would never be the same.

Now, let's all agree on one thing:  when a man and woman who love each other get pregnant and have a beautiful baby that they raise together, this is a good thing.  Although pregnancy is not fun in many ways, the outcome is amazing.  It's why I did it again, why I would do it again tomorrow if I could.  But there are many experiences and feelings that are not great, that we would love to be able to put an end-date on.  Like racism.  I'll bet black people in America, if they were told that yes, your lives are hard right now, and this is a difficult thing you all are going through, but in nine months you will be able to shed the burden of hundreds of years of judgment and oppression and experience true equality in every area of life...well, I'll bet they would take a collective deep breath and get through the next nine months.

Except there is no expiration date.  Muslims will still be Muslims next year, provided they don't get murdered by ignorant nationalist jerks.  Black men will still look like scary big dudes to people who see a threat where there isn't one.  Mexicans (and really, all people of Latin descent, whose skin is just a shade too brown) will still get told to go back where they came from, even if here is where they came from.  The others, the minorities, the different looking will never get a break from discrimination, which can be as simple as being followed around a convenience store or being placed in remedial classes at school, all the way to being shot while standing unarmed next to their broken down car.  I get why people are angry.

And, while I mourn with those who mourn, and I long to see change in our country, I cannot deny that I get the privilege daily to decide how much to care.  I can choose to pick up my grief, to offer words of comfort and compassion, to walk with protesters and write a blog post and rant at whoever will listen that This is not right.  Or I can sit with my kids and read Pete the Cat and sigh about how messy their rooms are and feel disappointed that I have to drink water because someone else drank my Coke and get excited about a new episode of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.  I can look around at all that I have:  a house, three healthy children, a good husband, enough money to keep the lights on and food on the table, a big yard to play in, schools where my kids are learning and thriving.  I can see a police car and only feel worried if my speedometer says I'm going too fast, I can let my kids run around the playground and ride their bikes and my biggest concern is that they'll be kind to others.  The people in government and starring in movies and advertising shampoo look like me.  I don't feel judged at my bank or when I apply for jobs or when I walk in somewhere unfamiliar.

In many ways, the world is a safe place for me.  Does that mean that it's a safe place for everyone?  Absolutely not.  In fact, my own experiences as a vulnerable child tell me that this world is not a good place to be isolated and defenseless.  It is only the powerful and the privileged who will thrive here.  My white skin and my suburban address cushion me from the harsh experiences of the larger world.  I don't have to think about it if I don't want to.  I can shut my door and forget about all of it.

So, people who look like me, people who have this privilege of ignoring the experiences and hardships of others, what choice will you make today?  How will you choose to see the world tomorrow?  What are you going to do about the outcry across our country that there is not freedom and justice for all?

It is time to pick up the burden.  It is time to care about our brothers and sisters who are dying while we go to Target and soccer practice and remodel our kitchens.  It is time to change the system from the inside out, and it is time that we all feel uncomfortable about what is happening in our streets.

It is time to mourn.

On Living in the Light

I love the light.  I like good things.  I follow Facebook pages that share stories about Encouragers and Survivors and Overcomers.  I like funny people.  I like to laugh.  The first thing I noticed about my husband was his sense of humor.  I focus on the positive.  I promote happy stuff.  This is who I am; this is my preference.  I love the light.

But this is reality:  my life can be difficult.  My oldest son has a developmental disorder known as "autism", which is a scary diagnosis to receive while your three year old is clinging to you for dear life.  I make decisions daily which affect his life and his future, even though I only have knowledge of the past and the present.  Should we try this new therapy?  Which school is right for him?  Should I push him, or is now a time when he just needs his space?  Does he understand me?  Do I understand him?  I have lived through days and weeks and months and years of darkness.  I have cried out of frustration, I have cried because I felt inadequate, I have cried because sometimes it is just so hard.

Here's the thing though, that brings me comfort:  light and dark are not equal, opposing forces.  There are more hours of sunlight than dark every day.  When light shines in the dark, the darkness can't overcome it (Hey, that's in the Bible!).  Darkness only comes when there is no light.  The sun sets, the switch gets turned off, the bulb burns out--that's when darkness comes.  So then, we don't have to stay in the dark!  We just have to turn the light back on!

When I've been in the dark, I know how hard it is to find the switch.  And that's where you come in.  Yes, YOU!!  Would you mind turning the light back on please? (As my boys say, "Light please!") You can see it, can't you?

When you bring me coffee on a random weekday and stay to chat.

When you offer to watch my kids.

When you invite us over for dinner.

When you post an encouraging message on Facebook, or drop that card in the mail.

When you call and ask how I'm really doing.

When you wash my dishes.

When you hug my kids.

When you hug me.

When you say, "We can do hard things."

When you say, "You're doing a good job."

When you say, "I love you."

You are turning on my light.  You are beating the dark back in its cage.  You are throwing me a life preserver.

I am so grateful for the people who help me live in the light.  I don't know who I would be without each of you.  And here's the most important part: this is a dark world, and we need more LIGHT.  We need to take our light out into the streets and SHINE.  We need to give and share the light like there's no tomorrow because there might not be.

When you are overwhelmed in the dark, you won't always be able to find the switch.  So ASK.  Scream it at the top of your lungs: I can't see!  Someone turn the light on!  And if you are the one hearing the call, RUN to help.

** I wrote this in response to the recent murder of London McCabe, by all accounts a little boy much like my sweet James.  Please do not pity those living with disabilities or their families.  It is a joy and an honor to be the mother of my autistic son.  It is hard, but every day I am thankful that my son is alive, challenges and all.  Please extend a helping hand and open your eyes to the worth and value of every human life.**

On Community (not the TV show)

It was supposed to be an uneventful morning.  It was supposed to be relaxing.  But who am I kidding, when is my life ever uneventful?  I got the big boys ready and off to school and then it was time to take the littlest one to the library for story time.  We are enjoying these quiet times together and exploring what he likes independent of his brothers and their dominating interests.  But we didn't just play with the trains and sing songs with Miss Renee.  This morning we met Katie and Scotty.  We were minding our business when Scotty came over to play with Mikey.  He had been reading books with his mom, but decided to get on the floor instead.  Mikey didn't want to share, which made Scotty cry and run back to his mom.  I thought to myself, there is something going on there, and moments later she confirmed.  Scotty was recently diagnosed with a Sensory Processing Disorder and his mom suspects further testing will reveal an Asperger's diagnosis.  He just started therapy and there is so much to work on, she said.  I nodded sympathetically.  I KNOW.  And then I said, "My oldest son is on the autism spectrum."  Words I used to avoid.  Words that brought me to tears every time I said them out loud.  But look at me now!  Casually telling this stranger about my special child.   Because we are part of the same community.

She wanted to talk more.  She told me about her family, how they are not supportive, how they undermine her when her son goes there for the weekend.  So I told her, "You are the mom.  You know your child, you know what he needs.  So do it.  It is hard, and sometimes it takes a really long time to see any progress from it.  But you'll do it."  She nodded and said, "I really needed to hear that."  Katie, I KNOW.  I needed to hear it too.  Sometimes I still need to hear it.  There are a ton of different ways to parent, to be a good mom, and you need to trust yourself that the way you have chosen is correct.  You need to be reminded that your son isn't bad, he's just special.  And that means the way you parent him will have to be special.  You will do it because it's your job.  You will do it because, although this isn't the child you thought you would raise, it's the child that you have, and he's amazing.  It gets easier to see the amazing and stop focusing on the problems as you go.

Can I just say how much more desirable it is to be the one saying "It gets better" than to be the one hearing it? This keeps happening to me, these opportunities to meet newly diagnosed kids and their caregivers, and every time it takes me back (almost five years now) to those days of fear.  I treated my son's diagnosis like all hard things in my life to that point:  I hid.  I buried the truth inside and pulled away. Fear and shame have isolated me for so much of my life, and this was no different.  I was afraid of what people would say, how they would treat us if they knew.  But my silence and my secrets have hurt me deeply.  And so finally I took a chance and reached out.  It was around this time that I met Mandy, who is not part of the special needs community, but took me under her wing and brought me to a literal Village who accepted my whole family in a way I'd never experienced before.  And because of these people teaching me about community, about give and take, about showing up with your mess and letting them wash it clean, about forging a family independent of blood or marriage, I can tell Katie what she needs to hear.  I can be the lifeline that I once needed.  I can offer camaraderie and turn a library into sacred space.

Glennon Melton of Momastery.com says that we belong to each other.  This is true of moms, of special needs families, of PEOPLE.  We need each other.  We need all of our experiences, we need all of the answers we have found, we need encouragement and support and a thousand times over we need to LOVE.  If you are in hiding, COME OUT.  We need your story, we need your passion.  And we just might hold the keys that will set you free.

In the Tension

I first came across this phrase "in the tension" when I read Rob Bell's book "Sex God" several years ago.  In it, he describes living in the tension through the lens of body and soul.  We aren't animals or angels, he explains, but a mix of the two, and when we satisfy our bodies, we can't disrupt our peace of mind.  Likewise, we must keep our peace of mind without depriving our bodies.  I thought it to be one of the most true things I've ever read.  In this particular book, the tension is in sexuality.  Yes, we have desires in our bodies, but instead of treating sex as though we are at Baskin Robbins and must try all 31 flavors, we should ground it in a monogamous relationship that is mutually beneficial (you know, like marriage), therefore satisfying the body and bringing peace to the mind.  I thought of this again today as I sat in church and listened to a man describing a trip to a garbage dump in Ecuador, where people search for food to feed their families, and recyclables to trade for nickels and dimes to provide everything else the family needs.  Then I went home and looked in the cupboards (full), the fridge (half-full), the freezer (overflowing), and wanted to whine that there was nothing that looked good to eat.  Because, you know, I just brought home a trunk full of groceries two days ago.  How can I sit in my kitchen and satisfy my body, eating fresh bread and cherries, drinking cold water and Coke, defrost some chicken breasts for dinner, while these families to the south (and really, all around me) are going hungry?  How can I balance a peace of spirit with a tummy that's used to eating good food a few times each day?  I think I would stuff my pockets with ten dollar bills and walk through the garbage dump handing them out.  But would that be culturally sensitive?  Would it insult the people it was meant to bless?  There's a much bigger tension than the desire to experience fidelity in my marriage.

Parenting is another example of the tension.  Because we want to hold our children close and breathe in their special childhood scents, but we also want them to grow and develop and eventually leave the home we have so lovingly nurtured for them so that they can create homes and families of their own.  As much as I am looking forward to the start of school in about 5.5 weeks, I know I'll get teary when I take the boys to pick out lunch boxes and fill our cart with pencils and glue and safety scissors.  I have loved having them home with me this summer, I have loved our morning cuddles and our afternoon quiet and our long walks and outdoor exploration.  I have delighted in their kisses and declarations of love, a new thing around here.  But I have also cheered wildly as they learned to ride their bikes and enjoyed the ease of family outings now that they can help carry the load and stay longer at fun places like the amusement park and the pool.  I have had moments of congratulatory parenting as I stood in the hall and listened to the boys settle an argument and return to their play, because YES I taught them something! but Oh wait, I'm no longer needed.  Likewise when they get their own snacks it is liberating but also sad.  So I live in the tension of giving them the love and security they need but also encouraging their independence.

Tension exists where there is no easy fix, where two things battle for dominance.  Or tension is the place we choose to be when we acknowledge the duality of our lives.  Tension is hard; tension is good.  Tension can drain us, or tension can make us aware. 

"In this tension something beautiful and compelling happens...you find language to say 'It's great to be you.'"  Jason Morriss, Austin New Church

Nature: Penguins

I had a thought a few months ago about Nature.  I was outside with the kids, marveling at all that is growing around us, the annual changes that occur in our own yard, and I thought about God.  I thought about how he created us all, this earth that we are meant to share and preserve and derive our sustenance from.  And I thought about how it is like the Cliff's Notes if you are curious about how God thinks and works and what He likes and what He doesn't like.

Remember a few years back when everyone was obsessed with penguins?  There was the penguin movie, the one where Morgan Freeman narrated the lives of adorable little Antarctic explorers.  There was also the animated penguin movie, where they find their life mates by dancing to the same song.  There were the Planet Earth movies, which also featured penguins heavily.  There were cartoons and plush penguins and some sort of collector game, like Penguin Pokemon or something (I don't know, I was an adult).  I kind of missed the whole craze because it was around this time that I was getting married and pregnant and having my first baby, and there just wasn't any room for new obsessions beyond the people I was desperately in love with in my own house.  But a few years later, when my little baby was a little boy interested in aquatic life, I finally got around to viewing a nature documentary (or ten) and I learned about penguins.  They are interesting little birds, I'll admit.  They live in the coldest part of the world, where there are no people (except the ones holding the cameras? How did they get all that footage?).  They are birds, but can't fly.  And when they lay their eggs, the ladies take off and the male penguins keep their little ones warm.  This is the thing I want to talk about, the aspect of penguin life that stuck with me after the passage of time and the loss of brain cells.

So the females lay the eggs, and then the males sit with them to keep them warm until its time for the babies to be born.  All the guys huddle together in a giant circle, with the eggs sitting on their feet, covered by their downy undersides, wind swirling snow around them.  Gradually, the penguins shift their formation, so that those on the outside make their way in, and those on the inside move out.  They do this dance for a couple months, all so they can share the heat of their bodies equally, all for the babies.  This stands out to me, as a human woman, because so much of early infant care (not to mention nine months of pregnancy) is the responsibility of the females.  There's not much for the dads to do.  Back to the penguins.  We tend to think of animals as beneath us, since they probably aren't capable of complex thought and certainly have no verbal expression of language.  But those guys huddle together and distribute their warmth evenly...why?  Because they are a self-less species?  Because they care about the survival of their neighbor's egg just as much as their own?  Imagine if the penguins didn't share the heat.  Imagine if those at the center said, "Nah, I'm real toasty here in the middle.  I'm not scooting to the outside so someone else can have a turn here."  The penguins on the outside would die.  The eggs would freeze.  The ladies would return after a few months of hunting and find...a smaller huddle of penguins than they left?  Or would any of them be alive?  As the outer penguins stopped contributing their warmth, the next ring would go, and then the next, and then the next.  The group needs every member to contribute in order for them all to live, in order for the next generation to break through their shells.  These birds live in the harshest environment on earth, and its only because of their communal warmth that they can make it.

Ask yourself if you are in a community.  Are you sharing your heat?  Are you keeping those around you warm, or are you standing alone?  People in social support communities live LONGER than those who are isolated.  So find a support group.  Get involved.  And don't just stand in the middle, hogging the heat.  Once you have warmed yourself, start scooting out, letting others in.  All it takes is opening your eyes, opening your doors.  We need each other, just like the penguins.

Regret and Resolution

Last week marked the start of a New Year.  It's the time when we take some time to remember the past, when we begin to look ahead in the future, when we resolve to make changes.  I worked at a gym in high school and college, so I know how quickly many give up on their goals for the new year.  Every January, the workout room would be packed with people, and their numbers would dwindle until April, when the people who truly had a commitment to personal fitness were the only ones showing up.  They were the same faces I saw week after week, year after year.  My own resolutions tend to be financial.  This will be the year I don't get any library fines (already failed that one, with an overdue CD still in my car).  This will be the year we finally pay off our credit cards (despite being a recurring resolution, I KNOW 2014 is going to be the one!).  This will be the year I turn my little writing hobby into a paying job (although with four kids to take care of, actually finding time to finish that novel is going to be the biggest challenge).

Self Portrait

 

I think one of the purposes behind our New Year's Resolutions is to avoid regret.  So that this time next year, we can look back and say we didn't waste it.  This was the year that we turned things around, in our finances, in our health, in our relationships.  This was the year that I did things for me, instead of putting myself last.  But I don't regret putting other people's needs ahead of my own.  I don't regret all the times I make food for the kids, then realize hours later that I still haven't eaten.  I don't regret the path my life has taken, even if it means I'm somewhere different than I imagined.

Play doh creations

This is not to say I live without regrets.
I regret all the times I cared more about what other people thought than doing what I knew to be right.  Growing apart from friends whose opinion used to mean so much helped me see how much of my life had been lived to get someone else's approval.
I regret everything that I abandoned because it got hard.  I regret what remains unfinished.
I regret the narrow and shallow way I used to look at the world.  I regret the people I wrote off because they didn't seem good enough, able enough, cool enough.

Angry Birds: GO!

Something tells me 2014 is going to erase some of those regrets.  Not because I made a resolution on January 1st, but because my heart is being transformed daily. Because forgiveness and love are replacing achievement and regret.  Because I'm raising little children, which often means I'm learning way more than I'm teaching.  Because I've found a community, a Village, that links arms and carries the load and refuses to leave me behind. 

Not for Auld Lang Syne, but for a life without regret.  Happy 2014!

Thinking about Autism: In the Wreckage

When my son was diagnosed with autism at the age of 3, I was devastated.  I had only encountered two other people with this condition/disease/disability...I didn't even know what to call it.  The time I spent in denial and feeling defensive didn't help anything.  It didn't push me into action.  It didn't help me understand my son any better.  I felt like a ship at sea, going under in a terrible storm, with every thing, everyone, on board lost.  It took other autism moms to get me to face it all head on and start my journey of autism awareness.  And it took community and the realization that I wasn't alone to accept autism for what it is-- a part of my son that affects him but doesn't define him..  After opening myself to the greater autism community, I found out that most parents are wrecked by this diagnosis.  But I also learned that sometimes life needs a little wrecking.

I drive by houses like that sometimes.  They are falling apart and just look dangerous, and yet there are cars parked out front and lights on inside, and I wonder, Who would live there?  Why would you make improvements or cosmetic changes?  Why would you invest your money in it, or force your family to live in it?  And I think its like the abandoned "plan" for my son.  This is what I thought he was going to be, to do, to become.  But its not, and so instead of inhabiting this crap shack, I needed to just BURN THE MOTHER DOWN.  Raze it.  Instead of asking, Why is this happening?  What made him this way?  Because those questions don't serve a purpose, and might just be the complete wrong questions to ask.  The mental spiral that kills hope and joy?  THROW IT OUT.  Standing on the now empty plot of land, I finally asked the right question: What now?  It was time to take the materials I'd been given, my wonderful and amazing and unique son, and find out what he was.  Maybe he would be a new house, or maybe he'll be a grocery store or post office, or some piece of abstract art that makes everyone who looks at him think something different.  Who knows?  There is no "right" answer, no final destination that he has to arrive at, no timetable that I can impose on him.

When the doctor said that word, the dreaded "A" word, and the teachers and therapists and well-meaning friends confirmed it, the plans and dreams and goals I had laid out for my son imploded.  And thank goodness.  Now he gets to be the author and architect of his future.  Instead of pushing him to be the person I want him to be, I'm watching to see where he shows interest and ability.  I'm still presenting opportunities (come on kid, let's learn French together! It'll be fun!), but I listen when he says NO.  We have left the wreckage and are living in the new creation, the life that happens when we rebuild what was once thought to be lost forever.

Our Adventure

Back so many years ago (okay, like 9 years), as I was preparing to marry my love, I read the John Eldridge book Wild At Heart.  Say what you will, but that man can energize with his words.  I was bouncing up and down, ready to take on the world with Chris.  I remember excitedly talking about the book with him, about our future together, and ready to dream big.  "What is our adventure going to be?" I asked.  Chris gave me the dubious look I have come to know and love and sometimes resent.  He said our adventure for the time being would have to be living on a single income, as he was still looking for real, full-time work after dropping out of college.  Not the answer I was hoping for.  But we got married, he did find a good job to help pay the bills, and life started happening.  Within two years we were expecting our first child, Chris was going back to school, I was thinking about quitting my job to be a stay at home mom.  It seemed like adventure was on its way in the form of midnight feedings and exploding diapers.  We bought a house and settled in, getting used to being parents and a family of three.  Chris kept at the work and school, I tried to figure out what I was doing with my baby.  When the first year passed and we had kept our little guy alive, we started thinking about another baby, and shortly after James turned two, we welcomed Winston.  Chris finally finished school and we were a family of four, just your typical suburban dream.  But still I longed for Adventure.

It started small, a yellow highlighter through the books I was reading, a whisper as I scanned newspaper headlines.  When I look back now, I see a bright ribbon woven through my life from the very beginning, a ribbon that leads to children.  Children who are hurting, children who have been abandoned.  And the voice whispering, "They need good people to help them.  They need parents who will heal them."  And the realization: We are good people.  Chris and I are good parents.  They need us.  Slowly, timidly, we talked about foster care.  Slowly, timidly, we looked into the reality.  Slowly, timidly, we went to a local children's home for the weekend.  And that was when we said the bold YES.  Yes, we will do this.  Yes, we will be the parents who help children heal.  Yes, there are many reasons to hold off and wait, but there is one reason (one way more important reason) to say yes now.  Because they need us.  Now.

We began our training classes in March.  In fact, we spent our sixth wedding anniversary learning about attachment disorders with Miss Jan.  At one point, as we left another totally depressing class, Chris turned to me and said, "I don't think I can do this.  Its too much, the hurt and the brokenness."  I nodded.  He was absolutely right.  Our hearts broke each day as we learned about what happens to kids who are abused, neglected, abandoned.  Then I said, "There are always going to be kids in foster care.  The abuse isn't going to stop.  And knowing what we know now, I can't just go back home and pretend like its not happening.  We have the opportunity to help."  And the doubt was gone.  We were full-steam ahead through all the paperwork and interviews and inspections, and in eight months time, we were licensed foster parents.  They called us to take baby Michael after a month of waiting.  That placement became an adoption and now we are the happy parents of three amazing boys.  So we became open again.  We waited five months for a call, and were so excited on the day one finally came.  But within 15 minutes the circumstances had changed and there was no placement.  We waited some more.  The next week, a call came to provide respite.  This is a short-term placement wherein one foster family watches the foster kids of another family while they are out of town, medically unable to care for the kids, overwhelmed, whatever.  Only one thing gave me pause.  There were two kids needing beds, a brother and sister.  If you're doing the math, that would mean five days with five kids in the house.  Maxed out for space in the car and the beds.  Food disappearing from the fridge at an even faster rate.  I looked at the phone for a beat, and then said yes.  This is our adventure.  This is our calling.  This is our heart.  (And not to brag or anything, but we totally nailed it.  It was exhausting, it was challenging.  But we did it.)

While we were hosting these two spunky siblings, I read the story about Davion and his plea for parents.  I cried at how many children are still waiting for that placement, stuck in group homes or an endless parade of placements because there aren't enough good people willing to become foster parents.  I remember how scary it seemed to open our home to an unknown child with unknown issues.  I know its different from the Hallmark picture of giving birth in a halo of light to a child who will be yours and yours alone forever.  But if you are reading this, nodding your head and agreeing, Yes, they need parents!  They deserve parents! Please.  PLEASE.  Consider what you can do, right now, to change the life of a child in foster care.  Because as long as there are people looking for a way out of their present reality through drugs or alcohol or World of Warcraft, there will be dealers and enablers, and the children will suffer the most.  As long as there are cycles of abuse and poverty, with no one to intervene with education and healing, children will be at risk.  They are the most vulnerable people in the world, and they need someone to stand up, to speak out, to give them a safe place to grow.  Its my adventure, and it might be yours too.

For local folks: www.starkadoptfoster.com
For the US: www.heartgalleryofamerica.org

Accepting the 10

I was folding laundry recently (like, um, every day for the past 6 years), and I had an epiphany.  As I held up a pair of my capris and began to fold them together, my eyes fell on the number 10 in bold font on the tag.  And I cringed.  I realized that I don't like seeing that number on my pants.  I used to see a big, old 6, and it made me feel good.  Then I had a baby, and the number bumped up to 8.  Then I had another baby, and suddenly I was in the double-digits.  Size 10.  Four years have gone by, and although the Jillian Michael's Shred helps firm things up, the number on my pants stays the same.  Every time I see it, I feel fat.  But I have friends who call me skinny.  I have a husband who calls me beautiful.  I have children who rush to hug me and wrap their sweet little arms around the very body that I get disgusted by.  So maybe I'm the one with the problem.  Maybe I'm missing something they are seeing.  And I've decided it means I have to accept this number, and stop wishing it was different.

The tag on the pants and jacket says L.  Winston says that stands for Love.

1.  I want to be healthy.  I could definitely eat better...I drink 2-3 cans of pop a day and have a child-like love of candy (although, unlike a child, I have the means to head out to the store and get more whenever the mood strikes, and no one watching to make sure I save room for dinner).  I enjoy being active, and am constantly chasing my kids and going for walks.  Plus, just carrying one of these guys is a quick workout, now that the oldest is topping 50 pounds.  Try hefting that up to the top bunk 5 times a night.  So being healthy and skinny aren't always the same thing.  As long as I feel like I'm practicing moderation and taking care of my body, it shouldn't matter what size I'm wearing.

The dreaded task: shopping for new jeans

2.  I need to put it in perspective.  I don't have the stats, but I'm pretty sure there are millions of women in the world who wish they were a size 10...from both ends of the spectrum.  Women who are starving and literally don't know where their next meal will come from would be ecstatic to have such a round waist that they have to wear my size 10s.  And women who struggle on the other side, the plus-size, full-figure, Diet Coke-sipping ladies who can't find their size in stores, who resort to mumus to hide their curves...well, if any of you are reading this, don't roll your eyes and write me off because I don't even know what a weight problem is.  I'm in the middle, I'm smaller than Marilyn Monroe, I'm blessed, I get it.  And you all are right.  Being a size 10 is not an international tragedy.  Its just reality.

And the backside...lucky this one didn't get deleted!

3.  I should focus on the positive.  My photographer friend once told me that she hates giving a new bride her wedding proofs, because the first thing she does is find the flaws.  "Oh, my hair looks weird" or "I hate my nose" or "That dress makes my butt look big!"  And she sits there, dumbfounded, because looking through her lens she saw a gorgeous woman on the most exhilarating day of her life looking amazing.  But we all do this, don't we?  We don't look in the mirror and say, I am looking awesome today!  I have the prettiest blue eyes!  I love how this skirt shows off my long, sexy legs!  My lips are just the perfect size!  Personally, my eyes are always drawn to my tummy (flabby), the mole on my chin (how did Cindy Crawford pull this off?), my frizzy hair (0% chance of precipitation my butt!).  My phone rang this afternoon, and it was a friend calling to tell me I'm beautiful, and (for the millionth time) what nice legs I have, and how she wishes she was tall and lean like me.  And I thanked her, because I really needed to hear that.  I've been feeling bad about my looks, particularly feeling fat and unattractive, and it pulled my eyes off the flaws and toward positive.  She's totally right.  I have amazing legs, and I love short summer bottoms that show them off.  Even the ones with a big, old 10 on the tag.

So these are my baby steps, trying to forge a new path toward loving my body.  I would welcome anyone else's perspective, how you love yourself, or even what is your best feature?

Senior Citizens

Before I had my first baby, long before I became the Insomni-Mommy, people used to say these awful trite parent catchphrases.  They would tell me "Motherhood is the hardest job you will ever have, but its also the best job ever."  (insert eye roll)  I also heard "My children are the ones teaching ME!" and I thought, you saccharine-filled idiot, how stupid do you have to be to learn something from a child?  They come into the world knowing NOTHING, and its only because of adults that they ever learn to function.  Your kid is probably going to wind up on welfare with morons like you for parents.  This is just one of the misconceptions I had before my own baptism of fire called giving birth.  (Another was, My life isn't going to change that much...but that's another blog for another day)

I think its safe to say I have realized my error and in fact learn something almost daily in this season of raising boys and wiping butts and seeking refuge at the computer, where all of my friends live.  Sometimes its a simple as learning new facts from a book about phases of the moon, something that I'm sure Mr. Morrison covered in 9th grade Earth Science, but I missed because I hated Earth Science and Mr. Morrison by proxy.  Did you know that the cobwebs you find while dusting your house (bi-annually) are the abandoned homes of spiders?  They build a new web every 24 hours, eating all the sticky parts of the old one to provide thread for the new one.  I didn't, until I read it a few years ago in a 30 page book about spiders.  (Because that's what mothers of boys read.  Pinkalicious does not find its way into our bag at the library)

But then there are the big moments, when being a mother challenges very deep prejudices and misconceptions.  When my heart literally grows bigger because of something I witness in my children.  Like today, when we visited Great-Grandpa Fraser at his nursing home.  A little background on me: I don't like old people.  If your response to that is like Sarah's ("My grandparents are the best people I know!"), then to you I say congratulations.  I don't know what that's like.  To me, old people smell and are kind of worthless, and I can't help but think that if they would all just die, our country would make a huge leap forward in civil rights, race relations, female empowerment, etc.  Recently, I was really moved to try to look at the whole of them differently, however, and I thought a good place to start would be within my own family, within my own county.  So I took the two little boys to visit their Great-Grandpa before naptime.  We brought two books and a toy car, and although I was kind of dreading it (because nursing homes equal death to me), Winston and Michael were thrilled to ride an elevator and run down a really long hallway.  I kept waiting for someone to yell at us (another prejudice I have...old people are mean), but everyone we passed smiled and was just thrilled to see the kids.  We walked into Grandpa's room, where he was asleep in his armchair, and Winston woke him up by throwing the books on his lap.  He woke up terrified, not a great start, but quickly recovered and was genuinely happy to see us.  We talked for a bit, and then I asked Winston to read the books with him, which is when my son really turned on the charm.  He smiled, he laughed, he hung over the side of Grandpa's chair.  He read most of the words ("In a People House"), and Grandpa helped him with the ones he didn't know.  I realized, looking at the two of them, that there is a symbiosis between the very old and the very young.  They both need large print to read, and the "outdoor" voice Winston uses all day long probably sounds just audible to Grandpa.  I feel like we filled the room with happiness and vitality for 30 minutes or so, until Michael decided he was done and threw a fit.  But the boys both gave Grandpa a high five and a nice "Goodbye!" and it was back to the car and lights out for us. 

Such a simple errand, but such a big eye-opener.  I realized that I can be a little uncomfortable, just sit back and watch my darling kids run the show.  They entertained, they enchanted, they did all the work.  And what's more, they had a blast.  It was a great way to spend an otherwise crummy rainy morning.  I never wanted to be that person taking her kids to cheer up the old folks...I didn't even want to be that kid when I was younger!  And so I am extremely impressed by my sons and their impervious charm.  I'm glad we did something different, and I'm actually looking forward to going back.

Love Dare part 2

Yes, we are still at it.  We are daring to love every day and learning more than we expected.  Wow.  I can say, I was looking forward to 40 days of lovey-dovey moments with Chris.  I thought we would just sail through these dares and grow closer and smile at how much we love each other.  But what I'm finding is these tasks are doing a great job at shining a light on how poorly I sacrifice for my husband.  I really didn't think of myself as selfish or entitled, but those words came to me this past weekend.  When I stay in bed and expect him to get up with the kids.  When I glare at the full trash can he left for me while he is at work.  When I pass that toy/sticker/apple core/dirty sock on the floor over and over and I REFUSE to pick it up, because I do enough around here, that should be his job.  And so I chose to email my Village sisters and tell them this discovery I had.  It was hard to be that honest.  But then today's dare was about being intimate, about trusting my spouse with everything.  So I told him the same thing.  And it was so much harder than even that email, to look at his face agreeing with me as I said those words out loud.  Ugh.  And I don't want to change.  I don't want to be better somedays.  I DO do alot around here.  But I know that I need to get my butt out of bed.  I need to partner with this man more fully, take the burden more equally.

Because the other thing these Dares are showing me is what an incredible man I married.  I talked with Liga (in my head I always call her Lovely Liga, and I think one of these days its going to slip out when I'm actually talking to her), who met her husband when they were stupid, immature teenagers, just like me and Chris.  And we agreed that looking back at the beginning of our relationships at the boys we fell in love with, kind of makes us cringe at how low our standards were.  And how those boys became men who just make our jaws drop sometimes, that we got so lucky to have these men marry us and give us children to raise together.  Nothing Chris did while we were dating(or even that first year of marriage) comes anywhere close to the ways that he impresses me and loves me and challenges me today.  Seriously, 17 year old Rachel, you won the husband lottery when you lost your mind for that boy at work who smiled at you and told funny jokes and had kind of a cool car.  You didn't know then (how could you, you were such a moron, and worse, you thought you were pretty smart) that he would turn out to be self-less and kind, laid-back and thoughtful, gentle and strong, tender and bold.  You just wanted to kiss those full lips and hold hands at the movies and have a date for Prom who wouldn't bring a 2 liter of Pepsi mixed with rum in a backpack (a backpack and a tux, people. Pepsi and rum).  At least the funny thing is still there.  He still makes me laugh.  And taking away distractions and making time to talk more these past 18 days has made me remember just how much I loved to laugh with this man when he was a boy, and I appreciate that I still get to laugh with him now.  Only the jokes are much more personal and special and gut-busting, because what we have is a one flesh, one love partnership.

Love Dare (part 1?)

I've mentioned before how much I love Family Village.  How the last year of meeting bi-weekly has given Chris and I so many opportunities to talk and learn and introduce new ideas to our marriage and our family.  Mandy has set an amazing example for me about how to mother my children: she is so engaged and energetic with her kids, and somehow manages to cook dinners and can vegetables and write beautiful blog posts as well.  One of the first lessons (I guess that's what I should call them?) Village had was centered around teaching our kids to pray.  They gave us about 12 different ideas to engage the kids in a fun way to learn how to verbally express our thanks and petitions, our adoration and confession.  We were the only family whose kids were unable to answer the very simple question "How old are you?" despite the fact that there were children present who were younger who still responded, so I didn't know how much they would understand about prayer.  But we used the ideas provided, tweaked them a little to fit our family, and off we went (I also worked for a few weeks to teach the boys how old they were, and I'm happy to say they now know the answer to that question!).  And wonder of wonders, my boys can pray.  This past Easter Sunday they both asked to take a turn praying before our meal, and I loved hearing their little voices and the things they are thankful for (Mommy and Daddy, and playing outside, in case you were wondering!).

So when our leaders announced we were going to do The Love Dare (a 40 day challenge to be kinder to your spouse from the movie Fireproof), I was ready to go.  YES!  My marriage is about to get a little more awesome, and although I have wanted to do this since I saw the movie years ago, I've never actually gotten around to it.  Now I have a whole village of people to keep me motivated and hold me accountable to do it!  We got the book, flipped open to the first Dare, and I frowned.  Day 1...was it something simple and pleasant to get my feet wet?  NO.  Day 1: Love is patient.  Be patient with your spouse all day.  Only say kind things.  If you want to say something negative, say nothing.  As much as my husband tells me I'm a good wife, as much as I think of myself this way, the truth is that I can have a sharp tongue.  I don't nag or belittle him, but I am sarcastic (its my superpower, sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse) and sometimes I say things that are very hurtful without even realizing until its too late.  I just did it a few weeks ago, in a very memorable way.  So needless to say, this Love Dare has been a challenge from the beginning.  Even the day that dared to buy something for my spouse, and I decided I would get up with the kids and buy donuts for breakfast...my husband could sleep in and then wake up to one of his favorite treats...I got up, dressed the boys, and then stared at the door for a good 5 minutes just willing myself to get out.  I didn't want to do it!  Even though it meant a 3 minute car ride, a $4 purchase, and a donut for myself.

What I've realized in just the last 10 days is that I'm selfish.  Not in a noticeable, over-the-top way, but in an intimate, we-sleep-in-the-same-bed-and-you-stay-in-it-much-longer-than-I-do kind of way.  Its a selfishness that, when confronted, says "How dare you not like something about the way that I am!"  Its hard to let go.  But this Love Dare, and my awesome Village Sisters, make me want to peel it off and toss it in the trash (and then tie up the bag and carry it outside myself, because I'm being selfless!).

Another thing I've realized is that the Love Dare is not a sustainable template for marriage.  Its a 40 day kick in the pants to make me see myself clearly, and see my husband clearly, and give some intentional "for better" experiences.  Because we don't vow to stay married as long as everyone is healthy and doing nice things for each other.  We promise "in sickness and in health", "for richer or for poorer".  We have to promise both, because we don't get to choose which way our lives go.  I am (thank you Lord) healthy today, but a year and a half ago I took one wrong step and twisted my ankle.  I had to use crutches for weeks, went to physical therapy, missed trick-or-treat with my family.  I didn't plan on all that suckiness to happen, but it did, and Chris took care of me.  He took on double duty parenting, cleaning, cooking, and still made it to his job every day.  I don't know when some external factor like the death of a loved one or the divorce of parents is going to wreak havoc on our lives, and turn me into an emotional mess of a human being.  But I know that Chris will be there, holding me, comforting me, and we will cling to each other because some days that is the only thing that seems permanent and trust-worthy. 

So there are 30 days left.  Some daunting challenges (give in on a disagreement? we are not friends Day 12) and some that seem easy (read my Bible? don't mind if I do Day 21) lie ahead.  I can do this, because my marriage is worth it!

Autism Awareness

 

April is Autism awareness month...but in my house, every month is Autism awareness month.  Every day of my life is affected by autism, because my son is living autism.  Sometimes it feels like a burden to educate everyone he comes into contact with about his "condition", his "limitations".  Don't get me wrong, I appreciate every single person who cares enough to drop down to his level and ask him questions, those of you who try to involve him in the church programs and the play groups.  But some days I just want him to be able to play and spin and make weird noises and have that be normal.  That's why I love being around other Autism families.  Because the high-pitched shrieks and constant motion don't stick out so much when five or 10 or 50 other kids are doing it too.  I've been finding my people, these other families who know how it is, by doing the Autism Speaks walk and attending Sensory Storytime at the library.  The kindred moms who chaperone the field trips and join the online community through facebook and blogs.  I didn't realize how isolated I felt until I found them, and jumped instantly into the alphabet soup shorthand of special needs... OT and IEP and ADOS, IDEA and DD and SPD.  Our experiences are varied, yet the same.  Does your extended family understand what you're going through?  Do they try to help?  What about friends, neighbors, coworkers?  Do you feel like your child's teachers and therapists are allies or adversaries?  Do you like your doctor?  Do you feel like crap after IEP meetings and parent/teacher conferences?  Do you doubt yourself?  Do you wish your child was "normal" while also loving what he's brought to your life?

Oh yes.  These people get me.  But in honor of this fantastic blue month, I want to share three things I've learned as an Autism Mommy that maybe you don't know.  They are the three things I wish I'd heard from the smug neuro who leveled us with a diagnosis and an indifferent attitude about how our lives would be different from those of the typical families.
What the doctor should have said:
1.  If you've met one person with autism, then you've met one person with autism.  I hadn't experienced much first hand before becoming a mom.  I only knew one person for sure that I'd interacted with who was autistic.  My son is almost nothing like that other boy, except they share a medical diagnosis.  Never assume what an individual is capable of based on one word.  Because its a "spectrum" disorder, these people are all over the place in terms of skills, knowledge, communication, interests...but they are all people, all worthy of love and freedom and life.  Which leads me to...
2.  Different, not less.  I can't even say these words out loud without crying.  They mean that much to me.  My son is ABSOLUTELY different from typical children; he knows it, they know it, anyone spending five minutes with him knows it.  But he is in no way LESS of a person, less worthwhile, less loveable.  He is a circle to his brother's straight line; he is a square peg in a world of round holes.  His mind is a mystery, even to me, the one who birthed him and carried him and spent every day with him, but it is a joy to discover how it whirs and contemplates and makes sense of this life he's been given...
3.  Watch and learn.  Too many doctors give a "prognosis"...fancy medical term for incapacitating fear instilled in parents without much basis in reality.  We sit in the sterile rooms and look at the framed diplomas and imagine these men and women to be masters of the body and conquistadors of the brain, and when they say horrifying things like "Your child will never talk" or "Your child will never be able to have a real friend" or even something completely absurd and incalculable like "Your daughter will never go to Prom", we listen.  We readily accept as truth something that NO ONE has any way of knowing.  Remember #1 on my list?  Yeah.  So when you meet an autistic individual, especially when you parent or grandparent or are an uncle or aunt to someone like my son, put it all out of your mind.  Just pay attention.  Become a student of your child, just like any other parent does, and you will learn their triggers and their shortcomings, yes, but you will find out so much more.  You will see fans where you never noticed them before, you will be aware every time a school bus passes, you will see a snake not as a horrifying predator but something to be stroked and loved.  You will see a boy in a wheelchair and look beyond the disability to see the beautiful person inside.  You will notice every time another person cries, whether it is your baby or a stranger, and you will feel distress because that person is sad and you can't take it away.  You will know where every McDonald's is in your county, and you will shake your fist at those all-too-visible golden arches and wonder why there are so many.  You will realize that the only worthwhile part of cupcakes is the frosting.

I hope I can educate people and dispel the myths surrounding people like my son.  I am so grateful to the other moms and dads who share their everyday experiences and moments of transcendent wonder in ways that are poetic and informative, and I will keep striving to achieve that here (someday!).  And now I leave you with the immortal words of Ms. Jamie Lee Curtis:
"Different means nobody's ever the same.
All bodies are different and so are all brains.
Different is what makes this world so great.
Different is never something to hate."

On Arguing

I sat in a chair, facing a circle of attentive faces.  I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants and looked up to the ceiling, hoping to be rescued by wind, fire, Jesus himself descending on a cloud.  No such luck, just a plain old ceiling.  I looked back at the group, found my fearless leader smiling encouragingly back at me, said, "I really don't want to do this," heaved a sigh, and began.  I had been asked to share my story with the group.  To go back and tell how I came to be the person I am today, and maybe mention the people who helped me along the way.  I had something to say, but I really didn't want to do it.  See, I like and respect all these people who were listening, and I want them to like and respect me, too.  But if I talk about me (then), they are sure to think otherwise.  Because this is who I used to be:  argumentative.  I fought with my sister, I argued with my mom, typical teenage stuff.  But then I went to church and argued with my Sunday school teachers, and I went to school and argued with my classmates, and around and around again until I got others to AGREE to my (correct) point of view.  When I was 18, I went off to college and lived with 3 girls from different backgrounds and 3 entirely distinct personalities, and I fought with them.  On cold, snowy winter days, the only escape was to the dorm's computer lab, but we easily found each other through IM and the arguing started all over again.  The fighting got so bad in December that one of them threatened to kill me in my sleep, and I took her seriously.  Luckily my parents were able to come pick me up and I spent the night in the safety of my bed at home, while my roommate and her boyfriend came in to our dorm in the middle of the night looking for me.  She moved out the next week.

The arguments continued.  One day, more out of irritation than anything else, I decided to tell Jenni that she was only pretending to be a Christian.  When she went out drinking with the frat boys, it nullified her relationship with God.  I expected her to get defensive so I could wear her down and get her to admit I was right.  Instead, she turned the tables on me, pointing out that I was no better than anyone else, just because I didn't drink or swear, I would lie or gossip, say anything I wanted because I thought I wasn't going to get caught.  That was the end of our fight, because I had nothing to say to defend myself.  She was right.  This person whom I had been condemning just a moment ago was doing the exact same thing to me, and I didn't want to admit that I was busted.  I don't really remember any big fights after that; I think I was thoroughly embarrassed at being called out and didn't want to risk any more light being shed on my inadequacies.  By that summer, however, Chris and I had been dating long enough for me to get past the mushy, "I'm so into you" phase, and start to contemplate the "This might really be something" phase.  If that was the case, if I was going to start investing myself in our relationship, we needed to straighten some things out.  Immediately.  So I began arguing with him.  Sometimes it was just the petty jealousies that arise from a long-distance relationship, but many times our fights centered around our opposing, deeply entrenched beliefs.  We argued about US foreign policy, smoking, immigration, our friends, our independence.  I used everything in my arsenal to get him to agree with me.  I would hang up mid-sentence and refuse to talk to him until he ceded my point.  I would rant for HOURS to make him see the folly of his beliefs.  I fought dirty.  I thought I wanted victory, but when I got it (at what cost?), it didn't make me happy.

I learned something very important.  I learned that its okay to disagree.  I learned to have confidence in myself, in my convictions, and to realize that someone else's refusal to acknowledge me didn't take those away.  I also learned patience.  Because sometimes we will agree, eventually.  And when the other person gets there on his own, when he makes the choice for himself, I don't win...but I get harmony.  I realized (eventually) that peace was the thing I wanted the most.  I didn't want to fight anymore.  Recently, I came across these words by CS Lewis, and I think they so eloquently sum up my change of heart:
  "A discussion of real interest may follow.  Of course, the right side may be defeated in it.  That matters very much less than I used to think.  The very man who has argued you down will sometimes be found, years later, to have been influenced by what you said."
This is where I find happiness in my marriage today, in the aftermath of influence, instead of coerced agreement.  Moreover, I have even (once or twice) found myself to be in the wrong.  Giving up the argument in favor of contemplation has shown me the errors in my own thinking.  And Jenni?  The girl I called a slut and a drunk and an all-around bad person?  I saw her on her birthday this year, and marveled at how similar our lives have become, though we've been apart for so long.  I apologized for the things that I said, the way that I treated her so many years ago.  I told her what I said to my Village, that she busted me for all the evil in my life I was trying to pretend wasn't there.  And then she thanked me in return.  She said I made her think about the person she was becoming, and how saying a prayer and then living however she wanted wasn't actually what God wanted for her life.  And once again, I felt peace.