I love being outside. I love Nature. I dress my children in weather-appropriate clothes and we go for long walks, we stop at streams and hunt for tadpoles at the edges of lakes. We pick flowers and leaves and we collect rocks and sticks, and we find bugs let them crawl on our hands. We lay in the grass and watch the clouds moving overhead, we return after the sun sets to watch the stars reveal themselves. Being around Nature fills me with wonder. We planted seeds last weekend, and although we prepared the soil and we watered them on the days it didn't rain, we didn't make anything. We are like middle men, fetching the seeds and putting them in the ground, but we didn't make the seeds and we didn't make the ground, and now something completely new is poking through the soil and it's amazing.
Here's the thing: the first sentence in the Bible says "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth." Genesis 1:1 I'm guessing you knew that, even if you've never read the Bible, even if you've never read Genesis. It's one of those pervasive ideas, like "Til death do us part" and "Peace be with you...and also with you" and "And now you know...the rest of the story" that any American person has ingrained; they probably don't know its origin or even the first time they heard it. What I've been thinking lately is what if there's a reason for that? What if that's the first thing in the Bible just in case some people never read further? What if that is God's little hint to us that whatever isn't addressed in the rest of the book, whatever questions we have, the answers are found all around us, in Nature. What if Nature is God's cheat sheet?
I have read the Bible, the whole thing, cover to cover. It is full of good stuff, confusing stuff, boring stuff. But it never mentions abortion. That word is nowhere to be found in the Good Book. Neither is factory or car. The word autism is absent, although there are plenty of stories about people who are crippled, disfigured, impaired physically. The people with these ailments who met Jesus and believed in Him were healed, but many sick and handicapped people never had that honor. The events and people contained in the Bible are all from a pretty small geographic area, if you consider the whole Earth. We don't read about Australia or South Africa or even the United States My point is that our modern world can seem vastly different from the time when Jesus lived, or the age of prophets and pharoahs and gardens and talking serpents. Except that the world hasn't changed, not if you look around at all that God gave us when he created it.
So then...what can we learn about God by observing Nature? Let's start with fire. We have been making fires in our backyard this past month. Our whole family gathers around to watch the flames and be near the heat. My husband and I take turns building and maintaining the fire. We try to keep the kids from throwing things in, like their plush toys or a bucket of water. Neither is good for the fire. The fire needs dry, flammable items to consume. It has to start small. There is no way around this. If my sticks are wet, or too big, the fire isn't going to happen. So I gather some dried leaves, I place small twigs on them, then I strike the match. It's best to try to stick the match in a few different spots, just in case one doesn't burn. The little points of fire quickly spread, meeting in the middle and then things begin to happen. The thin leaves burn up fast, so I have to have the twigs ready, and maybe a few slightly bigger sticks. The leaves get the fire going, but the wood burns longer. The next phase is where it sometimes gets tricky. See, I can't keep adding leaves to keep the fire going. I'm not sure why, but what ends up happening is I just get a big pile of ashes. I have to add wood at the early point, and then I have to start progressively throwing bigger pieces of wood in. I can't sustain a fire on small incendiary items. If I want the fire to last (and believe me, I do), then what goes in the fire has to change. Also, there's a bit of an art to placement. What is already burning has to touch what I want to burn next. They need to have a point of connection, but they can't be too close. A log laying directly on top of another log of equal size will choke the fire, give it nowhere to go. It's the same for logs lying next to each other but not touching...how is the fire going to spread? Another important element to fire-building is boundaries. Probably our fire wouldn't go too far beyond our circle, because it has been a rainy spring, and most of the grass around it is green and moist. But what about the blanket our family sits on, or our clothes? If the fire spread out of control, it would burn us. It might even damage our house, our neighbor's house. We have to be intentional about where the fire is going in order to enjoy its benefits and not be destroyed by it.
Personally, I think you can apply this metaphor lots of ways. It could apply to leadership and empowering other people: we light their fires and they in turn light others, and the fire grows. We could compare evangelism to fire, because the gospel started small in Jerusalem and now it's preached in every corner of the earth. But I want to talk about the most personal aspect of Christianity: our relationship with God. For me, I feel like we started out like those dry leaves. Learning about God in Sunday school as a child, reading the Bible with my dad...it was like a match was struck and placed against my heart. But adolescence was such a distracting time; I ignored the fire and focused on getting good grades instead. All of my attention was on getting into the right college, being liked by my friends, trying not to embarrass myself. The fire never got very big, and my schoolwork and attempts to fit in were like big, wet branches that inhibited its growth. I was 18 when I looked for the fire again, and realized it had gone out. I was in the dark. Well, did I really need the fire? Could I just get through life without it? It was worth a try. In the dark, I couldn't see, but dry leaves were piling up again, and soon another match ignited them. This time, I didn't take the fire for granted. I looked at it closely, I studied it. I put more leaves on. I started going back to church, I reached for my Bible again. I joined a young adult group with my (soon to be) husband and started asking questions. Those questions, and the patient people who answered them were like wood in my fire. Beyond knowing what the Bible says, I learned how to apply it to my life. It started to become more real, more important. Shortly after I got married, I was baptized. Now, of course, the water doesn't really work with the fire, but baptism in my relationship with God was like lighter fluid. The fire spread all over, started approaching some bigger logs. At this point, I started to feel the heat. A little fire doesn't really spread much warmth. It takes a bigger, more concentrated burn to really catch on, and once it does, it no longer needs constant control and tending. The fire knows what to do, and it burns away what isn't necessary. It was at this point that my life and my heart really began to change, to take on the shape that the fire was making and not the one I wanted it to be. I learned about love, about what it really means to love my neighbors and the poor and the lepers. I was ready for bigger logs. So in came fear and insecurity and shame, and the fire took over and burned them. As it grew, I think my fire began to be noticeable to people around me. But I can't just tear down the boundaries of my fire pit and let the fire go every where. I have to let people approach me with their little sticks, let them prod my glowing center and take the flame to their own pile of leaves.
This is how I see God in Nature. This is how my heart has grown and changed, and how I'm learning to let God in. Sometimes this blog is an overflow for that fire, a place to burn a little longer.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
On Nicknames
I love a good nickname. One that rolls off the tongue, that you can't help but remember. I wanted a nickname for the longest time. Something better than Rachel. Something that would remind me of a great moment, a funny story for years to come.
Because children are cruel but not very creative, I (like many of you, I'm sure) was given a taunting name in elementary school. My last name rhymed with rabies...sort of. For a while, I was Rachel Rabies. Or Rachel Has Rabies. It did make me want to start biting people. Fortunately, we moved, and the name didn't come with us.
What did come with me was my sister, who decided to make a play on my middle name; for years she called me "Elvis snores" and later shortened it to Elvis. I wonder if she even remembers the origin of this name, which she occasionally still calls me to my face. (When she actually talks to me, AHEM, Sister, you are IT in this one-sided game of phone tag!)
In high school, I tried to give myself my own nickname. It came to me suddenly, something cool and unique. I asked my friends to start calling me Ramacious. I tried to make it work, but it didn't catch on. You don't get to pick your own.
My college roommate jokingly gave me a "Black Girl Name", but since it was "Rach-a-Mange", I killed that one quickly. It didn't sound so much like a nickname; more like a potentially life-threatening disease, and not much better than Rachel Rabies.
A lady I worked with in my early twenties always called me "Rach", and she insisted that this was a nickname. I disagree. It's just a shorter version of my name. If a girl is named Jennifer, but we call her Jen, is it a nickname? Or if a guy is named, oh I don't know, Andrew Tyler, and everyone calls him Tyler, does that count? Not to me.
When I got married, I tried to take on my husband's nickname. He played baseball in high school with several boys named Chris, so they each got nicknames to tell them apart. His was Lippy. So I thought, Great! I'll be Mrs. Lippy. It's cute, it rolls off the tongue, his-and-her nicknames! But again, it didn't stick, because, again, you don't get to pick your own nickname.
The worst part of this whole thing is I am a terrific giver of nicknames. I have successfully marked several people for life with unforgettable names, many of which are too cruel to post here. (For those who have only known the adult me, I have to admit, yes, I was one of the cruel children we lament about. I should probably try to find some of those people and apologize. You never know who has your name on a list a la Billy Madison, am I right?)
What I'm saying, what I'm BEGGING, is for someone to give me a good nickname. Please? Make my lifelong wish come true!
Because children are cruel but not very creative, I (like many of you, I'm sure) was given a taunting name in elementary school. My last name rhymed with rabies...sort of. For a while, I was Rachel Rabies. Or Rachel Has Rabies. It did make me want to start biting people. Fortunately, we moved, and the name didn't come with us.
What did come with me was my sister, who decided to make a play on my middle name; for years she called me "Elvis snores" and later shortened it to Elvis. I wonder if she even remembers the origin of this name, which she occasionally still calls me to my face. (When she actually talks to me, AHEM, Sister, you are IT in this one-sided game of phone tag!)
In high school, I tried to give myself my own nickname. It came to me suddenly, something cool and unique. I asked my friends to start calling me Ramacious. I tried to make it work, but it didn't catch on. You don't get to pick your own.
My college roommate jokingly gave me a "Black Girl Name", but since it was "Rach-a-Mange", I killed that one quickly. It didn't sound so much like a nickname; more like a potentially life-threatening disease, and not much better than Rachel Rabies.
A lady I worked with in my early twenties always called me "Rach", and she insisted that this was a nickname. I disagree. It's just a shorter version of my name. If a girl is named Jennifer, but we call her Jen, is it a nickname? Or if a guy is named, oh I don't know, Andrew Tyler, and everyone calls him Tyler, does that count? Not to me.
When I got married, I tried to take on my husband's nickname. He played baseball in high school with several boys named Chris, so they each got nicknames to tell them apart. His was Lippy. So I thought, Great! I'll be Mrs. Lippy. It's cute, it rolls off the tongue, his-and-her nicknames! But again, it didn't stick, because, again, you don't get to pick your own nickname.
The worst part of this whole thing is I am a terrific giver of nicknames. I have successfully marked several people for life with unforgettable names, many of which are too cruel to post here. (For those who have only known the adult me, I have to admit, yes, I was one of the cruel children we lament about. I should probably try to find some of those people and apologize. You never know who has your name on a list a la Billy Madison, am I right?)
What I'm saying, what I'm BEGGING, is for someone to give me a good nickname. Please? Make my lifelong wish come true!
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Comfort and Poverty
Currently, I'm reading the book of Job. I read this passage last night, "I broke the jaws of godless oppressors and plucked their victims from their teeth." 29:17 My first thought was, Ugh, the Old Testament. Geez. Why does it have to be so violent? Every story has to involve severed heads on stakes and entire tribes decimated. But I stayed there, thinking about that verse. The whole chapter is Job listing all his worthy accomplishments, explaining why his current circumstances can't possibly be punishment for bad behavior. He helped people, he had status in his community. He was honest and fair. And he rescued people.
Okay, so there's a reason we kept the Jewish history and law books as part of our Christian faith, right? Because all of this stuff takes on new meaning if you look at it through the lens of Jesus on the cross. So once a guy dies for the whole world (like everyone, not just the Jews, not just the Evangelicals, but EVERYONE), then who is a godless oppressor? It's not really an individual, because each of us has the potential to turn, to change. Everyone that might have fit the description of godless infidel in the Old Testament is just a soul looking for Jesus in all the wrong places.
But people ARE oppressed these days. That hasn't changed. So I ask again, who is a godless oppressor? I think about myself, about growing up in the suburbs. All the folks with their trim houses and green yards, the shiny cars and the good educations. My high school classmates went on to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford, MIT. I went to Kent State. Were we oppressed? Our houses weren't in foreclosure, but what about our families? Glennon Melton says in Carry On, Warrior that "People who need help sometimes look a lot like people who don't need help." I believe that people are oppressed by comfort. I think we convince ourselves that since we are able to satisfy our wants, that we don't have any needs, and we get on this conveyor belt and try not to look too closely at anyone. When I think about what Jesus has changed for me, as an adult, I say he broke the jaws comfort and plucked me from its teeth.
What am I saying? That Jesus calls me to be uncomfortable. That just as Chris and I were starting our own little suburban comfortable family, we threw a wrench in the machine and signed up to be foster parents. Nothing quite like the discomfort of being part of the most tragic and painful months of another family's journey, bringing home a sick, addicted baby. Probably you would expect that I have some strong feelings about drug-exposed infants...that's true. But it might surprise you to learn that while, yes, prenatal exposure is 100% preventable, it's long-term effects are nothing compared to the long-term effects of poverty. This is really the oppressor that foster care has brought me face-to-face with. And so I read that verse from Job another way: because of Jesus, I broke the jaws of poverty and plucked its victims from its teeth. It started with Michael, my beautiful son, but it kept going, and I LOVE going to my church and looking around at all the amazing people who shout this as their anthem. Poverty has people in its jaws, it is chewing them up and preparing to eat them alive, but we say NO, not on our watch, not today.
We spend time with kids and help people do their laundry and pass out food and toilet paper and always we say "There is hope that is real, hope that extends beyond our present circumstances." And those words are just as important to say to the people who look like they don't need help. That hope is for everyone.
So...what am I missing? What other "godless oppressors" are out there, and who is breaking the jaws and rescuing the victims?
Okay, so there's a reason we kept the Jewish history and law books as part of our Christian faith, right? Because all of this stuff takes on new meaning if you look at it through the lens of Jesus on the cross. So once a guy dies for the whole world (like everyone, not just the Jews, not just the Evangelicals, but EVERYONE), then who is a godless oppressor? It's not really an individual, because each of us has the potential to turn, to change. Everyone that might have fit the description of godless infidel in the Old Testament is just a soul looking for Jesus in all the wrong places.
But people ARE oppressed these days. That hasn't changed. So I ask again, who is a godless oppressor? I think about myself, about growing up in the suburbs. All the folks with their trim houses and green yards, the shiny cars and the good educations. My high school classmates went on to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford, MIT. I went to Kent State. Were we oppressed? Our houses weren't in foreclosure, but what about our families? Glennon Melton says in Carry On, Warrior that "People who need help sometimes look a lot like people who don't need help." I believe that people are oppressed by comfort. I think we convince ourselves that since we are able to satisfy our wants, that we don't have any needs, and we get on this conveyor belt and try not to look too closely at anyone. When I think about what Jesus has changed for me, as an adult, I say he broke the jaws comfort and plucked me from its teeth.
What am I saying? That Jesus calls me to be uncomfortable. That just as Chris and I were starting our own little suburban comfortable family, we threw a wrench in the machine and signed up to be foster parents. Nothing quite like the discomfort of being part of the most tragic and painful months of another family's journey, bringing home a sick, addicted baby. Probably you would expect that I have some strong feelings about drug-exposed infants...that's true. But it might surprise you to learn that while, yes, prenatal exposure is 100% preventable, it's long-term effects are nothing compared to the long-term effects of poverty. This is really the oppressor that foster care has brought me face-to-face with. And so I read that verse from Job another way: because of Jesus, I broke the jaws of poverty and plucked its victims from its teeth. It started with Michael, my beautiful son, but it kept going, and I LOVE going to my church and looking around at all the amazing people who shout this as their anthem. Poverty has people in its jaws, it is chewing them up and preparing to eat them alive, but we say NO, not on our watch, not today.
We spend time with kids and help people do their laundry and pass out food and toilet paper and always we say "There is hope that is real, hope that extends beyond our present circumstances." And those words are just as important to say to the people who look like they don't need help. That hope is for everyone.
So...what am I missing? What other "godless oppressors" are out there, and who is breaking the jaws and rescuing the victims?
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Our Scars
One night, we were at church talking with some friends long after the service was over. Somehow we began talking about surgeries, and my husband pulled up his shirt. Chris was born premature, with a host of issues going on inside him, and very early in his life he was cut open from his neck to his belly button. A scar is there to this day. Chris and I had only been married a year, maybe two? and I was embarrassed. I didn't want people to see his scar, that jagged pale white line that divides his torso into two hemispheres. But Chris feels no shame at his appearance.
I have scars too. The little one on my forehead from when I was a child and running through the house with my sister; our fun ended when I fell and split my head open on a heating grate. On my calf is an indentation; I had a mother and older sister who shaved their legs, so when I was 8, I decided to be a grown up lady too, and ended up removing quite a bit of skin along with the hair. The scar of which I'm most proud is across my abdomen, and it is the result of the two c-sections that brought my oldest boys into the world. It's funny though, how much I feared that scar, how it seemed that any chance at achieving physical perfection was ruined as the scalpel opened me up. (I think the undignified way we bring our children into this world is only a taste of the many indignities a mother must experience while raising them.) My scars tell a story, about who I was, who I wanted to be, and who I became.
Then there are the other scars, the invisible ones. We have a choice, to keep them hidden or to show them off. About three years ago, we began attending a church called LoveCanton, and I noticed there is quite a bit of scar showing. The people who stand up to preach have no fear or shame about their scars; they put them on display. And it's shown me something about who Jesus is. Have you ever seen an image of Jesus with his hands clasped behind his back? Do artists ever render him in a position where his wrists are hidden? Instead, we depict him with arms extended, open for all to come close and bear witness to his scars. I have a question for those of you who preach and teach: how often do you stand at your pulpit and tell people what to do with their sin, the hurt they inflict on other people? And how many times have you preached about what to do with the wounds that other people give us? Do you spend each week telling people to repent but forget to tell them to take off their shame?
Recently, our founding pastor said, "Our scars give us credibility." It made me think. Why is that? Why do our jagged, bumpy parts give us an authority that a perfect, unblemished past can't? I think it's this: our scars show that we've been wounded; they announce to the world that we have experienced. But it's not because we walk around gushing blood that makes us remarkable...it's that we have healed. When I talk to other women about my c-section, their first question is always: "What's the recovery like? How soon can you walk, eat solids, use the stairs, drive a car?" They want to know from someone who has been through it just what to expect after the surgery is over. When your heart is broken, when your body is aching, you don't want to hear from the person who's never been there. You want to see the scars, and know that there is something beyond the pain.
And lucky for us that we worship one who has endured the pain, who bled for each of us. It's the same, whether you have been hurt or done the hurting...you bring it to the cross. We lay down our weighted vests of shame at the scarred feet, we pass our burdened hearts to his wounded hands. Once we have removed the darkness, only our scars remain, to bear witness to our resurrection.
I have scars too. The little one on my forehead from when I was a child and running through the house with my sister; our fun ended when I fell and split my head open on a heating grate. On my calf is an indentation; I had a mother and older sister who shaved their legs, so when I was 8, I decided to be a grown up lady too, and ended up removing quite a bit of skin along with the hair. The scar of which I'm most proud is across my abdomen, and it is the result of the two c-sections that brought my oldest boys into the world. It's funny though, how much I feared that scar, how it seemed that any chance at achieving physical perfection was ruined as the scalpel opened me up. (I think the undignified way we bring our children into this world is only a taste of the many indignities a mother must experience while raising them.) My scars tell a story, about who I was, who I wanted to be, and who I became.
Then there are the other scars, the invisible ones. We have a choice, to keep them hidden or to show them off. About three years ago, we began attending a church called LoveCanton, and I noticed there is quite a bit of scar showing. The people who stand up to preach have no fear or shame about their scars; they put them on display. And it's shown me something about who Jesus is. Have you ever seen an image of Jesus with his hands clasped behind his back? Do artists ever render him in a position where his wrists are hidden? Instead, we depict him with arms extended, open for all to come close and bear witness to his scars. I have a question for those of you who preach and teach: how often do you stand at your pulpit and tell people what to do with their sin, the hurt they inflict on other people? And how many times have you preached about what to do with the wounds that other people give us? Do you spend each week telling people to repent but forget to tell them to take off their shame?
Recently, our founding pastor said, "Our scars give us credibility." It made me think. Why is that? Why do our jagged, bumpy parts give us an authority that a perfect, unblemished past can't? I think it's this: our scars show that we've been wounded; they announce to the world that we have experienced. But it's not because we walk around gushing blood that makes us remarkable...it's that we have healed. When I talk to other women about my c-section, their first question is always: "What's the recovery like? How soon can you walk, eat solids, use the stairs, drive a car?" They want to know from someone who has been through it just what to expect after the surgery is over. When your heart is broken, when your body is aching, you don't want to hear from the person who's never been there. You want to see the scars, and know that there is something beyond the pain.
And lucky for us that we worship one who has endured the pain, who bled for each of us. It's the same, whether you have been hurt or done the hurting...you bring it to the cross. We lay down our weighted vests of shame at the scarred feet, we pass our burdened hearts to his wounded hands. Once we have removed the darkness, only our scars remain, to bear witness to our resurrection.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
On our Twentieth Anniversary
It's hard to believe that we met 20 years ago. That's two-thirds of our lives! That's twice as long as our marriages. I don't even remember how it happened exactly, how you went from being the girl in front of me in 6th grade science class with the multi-colored leggings (and yes, you reminded me of a frog, the way you jumped from your seat with those long slender legs when it was time to collect your homework), to my soulmate, my very BFF. I don't say these words out loud to you, because I have a hard time expressing my feelings that way, but you already knew that. You figured it out years ago, back when I was discovering that more than anything you needed someone to love you for who you are and encourage you.
And I have. Loved you, that is, in the most platonic of ways. I feel I should add that since this is very rapidly turning into a love letter and apparently I've been bottling it up all this time and finally letting it out is causing me to go completely off the rails. But I want you to know what your friendship has meant to me, because it has grown and changed over the years, just as we have grown and changed. And I honestly don't know how sixth grade ended and seventh began and that was when I first thought of you as my best friend.
It was a struggle during those years. My family had moved, we had left our whole life in Texas and we were starting a new one in Ohio. My parents had new jobs, my sister was at a different school and finding her own ways to make friends and fit in, and I felt lost. I didn't understand the customs of the other kids, couldn't figure out how to join a clique. And maybe this is how we found each other, because even though you are friendly and likeable, beautiful and kind, you've never really been part of the "in" crowd. Maybe our shared glasses-braces-band geek combo brought us together. Middle school was awkward; only many years later did I realize that we all felt that way. But when you and I were together, walking to school and sharing a bag of popcorn, organizing music in the band room, in love with the same boy in art class, all the awkwardness fell away, and I got to just be myself. You made me strong. You made me bold. Knowing that NO MATTER WHAT, you would still be my friend, gave me peace in the midst of all the uncertainty.
High school was different. It broke my heart when you dropped French, when you no longer sat beside me in my favorite class. Because you had already started dating that boy, and later you dated the other one, and you went back and forth for a few years, and I was jealous of the time you spent with them. It started to feel like we were going in two different directions, and I wondered if it would be the end of us. You were the only one who could get me to dress up for school, to deviate from baggy jeans and thrift store sweaters. You got me to sing karaoke. You introduced me to 80's music, especially that Cyndi Lauper song you always wanted to play in the practice room during study hall. You were playing music and I was studying for a test. After school, you wanted to get ice cream and I just wanted to go home and watch cartoons. But then we both got jobs at the movie theater, both of us crushing on boys who worked there. And somehow, between band camp and work and that tv show we liked, we made time for each other. I met the man who would one day be my husband, and you got a break up letter tied to your garage door.
We went to different colleges. I had been advised to NOT go where my friends were going, to avoid pulling a Felicity. That's one decision I've regretted. I think we both would have been better off transitioning into that new phase together, and I could have become a Buckeye fan years earlier. I felt lost once again, I didn't have you by my side to give me courage, and I fell on my face. The best memories I have of college were the weekends we spent together. Thank you for that, for being a constant, even from a distance. I should probably thank you for helping me actually begin my relationship with Chris, for passing along my contact information after I left for school and decided I missed him. For being a very welcome third wheel while I tried to get over my shyness.
And then it came: graduation! And you were there. And oh, the freedom! I got to move away and start my "career" and thanks to cell phones and unlimited nights and weekends, we got to talk for hours and hours. But the best part of those post-college, pre-marriage years was the one when we lived together. I'm so glad we did it. I don't care that our furniture was mismatched or that my "bed" was a mattress on the floor. I loved watching Law and Order: SVU marathons and Family Guy on your tiny tv, all our trips to Wendy's and Kroger, battling traffic on game day. Mostly it was fun to be adults together, to figure out our friendship as we entered another phase of life. You were the first one I showed my engagement ring to, the one who would stay up so you could get me to say funny things in my sleep, the one who supported my plan to destroy the alarm that went off for an hour each morning as our other roommate kept hitting the snooze. We had our Oscar and Felix moments too. I can't count how many times I came home after being gone a few days to a counter full of dirty dishes. I know...it was our other roommates who left them there. I know...you were just about to wash them. Except that you didn't. Ever. I had imaginary fights with you as I scrubbed those dishes, complaining in my head that you always *said* you were going to clean, but you very rarely did. Bygones. You have so many wonderful characteristics, it's okay that you aren't Martha Stewart.
2005 was supposed to be a great year. I got married, and you were there again, standing next to me, supporting me. You got engaged just a short time later, and I was so glad that it was him, a man who doesn't mind driving us to Taco Bell late at night and laughs as we try to order as The Target Lady. Then you took that trip with your mom and sister, not knowing it would be the last one. We went dress shopping with your future mother-in-law, and I wished that she and I could make up for the fact that your mom wasn't there, that she spent the day getting tests done. And even though your wedding was coming up quickly, it didn't come soon enough for her to be there. Because just two months after she got the diagnosis, she was gone. And I came to the calling hours, and I was once again amazed by you, how strong you were, standing next to her casket and greeting everyone as they came through. Your dad seemed a little overwhelmed, a little lost, and your sister was still so young; you were the one keeping it together. I didn't know what to say, how to tell you these things that I saw that week, really all those weeks when you were taking care of her and trying to do so much. All I could offer was pizza and a night to take a break from all of it. Two months later, you were saying your vows, you were lighting a candle in memory.
It was hard to keep up the pace of friendship the way we used to. We lived in different cities, we both worked, my husband is allergic to your cat. We didn't have the unlimited time we used to. But still we kept at it. We visited, we called, we made a place for each other in these new lives. When I had my first baby, you came to see me, to meet him. You made me laugh so hard I was afraid my stitches would tear, and the doctor would have to go back to work on my belly, making me look like Frankenstein's c-section. I had my second son, and worried that we had become too different, but then one day you called to say you'd peed on the stick and it was positive, and you were so nervous that the baby would fall out, and I laughed like the experienced moms do, because I remembered that feeling. I thought about you alot during that pregnancy, about how much I relied on my own mother for advice and help with my kids, and I wondered how much you were missing yours. And each year, I think about you in October, I always think I should send you flowers or something, but it doesn't seem like enough. And I think about you on Mother's day, a day that is now about celebrating you, because you are a wonderful mom, but it's also a day to remember your own.
How do I sum it up? You have been my life jacket, my dance partner, my better half, my ride home, my confidante, my roommate, my friend. I can't imagine what my life would have been like without you by my side. Our 20th anniversary seems as good a time as any to put it all into words, to let you know how much you have meant to me, and to wish for many more years to come, to see how we change and what stays the same.
And I have. Loved you, that is, in the most platonic of ways. I feel I should add that since this is very rapidly turning into a love letter and apparently I've been bottling it up all this time and finally letting it out is causing me to go completely off the rails. But I want you to know what your friendship has meant to me, because it has grown and changed over the years, just as we have grown and changed. And I honestly don't know how sixth grade ended and seventh began and that was when I first thought of you as my best friend.
It was a struggle during those years. My family had moved, we had left our whole life in Texas and we were starting a new one in Ohio. My parents had new jobs, my sister was at a different school and finding her own ways to make friends and fit in, and I felt lost. I didn't understand the customs of the other kids, couldn't figure out how to join a clique. And maybe this is how we found each other, because even though you are friendly and likeable, beautiful and kind, you've never really been part of the "in" crowd. Maybe our shared glasses-braces-band geek combo brought us together. Middle school was awkward; only many years later did I realize that we all felt that way. But when you and I were together, walking to school and sharing a bag of popcorn, organizing music in the band room, in love with the same boy in art class, all the awkwardness fell away, and I got to just be myself. You made me strong. You made me bold. Knowing that NO MATTER WHAT, you would still be my friend, gave me peace in the midst of all the uncertainty.
High school was different. It broke my heart when you dropped French, when you no longer sat beside me in my favorite class. Because you had already started dating that boy, and later you dated the other one, and you went back and forth for a few years, and I was jealous of the time you spent with them. It started to feel like we were going in two different directions, and I wondered if it would be the end of us. You were the only one who could get me to dress up for school, to deviate from baggy jeans and thrift store sweaters. You got me to sing karaoke. You introduced me to 80's music, especially that Cyndi Lauper song you always wanted to play in the practice room during study hall. You were playing music and I was studying for a test. After school, you wanted to get ice cream and I just wanted to go home and watch cartoons. But then we both got jobs at the movie theater, both of us crushing on boys who worked there. And somehow, between band camp and work and that tv show we liked, we made time for each other. I met the man who would one day be my husband, and you got a break up letter tied to your garage door.
We went to different colleges. I had been advised to NOT go where my friends were going, to avoid pulling a Felicity. That's one decision I've regretted. I think we both would have been better off transitioning into that new phase together, and I could have become a Buckeye fan years earlier. I felt lost once again, I didn't have you by my side to give me courage, and I fell on my face. The best memories I have of college were the weekends we spent together. Thank you for that, for being a constant, even from a distance. I should probably thank you for helping me actually begin my relationship with Chris, for passing along my contact information after I left for school and decided I missed him. For being a very welcome third wheel while I tried to get over my shyness.
And then it came: graduation! And you were there. And oh, the freedom! I got to move away and start my "career" and thanks to cell phones and unlimited nights and weekends, we got to talk for hours and hours. But the best part of those post-college, pre-marriage years was the one when we lived together. I'm so glad we did it. I don't care that our furniture was mismatched or that my "bed" was a mattress on the floor. I loved watching Law and Order: SVU marathons and Family Guy on your tiny tv, all our trips to Wendy's and Kroger, battling traffic on game day. Mostly it was fun to be adults together, to figure out our friendship as we entered another phase of life. You were the first one I showed my engagement ring to, the one who would stay up so you could get me to say funny things in my sleep, the one who supported my plan to destroy the alarm that went off for an hour each morning as our other roommate kept hitting the snooze. We had our Oscar and Felix moments too. I can't count how many times I came home after being gone a few days to a counter full of dirty dishes. I know...it was our other roommates who left them there. I know...you were just about to wash them. Except that you didn't. Ever. I had imaginary fights with you as I scrubbed those dishes, complaining in my head that you always *said* you were going to clean, but you very rarely did. Bygones. You have so many wonderful characteristics, it's okay that you aren't Martha Stewart.
2005 was supposed to be a great year. I got married, and you were there again, standing next to me, supporting me. You got engaged just a short time later, and I was so glad that it was him, a man who doesn't mind driving us to Taco Bell late at night and laughs as we try to order as The Target Lady. Then you took that trip with your mom and sister, not knowing it would be the last one. We went dress shopping with your future mother-in-law, and I wished that she and I could make up for the fact that your mom wasn't there, that she spent the day getting tests done. And even though your wedding was coming up quickly, it didn't come soon enough for her to be there. Because just two months after she got the diagnosis, she was gone. And I came to the calling hours, and I was once again amazed by you, how strong you were, standing next to her casket and greeting everyone as they came through. Your dad seemed a little overwhelmed, a little lost, and your sister was still so young; you were the one keeping it together. I didn't know what to say, how to tell you these things that I saw that week, really all those weeks when you were taking care of her and trying to do so much. All I could offer was pizza and a night to take a break from all of it. Two months later, you were saying your vows, you were lighting a candle in memory.
It was hard to keep up the pace of friendship the way we used to. We lived in different cities, we both worked, my husband is allergic to your cat. We didn't have the unlimited time we used to. But still we kept at it. We visited, we called, we made a place for each other in these new lives. When I had my first baby, you came to see me, to meet him. You made me laugh so hard I was afraid my stitches would tear, and the doctor would have to go back to work on my belly, making me look like Frankenstein's c-section. I had my second son, and worried that we had become too different, but then one day you called to say you'd peed on the stick and it was positive, and you were so nervous that the baby would fall out, and I laughed like the experienced moms do, because I remembered that feeling. I thought about you alot during that pregnancy, about how much I relied on my own mother for advice and help with my kids, and I wondered how much you were missing yours. And each year, I think about you in October, I always think I should send you flowers or something, but it doesn't seem like enough. And I think about you on Mother's day, a day that is now about celebrating you, because you are a wonderful mom, but it's also a day to remember your own.
How do I sum it up? You have been my life jacket, my dance partner, my better half, my ride home, my confidante, my roommate, my friend. I can't imagine what my life would have been like without you by my side. Our 20th anniversary seems as good a time as any to put it all into words, to let you know how much you have meant to me, and to wish for many more years to come, to see how we change and what stays the same.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
On Fantasy
I realized something about myself recently, about a little habit I have on the Internet. It's time to confess...Every so often, I get this urge, and so I go online, and I begin at a certain website. I scroll through photos, and I fantasize. The website is Zillow.com; the pictures are of houses for sale in my area. Yes, real estate is my porn.
I have no plans to move, to sell our current house or buy another. I just like to look. I like to see what houses are selling for in certain neighborhoods, what kind of square footage you can get in different school districts. I cringe at older homes with busy wallpaper or forest green carpet. I drool over slate fireplaces and large kitchens.
But it's more than just a time waster. I imagine myself in those homes. I think about how my furniture would fit...or, better yet, new furniture! I imagine how much space I would have preparing a meal on those granite counters, what it would be like to have a dishwasher, playing with my kids in that fenced in backyard with the lush grass. If we lived THERE...we would be happy. If our house had THAT feature, my life would be easier. The house would always be as clean as it is online. The sheets would match. There wouldn't be spills or stains or sick children there. Ants wouldn't crawl all over the counters. Things wouldn't break. Everything would be better SOMEWHERE ELSE.
That's not true, is it? If I moved into a different house, even a newer house, I'd bring my family and my own clumsiness with me. Dust would begin to settle on window ledges, balls would be thrown across the living room, orange juice wouldn't stay at the table, but would dribble down the beautifully carpeted hallways. I would still have to clean. I would still lose my temper. We wouldn't change, just our surroundings would.
What I need, instead, is to stay in reality. I need to look around at all that I have, and realize that it's enough. This house is a blessing. We moved in here 7 years ago, when our little family consisted of me, Chris, and our 6 month old baby. We have hosted birthday parties and barbecues, we have wept and struggled and laughed and persevered. We have grown here. Our family has gotten bigger, but we've grown up too. And the love that we share isn't going to get better if we have a real mudroom or our own master bath.
If home is where the heart is, then my heart is a yellow house on a quiet street with dandelions in the yard and toys on the roof.
I have no plans to move, to sell our current house or buy another. I just like to look. I like to see what houses are selling for in certain neighborhoods, what kind of square footage you can get in different school districts. I cringe at older homes with busy wallpaper or forest green carpet. I drool over slate fireplaces and large kitchens.
But it's more than just a time waster. I imagine myself in those homes. I think about how my furniture would fit...or, better yet, new furniture! I imagine how much space I would have preparing a meal on those granite counters, what it would be like to have a dishwasher, playing with my kids in that fenced in backyard with the lush grass. If we lived THERE...we would be happy. If our house had THAT feature, my life would be easier. The house would always be as clean as it is online. The sheets would match. There wouldn't be spills or stains or sick children there. Ants wouldn't crawl all over the counters. Things wouldn't break. Everything would be better SOMEWHERE ELSE.
That's not true, is it? If I moved into a different house, even a newer house, I'd bring my family and my own clumsiness with me. Dust would begin to settle on window ledges, balls would be thrown across the living room, orange juice wouldn't stay at the table, but would dribble down the beautifully carpeted hallways. I would still have to clean. I would still lose my temper. We wouldn't change, just our surroundings would.
What I need, instead, is to stay in reality. I need to look around at all that I have, and realize that it's enough. This house is a blessing. We moved in here 7 years ago, when our little family consisted of me, Chris, and our 6 month old baby. We have hosted birthday parties and barbecues, we have wept and struggled and laughed and persevered. We have grown here. Our family has gotten bigger, but we've grown up too. And the love that we share isn't going to get better if we have a real mudroom or our own master bath.
If home is where the heart is, then my heart is a yellow house on a quiet street with dandelions in the yard and toys on the roof.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
To the Mothers of My Children
Dear Moms (You know who you are):
First, let me say that I love you. We got into this thing, my husband and I, because the thought of children in our community needing a home moved us to action. But once we started to see the bigger picture, learn about all the people involved in "the system", I realized that I was doing this for you too. I want you to have time to reflect on who you are and I really really hope you'll renew your efforts to care for your kids. Really. And I think of you often as I'm parenting these children of yours. I think of how I want my kids to be treated when I'm not around, and that's how I try to treat your kids too. I'm not perfect, please know that. I will run out of patience, I will raise my voice, I will not be able to take one more question by the end of the day. But I will hug them, I will read to them, I will take them to the zoo and McDonald's and church and school. I will make sure they have enough to eat, that the place where they sleep will give them a night of rest. And I will do everything in my power to make sure they see you. So please, please do what you can to meet us on those days.
Second, I will never speak badly of you in their presence. I will be frustrated with you some days, yes, because the solution to other people's problems is always clear and evident to me, the way I'm sure the answer to my own would seem to you. But you won't always make the right choice, and your choices affect your children. I'm the one dealing with the fallout from that. So I will grit my teeth and take deep breaths and try to explain things as neutrally as possible so that your children can understand what's happening, but I will wait for them to go to bed before I rant to my husband about you. People are saying all kinds of things about you, I know, because as people, we like our labels. They help us pretend that things are black and white, that some people are good and some are bad. But the more time I spend as a foster mom, the more I realize that we are all capable of tremendous bad, and, I hope, tremendous good. You are more than the labels you have been given. Bad parent, felon, dropout, thief, liar...yes, these words are true. But that is not all you are. You are a life-giver. You brought someone beautiful into this world, and I thank you for that. You are capable of creating a life for yourself and your children. You are a woman, and that means you can withstand the worst things this world will throw at you and keep going. So keep going. We all have setbacks, we all fall short. But get back up. Try again. You can do this. I know you can.
We are cheering for you, these kids and I. We truly want the best for you. We can be generous with forgiveness and grace because we have generously been given forgiveness and grace. I had no idea how much my heart would grow when we brought that first baby home. I didn't realize that our family would not just welcome him, but you as well. And then another kiddo, and you, her mom. And now I can't celebrate being a mom without thinking of you.
We went to the plant sale this week to pick out flowers. Mikey picked one for his Mama, and Girl got one for hers. Then they picked one for me as well. They see it, you know. How we together are their parents. That it doesn't mean I'm insignificant when they run to you, and the reverse is true. You were their first moms, and there is no ruling, no paperwork that can change that. No matter how far away they seem, you are with them always, in their hearts, in their laughs, in their eyes.
Happy Mother's Day to you both.
Love, Rachel
First, let me say that I love you. We got into this thing, my husband and I, because the thought of children in our community needing a home moved us to action. But once we started to see the bigger picture, learn about all the people involved in "the system", I realized that I was doing this for you too. I want you to have time to reflect on who you are and I really really hope you'll renew your efforts to care for your kids. Really. And I think of you often as I'm parenting these children of yours. I think of how I want my kids to be treated when I'm not around, and that's how I try to treat your kids too. I'm not perfect, please know that. I will run out of patience, I will raise my voice, I will not be able to take one more question by the end of the day. But I will hug them, I will read to them, I will take them to the zoo and McDonald's and church and school. I will make sure they have enough to eat, that the place where they sleep will give them a night of rest. And I will do everything in my power to make sure they see you. So please, please do what you can to meet us on those days.
Second, I will never speak badly of you in their presence. I will be frustrated with you some days, yes, because the solution to other people's problems is always clear and evident to me, the way I'm sure the answer to my own would seem to you. But you won't always make the right choice, and your choices affect your children. I'm the one dealing with the fallout from that. So I will grit my teeth and take deep breaths and try to explain things as neutrally as possible so that your children can understand what's happening, but I will wait for them to go to bed before I rant to my husband about you. People are saying all kinds of things about you, I know, because as people, we like our labels. They help us pretend that things are black and white, that some people are good and some are bad. But the more time I spend as a foster mom, the more I realize that we are all capable of tremendous bad, and, I hope, tremendous good. You are more than the labels you have been given. Bad parent, felon, dropout, thief, liar...yes, these words are true. But that is not all you are. You are a life-giver. You brought someone beautiful into this world, and I thank you for that. You are capable of creating a life for yourself and your children. You are a woman, and that means you can withstand the worst things this world will throw at you and keep going. So keep going. We all have setbacks, we all fall short. But get back up. Try again. You can do this. I know you can.
We are cheering for you, these kids and I. We truly want the best for you. We can be generous with forgiveness and grace because we have generously been given forgiveness and grace. I had no idea how much my heart would grow when we brought that first baby home. I didn't realize that our family would not just welcome him, but you as well. And then another kiddo, and you, her mom. And now I can't celebrate being a mom without thinking of you.
We went to the plant sale this week to pick out flowers. Mikey picked one for his Mama, and Girl got one for hers. Then they picked one for me as well. They see it, you know. How we together are their parents. That it doesn't mean I'm insignificant when they run to you, and the reverse is true. You were their first moms, and there is no ruling, no paperwork that can change that. No matter how far away they seem, you are with them always, in their hearts, in their laughs, in their eyes.
Happy Mother's Day to you both.
Love, Rachel
Sunday, May 4, 2014
To my boys
Today I am praying for you. I am thinking about a time in the near future when you won't be chasing each other around the yard and climbing into my bed in the early morning to start the day with cuddles. A time when you will be men. White American men. Because of this-where you were born and the color of your skin- many doors will be open to you, and you alone. And so today, I'm praying. Praying that you will recognize the arbitrary nature of privilege, that you will see those open doors not as a right, but an opportunity. I want you to walk in to those exclusive places, places that are barred to a woman like me, or your friend in the wheelchair. I'm praying that when you do, when you take your seat at the table, you will start a revolution that changes this world from the inside out. I want you to teach inclusion and love, create opportunities and throw the doors wide open. I'm praying that your lives will intersect with people who are different from you, and you'll have the chance to embrace and celebrate the human spectrum. Because they will judge you and assess you and rank you based on your outside (all the things about yourself that you can't control), I'm praying for your insides, the part you get to choose. I'm praying that you will use your strength to protect. I'm praying that courage will come to you when you need it most. I'm praying that you will think for yourselves. I'm praying that your hearts will break when you see injustice, and you'll turn heart break into action. I'm praying that you'll measure success in the number of lives you change.
And I'm praying that right now, today, your dad and I are preparing and equipping you for what lies ahead. I'm praying that I will remember the big picture and not be caught up in making sure you wash your hands and tie your shoes (those things are important and worth doing, but they aren't the most important thing I can teach you). That matching socks and washing dishes won't distract me from the job that matters most- being your mom. Your dad and I want so badly to get it right, this job of being your parents. We want to avoid the mistakes our parents made with us (I know, your grandparents are AMAZING people, and you love them more than us sometimes, but once they were stressed out parents and occasionally they went about things the wrong way), because we know what our baggage looks like, and we don't want to see you boys struggling to carry this with you through life. But we will make mistakes too, probably different ones, and I'm praying that you will be able to overcome whatever wrongs we inflict on you. When I studied history in college, when I learned of the atrocities that human beings are capable of committing against each other, I couldn't believe how much is actually carried out by the ordinary masses. That a handful of evil people can lead entire tribes or even countries to annihilate one another. And I have to believe that people capable of being swayed to violence and hatred can also be swayed to love and compassion...but someone has to do the leading. Boys, you could be the ones. You could change the world. I love you. I believe in you.
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