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The Forgotten Art of Restraint

3/15/2016

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Last month I got to attend a milestone birthday party for my father-in-law. We had traveled nine hours into the middle of the night, unbeknownst to him, to be there when he walked through the door. Just after “SURPRISE,” his small grandchildren yelled, “OPA!,” before rushing to hug him. I watched him make his way around that crowded room, greeting family and friends he has met along his winding road. You see, my father-in-law has known pain in his life; he has known regret, and he is well-acquainted with the rarity and beauty of second chances. He believes deeply in grace and forgiveness, because they have transformed him.

I didn’t know him before; we met more than eleven years ago over pizza on a Friday night in New England after I'd been dating his son for only a month. And I liked him immediately. He is easy and warm. He has demonstrated, over and over again, that he not only loves and supports his son or our family, but that he loves and supports me. When Daniel used to travel all the time, he would call the house in the middle of the week. “I’m sorry, he’s not here,” I would tell him.

“I know. I called to see how you’re doing,” he would reply.

So on his big birthday, in that twinkly room, I watched him reconnect with old friends, new friends, and people he has given a hand up to along the way. And when one of his sons announced that he was going to play a song he had written with his father in mind, I listened.

“My dad is my biggest mentor,” he said, “he let us make mistakes. He listened. He let us become who we were going to be.”

I felt my eyes well up. Because that was exactly it.

My father-in-law has a trait I don’t have, or at least one that doesn’t come naturally. He has restraint. The word is so unfamiliar to me I actually had to look it up before I wrote this to ensure I was using it properly. Restraint: (2) unemotional, dispassionate, or moderate behavior; self control. And sure, I recognize the irony that I am sharing an impassioned post I’ve written on the virtue of restraint, but stick with me. 

Lately I find myself in a handful of situations I can’t understand. They are not my situations. Either they involve politics and the larger community or the actions of friends and loved ones. And in both I struggle to practice restraint.

Walking away from a situation in which I had actually succeeded to love and support instead of spout off at the mouth, I mentioned to Daniel, “I’ve been thinking a lot about your dad,” I said. “About how he shows the most restraint of anyone I know. That doesn’t come easily to me; I just say whatever I’m thinking.”

Daniel laughed, “He has actually said that about you.” And I thought, well, at least we both know me well. I wasn’t offended. It’s true. And I might argue that there is merit there too. If you’re a friend of mine, it’s unlikely you’ll ever wonder where you stand with me. There won’t be secrets. I will be honest with you; it just might sometimes get uncomfortable.

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And maybe that’s part of what intrigues but troubles me about restraint. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe I’ve conflated honesty and full-disclosure. I mustn’t tell you every thought in my head in order to be honest with you about my feelings on a subject. When you tell me about a decision you’ve made or a difficult situation in your life, and I disagree with the way you’re handling it but you haven’t asked for my opinion, I don’t always have to tell you anyway. When we’re in polite company and you share a political opinion with the apparent assumption that everyone in the room agrees with you (a situation I find myself in A LOT as a Christian in Southern Virginia), I don’t always have to bite. I don’t always have to explain all the points where I think you’re wrong. I had mistakenly thought of restraint as a tether-- something that held me back-- when maybe it's more like an anchor, grounding me. It's a nuanced difference, but I think it's important.

My father- in-law’s sphere of influence is broad, encompassing a diverse group of people with colorful pasts. But he doesn’t speak out against much. He is an excellent listener, and he’s hard to ruffle. He doesn’t often confront. So, when he does, he commands your attention. Due to his typical restraint, if he chooses to cause conflict, you know it must be really important. You can’t help but listen and take his words to heart.

Conversely, with me, I’m always getting passionate about something and letting everyone around me know. It’s part of who I am. I wouldn’t say I’m part of the outrage machine that seems to dominate our political, religious and cultural landscape right now, but I definitely fall victim to it sometimes. I’m not proud to say that my friends and loved ones have all been on the receiving end of my unsolicited opinions. Not just once. Often. And I happen to believe a lot of the time I probably had a lot of good points, but that’s not the point. Good advice delivered at the wrong time is useless. What’s the point of delivering a hard truth if the recipient isn’t ready to hear it? What good is unwanted political persuasion to a person who has already made up her mind? There is no joy in "I told you so."

There are a few situations in my circle right now in which I have said my piece and now I know it’s time to hold my tongue. Because, it turns out, saying how you feel is one thing, but showing up and loving and supporting others despite how you feel is quite another. And I don’t think I need to tell you which is harder.

In this contempt-filled, fear-driven, complicated season, I wonder what it would look like if more of us showed restraint. What if we funneled our passion into understanding each other and building relationships with others—especially when we disagree. What if we asked more questions with a genuine curiosity about the answers? I wonder what might be possible if we held off on our tirades, backed down off our soapboxes and chose to do the hard work of building community with people who don’t share all of our beliefs. Then when the time came— like it seems it might be now— to take a stand against something, people would know it was serious. People would know it was time to listen.

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In Between Jobs

3/8/2016

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Yesterday I had the privilege of speaking to my Mothers of Preschoolers’ Group about resumes. But, if I’m being honest, I didn’t count it a privilege at first. Over my almost ten years as a technical writer and as a consultant since then, I find myself an accidental resume expert. I’ve never particularly enjoyed writing them, but I honed a skill and have often been paid well to do so.

So, I grumbled a little and culled my notes and sat before the small group in the fellowship hall of a local church. Before I began, I said, “One of the hardest parts about becoming a stay-at-home mom, for me, was that people stopped asking me personal questions. Everything was related to my husband or children. I felt lost—like I had disappeared. Motherhood is an important part of my identity, but it’s not all there is, and I feel like it’s so demanding that it will swallow you whole if you let it. So, I want to go around the room. If you’re a stay-at-home mom, I want to know what you did before that. Or what you hope to do later. If you work, I want to know what you do and what that’s like. If you’re hoping for a change, tell me about that. If you are looking to get something specific out of this discussion, I’d love to know that too.”

And this was where I got over myself and realized what an honor it was to be among these women. A handful of them have master’s degrees. Many are military spouses, and a couple are veterans themselves. One is a Presbyterian pastor, but doesn’t know how to translate those skills into another profession, or at least how to represent them so she gets the chance. Several are small business owners. One has multiple doctorates and is a rescue veterinarian but wants to break into teaching at the college level. Several are hoping for a new career when their kids are older, but nervous about the time away. Others are hoping to pick up where they left off, wondering if there will still be room for them. Many spoke of weighing the costs of childcare against potential income, unsure whether it would even make financial sense to work. One spoke of a job she loved that she had left shortly before having her first child. “I want to work. But right now I’m sort of…lost.”

Lost. I bit my lip and nodded. Prior to going into that meeting, I had run into a friend in the hall as I dropped my children off at childcare. “I’m giving a talk on keeping your skills relevant and how to best represent yourself in a resume in this unique season. Me, the unemployed, stay-at-home mom. It’s just a little bit ironic, isn’t it?” My friend smiled sweetly.

I felt like a fraud. I have a consulting business, it’s true. But most jobs aren’t feasible to take on right now. The last one balked at my rate, though by my estimation, it was below industry standard. I did not negotiate, preferring to lose the work I don’t actually need than to rearrange my life to work for less than I’m worth. I’m in an enviable place and I know it: we do not need my income right now to stay comfortable. I recognize the absurd luxury of this fact, because I lived for a long time when this was nowhere near true. Being able to mull over not just what you need to do, but what you’d like to do is a gift, for sure.

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But as I sat with those women yesterday, something in me was comforted and something else groaned. I was amazed at the commonality we shared—those things we think but do not say—not just about how much harder staying home with the kids is than we realized it would be, but how stuck we feel. How few options it feels like we have. How fulfilling it would be to be able to have a little bit of both.

I’ve done that, had a little of both. I’ve worked a shorter week than my coworkers, the last year of my employment with a big contractor. I heard complaints about it every day, never mind the fact that I completed the same amount of work in less time than and often worked from home to ensure nothing slipped. I’ve worked consulting jobs that expected round-the-clock availability while my husband traveled relentlessly and I had no formal childcare to speak of. I’ve taken a conference call while locking myself in the laundry room. It wasn’t glamorous. I really don’t believe you can have it all, at least not all at the same time. But I’m not sure that’s even what we’re asking for. I think we just want more options.
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So I find myself in this tension. Where does it leave me? I am comforted, and so pleasantly surprised, by the depths of what sisterhood with other women can really mean if we take the time to get to know others and really allow ourselves to be known. I’m also continually challenged to figure out what work is to me—A paycheck? Freedom? Recognition? An outlet?— and what it is not. I wrestle with the dichotomy of accepting the place where I am and being fully present with my children in this fleeting stage, without slipping into complacence.  I remind myself there is no shame in also yearning for something those sweet children were never meant to give me.

Today I lived the suburban dream and loved every minute of it: I got to beam while my daughter accepted an award at school, then I took her and her brother to watch the geese and play at a park. We had a picnic on the front lawn and drew with sidewalk chalk before her kindergarten bus came and her brother and I took a jog to the church around the corner for a yoga class. On the walk home I breathed deeply, marveling over the gift of this day. And today, as always, I felt infinitely grateful that I got to be there for my son to lay his head on my shoulder before his nap, even as I wondered whether and when there will be something more.

​Soon I will meet with some of those ladies again, and we will work on their resumes. They will tell me their hopes and dreams and experience and skills and we will work together to tell their stories well. And I can't help but wonder, in the back of my mind, whether I'm already in the midst of stumbling onto that something more.

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    About Me

    Christina | Virginia Beach
    Psuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom of four finds herself home with the kids and transplanted to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.

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