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Almost Here

7/2/2017

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When I learned I was pregnant, in November, I often sat in stunned silence. I tried to make sense of our new timeline, our new life. I’d tell myself, “you’ve got the whole school year, and then some,” or, “the baby will come when the crepe myrtles bloom,” which, uttered in the midst of dreary, cold rain, felt oddly comforting.

School has been out for two weeks and the crepe myrtles that line so many streets in our city and decorate our backyard are bursting blush and crimson, dark pink, white, lavender and deep purple.

Nine months have flown by, and I find myself aware that the time is growing short. My mind races with all that needs to be done: lists to be made, supplies to be procured, meals to be prepared now and eaten later, tiny clothing to be washed and folded, pictures to be hung before they sit where they are for a year, closets to be organized, and—most noticeably—a POD in my driveway that needs to be emptied and taken away. Of course, that is not to mention our new closets that still don’t have doors or our foyer that is prepped for paint but remains unpainted, our “five-week” renovation bleeding into its fourth month.

This is nesting. I prepped and froze five dinners last night, in addition to the one we ate. I start some days with energy, but it wanes throughout the day. My body feels heavy and foreign; I analyze every ache and pain in my back and abdomen, mentally checking the clock for regularity. The calendar says we have twenty-three days until our baby may join us, but I feel certain that she will be here sooner than that. So, I buy and make food and try to sneak in moments with my older kids and relish opportunities to slip out—anywhere—alone, and attempt to rest during these days since sleep has been eluding me at night.
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I also find myself loitering in the doorway of our latest nursery. Once, almost ten years ago, it was ladybugs: baby pink and white, mint green and red gingham with a crib tucked into the eave, and then, two years later, it housed two babies. In two houses, we didn’t have a nursery, just a little girls’ room. Until we moved here and decorated our smallest bedroom in red and navy, with vintage cars, trucks and airplanes that our son systematically took apart or off the wall as he learned to climb. Now, our girls have moved clear across the house, to the room over the garage that has built-in beds decorated with teal, grey, coral and yellow—no sign of pink, per their request—it’s the room we always intended would one day be theirs. But I feel vaguely sad about them being so far from me. What if they need me, I think, but am then reminded that they don’t as much anymore. I still check on them each night before I go to bed, climbing the stairs to tuck in spindly limbs and standing on tiptoes to kiss flushed cheeks, and it always makes me ache. Back in our hallway, Deacon has moved to the larger room, with patchwork plaid and stars, airplanes and cars on the wall, a train table, and a nightstand filled with pirate and cowboy and superhero costumes that he loves.

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And so, in the littlest room, we have a nursery again: navy and deep coral, poppies and stripes and a particularly cogent verse from Jeremiah framed on the wall: “Before you were born, I set you apart.”  I stand in the doorway at various points each day, trying to envision the tiny person that will soon inhabit that room, the thousands of diapers I will change at that table under the Bible verse; the countless hours I will spend nursing and rocking her in that chair, the songs I will sing as I pace that floor comforting this newest—and last—piece of my heart whose face I still can’t picture. And a lump rises in my throat, and I still can’t believe it.

For months we have dithered over a name. It still eludes us, days before her arrival. We think we have it down to two, but neither feels the clear answer to either of us. I hate it. I feel like I need the name to connect me to her, to help me see her, to mentally add her to our family. Annoyed with our indecision (and unwillingness to share our thought process), the other kids have named her Cleopatra and are content with that. They don’t need to picture her to love her. They don’t need to know her name. They talk about her constantly, Deacon with his hands and little face pressed against my belly, telling her to “come when you are ready.”

I feel anxious about another child, about how I will care for her well while doing right by the rest of our growing children. How will they get what they need? How will I maintain my health and sanity? Will I ever sleep?
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But this nine-month process isn’t random. Looming larger than the fear, as my body grows tired of being pregnant, I allow my mind to venture into the next few weeks. I remember the pain, the lows, the tears, the lack of sleep, yes. But I also remember the sheer joy of meeting each of my children for the first time, the high privilege of welcoming them into the world. I remember the indescribable feeling of siblings being introduced. The warm comfort of being surrounded by family who will come to meet her. I am grateful for the space of this summer, to slow and process and adjust. As I try to relish these last days being a family of five, I fold impossibly tiny clothing and imagine the little body that will rest inside of them and wrestle with what she will look like and who she will be.  I cannot wait to find out. 

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Work Life, in the Balance

5/23/2017

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I’ve noticed a theme running through my conversations with friends in a similar stage of motherhood as I am, about work. Some of my friends, like me, are fortunate enough to have a choice about whether they work. Others don’t work because they can’t afford the childcare. Others work full or part time, and wrestle with the feeling that they are never fully present anywhere, while still others are trailing military spouses who have forgone their careers for a season to raise children while they move every few years.

It’s come up a lot lately, as since March I have worked a part-time job that I wasn’t looking for. It’s not a dream job. It’s definitely not great timing. And yet, after several hilariously direct conversations with my potential employer, I ended up going for it.
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In the week I was learning and mulling, I sat in a circle of women, mostly mothers and one young newlywed, and fielded this question: “Christina, do you ever regret staying home with your kids?”

It’s an interesting one whose answer is more complicated than it seems on the surface. Short answer: Of course not. But do I miss work? Absolutely. I miss tackling problems that can be solved, feeling proficient at something, making money, having my work (and, sometimes, very existence) validated. I miss going to work sometimes, which this part-time-from-home solution does nothing to solve, but which I’m not looking to solve at this moment. Naturally, the perks of being able to stay home with my children are numerous. I’m available for field trips and sick days; I’m there every day when my girls get off the bus. I get to go to a mom’s group, a morning Bible study and playdates; I get to read stories every afternoon before nap time; I get to be outside on perfect days and take impromptu trips to the park or the beach; I get to have coffee or lunch with friends on occasion; I get to go to Trader Joe’s on a Tuesday morning instead of with the masses on Saturday afternoons or weekdays after five.
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But do I worry about the gap in my resume and experience? Definitely. Our workplace culture—in general— isn’t kind to mothers. I remember fielding the insinuation, when I had two babies and worked full time, that someone else was raising my children. And since I’ve been home, I’ve sometimes felt the accusation that I’m somehow “wasting” my time, education, experience or talents by being home. That I’m not living up to my “potential.”

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Here’s the thing: Both of those extremes are ridiculous. I am a feminist the way I can’t help but think everyone should be: I believe women are inherently and unalienably equal to men. Feminism, to me, does not mean we fight for the right to make certain choices; it means we fight for the right to be able to make the right choices for us. There have been times when I didn’t have a choice but to work or when the right choice for me was working. There have been others where it wasn’t. And now, I find myself in a bit of an in between. Since I found out about this baby, I have felt a pang. I’d thought that I was about to embark on a season as a mother where I might find what was next for me as an individual—that I would have more breathing room than I’d had before—and I was excited to explore it. So, when I learned we would be setting the clock back, I prayed—desperately, selfishly, maybe—“Lord, remind me you haven’t forgotten about me.”  Of course, I had ideas about what that something might look like, and this offer I got wasn’t that at all. But I felt convicted; who’s to say because this opportunity didn’t look the way I wanted it to that it wasn’t for me?

Juggling work and home and kids is a struggle, but I remind myself that because it is hard doesn’t mean we’re doing it wrong. I called it juggling and not balancing for a reason-- to juggle requires there to be a ball in my hand and others in the air at any given moment-- they cannot all be held and balanced at once. And sometimes some of them fall. But there are things I get from working that my husband, children, friends and even creative pursuits can’t deliver. It’s not fair of me to ask it of them. And there are seasons where I have needed these things more than others. Maybe I need them now.


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​Since I started working in March, my house is mostly a mess most of the time. I have said no to things I would have rather done. I have run out of coffee on several occasions; I ran out of milk on my husband’s birthday and had to borrow some from our next door neighbor so he could have coffee when he woke up. I haven’t seen the bottom of any of our hampers in nearly three months. I have fed my children differently than I’d prefer more often than I’d prefer. I’ve spent a small fortune on fill-in-the-gap childcare. I haven’t done a properly planned-out grocery shopping trip, and I have dragged my son on errands when he should have been napping because I couldn’t waste my kid-free time on shopping.

But also, I have been reminded that I am competent. I have skills, knowledge and abilities that make me a desirable employee. I can exhibit a level of professionalism on the phone that belies the fact that I’m sitting at a desk in my cluttered laundry room/office, praying my child stays enthralled with the show he’s watching since he is skipping his nap today.

I model behaviors for my children every day, and while I obviously feel that staying home with my children is a high calling and worthy use of my time, I am excited to show them—especially my daughters—that women are more than just what they are able to do for others. Sure, I model this in how I carve out time for myself and my passions and friends, but I am excited to show them, now that they are old enough to notice, that this can apply to work as well.

Now more than ever, I am embracing what I’ve always known to be true: there is no right way. This might work well for us for now, for the duration of this contract. When our little girl arrives this summer, it will not. I reserve the right to shift, and I am grateful for the freedom I have to change my mind. I am grateful for an employer who, though she cannot relate to being a mother, recognizes the need mothers have for flexibility in their work options and does not see this as a liability.  I wish more employers realized the upside of hiring women in this season of life—of offering them something other than an all-or-nothing proposition.

​Absolutely, I recognize that having this to wrestle over at all is in itself a privilege that not many are afforded. If you find yourself in that place, without options, I hope you never for a minute allow yourself to feel guilt or condemnation for your situation. Whether you work by necessity, choice, or some combination of the two, or whether you’re home because you have to be, because you want to be, or a little of both, I hope you find rest in the knowledge that you are doing the best you can for your family, and that is always enough.  I don’t know whether my choice was wise or ill-timed, but I’m working to navigate it with as much poise as I can muster, and I’m proud of the effort if not always the results. And I’m maybe illogically looking forward to a couple months from now, when work falls away and focusing all of my efforts on welcoming our newborn will—in some ways—feel like a relief. ​
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The Ministry of Availability

4/6/2017

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Sometimes, as a stay-at-home mom, and more recently as a work-from-home mom, my world can feel small. Days used to drag by, and now they can buzz past, filled with work and tending to and carting around children and managing the house in between. It can be hard to feel like I’m making an impact beyond the walls of our home. There is a temptation—and even well-intended external pressure sometimes—to fill any white space with activities that feel more “meaningful,” that look more like “ministry.”

For several weeks, our house has been a partial construction zone. It would be a hard sell to tell you we’ve been roughing it, but because of the nature of our remodel, we and all our belongings have completely vacated the part of the house we usually sleep in. Aside from my middle-of-the-night treks downstairs to the bathroom, my son’s inability to nap in that room, and that there is clutter seemingly everywhere, life goes on as usual.

These are temporary annoyances, but we’ve found ourselves with unexpected opportunities to host guests. Let me be clear: we love hosting guests. It is, we believe, in large part our family’s mission. When we bought our first house, a narrow Baltimore rowhome with little over 1,000 square feet, we relished throwing cramped parties and dinners. I found surprising joy in changing sheets and washing towels, in placing fresh flowers in our modest office/guest room. I learned how to make big breakfasts. I discovered a side of myself I hadn’t known before.

From there, we lived in rented houses, looking forward to the day when our space might match our desire to welcome people in. So, when we found this house, despite its needed updates, we fell in love. It is nearly three times the size of our first home, but that’s not its appeal. This home, with its rambling layout and cozy nooks, its shady backyard, front porch and pool, lends itself to company. A  lot of company. As we contemplated making an offer, we talked about why we wanted the house.

“We don’t need a house this big,” I told Daniel. “But it feels like a calling. Like, if we get this house, the answer is pretty much always yes.” He agreed.

We have joyfully carved pumpkins in the back yard with seventy of our closest friends and neighbors. We have hosted pool parties, planned and impromptu, roasted marshmallows with a crowd, tucked kids in on the floor because grown-ups occupied all the beds; we have hosted Easter and Thanksgiving and Christmas, parents and siblings, cousins and old friends we rarely get to see. I’ve had the joy of hosting dinner parties, a paint night and first-day-of-school mimosas for my mom’s group, and every year a week before Christmas we cram twenty people from Daniel’s company into our sun room, which we do our best to transform into a wonderland.

This house, and our belief that it comes at a cost—that God has asked us to be generous with it, and share it sacrificially—has been such a beautiful gift. It has taught us so much about others, ourselves and operating within our gifts. Saying yes to generosity with this house, it turns out, means saying no to other good, worthy things. We can't open our home to others if we're never here. We've had to be available.

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It’s been strange lately to have opportunities come up when our resources feel so limited. But that’s taught me something too.  Because maybe I started to believe it was about me and what I had to offer. Maybe I started to believe that everything had to be perfect. Maybe it had gotten so automatic that it wasn’t as generous as it seemed, that it was no longer sacrificial.

Over the past month, Daniel’s dad and uncle came to see their ailing father and help with demolition, and I had the flu. We ate out of takeout boxes on the kitchen counter, and their accommodations were far from perfect. The next week,  a friend of Daniel’s passing through Virginia asked to crash on our couch.  The week after that, my parents stunned us with a few-day visit that is one of my favorite surprises in memory.  Later that week we had planned to host old friends and their five children overnight but sadly had to cancel when Daniel’s grandfather passed away.

“I know the house is torn up, but I’d really like to be able to offer my family a place for meals and to stay if they need it. Can we do that?” Daniel asked.

Yes.

I went to the store and bought the makings of big breakfasts and dinners and s’mores. We cleaned around the clutter, vacuumed and washed towels and put flowers in vases. At breakfast, we talked to our girls about our family mission, about the reason we change sheets and clean the house and invite people in.

“How do you think our family will feel when they arrive for the memorial, after a long day of traveling?” I asked.

“Sad and tired,” they replied.

“Wouldn’t it be nice for them to have a comfortable place to rest?”
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Emerie set to work chalking a welcome on the driveway, and Mirabella made a sign for the door.


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Our family arrived on a beautiful, 70-degree evening. We grilled dinner and built a fire and sat and reminisced and felt the healing balm of togetherness.

In the morning, before the memorial, I got up early and baked muffins and a casserole, set out juice glasses and made two pots of strong coffee. And it felt sacrificial and consequential and 
good. So rarely does that kind of work provide evidence of its importance in the moment. But I saw our people unwinding, exhaling, connecting, healing. The cluttered, imperfect space we offered them somehow felt sacred, and though I was tired, I felt revived.

We shared another dinner and one more breakfast, huddled around our kitchen, before we parted ways. As I collected towels and sheets and took Mirabella’s sign off the door, I noticed what it said: “Welcome to Virginia. Relax.” Emerie’s in the driveway was similar: “Welcome to the Caro’s House, a place to rest.” Tears pricked my eyes at the realization that this calling we felt so long ago, before these children were born, was as real as I’d felt then and had come alive in them too.

If our family felt rested when they left, it wasn’t because their stay or the food or the conditions or our children’s behavior was perfect—none of it was. But we were present. We were available. And I needed to remember how much that matters. That I need not concern myself with ensuring my importance by over scheduling my time with things that may look more like ministry on the outside. I needed the reminder not to be fooled into thinking I should wait to throw open the door until everything is perfect. And I needed to remember the necessity of white space to make that happen.

Don’t underestimate the value of your availability to those around you; don’t discount the ministry in that. Your life doesn’t need to look like mine; maybe you can be available to your co-workers, to your grandchildren, to your neighbors, to your friends. Don’t cave to the pressure of being so busy “making a difference” that you lose sight of all the ways you are capable of loving and serving others that are already in front of you. You may not feel the eternal value in a smile, a cup of coffee, a listening ear or a place to rest, but if you keep making it available, someone will.

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Diamonds & Stones

2/14/2017

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“Love is not a victory march; it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah,” Leonard Cohen wrote in one of his two versions of the song “Hallelujah.” And, mostly, I think that’s true.
 
Sometimes, it’s wave after wave of circumstance that chokes out romance or the feeling part of love, laying bare just the faithfulness.
 
Sometimes, it feels like work—like the conscious choosing, over and over again—yes, I choose you, even though it doesn’t feel particularly good at this moment, I still choose you.
 
Sometimes it feels crowded—with children and family, with work and stress, with others—so that even the choosing feels far off.
 
All this is true. And it’s all worth mentioning because, God forbid, you’re in a season like this with your love and you feel alone. Don’t ever believe the lie that it’s always supposed to feel good, that these aren’t all real and necessary seasons of lifelong love. They just are. And if you haven’t hit one yet, just hold on and you will, then keep holding on through it.

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​Because sometimes? Sometimes love feels like a high.

Sometimes it feels like four nights away in a too-big-for-us bed with white-sugar sand and the Gulf of Mexico just out our window. Like roaming around an unfamiliar island, following behind him on a borrowed bike, not caring where we end up. Sometimes it’s wandering through a bookstore, for myself, but losing him in the stacks and then being shocked at the books he chose for himself. It’s reveling in a surprise, twelve years in. It’s talking and dreaming across the table, along the beach, across the covers, and then his familiar hand on my thigh from the lounge chair beside me and, “Does it get any better than this, my love?” Sometimes it's peaceful silence.

It’s convincing him to come to a yoga class and, when asked by the retired ladies beside us if we had just gotten married, realizing that, as a matter of fact yes, we had. Just ten years ago, almost eleven. Sometimes it really is these things, then returning to our house of giddy children, anxious to scoop them up and squeeze them, to kiss their cheeks and memorize their faces, just as they are, right this minute. It’s a red tablecloth and paper-heart Valentines in little, dollar-store mailboxes on our breakfast table. 

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It’s both staid and exhilarating, enduring and fleeting, stoic and bursting with passion, searing and the salve. In all of these seasons, and through all of these seasons, it remains the greatest gift of my life.

I will throw my arms wide with gratitude to receive this season, knowing we will need these gifts to sustain us when leaner, harder times inevitably come. Whatever season you find yourself in today, I hope you find rest in the knowledge that you are loved.

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The Best Kind of Disruption

2/3/2017

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I didn’t want another baby.

Two and a half years after Deacon was born, after praying and hoping and waiting for peace about the future of our family, that’s what I had decided. Though we still hoped for a fourth child, we had grown excited and passionate about our plan to (eventually) adopt an older child.
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I had let go, had accepted that I would never again rejoice over the miraculous, horses’ hooves sound of a prenatal heartbeat, never feel a child move within me again, never again feel the high of childbirth, never witness the precious first meeting of new siblings again, never nurse another newborn to sleep, feeling like the only two people awake in the world. Because I had caught glimpses of the next stage for our family, and they excited me.

So, twenty months after giving our swing and baby girl clothes to our new niece, ten months after giving our crib, changing table and practically everything else to our new nephew, five months after deciding we were done with babies, and one day after returning from a weekend trip to a new city as a family of five in which we stayed in a cool, downtown apartment, ate out and visited museums successfully and with joy, I stood in the bathroom staring in disbelief at a positive pregnancy test.

No. This just couldn’t be. This wasn’t in the plan.

I jammed the test in a drawer and continued making dinner, fed my three kids, and waited for Daniel to come home. We tackled bedtime together, and then I sat on the couch staring into the distance.

“Are you okay?” Daniel asked.

“No.” I admitted, starting to cry.

I cried for a shocking sixth pregnancy ten years after my first one, for the feeling that I was too old to do it all again. I cried for the peace I had finally made with my body. I cried for the space and opportunity to find myself that felt like it was slipping through my fingers. I cried for my baby, who surely deserves a mother whose first reaction to his or her impending arrival isn’t despair. I cried for my friends who have struggled for years to conceive, to carry a baby to term or to celebrate their baby’s first steps or birthday; I cried with grief for them and in shame that I would be blessed with a child I hadn’t even wanted. The news of this pregnancy felt like a heavy weight; I mourned for the loss of what I thought was next for our family, for my marriage, for myself.

I felt guilty about all of this, but I fought hard against that feeling. Because, the truth is, I had to mourn those things first. Shaming myself out of those feelings wouldn't make them go away, wouldn't hurry my acceptance. I had to acknowledge and mourn what felt like loss before I could accept and embrace this unexpected addition. 

Maybe most importantly, I reached out to three friends who had been in my exact predicament. They were empathetic and gentle, patient and kind. They gave me wise advice, telling me to pour my heart out to my God, to journal, to allow myself to feel all the feelings, and to find safe places to talk about them. One friend advised me to sit—uncomfortably if necessary—with the knowledge that hope may take her time getting to me, but that she would definitely come.

Hope will come, she had said. I wriggled under the discomfort of how intimate those words felt, from what pain they must have been borne.

Daniel and I handled the news differently in those first weeks, both of us grateful for friends who let us process without fear or shame. But still, feeling so disconnected during such a pivotal time for our marriage and family disoriented me.

I needed some time, before people started learning of my pregnancy and giving me the side-eye, asking whether I “knew how that happens,” before strangers in the grocery store started asking about my family planning methods, or whether my kids were “all mine” and “all from the same father.” So, I told a few friends but held the news close to my heart, where I could protect it and try to accept it. 

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Ten weeks in, on Christmas Day, we told our kids. The girls were ecstatic from the start: Mirabella can’t wait for another baby to care for, and Emerie is thrilled to be moving to “the big kid team,” instead of being the middle child. Deacon, despite his first reaction of, “I don’t want a baby in ‘dis house,” now lifts my shirt to kiss my belly each morning when he wakes up and at night before bed. “I wuv you, wittle baby,” he whispers.  He informed me that God “opened da speaker in his mouf” and “teached him” that this baby would be a boy. But we have to wait a little longer to see.

This baby intrigues me. More than even with the other three, I feel fully confident that this baby is meant for our family. Just as he or she is, no matter what. No amount of planning on our part could have brought him or her to us or kept him or her away. It is a disruption of the scariest—but also most exciting—kind. I can’t wait to learn who we needed so badly that our life needed to be upended. I can’t wait to know who we would have missed out on if things had gone according to our blessed plans. This baby is already teaching us so much.

So, now we map out the shuffling of space to make room for one more, thankful to have the space to shuffle. We gratefully source and accept lovingly used and offered baby essentials, knowing— this time more than ever—that babies don’t need that many things; they just need love. And, imperfect as we five are, we’ve got that in spades.  Even though I fear how I will manage it all, how I will give everybody what they need, and how I will manage to find what I need in the margins, I watch my growing belly with anticipation, excited to welcome our newest family member. I look around at our loving marriage, our growing children, our mostly happy home. And I feel overwhelmed by the privilege of bringing one more child into the fold this summer. No, we didn’t want another baby. But maybe we needed one.

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Help My Unbelief

12/22/2016

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This year, for me and most people I know, has been unexpected. Personally and collectively, there are changes we thought were coming that didn’t materialize, changes on their way we never saw coming, and meanwhile it feels like the world is burning. In the midst of the swirling, I have been quiet, still. Even before the chaos mounted, I felt mostly like I didn’t have anything to say. Maybe because there is so much to say, so many people talking, and so few apparently listening.
 
This year I’ve listened. I’ve waited. I’ve wondered. I’ve questioned. I’ve prayed. And, honestly, I’ve reeled, raged, lamented and mourned. The injustices at home and abroad, the deep divisions within our country, the fear and hatred of the other, the direction I worry our country is taking, the terror attacks, the utterly evil treatment of civilians in Syria, the baffling behavior of some of my fellow believers—they have left me speechless.
 
In all of it, I have felt confounded and at times wayward, but not alone. I have found camaraderie and friendship. This year, as always, there has been too much good to list and certainly far more than I deserve. I keep reminding myself that, because the twists and turns this year has taken have caught me off guard, that doesn’t mean my God is surprised.

​Last year I sang at my neighbor’s funeral, as I have done at probably a dozen funerals and weddings previously, not to mention hundreds of church services and performances over the last thirty years. But when another neighbor saw me stand, she grabbed my arm; “Christina, what are you doing?” she asked, looking shocked. I just smiled at her and kept walking to the stage. That she didn’t know this about me did not make it a surprise: I knew who I was and was operating within that knowledge. And so it is with God. I didn’t know what this year would hold for our family. I didn’t know what it would hold for our country. But that doesn’t mean anything has actually changed, doesn’t mean God is asleep or caught off guard. Yes, maybe the world is burning. But yes, God is still on the throne.

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​As I’ve studied and pondered and listened this year, feeling like I’ve lost my voice, I have also found myself lost in the words of others, and music especially. In October, faced with a day that would decide a lot about the fate of our family and aware that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it, I took myself to the beach and listened to music as I gazed over the waves. My toes in the cool water, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, I ignored the staring onlookers and soaked in The Whistles and the Bells’ “Canary Cage:”

“So long I’ve locked the lion up in my canary cage
Scared of any thought that could not navigate my maze
But cancer feeds and war it bleeds
And sometimes I can barely breathe for the toxicity of my doubt”
 
Yes. I’m not negative or crazy for recognizing the insanity around me. The pain, the fear, the anger, the utter lack of order that appears to have dominated this year—they are all really there. I am not imagining them. You are not imagining them. And yet, if we call ourselves believers, we are to believe anyway. We are to speak truth to power anyway. We are to defend the oppressed anyway. We are to love our neighbors—all of them—anyway. We are—and this one may be the hardest for me to come by this year—to hope anyway.
 
The song goes on:
“But I’ll be damned if I’m a prisoner to my circumstance;
A spineless faithless clown
For you will not let me down
No, you will not let me down”
 
Have you felt let down this year? You’re in good company. Maybe you have been let down. Maybe I have been. But not by my God, and that’s the part I need to reconcile.

This year, for maybe the first time, I can't separate the political from the personal. It’s no secret; I’m not a believer in the new administration. Maybe you are, and if so, I sincerely appreciate you reading anyway. You’ll never hear me say I believe God appointed Trump, just as I wouldn’t have said that about any president, ever. I am skeptical at best. I’m not saying I’m hoping for the best from him; I’m actually not. I am expecting he will continue to be who he has always shown us he is.

But as I would have been no matter who won, I am hopeful good can come anyway.

I’ve never hoped in the president—or any man—so this isn’t a shift for me. It isn’t radical or disrespectful of the office or any such thing. I am placing my faith where it belongs: high above the office of the presidency.

But I don’t feel this hope relieves me of any obligation to be involved in the process of improving our circumstances. This coming year we will continue to prayerfully give to a variety of organizations that we believe advance causes that are near to the heart of God; we are loving and serving the people around us; we pray continually to learn how we can do more with what we have and do it better.
 
Sometimes silence is appropriate, necessary. In the last month, I’ve changed the way and frequency with which I use social media. For me, this has been a very positive thing.  I have been more present with the people around me, more introspective, less angry over things that just don’t matter, more invested in things that do.
 
As we approach Christmas, I find myself absorbing the wonder of it, the sheer, desperate, illogical hope of it. I'm seeing it anew through my tired eyes. And in the new year, I’m hoping I will regain my voice. I feel I have been faithful to the silence, to the waiting. But I feel ready to move through it, and I’m hopeful I’ll get the chance.
 
And you? If you’re calling good riddance to this year over your shoulder, hopeful but bruised, allow me to toss your name in with mine:
 
“Oh, Father I believe,
Oh, help my unbelief.”
 
When that weary, stripped-bare hope is all we can muster, I have to believe it’s hope enough.
 
I wish you and yours rest, peace and hope this Christmas. 
​
{Listen to the Whistles and the Bells excellent “Canary Cage,” here.}

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The Least We Can Do

11/2/2016

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Where I grew up, there was a popular bumper sticker that encouraged us to “Choose Civility.” Always it made me laugh: Really? Is civility the best we can do?

I don’t know what I expected the last time I wrote to you and hit publish with a lump in my throat. I figured I would hit a nerve; I knew I would ruffle feathers. And no, that’s not why I did it. But yes, I knew I had to do it anyway. But I didn’t expect to be stopped in Target by a friend whose sharing of my post caused confrontations in her actual life. I wasn’t prepared for the messages from people who worried their comments online had offended me, or those defending me against other people’s comments, or those worried that the disagreement that compelled me to write the piece had cost me a real-life friendship.

I’ll save you the suspense on that one: It hasn’t. But since then, I’ve been scratching my head, wondering, what can we learn here?

For one thing, I fear we have all but forgotten how to disagree with grace. This is me, raising my hand. Me too. Because here’s something I know to be true about politics: About many things that matter, we all see the same problems; we just disagree about the possible causes and solutions. It can be hard when people don’t think like you do. I know it is for me. It is especially frustrating when I really like the person in question, which leads me to Elizabeth.

She is brilliant and kind, sensitive and genuine. She’s the kind of girl about whom my dad quotes While You Were Sleeping and says, “You don’t know whether to hug her or arm wrestle her.” In my experience, you don’t have to wonder what she’s thinking. Maybe she isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. And maybe that’s why she reminds me of me. But the older I get, the deeper my appreciation for real people who tell it to me straight. But honesty isn’t the same as being a jerk. And the difference is what I fear we’ve lost (and what Elizabeth hasn't).

PictureElizabeth and me, in real life
Elizabeth is also a thinker, and she lands on a different spot on the political spectrum than I do. One day she said something that rubbed me the wrong way; I felt she had been flippant about something I took very seriously, or maybe it was just the context surrounding what she said. I don’t make it a point of debating on Facebook. I don’t make it a point of debating at all. But I had seen so many women I liked espousing what felt like a thoughtless opinion, loudly, apparently without regard for the damage it caused, and I was surprised to see this friend seemingly doing the same. Maybe it hurt my feelings.

I should have confronted her privately, given her a chance to explain without an audience. But I guess because of the public nature of Facebook, I broke my own rule and disagreed with her publicly. Almost immediately, friends of hers had my back, the way people do in fights that aren’t theirs, in which she who speaks last wins. I didn’t need or even want their help, but I’m ashamed to admit it made me feel validated and that I didn't even consider how it made Elizabeth feel. She responded almost immediately, not defensively, but in defense. We went around a few times, leaving it as I figured we would: we agreed to disagree.

The next day, Elizabeth reached out privately: “I feel like maybe there’s something I need to repair,” she said. “Those other women always disagree with me, but this was the first time you did.” I assured her that nothing needed to be fixed. She asked me to lunch, but I couldn’t make it because I’d be at yoga. She decided to come too, even though she was late and risked the judgment of our snarky instructor. I don’t think she wanted to do yoga; I think she wanted look me in the eye. She understood something I was trying to avoid: conflict has trouble surviving presence. I think that’s why people are always braver (and less considerate) when commenting online than in person.

So, after class we talked awkwardly for a few minutes, and finally I said, “We’re good, okay? There’s nothing broken here.” She smiled. And though maybe things still felt tender, we knew it was true.

Our disagreement compelled me to compile my thoughts in a piece I shared with her, reopening our dialogue. She asked me careful questions about what I hoped would come from sharing something so personal. We talked more; I learned more about her heart.

And then I shared the piece it’s taken me two weeks to get over. The last one I’d ever want to be known for; the one thousands of people read. The next morning, Elizabeth shared it too. And it wasn’t because something I had said caused her to rethink everything; her opinion hadn’t changed. But maybe because of our discussion, she reconsidered the potential impact of her words, the timing in which she had chosen to share them, or the tone. And here's what makes her response truly remarkable to me: the impact to people she cared about mattered more to her than proclaiming her opinion in that moment. She wanted us to agree. So did I. And though we came closer to understanding each other, we continue to disagree. But I admired the way she pressed in, gently, asking questions and paying attention to the answers. It is teaching me something.

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Unsurprisingly, I attracted a few loud dissenters. Strangers showed up on my Facebook page, appearing to miss the point entirely. They saw my post as a pro-Hillary piece, an anti-Donald piece, another woman crying victim—everything I expressly said that it wasn’t. I wanted to write them off, rudely, the way they had done to me. But I knew I’d lose my message if I did that. Or my witness, at least. So, I carefully crafted direct but benign responses, even though that’s not what I wanted to do. Friends came to my defense, and I found myself calling them off. Because I wrote that piece for two reasons: to speak up for those who couldn’t, and because maybe someone might read it and reconsider the effect of their words on the women around them. I can’t get people to reconsider if they already agree with me or won’t stick around long enough to read or clarify.

Admittedly, I engaged in debate with other women that were never going to consider my point. I saw them talking about me like I would never see it. They are educated mothers, apparent good people, but they were skewering me—a stranger— on a friend’s Facebook page. My fingers hovered over the keys while I considered whether to respond, and here’s why I decided to do it: I needed them to acknowledge what they were doing. I needed them to remember I wasn’t some abstract idea; I was a thinking, feeling, actual person, not an anonymous avatar who stirred the pot for fun. Unfortunately, being reminded of my humanity did nothing for these women. I disengaged, thanked God I don’t have to encounter them in real life, and moved on .

When it all started to die down, I arrived, weary, at my MOPS meeting, to a hug and sympathetic ear from Elizabeth, my real friend, who cares about my actual feelings despite not agreeing with all of my thoughts.

And here’s what I learned:

The Unfollow button is our friend, but we must be careful not to surround ourselves with people with whom we always agree. Disagreement, with people who love us, can be a healthy part of understanding each other, our beliefs and even ourselves. That said, debating with people who are completely unwilling to listen or consider another viewpoint is a waste of time. Let us not waste our breath on those arguments or be those people.

If you’re a jerk online, you’re probably a jerk in real life. Behind every Facebook page or blog post is an actual person who took more time to craft their piece than you’re taking to dismantle it in the comments. All opinions don’t need to be shared. The Golden Rule applies here, as always.

We can debate on Facebook if we must, but it’s always a poor substitute for meaningful, open dialogue within the confines of real friendships in living rooms and on front porches, over a meal or a drink or anywhere we can look each other in the eye.

We must resist the urge to distill whole people down to one statement or belief. This is so hard, isn’t it? It would be so much easier to classify people as worth our time or not, and bumper stickers, lawn signs and Facebook rants all seem to be helpful tools to get us there. But, as a Christian, I’m called to live in this tension. It’s not just part of the job; it is the job. I’m called to share the love of God with the people around me. All of the people. Not only the ones I like or agree with. I didn’t enjoy being reduced to my most controversial and raw blog post. It’s safe to say most people wouldn't.

​When I walked away from the keyboard that day, I made my family dinner and tucked my kids into bed and kissed my husband. Right now, I’ll walk away to wake up my daughters, make breakfast and lunch and walk to the bus stop and then go on having conversations and making mistakes in my actual life, just like you will. Because the whole of my person and value could never be summed up in a post. No one’s can. We would do well to remember that. Choosing civility is truly the least we can do.

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Why Those Words Matter

10/12/2016

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I watched the video, you know the one, and felt outraged, though not at all surprised. I always knew Donald Trump was an insecure sexist just the same way you do. He keeps showing us that. So, it wasn’t those words that undid me, wasn’t those words that made me relive my scariest, most degrading moments. I wasn’t sure why I felt hit so hard.

But then a friend posted what should have been an innocuous meme on Facebook—because what was one more?—and I finally broke. I unleashed my frustration in the form of disagreement that hijacked her post. I chose my words carefully. I was respectful. And I apologized for the way I went about it, but I couldn’t apologize for my words. Here’s what I really meant.

I’m angry about the silent men and the deflecting women. I’m utterly baffled that a self-respecting, well-educated, God-fearing man or woman could meet news of those reprehensible words—themselves an admission of repeated, habitual sexual assault—with, “Yeah, but:”

“Yeah, but Clinton isn’t any better…”

“Yeah, but look at what Hillary did when Bill got caught…”

“Yeah, but they’re just words…”

And two that bothered me the most:

“Yeah, but are we actually sure he ever assaulted anyone? Was there ever any proof?”

And, “Yeah, but how come these same women who are upset about this thought nothing of reading Fifty Shades of Grey?”

So, finally, in my own space, with all the courage I can muster, I say, “YEAH, BUT NOTHING.”

Friends, how can this be something we disagree about? What is there to debate? What he said and the actions they betray are abhorrent. Full stop. 

You want to talk about Hillary or Bill? Let’s do that. You want to talk about porn or terrible fiction? Let’s do that. But let’s not intentionally muddy the waters or detract from something that is an abomination all on its own. The consequences are too dire. Let’s not brush off an admission of guilt and demand proof of something that is always done by cowards, almost always in secret and darkness, that takes more bravery than you can imagine to bring into the light.

And by now you've guessed that this is personal, but shouldn’t my words carry more weight because of that? 

Here is where I take a deep breath and ask you to bear with me. Here is where I tell you that when I was seventeen, I was repeatedly harassed at an internship, but at first it was just words. Then one day, he grabbed me by the arm on the stairs and wouldn’t let me go. Another day soon after, he slammed me up against a wall, pinning my hands and pressing against my hips so hard that it hurt. His face so close to mine that I could feel his breath, he threatened to come to my house if I told.

I wrestled and lost sleep, but eventually I told. My parents and sponsor were enraged, but still, in front of a committee of men and women, I had to relive it all in humiliating detail. And then do you know what they asked me?

“Well, did you ask him to stop?”

Even after they admitted that I wasn’t the first to file a complaint, they explained that this was probably just a cultural misunderstanding, since he was an immigrant from the Caribbean. They moved me to a different assignment. As if I were the problem. They assured me he would be fired. "You're not going to press charges, are you?" they said. And somehow I knew, even at seventeen, there would have been no point.

When I was twenty-one, a man I barely knew entered my room while I was sleeping. No, I didn’t ask him to. No, I didn’t invite him into my bed. Yes, of course, I told him to stop. Thank God he finally did. And I carried the shame of that one for most of my adult life, as if it were mine to carry; as if I were the one who had forcefully tried to take what didn’t belong to me.

When I was twenty-five, after attending a mandatory “sensitivity training” about sexual harassment in the workplace in which a white-haired man said, “This is a waste of time. This isn't even a problem anymore," a man at work leered at me from over the top of my cubicle every day for three months. He commented on my appearance crudely, daily, and asked me out repeatedly, though he knew I was married. He told me it was a shame I hadn’t had the chance to “experience him” before I got married. I was the only woman in the department, let alone the office. I hesitated to say anything, knowing it was my word against his, that I had no proof, and that, likely, I’d have to continue to see him every day and even be alone with him regardless of whether I spoke up. Finally, hesitantly, I told the management.

Again, they needed direct quotes, vivid, humiliating details. They interrogated me. They informed me there was nothing they could do “until something happens.” Until something happens, they said.

“Well, did you ask him to stop?” they asked before moving me—not him—to a different office. Mysteriously, a month or two later, my position was no longer needed and I was let go. As if I were the problem. He wasn’t fired until years later, and even then it wasn’t because of the dozens of women who had reported him for sexual harassment; it was because he had lied on his resume.

This is to speak nothing of the other men who found their ways into my room when I was sleeping, though thankfully I was able to yell them out of there. This is to speak nothing of the hands that found their way onto my butt or breasts while in a crowd.

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Maybe you’ve never been sexually assaulted. I sincerely hope that you haven't. Maybe you don’t think you know anyone who has. Do you know what they look like? They look like me, the college-educated, thirty-five-year-old, married mother of three sitting beside you at the stoplight in my minivan or in the next row over in church, walking past you in the grocery store, or bringing you a meal when your wife has a baby. They look like so many of my friends and loved ones, some of whom have had experiences far more horrific than mine, but whose blood doesn’t belong spilled on my page. We are your neighbors, your girlfriends, your sisters, your wives, your daughters. And we are far more than the sum of our experiences.

The words that threw me into a tailspin this week weren’t those of that egomaniac; they were the words of my friends—good, kind, smart people—who don’t seem to understand the weight of those words. When I was a victim, good, kind, smart people asked me loaded questions that suggested I might have been in the wrong, must have been mistaken, must have been exaggerating. They didn’t trust me. They placated me. They silenced me. They changed my response in the future.

If we diminish admissions of sexual assault, if our first instinct is to suspect victims, if we question their role in their own abuse, if we silence their claims, if we ignore them, what will happen next time? What are we teaching our daughters? Our sons? 

From my experience, I have learned that no legislation can insulate a woman from retribution when she reports sexual harassment. It’s in the looks and hushed tones, it’s in the tense atmosphere, it’s in the side eyes and insinuations that "some women are too uptight." In our current culture, there is always retribution.

PicturePhoto credit: Pomax (click for source)
So, when you casually dismiss Trump’s gloating over habitual sexual assault as “locker room banter,” it may be unwitting, but you are complicit in the problem.

When you detract from the horrific nature of not only his words but what it means he has done by changing the subject to someone else's wrongdoing, you may not even realize it, but you are complicit in the problem.

When you try to compare Trump’s words—about repeatedly touching women without their consent—to a fictional series about a woman involved in BDSM with her consent, you are complicit in the problem. My sexual assaults and harassment had one thing in common: I did not give my consent. I can and did choose not to read Fifty Shades of Grey. I did not have that choice when it came to assault. No one does.

And when someone seeking our country’s highest office can get away with these words, when you give him a pass, though you might never dream of doing so, you are telling me, my daughters and yours that our experience doesn’t matter, that our safety doesn’t matter, that our very humanity doesn’t matter.

I know that’s not what you said. You would never say that; of course you wouldn't. But for me and so many millions of other women who have suffered abuse, that’s what we heard.

Good men and women, for the love of God, please be willing to listen to others whose experiences don’t look like yours; please trust them when they tell you what it was like, even if it is hard for you to hear. I promise you, it’s harder for them to say. Please be willing to consider that your words may not be communicating the way you think they are.

I’m walking away from this week feeling bruised. For every prominent Christian leader or conservative who spoke boldly, there seemed to be many more people I actually know who made excuses or encouraged distractions. I’m choosing to unfollow people I like, for the sake of my heart. I’m choosing to post this, the bravest thing I’ve ever written, instead of participating in debates on Facebook. I’m choosing to remind my children—and especially my daughters—at every opportunity that they are the only bosses of their bodies and they alone can determine how and when and by whom they are touched. I am reminding them it is never, ever rude to tell someone to stop. And I am shifting my focus away from “no means no” and teaching my children—and especially my son—to respect the bodies and wishes of others and to look and ask for consent.

It wasn't my intention to make you feel bad, to call you out or to make you angry. I really don't care who you're voting for. I know your opinion of me may change after reading this. Though my husband holds my hand as I launch this into the world, admittedly, I am risking the humiliation of having my father, grandfather, brothers, uncles and friends read this. I am risking having former and potential future employers read this. I’m laying a lot on the line.

But I know who I am: I am loved, treasured, supported and whole. Any potential risk is worth it to me, because I know there are other women unable to share their stories, women who desperately need you to understand that words matter: his, mine and yours.

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Anniversary of Good-bye

10/6/2016

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Predawn this morning, somehow I knew. Even though I had never marked the date down, I opened my eyes and knew that today marked a year since your passing.

Later, without prompting, a text from your husband confirmed the same.

A whole year. And so much has changed.

Most importantly, you’re getting another grandson any day. You would have been over the moon; I know you would have cherished him exactly the way you always did his big brother.

Your devoted husband—what can I say? Surely you knew about his quiet strength. But did you expect him to fulfill those last wishes you said on a whim? Did you think he would brave that lonely journey to Hawaii to lay you to rest? Probably you knew he would have done anything for you. But did you think he would be able to find so much beauty there, tangled amidst all the memories and pain?

Did you expect him to carry on, following the same path you had always planned, but alone? I wish you could have seen him fixing up the house to sell, the way he cared so deeply about the people who would buy it, how he proudly showed them every detail, like how you carved your initials on the bottom of the first bath tub that was finally yours. I wish you could have seen the way your loss brought him closer to your children. How the neighborhood and family gathered around him before he left, to hug him and send him off with love.

You would be so proud of the way he has taken care of himself this year. Oh, I thought of you often as I fussed over him, making sure he had more to eat than just salad or microwaved burritos. As the weeks went by, he not only accepted help, but he even asked for it when he needed it. He did not allow himself too much time for retreat, but sought community and friendship and support. He began attending church and serving the people there faithfully.

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​But please don’t think he just moved on, no way. He has mourned for you; he has grieved you beautifully. Of course it wouldn’t surprise you to know he hasn't shied away from his tears. He hasn't let the fear of them hold him back from sharing memories of you, from wondering aloud about his future, from expressing how much he misses you. I’m sure you knew this deep in your bones, but you were his beloved. His sun rose and set with you, so naturally his world has been darker for your departure. But he has used this great loss to propel him to love, to kindness, to generosity and even to joy. I cried the day I first saw him taking a bike ride. He has taken his time relearning how to live his life, how to do things he enjoyed again despite his steady heartache, but he is learning again.
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Our kids still miss you. You were the first person they loved and lost. You’ve made them wonder about God and Heaven, and they talk about it—and you. They remember how kind you were to them; I remember how your face always lit up when you saw them. I will never forget the gift you gave me in the middle of a particularly hectic afternoon: a dish towel with the words “Pardon the mess, the children are making memories.” You were always quick to remind slow down and see the beauty of this stage of life, and your husband now does the same.

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The people on the other side of the fence—the ones who bought the home you made—are delightful. You would love them. She is smart and strong, he is funny and kind; they are lovely and generous and already endearing themselves to the neighborhood. They work hard to maintain your beds and rose bushes; I think it would make you happy. They have children nearly the same age as ours, who duck through the back gate you helped build, without having any idea the bittersweet joy it brings Daniel and me. There are Halloween decorations in your yard again; there is love and laughter in the house you poured yourself into; your friends in the neighborhood mention you often, and there is more tenderness here among us than there was before you left. And I don’t believe any of it is a coincidence.

So, a year after your passing, we prepare to spend time with your husband, whom we haven’t seen since he drove across the country four months ago. He comes to welcome your new grandchild. Of course his presence, though appreciated, could never make up for your absence. It is still felt deeply. I’m sure it will always be. I think of you as I put fresh flowers in your blue and white vases that now sit on my mantel. 

​The love of your life will join us around our kitchen table and in our living room; he will stay in our guest room that overlooks the yard and garden that used to be yours. Though you’ve been gone a year now, you have never left the minds and hearts of those you touched while you were here. Know that you are loved and sorely missed; know that your people are carrying on bravely and beautifully; know that we are profoundly grateful for having known you and for the gifts you left behind. ​

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Faithful through the Waves

10/1/2016

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I’m supposed to be camping with my family right now, in a little cabin on a sweet campground on the Eastern Shore that is already decked out for Halloween. But my littlest spiked a fever a couple nights ago and laid on the couch listlessly all day yesterday. We considered canceling the trip, but our girls had been looking forward to it, and we knew we couldn’t realistically reschedule it this month.

Hesitantly, expecting him to say no, I said, “Maybe you and the girls could still go.”

To my surprise, Daniel replied, “Yeah, I had considered that.”

So, I spent the day tending to Deacon and packing the rest of our family to leave once the girls returned from school. They hugged and kissed Deacon and me and chattered their way excitedly into the car. Last night, Daniel sent me pictures while I snuggled my fussy toddler and soothed him to sleep.

Lately I’ve been thinking about faithfulness. When I was younger, when we first got married and even before that, I had thought being faithful meant not cheating. Of course that’s part of it. But lately I’m struck by how much of being faithful is just planting your feet and staying put.

Last week, while I watched her in the mirror, my hairstylist told me how her ongoing renovation was coming along.

“It’s been stressful,” she admitted, and told me she and her husband had been fighting. I smiled at her and listened as the conversation reframed to marriage in general.

“Honestly,” I said, “for at least the first five years, I would panic during the down times. I’d think something was wrong with us, that we might not make it. Eventually I started to consider that maybe this is just the nature of things. You can’t live with someone for the better part of your life and not have those times. I knew to expect challenges, but no one ever told me about the boredom or the irritation, about the persistence needed to maintain a marriage.”

She stopped cutting and stared at me in the mirror.

“I’ve been married for five years,” she said, “no one ever told me that either.”

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“I just don’t like my husband sometimes,” I confessed. “Sometimes, the ways in which he’s so different from me just seem to block out all the things I love. But I’m learning I can’t trust those feelings. And in those times, I need to make sure I’m investing my energy back into our marriage and not outside of it, and that I just stick it out. Because for all those times, there are also the ones where I lie beside him at night and think I couldn’t possibly love anyone more. There’s truth to both the highs and the lows. One couldn’t exist without the other. So, I enjoy those high times and soak them in without letting myself believe they are meant to stay. I remind myself of them in the lows. And we just keep coming back.”

She waved her scissors as she talked, “I can’t tell you how much better you’re making me feel right now,” she said. “I thought something was wrong with us, that maybe we were going to get a divorce. But what you’re saying makes sense.”

These last couple weeks we’ve seen a lot of progress in one of our children, who has started therapy. But then we hit a few-day snag where things got harder and seemed to regress. Our girls have been emotional, one in tears, the other screaming, and I heard Daniel say to them, “You can’t trust your feelings right now.” I wondered if it seemed odd to them, given how much time we spend talking about recognizing, naming and talking about feelings, but I have to believe that’s true.

In the thick of my daughter’s rage, when she is swinging and spewing venom, my feelings are a liar.

When my other daughter is overtired and in need of attention, when she cries with a turn of the wind, my feelings are a liar.

When my son defiantly, deliberately scrapes his metal fork across my heirloom kitchen table, the one my grandfather gave me, my feelings are a liar.

And when my husband, overworked, stressed, losing sleep and seemingly never home long enough, chooses to relax in the home I have made instead of helping me with that moment’s task, my feelings are a liar.

Never have I known the truth of this more clearly than in this season. I find myself poured out, so many times over, throughout every day. Always thinking ahead of what everyone else will need, making lunches and coffee at night for the morning, muffins when I wake up, dinner in the middle of the day. Filling my blocks of time with tasks to fill drawers and cabinets, not to mention cleaning them, fill backpacks and lunchboxes, shape minds and fill hearts. And if I’m not careful, those feelings creep in like they did this week: There’s nothing that’s yours. No one even appreciates what you’re doing. You are no more than the sum of what you are able to do for others.

These thoughts are always a sign that something needs to adjust. This week hasn’t gone the way I intended. This day isn’t going the way I intended. I thought Deacon would wake up well and we’d head to the campground to surprise our family. And instead, Deacon and I found ourselves still in our jammies at 10:30, watching Sesame Street while he whined. He’s not well enough to go anywhere. And so we stay put.

 And, while I’m grateful to finally be in a stage of life where I have the flexibility to pivot when someone dear to me is in need, sometimes the lack of control over my own days wears on me.

So, earlier this week when Daniel said, “What do you mean you’re fine? Just fine?” and I heard those words creep out, I knew I needed to adjust.

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I watched him load the van yesterday, a weary smile on his face, disappointed and overwhelmed but acutely aware that this trip with his girls is an opportunity. I was so proud of him. He was being faithful.

Sometimes being faithful to my husband means sticking close to his side when I’d rather not. Kissing him when he walks in the door, when I don’t feel like it, going through the motions of loving him well until my heart catches up.

Sometimes being a good mother to my children looks much the same: using a measured tone and careful words when I’d rather yell, taking care to be gentle with their hearts and lavish attention on them when I’d rather hide in my room alone. It means missing the fun and memories of a family trip to snuggle a cranky, feverish boy back to health.

And being faithful to myself isn’t far off. Thursday I dragged myself to a yoga class, even though I would rather have used my time more productively. I changed out of my yoga gear and into real clothes before running errands, because I knew it would help me feel better. I put a cap on the amount of time I would spend doing housework during Deacon’s nap, even though it meant it all wouldn’t get done, knowing I’d be a more cheerful mother to his sisters and him if I did something for myself instead.


In the inevitable ebbs that come with marriage, parenting and life, I will choose to believe what I know over how I feel. I will choose to honor my commitments.

I will choose joy even when it feels far off. I will choose gratitude even when it is shrouded. I will choose faithfulness even when I don’t want to. I will remember that, of course, faithfulness is its own reward. Finding myself in love with my husband again and again, feeling my son’s head get heavy as he relaxes into sleep on my chest, watching my daughters’ eyes flicker as I settle in, fully present to hear about their days; none of this can happen if I’m not faithful, and all of these are pleasing to God, a blessing to others and healing to my soul in a way that hiding away or running could never be.

Let’s choose to keep showing up for the lives we have right now, for our people and for ourselves, even when we don’t feel like it—maybe especially when we don’t feel like it. Let’s be honest with the people around us about how hard that can be, because our courage to say that out loud helps us carry on and can make them brave too. Let’s plant our feet until the next wave comes.

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    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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