Buying Groceries and Natural Consequences

During our first year of marriage, Chris and I loved to go to the store together.  We would find new recipes to try and then go buy the ingredients.  We walked down the aisles together with hardly a care in the world (my memory might be making these trips more magical than they were).  We made our own pretzels and mozzarella sticks, we baked meatloaf and ranch chicken, we figured out which foods we both liked.  Then we started having babies.  I remember the first trip to the store after James and I came home from the hospital.  It took two days to get ready, I kid you not.  Because I was recovering from a C-section, Chris had to do the driving, and we spent the whole morning trying to get ready, nursing the baby, taking showers, nursing the baby, packing the diaper bag, nursing the baby, changing his diaper, nursing the baby, and boom, it was time for Chris to leave for work.  We managed to get there the next day, but I found walking around the store was like torture on my post-surgical body.  The baby and I were both ready to cry by the time we got everything we needed.  And that pretty much sums up our experience shopping as a family ever since.

So done

Sometimes we discover tricks to keep the kids happy while we shop, like the purchase of a $1 balloon at the entrance or a cookie when we pass the bakery.  But in general, the boys don't want to be there, and I get grouchy before we make it to the dairy aisle.  Promising a treat at the end of the trip, whether candy doled out in the car, an ice cream cone on the way home, or a trip to the park after, has been working for a while.  Yesterday, we headed out, all five of us, to load up on food for the coming week.  Despite our promise of Chipotle for dinner for the kids who were good listeners and well-behaved in the store, once we were inside, the younger two started bickering.  The whining and fussing was driving me crazy, as were the other adults walking past us and "hiding" their laughter as we asked the boys to stop fighting, to use big boy voices, to just be quiet.  When we reached the checkout, I swear steam was coming out of Chris' ears.

Then we got the question from the boys: "Are we going to Chipotle now?"  NO YOU ARE NOT.  Winston started to cry, Michael looked confused.  WE ARE MISERABLE FROM HAVING SPENT THE LAST 30 MINUTES WITH YOU.  "Why did I fight with my brother?" they cried.  "We don't get a treat!"  GOOD, we said.  REMEMBER THIS FEELING THE NEXT TIME WE GO TO THE STORE.  I was doing a little dance because that is what the experts call "natural consequences" and they are always saying that children learn best that way.  But part of me was also sad.  My tummy was growling and I was looking forward to a Chipotle dinner.  My kids were crying and a little voice whispered that I was being mean and depriving them.  I was glad for Chris, for my partner in raising these little people who helps me stay committed to the right thing even when it isn't the fun thing.

I think we can agree here: it's hard to watch your kids suffer.  Even when it is completely their fault.  Even when they know better.  Even when you gave them warnings and guidelines and were as clear as you possibly could be.  Even when they turned away from you and made bad choices.

Before I went to bed last night, I pulled out my Bible to continue reading the book of Isaiah in the Old Testament.  It was my plan this summer to read through all of Isaiah, but I've only read the first few chapters. (No spoilers!) Anyway, Isaiah begins with a prophecy of destruction for God's people.  This is the Old Testament, wrathful God that makes me uncomfortable.  The description of what is coming is not good, lots of gross, over the top violence and evil unleashed.  In the past, I have found it hard to reconcile this God with the loving Father God of the New Testament, the God who offers grace and mercy freely, the God who heals lepers and feeds the hungry and welcomes men, women, and children into his embrace.  This summer, I'm beginning to see the piece that I was missing, the part that connects OT God to NT God.  God created us in his image and he gave us the law to show us how to live, to control the spread of disease, to cherish life, to worship the one who made us.  Isaiah is very clear.  God's people have rejected his law, they have ignored his commands.  Like any concerned parent, God must give consequences.  It seems extreme to read, but my sons felt like missing out on Chipotle was pretty extreme.  It's human nature to think, Why can't I just keep doing what I want to do without having to suffer for it?

Everyone deserves a treat

But it doesn't end there, not for God, and not for me.  Because it hurts to see our kids hurt.  So there is this, in Isaiah 9: "Nevertheless, that time of darkness and despair will not go on forever...The people who live in darkness will see a great light.  For those who live in a land of deep darkness, a light will shine."  No dark night, no punishment, no necessary destruction lasts forever.  With God, there is always sun in the morning, freedom for captives, a time to rebuild.  God's mercy is new every morning, or so Lamentations tells us.  There's another trip to the store next weekend, another chance to get Chipotle, a light in the darkness.  But my stubborn children (and my stubborn self) need those consequences, we need that pain to point us back to the light.  It's a lesson worth remembering that a charmed life served on a silver platter is not the way to bring peace or develop wisdom.  But leaning in to difficult moments and painful consequences can teach us to do better.

On Racial Tension

Well, here it goes.  This is my attempt to write about something that has become a very big issue in our country right now, something that I haven't felt able or qualified to write about before (and let's face it, that hasn't changed) for a few reasons.  One is that I'm white.  I've followed the news a little and every time I see an article about white privilege, I find myself nodding along in agreement.  Yep, that's me, someone who has lived her whole life privileged enough not to have to think about race.  I would rather listen to others share their experiences than try to jump on my platform and tell anyone what is going on with race in America.  The other is that this topic is so HUGE.  It is not only what is happening now, how different cities and states and sectors of society are handling issues of race, but it encompasses everything that has led to this moment.  We are reaping the consequences of decisions made by our parents, our grandparents, and so on and so on all the way back to our nation's founders, 16th century conquistadors, Greek philosophers, and Hebrew kings.  People hating other people because of superficial differences in appearance, religious practice, eating habits, or dress code is one of the only constants we can point to in history.  No matter where, no matter when, somebody was prejudiced against somebody else because human beings just love to break complicated issues down into us vs. them.

The truth is, I am a spectator.  I am not involved in much that happens beyond my front yard.  I am a commentator at best, enjoying a good discussion about what is going on without really doing anything about it.  So this is not me taking a stand; quite literally, I am reclined in bed as I type this.  All I am really hoping to accomplish is to make public the words that I have spoken in private, and, if I may be so bold, talk about the future.

It began tonight at dinner.  My husband and I were trying to have a conversation over the children's chatter, and the topic focused on the issue of race.  My husband (and I should perhaps point out that he and I see things differently from time to time, and so I will express my own opinion and please don't ever assume that he speaks for me or that I speak for him unless we explicitly make that claim) said that racism seems to be getting worse lately for some reason.  But I disagree.  I think racism is honestly making a slow but steady loser's retreat.  However, in the past year or so (because the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner occurred last summer), racial tension has increased dramatically. And I see that as progress.

While I am not qualified to speak about race, I am qualified to speak about history, being a long-time student and lover of it.  There is a word that comes up time and time again as we look back, and that word is revolution.  Now here is the thing I find most interesting about revolutions.  Do you know when they happen?  Do you know what precipitates and provides catalyst for them?  You would think it is when things are at their worst, when people are horribly oppressed and voiceless and they just. can't. take. anymore.  But that isn't when revolution happens.  A revolution comes about when things are getting better.  There is futility in being voiceless and oppressed; only when a light begins to shine at some far off point do people seize their weapons and storm the palaces of their oppressors, demanding equality and justice and demanding blood as recompense.

And so I skim the news and I listen to people talk and I can feel the tension building.  There is anger in America right now, there are mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers demanding that their voices be heard and refusing to accept the status quo.  And I feel a revolution coming.  If you disagree, if you think we have gone backwards and black lives don't matter to the ones holding the guns, ask yourself if anyone would have cared if this happened 30 years ago.  Would anyone have known?  And if you think the police are just doing their jobs and this is all being blown out of proportion and media bias and all that, ask yourself if a cop has ever pointed a gun at you.  In my younger, wilder days (which were quite honestly very tame, but I'm a mom now and speeding seems like a thrill ride for a reckless woman) I got pulled over quite a bit.  I was caught speeding or running a red light, and even though my parents taught me to be polite to the police, I really started to get irritated with them.  And one night (let me emphasize that it was completely dark) I was cruising on home (too fast) and got pulled over a block from my house.  Instead of being appropriately contrite with the officer, I got an attitude.  I said something along the lines of "C'mon man, I live right over there, can you go bother someone else?"  And he let me go with a warning.  So you will excuse me when I say that Darren Wilson overstepped his duties when he shot an unarmed teenager dead in the street right in front of his house because the kid gave him a little lip.  In my story, the guy actually saw me break the law, and the conclusion I am forced to draw is that police treat white and black people differently.

So about that coming revolution.  The tension is building, the protestors have taken to the streets, and I say Don't let up.  Because when was the last time a Congressman sat down to meet with his fellow Congressional leaders and said, "Hey guys, apropos of nothing, I think we should give women the right to vote.  It just occurred to me that it's rather silly that we make all the decisions just because we're men and because we've just always done it that way, and you know our wives and daughters and their friends are actually quite smart and probably capable of making an informed decision at the polls."  Rather, it took more than 70 years of suffragettes marching and petitioning and getting arrested (yay Susan B. Anthony, you go girl!) and storming the institutions of government until they got what they wanted.  Similarly, the Supreme Court justices did not meet in an empty chamber and say, "You know what I just thought of?  We have actual laws in this country that prevent homosexual couples from getting married, and yet we don't have anything that prevents consenting adult heterosexual couples from doing it.  Doesn't that strike you as strange, and even a little illegal?  Why, we should just write a ruling now before anyone realizes what's happened so that if any gay dudes want to put a ring on it, they can?"  Of course they didn't!  Change came about because of focused, intentional efforts to promote gay rights as being something that should be equal to straight rights. (Is that a thing? Is that what we call it?  And btw gays, I watched that How to Survive a Plague documentary and may I just say, you guys and ladies practically wrote the book on civil unrest.  Well done.)

Those in power will always uphold the status quo until it becomes unbearable for them to continue doing so.  And pressure and tension and raging against the machine are the only proven ways to make the powerful pay attention.  So media, keep talking about the cases of excessive use of force by police.  Black people, keep your concerns front and center.  Ordinary citizens, keep an eye (and a camera phone) out for injustice.  All lives should matter, but Justice Department investigations have shown that they don't in actual practice.  I see a revolution coming against the institutionalized racism of our police departments and our courts and I welcome it.  I would like to stress, at this point, the importance of nonviolent protest, the success of both Ghandi and Martin Luther King Jr (and yes, I realize they both died for what they believed in and Nelson Mandela smuggled weapons into South Africa and lived to a ripe old age but hear me out).  I think we need action and we need tension and we need pressure on those in power, but I don't think we need armed chaos in our streets and in our cities.  I think the message gets diluted when authorities can claim that both sides have blood on their hands, when righteous anger gives way to mindless vengeance.

Let me conclude with a few things that I believe.  I believe in people.  I believe in a better future.  I believe in making the world a better place, in teaching children love rather than hate, peace rather than war.  I believe that light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.  I believe we are better than our prejudices.  I believe our founding fathers gave us the framework to pursue liberty and justice for all, even if they didn't practice it.  I believe that good wins out in the end.

Am I Enough?

It is a new season of life for me, as school is starting up and I have the time and the opportunity to stretch beyond the home I've tended for the past eight years.  I have had lots of time to take in, to learn, to read and study, to prepare, but now it's time to go and do and step in front.  And I'm scared.

The question that haunts me most is this: Am I enough?  Am I smart enough?  No matter how many times I ask myself the question, I always get the same answer.  No.  I'm not.  Sure, I'm intelligent, and I can take in and remember new information.  I know quite a bit about some things.  But what I know is just a small sliver of what is knowable.  I keep encountering people who know so much about things that I am completely ignorant of.  And then there is the unknowable.  The stuff that none of us know, nor will any of us in our lifetime.  Stephen Hawking, genius that he is, doesn't know if space and time are bendable; he only has an idea, a theory.  Albert Einstein, likewise, came up with a theory of relativity, which is unable to be proved or disproved with our finite human understanding.  None of us know how the world came to be, whether it was from a big bang or the creation of a supreme being, or if it has merely existed always.  There's no way we can know these things.  So when I come face to face with this question of am I smart enough, the answer is no.  Neither in terms of what can be known and what will forever be unknown.

In Christ alone, my hope is found, he is my light, my strength, my song;
This cornerstone, this solid ground, firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
What heights of love, what depths of peace, when fears are stilled, when strivings cease.
My comforter, my all in all, here in the love of Christ I stand.

But perhaps I can make up for my lack of knowledge by being good enough.  And so I examine all that I have ever done, all that has been done to me, the way I respond in times of stress, my motivations, my deepest, darkest secrets.  Once again, I have to answer in the negative.  I am not good enough.  Of course I'm not!  What person, in a moment of honesty, can claim to be good enough on their own?  There are times when I stumble upon the right thing, the moral thing, the kind thing, but there are far more times when I act out of my impatience, my insecurity, my selfishness.  There are some days when goodness seems to be the very opposite of what I am capable of.

In Christ alone, who took on flesh, fullness of God in helpless babe;
This gift of love and righteousness, scorned by the ones he came to save.
Til on that Cross, as Jesus died, the wrath of God was satisfied.
For every sin on Him was laid, here in the death of Christ I live.

A new question springs up, especially lately, in the rooms that I have been in, the people I have sat across from, the places I have stood:  Am I qualified enough?  This is followed by hysterical laughter in my mind, and sometimes even escaping into an audible form.  Absolutely not!  I have NO qualifications for what I am doing.  I do not have the experience, the credentials, the titles that would qualify me for any of it.  I am a stay at home mother with an unused degree in International Relations and an unimpressive CV.  Almost anyone is more qualified than me, I think.

There in the ground his body lay, light of the world by darkness slain.
Then bursting forth in glorious day, up from the grave he rose again!
And as he stands in victory, sin's curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am his and he is mine, bought with the precious blood of Christ.

And so, as shallow and inconsequential as it may be, I wonder if I'm pretty enough?  Even though I don't know enough, don't have the goodness needed or the qualifications that are preferred, maybe I can convince people to listen to me and follow me if only I am pretty enough or charming enough to distract them from what I lack.  Human beauty is defined by the symmetry and striking contrast between features.  Consequently, I am not pretty enough.  My face is crooked, my eyes different sizes, my lips barely a shade darker than the skin surrounding them, my belly still soft from carrying children years ago, my hair both limp and frizzy.  No, my looks will not be my saving grace.

No guilt in life, no fear in death, this is the power of Christ in me.
From life's first cry to final breath, Jesus commands my destiny.
No power of hell, no scheme of man, can ever pluck me from his hand;
Til he returns or calls me home, here in the power of Christ I'll stand.

Therefore, I am certain of the answer to my question.  I am not enough.  As it turns out, that is fine, and actually, quite expected.  I don't think any of us will ever find that we feel like enough on our own.  But I don't do this alone, these new ventures, these uncharted waters.  If you couldn't guess from the song lyrics, it is by following Jesus that my path presents itself.  So it isn't my abilities or self-sufficiency that need to be enough; it is HIS.  Jesus qualifies me, Jesus covers my blind spots and Jesus' goodness more than fills in where mine is lacking.  It is Jesus' sacrifice that saves me, Jesus who sits next to the throne of God in heaven and beckons me to take refuge in him.

The question then becomes not about what I possess but about where I stand.  Do I stand in the power of Christ?  Do I live as one who has been bought with his blood?  Do I accept the love that he so freely gives?  Do I shine a light, not so that others can see me, but so they can see him?

Back to School

My kids head back to school next week.  Now that the supplies have been purchased and the calendar is marked, I find myself thinking back.  Remembering five years ago, the battery of tests (and isn't that a great phrase? because I remember feeling quite battered by the time it was all over) our son went through just before his third birthday.  All the forms and interviews and professionals that we visited, all pointing to one thing...an Autism Spectrum Disorder.  Although I remained unconvinced, desperately trying to find the reason why my son fit into the autism category when what going on with him had to be something else, anything else, something that we could fix in a day or a month or a year but not this word, this lifelong label.  Knowing that if his brain was different that it wouldn't be a quick fix and back to life as usual, but years of IEP meetings and speech therapy and adapting, because doctors can fix broken bones and teachers can make children literate and parents can give their children love and nutritious food and a safe home but no one can change a person's brain.  So I listened to the experts and held firm to my belief that I could figure this out, I could solve the mystery of what was going on inside my child.  In the meantime, I would follow the advice that everyone seemed to agree upon: enroll James in an early intervention preschool and begin speech therapy.

Preschool Graduation

I remember visiting the preschool, meeting the teacher who would have James in her class for two years, and I remember so vividly the fear.  My son was essentially non-verbal, and they wanted me to drop him off with these people for three hours a day.  How would I know what was happening to him for that period of time?  There was no way he would be able to tell me.  And they said they never physically disciplined children or locked them in closets or left them unsupervised, but of course they said that because it's illegal.  But the reason why we have laws against those things is because they have happened in the past, and what's to stop a preschool teacher from going power mad in a room of 3 and 4 year olds with developmental disabilities and sketchy communication skills?  I lived with this anxiety for a few weeks, as we prepared our son for school and more so after we dropped him off the first day.  What it basically came down to is a lack of trust.  I know how much I love my child, how powerful the desire to nurture and protect him is.  But I didn't believe that anyone else would feel the same way when they looked into his big hazel eyes and held his chubby little hand.

They might save the world, but today their mission is CANDY!

I still don't know how that year went for him.  I have no idea what he thought of school, how he was treated by the staff and the other children, what he learned and what he wished was different.  All I know is that he kept going.  That he quickly stopped crying when I brought him to the door to drop him off and that he smiled when I came to pick him up.  That the boys in his class called him "Little Screamer" and attempted to hoot and squeal with him, thinking that was his primary language (in a way, it was).  That he frequently hugged his teacher and occasionally brought home art projects that he had made with assistance.  That his teacher did a unit on the story books of Mo Willems because James loved the Pigeon books and Knuffle Bunny.

It continues to be a guide to me, watching my son for signs of happiness or distress.  It is the best indicator of how he is being treated when I'm not around, if the time has come to withdraw from a place or activity or if it is okay to continue.  I know he loves his swim lessons, because we passed the exit recently and he told me to turn around and go back.  I know he had a good time at VBS because I came to pick him up and he was dancing to the music (Let me pause here and say that beyond the baby booty shaking to Elmo songs, James does not dance. Ever.)  I know he has found a good friend in Ian because he gets excited when he comes over and willingly shares video games with him.  I know he is surrounded by caring adults at church because he hugs them and sits with them and remembers their names.

And then, this summer, he shocked me by doing something new.  We spent the fourth of July on a riverboat cruise of Pittsburgh, which the kids LOVED because it was water and boats and they drank Sprite and it really doesn't take more than that to delight them.  We were on a walk later and James turned to me and asked, "Mommy, did you like the boat ride?"  I felt like kneeling and kissing the ground, or picking him up and twirling like Maria in "The Sound of Music".  It was a huge development, and it's something he's never done before.  But I kept my mom cool and I answered his question and then asked if he liked it.  He responded and there we were having an actual conversation about what we did that day.  It happened again a few weeks later on a more mundane summer day, but we talked back and forth about what we liked and what we did and I got to hear in words how my son feels.

First day of 2nd Grade

My kids head back to school next week.  Now that the supplies have been purchased and the calendar is marked, I find myself thinking ahead.  What will James experience this year?  How much will he be able to tell me about afterwards?  Yes, his brain is different, and our lives involve IEP meetings and speech therapy and adapting, and there is no way to change a person's brain.  But this kid is surrounded by people who love him and help him learn and protect him.  And there is no limit to what he will do.

In the Middle

I turned 33 this year.  The definitions of age are shifting in my generation, so that "young" is different than it was for my parents or my grandparents, and "old" has moved further back than it was in the past.  People say things like "40 is the new 20!" which I think means that people hitting their forties are still as youthful and exciting as twenty year olds.  Not like my parents, who were packing their children off to college and preparing to be "empty nesters" when they hit forty.

So maybe 33 is still "young" and maybe (given genetics) I'm only a third of the way through my life, but I feel like I have hit the "middle age".  Not just because my knees click when I climb stairs (which they never used to do) or because I started wearing a swim skirt (the better to hide my lumpy mom body!), but because the time to figure out who I am seems to be over.  I can still try new things and experiment and fail and pick myself back up, but I have to do this in the middle of a life being lived.  I can't change course quickly, because I have a family that goes along with me, and I have to factor in everyone's needs, not just my own.

At 20, I could try a new hobby and decide if I liked it or not.  I could spend all day reading or watching tv with no guilt.  I could move to Tennessee and then back to Ohio when I felt like it.  I could eat an entire bag of chips or stay up all night or suddenly decide to bike 10 miles with no consequences.  But now?  Now I'm in the middle.  Now the consequences of disengaging from the world are cranky kids and huge laundry piles and late bills.  Now I feel the effects of what I ate or how I slept or what crazy thing I tried to put my body through for days.  All of this leads me to believe (no matter what the magazine covers say) that I have transitioned into the middle of my life.

So all of this is well and good, except I've heard about this thing called a "mid-life crisis".  Those never go well.  That's the time when people spend crazy amounts of money on sports cars or leave their spouse for someone else or travel to India to prove they can still have adventures.  But I'm wondering what has to happen to go from realizing and accepting that my life has reached the middle to a full-blown, poor decision making crisis.  I mean, I love my minivan.  I love my husband.  I love staying at home and not contracting some flesh-eating virus from, I don't know, dirty ashram water.  Maybe I'll be lucky and miss the "crisis" part of aging.  Wouldn't that be nice?

I was listening to "Coffee with Christine Caine", my new favorite podcast (because, hello, Christine Caine, and also they are about 10 minutes long which is about how much time I have to do anything for myself this summer), and she was talking about embracing new things and being innovative in our thinking.  She said something interesting, which is that being old happens when you get stuck in your ways and close off to new thinking.  According to Chris, there is no numerical age when you get old; a 26 year old can be old if he refuses to accept change and adapt to new circumstances.  Likewise, an 80 year old can still be skirting the young side if she is willing to try new things.  I witnessed that this past year when I signed up for a women's Bible study at a local church.  I joined my group the first day and was a little surprised at the white haired woman who announced herself as our leader.  She said, "My name is Betty and I've never done anything like this before, but I was asked if I would be willing to lead a group and so here I am."  Over the course of 25 weeks, Betty challenged my ideas about age and what people are capable of.  She doesn't drive after dark and she gets nervous when the sidewalk is icy, but she did her research each week and she kept our group on topic as we discussed the Life of Moses together.

Here I am, in the middle.  No longer an untethered young woman with the world at her feet and opportunity hanging like fruit from a tree.  Not yet a grumpy old lady shaking her fist at kids on skateboards and bemoaning "the good old days".  I'm navigating the middle of life, finding time to try new experiences between the demands and responsibilities of all I've been given.  To accept the limitations while continuing to dream.