There was a great commercial a few years back for a company named EDS. Admittedly, I did not actually see this video until last week when I commented that I wondered if coaching my child's 4-year-old soccer team would feel like herding cats, in response to which my husband rushed to youtube to show me said commercial. Low and behold, a ridiculous and hilarious short video depicting cowboys trying to get a herd of cats to market. I laughed but assumed that probably I was not giving the 4-year-olds enough credit after all and went into our first practice with a good combination of enthusiasm, clearly structured plans and optimism.
Turns out that the enthusiasm was the only really useful tool. Within about 10 minutes of practice, flashes of the commercial were zipping through my brain. Instead of kids dribbling, mass group of children were chattering at the moon that had risen early. Instead of shooting drill, kids chasing birds. Instead of listening to my very well thought out explanations for drills, one boy interrupting to tell me that he liked the color of my soccer ball and one girl asking me (ironically) if cats were my favorite animal and another boy sharing that the Steelers were his favorite team and could we please, please, please name our soccer team after them? We tried to do a lap around the field with them following me- when I turned around there were 13 children in various states of disarray, some on the ground (I still don't know why), some who had surreptitiously grabbed their balls and were playing with them instead of jogging, some who did not understand the concept of following a leader in an oval and had to be chased down and brought back to the field and one kid playing with a stick. Right.
I've got a week to plan for practice number two and I'm trying to figure out how to reinsert some of the optimism and planning into the reality that is herding cats, especially cats of varying degrees of listening ability, personal spunk and soccer skills.
A few things I learned today:
One, 4-year-olds are super cute and they know it. They will use this against you.
Two, if you can make a high-five a part of every drill, do it. They love it.
Three, set the bar low and enjoy watching flocks of birds with them. It's not worth trying to get their attention back until they've flown on.
Four, parents of children this age will inevitably stay for the whole practice and watch your every move, occasionally chuckling. I don't know if they are laughing at me or the whole situation. Probably both.
Five, take myself less seriously. (OK, pretty much everything in life is trying to teach me this. Possibly someday I'll get it)
And six, herding cats might be insanely chaotic, but it was pretty fun chaos and I think I'll probably learn at least 6 lessons each week from these kids that'll make me a better parent and person in general.
Now, on to making some possibly less structured, realistically optimistic plans for week 2 as well as contemplating whether it would actually make sense to name our team "The Cats," as requested.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
No Girls Allowed
Many women can point back to situations in their lives when they weren't allowed to participate in something or when they were made to feel like their presence was a nuisance or comical. Many can point to gym class and remember being picked last or to that obnoxious guy who would tell everyone to move in closer when she was up at bat. Some can think to times when there were exclusive guy cliques in the neighborhood and they weren't welcome to play capture the flag or manhunt at night. Some can remember being subtly told their place was not in a math or theology class. I do have a lot of those memories myself. For the most part, though, as an adult I have been largely thankful to be in situations where I am treated in a way that embraces my gender and appreciates it, where I am approached simply as me and am rarely made to feel like my gender is some kind of liability.
Today, my sweet son and I had a wonderful day planned. We woke up, ate breakfast, watched Dinosaur Train (the brilliance of a show geared towards 4-year-old's that combines dinosaurs and locomotives astounds me daily) and then made the trek to Raleigh to check out the children's museum. It was about time. About an hour into our time, we ended up at the life-sized pirate ship. (Let's not even get started here on why we have glorified a trade that employed murderous brigands and why we then encourage our children to pretend to be them- that's a whole other blog post.) So, there he was, running around this ship, mostly just enjoying the fact that he was on a big boat when I heard it: "No Girls Allowed." Some little kid, I'd guess around 6 or 7, was fully dressed as a pirate and running up and down the deck screaming this phrase. And he wasn't laughing or even sort of sing-songing it. He was finding little girls on the ship and screaming it in their faces. He was actively trying to get other little boys to jump on board with his crusade. He was mean. I, and several other parents at this point, were obviously craning our necks to find a parent who might admit to siring this child and intervene, but to no avail. No parent stepped in, no teachable moment was grabbed.
Now, other parents will know that you take your life in your hands if you tell someone else's child to do anything, especially if you don't even know the kid. Seriously, it's amazing how parents will react if you even, God forbid, ask another kid to stop hitting your own child. So, most of us stood there helplessly, hoping that our own children wouldn't either be screamed at or pulled into this crazy's kid's pirating antics. Josh, who doesn't really care for kids who scream for no apparent reason, self-selected himself out of this situation and (after walking the plank) rejoined me on dry land. He didn't say anything and I'm not even sure he even knew what this kid was yelling. For me though, the phrase has rung in my head for the rest of the day.
"No girls allowed." Do I believe that there are perfectly appropriate situations in which men-only or women-only groups are relevant and helpful? Sure. But this brought back all those times when I was younger that I was either excluded or was the victim of an assumption based solely on my gender and, I have to tell you, I didn't like being reminded of the feeling. I largely feel like I've grown a lot in this area, that God has done a lot of healing. But the anger that this little kid brought up in me surprised me. Anger at whichever parent was not intervening (and most likely hiding) during this situation. Anger that this kid, at such a young age, could have such a clearly defined hostility and exclusive mentality based on gender. Frustrated that I was reminded, on a beautifully intimate day out with my son, that I have to always be on my guard (even at a childrens' museum) to help him understand that a lot of what he hears from people around him will NOT be reflective of the God who loves him and has created men and women beautifully in his image to live in non-competitive partnership with each other.
I sometimes forget how young it is that kids influence other kids. I have no idea what happened after that child went home today, whether or not his parents spoke to him about his behavior or how he responded if they did. I did crack up when, just before we walked away, a kid who was probably about a year older than the yeller walked up to him, looked down his nose and asked him, rather incredulously, how old he was. Clearly, the kids on the boat who were aware of what was going on were also less than impressed with the situation. Even though I was frustrated at this surprising interruption in my day, it was probably a good reminder about intentionality. My son is going to hear a lot - that's inevitable- but what is he going to hear first at home? What kinds of things are we saying about gender and race and class that are going to prepare him to be a young man with a voice for justice when he grows up? Five years from now, will he be the kind of child that will intervene and speak truth into a situation like this? I hope so, but I can't know.
What I do know is this- he certainly won't be posting any "No Girls Allowed" signs on his clubhouse. Not on our watch, anyway.
Today, my sweet son and I had a wonderful day planned. We woke up, ate breakfast, watched Dinosaur Train (the brilliance of a show geared towards 4-year-old's that combines dinosaurs and locomotives astounds me daily) and then made the trek to Raleigh to check out the children's museum. It was about time. About an hour into our time, we ended up at the life-sized pirate ship. (Let's not even get started here on why we have glorified a trade that employed murderous brigands and why we then encourage our children to pretend to be them- that's a whole other blog post.) So, there he was, running around this ship, mostly just enjoying the fact that he was on a big boat when I heard it: "No Girls Allowed." Some little kid, I'd guess around 6 or 7, was fully dressed as a pirate and running up and down the deck screaming this phrase. And he wasn't laughing or even sort of sing-songing it. He was finding little girls on the ship and screaming it in their faces. He was actively trying to get other little boys to jump on board with his crusade. He was mean. I, and several other parents at this point, were obviously craning our necks to find a parent who might admit to siring this child and intervene, but to no avail. No parent stepped in, no teachable moment was grabbed.
Now, other parents will know that you take your life in your hands if you tell someone else's child to do anything, especially if you don't even know the kid. Seriously, it's amazing how parents will react if you even, God forbid, ask another kid to stop hitting your own child. So, most of us stood there helplessly, hoping that our own children wouldn't either be screamed at or pulled into this crazy's kid's pirating antics. Josh, who doesn't really care for kids who scream for no apparent reason, self-selected himself out of this situation and (after walking the plank) rejoined me on dry land. He didn't say anything and I'm not even sure he even knew what this kid was yelling. For me though, the phrase has rung in my head for the rest of the day.
"No girls allowed." Do I believe that there are perfectly appropriate situations in which men-only or women-only groups are relevant and helpful? Sure. But this brought back all those times when I was younger that I was either excluded or was the victim of an assumption based solely on my gender and, I have to tell you, I didn't like being reminded of the feeling. I largely feel like I've grown a lot in this area, that God has done a lot of healing. But the anger that this little kid brought up in me surprised me. Anger at whichever parent was not intervening (and most likely hiding) during this situation. Anger that this kid, at such a young age, could have such a clearly defined hostility and exclusive mentality based on gender. Frustrated that I was reminded, on a beautifully intimate day out with my son, that I have to always be on my guard (even at a childrens' museum) to help him understand that a lot of what he hears from people around him will NOT be reflective of the God who loves him and has created men and women beautifully in his image to live in non-competitive partnership with each other.
I sometimes forget how young it is that kids influence other kids. I have no idea what happened after that child went home today, whether or not his parents spoke to him about his behavior or how he responded if they did. I did crack up when, just before we walked away, a kid who was probably about a year older than the yeller walked up to him, looked down his nose and asked him, rather incredulously, how old he was. Clearly, the kids on the boat who were aware of what was going on were also less than impressed with the situation. Even though I was frustrated at this surprising interruption in my day, it was probably a good reminder about intentionality. My son is going to hear a lot - that's inevitable- but what is he going to hear first at home? What kinds of things are we saying about gender and race and class that are going to prepare him to be a young man with a voice for justice when he grows up? Five years from now, will he be the kind of child that will intervene and speak truth into a situation like this? I hope so, but I can't know.
What I do know is this- he certainly won't be posting any "No Girls Allowed" signs on his clubhouse. Not on our watch, anyway.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Signs of Life
As winter lingers on here in North Carolina, I've really started to miss my old office at the University of Richmond. Not because it was warm and cozy- in fact, my officemate can testify to how closely she hovered to our extra space heater on the coldest of days. No, the thing I miss is the walk from my car to the door right around this time of year. It was the first place in all of Richmond where I'd get a reminder that no matter how tired you are of the winter dreariness and icy rain, that spring is indeed coming. You see, right around the beginning and middle of February, those first little crocuses would pop out of the ground, sometimes even blooming through a snowfall. Purple, yellow, white- little buds of life that provided just the boost I needed to get through that last month of cloudy days and frigid nights.
This year, in the midst of a winter that has felt a little more blustery than usual, I'm longing for those crocuses. I'm longing for what follows them, for months of digging deep in the mud, coaxing forth life from the earth, enjoying the aesthetic bounty of blooms from bulbs planted last fall and waiting eagerly to be able to plant the vegetables that will feed my family and friends this summer.
While waiting for this elusive spring, each week on campus this semester I've been taking a prayer walk. Mostly, God has been leading me to pray for the racial situation on the campus I'm on. Hundreds of years of racial tension, much of which has never been dealt with, have culminated in what feels like a largely apathetic student body when it comes to this issue. I wonder how many students are actively thinking about the issues of race and multiethnicity in the church or exploring their own racial identity? I know that when I got to college, I certainly wasn't thinking about these things. No one had ever asked me about it and I'd had almost no experiences in my life that caused me to question my own understanding of racial identity. I was "privileged" to grow up without even having to engage the questions. I'm glad that changed in college and beyond and that these issues have become such a big part of my journey with God. As I've been walking this campus I've been wondering what it is that God is up to and hoping for encounters with students who want to engage it.
As I was walking the campus earlier today, I felt drawn over to the botanical gardens on campus. It is no small thing to be working on a campus where I can detour to any meeting through a beautiful garden, possibly even dancing Sound-of-Music style through the arboretum tunnel, which I'm almost always tempted to do. But as I walked around and was praying for this campus that God has placed me on, I began to be aware of little signs of life in the flora around me. A small forsythia bud here, a daffodil spear there and even a number of small pink blossoms on a cherry tree. God reminded me right then that no matter what I don't see happening on campus, that He is always at work under the soil and that there are always these little signs of life to behold. Immediately my prayers turned to ones of thankfulness- for the conversations that I have had with students, for the privilege of being a staff on a racially diverse campus, for the multiethnicity life group that's having these conversations on a weekly basis, for the opportunities my students have to interact with these questions in their classes and for the myriad other prayers being prayed over this campus by people who are grateful for God's work and excited for what He has for the future here.
It's amazing how even the tiniest glimpse of color can change your whole perspective on the day. What was a frustrated cry to see change quickly became a humbling reminder of God's power. If the scrawniest pink bloom can force it's way out in the dead of winter, I am reminded that, with God, anything can happen.
This year, in the midst of a winter that has felt a little more blustery than usual, I'm longing for those crocuses. I'm longing for what follows them, for months of digging deep in the mud, coaxing forth life from the earth, enjoying the aesthetic bounty of blooms from bulbs planted last fall and waiting eagerly to be able to plant the vegetables that will feed my family and friends this summer.
While waiting for this elusive spring, each week on campus this semester I've been taking a prayer walk. Mostly, God has been leading me to pray for the racial situation on the campus I'm on. Hundreds of years of racial tension, much of which has never been dealt with, have culminated in what feels like a largely apathetic student body when it comes to this issue. I wonder how many students are actively thinking about the issues of race and multiethnicity in the church or exploring their own racial identity? I know that when I got to college, I certainly wasn't thinking about these things. No one had ever asked me about it and I'd had almost no experiences in my life that caused me to question my own understanding of racial identity. I was "privileged" to grow up without even having to engage the questions. I'm glad that changed in college and beyond and that these issues have become such a big part of my journey with God. As I've been walking this campus I've been wondering what it is that God is up to and hoping for encounters with students who want to engage it.
As I was walking the campus earlier today, I felt drawn over to the botanical gardens on campus. It is no small thing to be working on a campus where I can detour to any meeting through a beautiful garden, possibly even dancing Sound-of-Music style through the arboretum tunnel, which I'm almost always tempted to do. But as I walked around and was praying for this campus that God has placed me on, I began to be aware of little signs of life in the flora around me. A small forsythia bud here, a daffodil spear there and even a number of small pink blossoms on a cherry tree. God reminded me right then that no matter what I don't see happening on campus, that He is always at work under the soil and that there are always these little signs of life to behold. Immediately my prayers turned to ones of thankfulness- for the conversations that I have had with students, for the privilege of being a staff on a racially diverse campus, for the multiethnicity life group that's having these conversations on a weekly basis, for the opportunities my students have to interact with these questions in their classes and for the myriad other prayers being prayed over this campus by people who are grateful for God's work and excited for what He has for the future here.
It's amazing how even the tiniest glimpse of color can change your whole perspective on the day. What was a frustrated cry to see change quickly became a humbling reminder of God's power. If the scrawniest pink bloom can force it's way out in the dead of winter, I am reminded that, with God, anything can happen.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Killer Bunnies
Several years ago, my husband and I learned a game called Settlers of Catan. We were running with a group of friends who were, I'll say it, totally obsessed with this game and so we learned it quickly and played it often, even descending to new realms of nerdiness and taking part in a tournament. I'm not gonna lie, it was a total blast.
Now, my husband and I both really like to win games, not just play them. We're both competitive. So, with the increase in game playing came the increase in potential for conflict. And, you guessed it, it happened. After several games that left us barely speaking to each other, we decided we needed to do one of two things. One, stop playing games altogether, which would've seriously changed how we spent our time with a lot of our friends or two, find some way to be competitive and still speak to each other by the end of the night. We went for option number two and settled on prayer as the way. Seriously. Before we'd go to a game night or have people over, we'd just spend a few minutes focusing on what was important and making sure our marriage was a bigger deal than who got to 10 points first. For the most part, it worked.
A few weekends ago our good friends came over to play games. This is nothing new. Much of our social life, especially post four-year-old bedtime social life, involves these friends walking across the street to hang out with us. Our repertoire is no longer limited to Settlers and these friends are always learning new games and teaching us. That night they brought with them a game called Killer Bunnies. This is a card game that basically takes zero skill, lots of vindictiveness and random luck to win.
When I found myself stuck for a half hour without any ability to make a move, I got pretty frustrated. Bored. Annoyed at the game. When finally, after this frustrated, bored and annoyed waiting, I was able to make a move, my husband promptly killed my bunny and sent me back to the land of waiting. Though I'm not proud to admit it, I threw my cards at him. I did. I was so angry. So mad at his stupid killer bunny. So unimpressed with a game that so totally pushed every kind of organized and controlled button in my personality. Needless to say, the night's tone changed. Maybe some men would enjoy their wives throwing their cards at them, but mine didn't. I know he loves me for my passion, but I'm pretty sure, at that moment, he wasn't thinking how dear that particular personality trait was to him.
After our friends left, we stayed up talking for awhile. I apologized, we hashed it out, I reflected on the fact that this was probably NOT a great game for us to attempt to play together given my personality and we realized that at some point we had stopped praying together before our game nights. Maybe we got too cocky- after all, it had been years since we had had a big blowout rooted in some game changing angst. At any rate, we came to the conclusion that maybe it was time to bring back our pre-game.
It's funny how even silly things like a game where crazy bunnies kill each other can make you see how foul your heart can be. I couldn't stand to be helpless, to watch each turn pass me by because I was just unlucky at drawing the right card. And I couldn't stand to lose the tiny little ground that I had gained to what I perceived as a heartless move by my spouse. After I threw those cards, though, I realized (not without the help of those at the table) that you just have to let it go. To go into the game knowing that you have no control, that the game is all chance and just ride it out, hopefully killing other peoples bunnies in the process. Sounds a little like life: Not the chance part or killing other people's bunnies part, but the part about going into it knowing you really have no control and just riding it out. I come back to this again and again. Waiting is hard, not knowing outcomes is difficult and risky and frustrating. Not having control over life can put me at my most fearful, but giving into those feelings of frustration and fear usually only brings out the worst of my heart, only makes me hurt the people around me more easily because I become so self-focused.
The riding it out part can only happen when I'm trusting. Trusting not in a possible win but in a God much bigger than myself and thinking of the ride as something not just to be endured but to be experienced and embraced and, yes, often enjoyed, even when I don't know what will happen next.
And I can comfort myself with the fact that in life I can, at the very least, be sure that I'm unlikely to be attacked by any killer bunnies anytime soon.
Now, my husband and I both really like to win games, not just play them. We're both competitive. So, with the increase in game playing came the increase in potential for conflict. And, you guessed it, it happened. After several games that left us barely speaking to each other, we decided we needed to do one of two things. One, stop playing games altogether, which would've seriously changed how we spent our time with a lot of our friends or two, find some way to be competitive and still speak to each other by the end of the night. We went for option number two and settled on prayer as the way. Seriously. Before we'd go to a game night or have people over, we'd just spend a few minutes focusing on what was important and making sure our marriage was a bigger deal than who got to 10 points first. For the most part, it worked.
A few weekends ago our good friends came over to play games. This is nothing new. Much of our social life, especially post four-year-old bedtime social life, involves these friends walking across the street to hang out with us. Our repertoire is no longer limited to Settlers and these friends are always learning new games and teaching us. That night they brought with them a game called Killer Bunnies. This is a card game that basically takes zero skill, lots of vindictiveness and random luck to win.
When I found myself stuck for a half hour without any ability to make a move, I got pretty frustrated. Bored. Annoyed at the game. When finally, after this frustrated, bored and annoyed waiting, I was able to make a move, my husband promptly killed my bunny and sent me back to the land of waiting. Though I'm not proud to admit it, I threw my cards at him. I did. I was so angry. So mad at his stupid killer bunny. So unimpressed with a game that so totally pushed every kind of organized and controlled button in my personality. Needless to say, the night's tone changed. Maybe some men would enjoy their wives throwing their cards at them, but mine didn't. I know he loves me for my passion, but I'm pretty sure, at that moment, he wasn't thinking how dear that particular personality trait was to him.
After our friends left, we stayed up talking for awhile. I apologized, we hashed it out, I reflected on the fact that this was probably NOT a great game for us to attempt to play together given my personality and we realized that at some point we had stopped praying together before our game nights. Maybe we got too cocky- after all, it had been years since we had had a big blowout rooted in some game changing angst. At any rate, we came to the conclusion that maybe it was time to bring back our pre-game.
It's funny how even silly things like a game where crazy bunnies kill each other can make you see how foul your heart can be. I couldn't stand to be helpless, to watch each turn pass me by because I was just unlucky at drawing the right card. And I couldn't stand to lose the tiny little ground that I had gained to what I perceived as a heartless move by my spouse. After I threw those cards, though, I realized (not without the help of those at the table) that you just have to let it go. To go into the game knowing that you have no control, that the game is all chance and just ride it out, hopefully killing other peoples bunnies in the process. Sounds a little like life: Not the chance part or killing other people's bunnies part, but the part about going into it knowing you really have no control and just riding it out. I come back to this again and again. Waiting is hard, not knowing outcomes is difficult and risky and frustrating. Not having control over life can put me at my most fearful, but giving into those feelings of frustration and fear usually only brings out the worst of my heart, only makes me hurt the people around me more easily because I become so self-focused.
The riding it out part can only happen when I'm trusting. Trusting not in a possible win but in a God much bigger than myself and thinking of the ride as something not just to be endured but to be experienced and embraced and, yes, often enjoyed, even when I don't know what will happen next.
And I can comfort myself with the fact that in life I can, at the very least, be sure that I'm unlikely to be attacked by any killer bunnies anytime soon.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Adventures in Acupuncture
Sometime early last spring my NP suggested acupuncture as a possible way to work with my infertility. I thought about it for, oh, about 3 seconds and decided it wasn't the route for me. I'm not afraid of needles or anything; in fact I was the masochistic kid in high school who liked to go to the blood drive and watch them stick me and see my lifeblood drain out. No, it was more a distinct uneasiness that, I'm sure, was born totally from ignorance. I had no idea what it really was nor was I sure I was comfortable with whatever spiritual underpinnings might be connected.
Fast forward to November of this year. After an enthusiastic foray into the booming business world of infertility medicine and an equally spectacular and decisive failure, I found myself at one of the lowest points I've been on this journey. Ironically, it seems that the drugs we tried didn't work because my body responded TOO well to them. Thanks, body. Thanks. So, I began to sort through the options: stop trying altogether, begin again the route to adoption (which I still had no real leading on nor confidence that this time around an agency would deem us financially viable), stop thinking about the whole thing altogether and just see what happens or check out this whole acupuncture route. I didn't feel ready for the first, the second still made me uneasy and the third is just absolutely not conducive to my personality. So.
As I think back, I was looking for some kind of confirmation, some way of knowing that this route (Eastern medicine) was no less confusing to my faith than any other. And as I was still abysmally ignorant about the whole process I hadn't made a decision by the time I made it to a staff event. One of the first conversations I had there was with a friend who approached me and said, "Hey, I've been praying and thinking about you a lot. Have you thought at all about acupuncture? A friend of mine just tried it and it worked!" Well.
The afternoon I arrived home I made the call and scheduled my first appointment for just a few days before Christmas. Because school was out, I had to bring my child with me. I figured that would be the least helpful thing in the world, envisioning all sorts of chaos involving him panicking because I had 50 needles sticking out of various parts of my body. However, these people are no amateurs. Within 3 minutes of walking in, he was happily surrounded by roughly 1000 lego pieces, creating away, perfectly oblivious to any adult conversations happening around him. One hour later, I walked out with a new dietary plan and a deliciously relaxed body.
I've been back twice now and each time I have fallen asleep during the procedure. It's true what I heard - the needles don't really hurt and the whole thing just puts your body into this totally warm and peaceful state, sort of like the way you feel after a bath but without all the rigamarole of drying your hair and cleaning the bathroom. I haven't had any awkward conversations that have left my faith reeling or even felt the least bit uncomfortable. The interesting thing is that this way of doing medicine actually makes a lot of sense in view of a faith that thinks the mind, body and soul are all deeply connected. It's not just treating a symptom or even one body part, but it takes a holistic look at how your body is functioning overall. So, while my forays into fertility medicine kept our focus just on one area of my physical body, this has been looking at my blood pressure, anemia, diet, exercise, stress, home life, etc. The changes I've made to my diet are good for my whole body, not just tricks to make it more conducive to a pregnancy. A friend of mine had recently prayed that I wouldn't be angry with my body and the way I think it's let me down over the past two years- interestingly enough, this process of really looking at the whole picture and prayerfully submitting the process to God has given me a new appreciation for my body and the ability for the first time in two years to be truly thankful for this body I've been given.
Ok, I'll admit there are still times that I'm skeptical, not the least of which are when I find myself twice a day imbibing the worst tasting concoction of herbs ever conceived, closely followed by a slimy dose of fish oil. "Really?," I think. "Is this actually necessary?" In those moments, which are often softened by the giggles issued from my four year old who enjoys watching the contorted grimaces my face makes when swallowing, I just have to trust that this is yet another step on this confusing journey, one that may or may not end up with the outcome I'm hoping for, but one that God is ultimately using to continue to draw me closer to him.
Fast forward to November of this year. After an enthusiastic foray into the booming business world of infertility medicine and an equally spectacular and decisive failure, I found myself at one of the lowest points I've been on this journey. Ironically, it seems that the drugs we tried didn't work because my body responded TOO well to them. Thanks, body. Thanks. So, I began to sort through the options: stop trying altogether, begin again the route to adoption (which I still had no real leading on nor confidence that this time around an agency would deem us financially viable), stop thinking about the whole thing altogether and just see what happens or check out this whole acupuncture route. I didn't feel ready for the first, the second still made me uneasy and the third is just absolutely not conducive to my personality. So.
As I think back, I was looking for some kind of confirmation, some way of knowing that this route (Eastern medicine) was no less confusing to my faith than any other. And as I was still abysmally ignorant about the whole process I hadn't made a decision by the time I made it to a staff event. One of the first conversations I had there was with a friend who approached me and said, "Hey, I've been praying and thinking about you a lot. Have you thought at all about acupuncture? A friend of mine just tried it and it worked!" Well.
The afternoon I arrived home I made the call and scheduled my first appointment for just a few days before Christmas. Because school was out, I had to bring my child with me. I figured that would be the least helpful thing in the world, envisioning all sorts of chaos involving him panicking because I had 50 needles sticking out of various parts of my body. However, these people are no amateurs. Within 3 minutes of walking in, he was happily surrounded by roughly 1000 lego pieces, creating away, perfectly oblivious to any adult conversations happening around him. One hour later, I walked out with a new dietary plan and a deliciously relaxed body.
I've been back twice now and each time I have fallen asleep during the procedure. It's true what I heard - the needles don't really hurt and the whole thing just puts your body into this totally warm and peaceful state, sort of like the way you feel after a bath but without all the rigamarole of drying your hair and cleaning the bathroom. I haven't had any awkward conversations that have left my faith reeling or even felt the least bit uncomfortable. The interesting thing is that this way of doing medicine actually makes a lot of sense in view of a faith that thinks the mind, body and soul are all deeply connected. It's not just treating a symptom or even one body part, but it takes a holistic look at how your body is functioning overall. So, while my forays into fertility medicine kept our focus just on one area of my physical body, this has been looking at my blood pressure, anemia, diet, exercise, stress, home life, etc. The changes I've made to my diet are good for my whole body, not just tricks to make it more conducive to a pregnancy. A friend of mine had recently prayed that I wouldn't be angry with my body and the way I think it's let me down over the past two years- interestingly enough, this process of really looking at the whole picture and prayerfully submitting the process to God has given me a new appreciation for my body and the ability for the first time in two years to be truly thankful for this body I've been given.
Ok, I'll admit there are still times that I'm skeptical, not the least of which are when I find myself twice a day imbibing the worst tasting concoction of herbs ever conceived, closely followed by a slimy dose of fish oil. "Really?," I think. "Is this actually necessary?" In those moments, which are often softened by the giggles issued from my four year old who enjoys watching the contorted grimaces my face makes when swallowing, I just have to trust that this is yet another step on this confusing journey, one that may or may not end up with the outcome I'm hoping for, but one that God is ultimately using to continue to draw me closer to him.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Something Worth Celebrating
This past October I spent a lot of time on the internet trying to track down good songs from the early 1950's. My granny, a self-professed lover of Madame Butterfly and Frank Sinatra, was about to be surprised along with my gramps with a surprise 60th anniversary bash. Cousins flying in from around the country, lots of good food and a slideshow to commemorate it all. A slideshow that needed songs they'd actually recognize.
So, with songs like "Too Marvelous", "Harbor Lights" and "When You're Smiling" ringing through my head, my family made the 12 hour drive through the boondocks of southeastern America to get to St. Petersburg, FL. Once there, we spent hours upon hours at the beach and pool, reminiscing about old family trips to the Cape, our favorite memories of growing up with Granny and Gramps and begging them to tell us stories maybe we used to be too young to know. As it stands now, the youngest cousin is in grad school, so I think we all pretty much count ourselves as adults, at least on our good days. We deserve the messy stories now.
I can safely say it was the first time I've ever even come close to hearing my grandparents reference any kind of sex life or even admitting that having 3 kids under 4 years-old might've been a tad insane. My granny spoke about the time that my gramps was off to war and she was raising a child alone, unsure of whether he'd even meet that child(my mom). They talked of good times too, of remembering when each of us was born and the things we did in our teens that were so incredibly foreign to their own experiences. (These stories mostly related to any and all music we'd play around them, not the least of which was my brother's foray into angry German rock. My gramps had a LOT to say about that at the time, as I recall.)
My family isn't perfect. We have a lot of craziness that goes on, as much dysfunction as the next family. But my grandparents have stuck together for 60 years. Sixty unperfect but committed years. I couldn't help but compare my meager 7 1/2 to that number and hope that in about 53 years, my own grandkids will have something to celebrate, some crazy chance to hear insane stories about what dating was like in the early 2000's (which to them will likely sound like the stone age) and the fact that I didn't even own a cell phone and had to use calling cards to talk to my fiance when we were engaged long distance. The movies we watched and the songs we danced to will be long forgotten classics to them. But I imagine, just like it was for my grandparents in October, that those memories will not be as distant for us. That our wedding song will be just as special, that we'll easily remember the birth of our son and every detail of any subsequent births of our (hopefully) grandkids. That, though we won't have led a perfect life without suffering or had a flawless marriage (who could?) that we'll have stuck it out and learned more about God, each other and ourselves than we ever would have had we never made the commitment to each other in the first place.
60 years is no joke. As that slideshow played through pictures of their dating and wedding day, he handsome in his uniform, she gorgeous in a late 40's style dress...as Frank sang about the world smiling and pictures of my aunt and uncle and mother flashed across the screen on family vacations, I was so deeply thankful. Thankful that I was a part of this family, that I could be a part of something so worth celebrating. That I could see before me not a perfect couple, but a couple who has yelled at each other, been frustrated and laughed more times than they could count...a couple who has suffered, who parented well and parented poorly, who have lost many friends and family to disease and old age and who have done all this and more together for more than 60 years. Who I'm sure have been tempted to give up more than once. I am so deeply thankful that they didn't.
The joy of my grandparents at this celebration was infectious, their clear love for each other and us was overwhelming- it felt like it must've been obvious to everyone around us. It may sound trite, but I think at least in this one instance, Frank was right.
"When you're smiling, when you're smiling, the whole world smiles with you."
So, with songs like "Too Marvelous", "Harbor Lights" and "When You're Smiling" ringing through my head, my family made the 12 hour drive through the boondocks of southeastern America to get to St. Petersburg, FL. Once there, we spent hours upon hours at the beach and pool, reminiscing about old family trips to the Cape, our favorite memories of growing up with Granny and Gramps and begging them to tell us stories maybe we used to be too young to know. As it stands now, the youngest cousin is in grad school, so I think we all pretty much count ourselves as adults, at least on our good days. We deserve the messy stories now.
I can safely say it was the first time I've ever even come close to hearing my grandparents reference any kind of sex life or even admitting that having 3 kids under 4 years-old might've been a tad insane. My granny spoke about the time that my gramps was off to war and she was raising a child alone, unsure of whether he'd even meet that child(my mom). They talked of good times too, of remembering when each of us was born and the things we did in our teens that were so incredibly foreign to their own experiences. (These stories mostly related to any and all music we'd play around them, not the least of which was my brother's foray into angry German rock. My gramps had a LOT to say about that at the time, as I recall.)
My family isn't perfect. We have a lot of craziness that goes on, as much dysfunction as the next family. But my grandparents have stuck together for 60 years. Sixty unperfect but committed years. I couldn't help but compare my meager 7 1/2 to that number and hope that in about 53 years, my own grandkids will have something to celebrate, some crazy chance to hear insane stories about what dating was like in the early 2000's (which to them will likely sound like the stone age) and the fact that I didn't even own a cell phone and had to use calling cards to talk to my fiance when we were engaged long distance. The movies we watched and the songs we danced to will be long forgotten classics to them. But I imagine, just like it was for my grandparents in October, that those memories will not be as distant for us. That our wedding song will be just as special, that we'll easily remember the birth of our son and every detail of any subsequent births of our (hopefully) grandkids. That, though we won't have led a perfect life without suffering or had a flawless marriage (who could?) that we'll have stuck it out and learned more about God, each other and ourselves than we ever would have had we never made the commitment to each other in the first place.
 |
| G and G on their wedding day- December 22, 1950 |
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| G & G on the night of their anniversary party, October 2010 |
The joy of my grandparents at this celebration was infectious, their clear love for each other and us was overwhelming- it felt like it must've been obvious to everyone around us. It may sound trite, but I think at least in this one instance, Frank was right.
"When you're smiling, when you're smiling, the whole world smiles with you."
Monday, December 6, 2010
Chocolate Calendars and Being Enlarged
Growing up, my only real understanding of the word Advent was undeniably linked to chocolate. Each year, around Thanksgiving, we'd get one of those little cardboard calendars with all the windows in it. And then, each morning from then until Christmas, we'd get to open up one little window and start the day with a piece of, to be quite honest, pretty terrible tasting chocolate. Even though this was not a gourmet experience, I looked forward to it each year. When would we start the advent calendar? When would my door be adorned with a hanging festival of treats destined to rot my teeth and create nervous sugary energy for my first class of the day?
One of the great things about going away to college and getting involved in faith communities of people with varying backgrounds is that you begin to learn about other traditions. Meeting and living life with so many people of various backgrounds in the past 14 years has shown me that there's so much more to Advent, even beyond all the quirky family traditions out there. My church didn't talk much about this current season- sure, we did it up for Christmas Eve, singing all the carols and rejoicing in the Christmas story, but I had no real idea that the season before that glorious night had any real purpose to it.
As a perk to my job I receive a box of books every other month. These are usually new releases from InterVarsity Press- I think the ideas is that as campus ministers we're the best way of getting the word out on a hot new book. So, I'm supposed to read these and then pass them along. Admittedly, I rarely open these books. Maybe I'll read the back cover and possibly glance at the introduction. To be honest, I already have so many books on my shelves crying out to be read that these books usually find a place beside those, to be read at some distant time. Last year, however, I remember opening up that box and seeing this book called Living the Christian Year. At the time, I was on sabbatical and navigating church hunting and trying to be open to a more liturgical and traditional way of understanding the Christian life. So, after reading the back and glancing through the intro I decided to commit to it. Ironically, though, as the chaos of pre-Christmas life took over, the book ended up back on my shelf.
This year, however, as the beginning of Advent coincided with some deep disappointments and setbacks, I ran back to that shelf and vowed that I would, finally, figure out what this Advent thing is all about. No poor-tasting chocolate substitutes, but the real thing. And I have been so met in the searching. Kathleen Norris, who is quoted in the book, says "I've learned how much the Advent season holds, how it breaks into our lives with images of light and dark, first and last things, watchfulness and longing, origin and destiny." And as I've read through this book and sat in the scriptures that are meant to frame this season, I have felt a deep mystery about it for the very first time. A deep longing and expectation, not that God will answer my own selfish prayers, but just that I would know the Christ child. That I would expect God's movement in our world. That I would desire more than what my own eyes can see and my own dreams can hope for.
The main idea that the author sits in for the season of Advent is the idea that we are enlarged by waiting. That through restraint, quiet, retreat, fasting and rich tradition, our own souls become so filled with longing for God that they are literally grown during this time. He asks some great questions. "How can we experience Christ coming anew into our already full lives? How can we be absorbed in hope when we are so harried? How can our lives be enlarged in so brief a time?"
Ultimately, he answers these questions with the following quote from Lucy Shaw.
During the waiting times God is vibrantly at work within us.And if through the Spirit of God we have been united with the Father in dynamic relationship, if God has sown his gospel seed in us, then Jesus is being formed within us, little by little, day by day. But we have to wait if the Word is to become flesh in us. And that kind of waiting feels like work."
If you're like me, waiting feels totally counterproductive. Who am I to sit back on my heels and wait for something to happen when there are roughly 2 trillion things to be thinking about and accomplishing at any given moment. Shouldn't I be able to DO something here? Can't someone write a book about advent with three neat little steps to help me accomplish this enlarging work of my soul?
But that's just it- the ringing answer is no. Probably someone has actually written a book that will tell me exactly what to do, but I'm pretty sure I shouldn't read it. I'm pretty sure that really the only thing I'm supposed to do is step back and wait. Trust that the living and active God is deeply at work in my soul, stretching it and filling it with deep expectation for only Him.
This is not easy or passive work but surely this is better work than the enlarging that a chocolate calendar would likely accomplish at this point in my life! My prayer is that, rather than consume a piece of bland chocolate each morning, God would slow me down before the day even starts. That the racing mind that I awake to each day would be stilled in the early morning light so that my day might not reflect our cultural obsession with busyness and consumerism this time of year, but that it would undeniably point to the Christ that I am waiting for.
One of the great things about going away to college and getting involved in faith communities of people with varying backgrounds is that you begin to learn about other traditions. Meeting and living life with so many people of various backgrounds in the past 14 years has shown me that there's so much more to Advent, even beyond all the quirky family traditions out there. My church didn't talk much about this current season- sure, we did it up for Christmas Eve, singing all the carols and rejoicing in the Christmas story, but I had no real idea that the season before that glorious night had any real purpose to it.
As a perk to my job I receive a box of books every other month. These are usually new releases from InterVarsity Press- I think the ideas is that as campus ministers we're the best way of getting the word out on a hot new book. So, I'm supposed to read these and then pass them along. Admittedly, I rarely open these books. Maybe I'll read the back cover and possibly glance at the introduction. To be honest, I already have so many books on my shelves crying out to be read that these books usually find a place beside those, to be read at some distant time. Last year, however, I remember opening up that box and seeing this book called Living the Christian Year. At the time, I was on sabbatical and navigating church hunting and trying to be open to a more liturgical and traditional way of understanding the Christian life. So, after reading the back and glancing through the intro I decided to commit to it. Ironically, though, as the chaos of pre-Christmas life took over, the book ended up back on my shelf.
This year, however, as the beginning of Advent coincided with some deep disappointments and setbacks, I ran back to that shelf and vowed that I would, finally, figure out what this Advent thing is all about. No poor-tasting chocolate substitutes, but the real thing. And I have been so met in the searching. Kathleen Norris, who is quoted in the book, says "I've learned how much the Advent season holds, how it breaks into our lives with images of light and dark, first and last things, watchfulness and longing, origin and destiny." And as I've read through this book and sat in the scriptures that are meant to frame this season, I have felt a deep mystery about it for the very first time. A deep longing and expectation, not that God will answer my own selfish prayers, but just that I would know the Christ child. That I would expect God's movement in our world. That I would desire more than what my own eyes can see and my own dreams can hope for.
The main idea that the author sits in for the season of Advent is the idea that we are enlarged by waiting. That through restraint, quiet, retreat, fasting and rich tradition, our own souls become so filled with longing for God that they are literally grown during this time. He asks some great questions. "How can we experience Christ coming anew into our already full lives? How can we be absorbed in hope when we are so harried? How can our lives be enlarged in so brief a time?"
Ultimately, he answers these questions with the following quote from Lucy Shaw.
During the waiting times God is vibrantly at work within us.And if through the Spirit of God we have been united with the Father in dynamic relationship, if God has sown his gospel seed in us, then Jesus is being formed within us, little by little, day by day. But we have to wait if the Word is to become flesh in us. And that kind of waiting feels like work."
If you're like me, waiting feels totally counterproductive. Who am I to sit back on my heels and wait for something to happen when there are roughly 2 trillion things to be thinking about and accomplishing at any given moment. Shouldn't I be able to DO something here? Can't someone write a book about advent with three neat little steps to help me accomplish this enlarging work of my soul?
But that's just it- the ringing answer is no. Probably someone has actually written a book that will tell me exactly what to do, but I'm pretty sure I shouldn't read it. I'm pretty sure that really the only thing I'm supposed to do is step back and wait. Trust that the living and active God is deeply at work in my soul, stretching it and filling it with deep expectation for only Him.
This is not easy or passive work but surely this is better work than the enlarging that a chocolate calendar would likely accomplish at this point in my life! My prayer is that, rather than consume a piece of bland chocolate each morning, God would slow me down before the day even starts. That the racing mind that I awake to each day would be stilled in the early morning light so that my day might not reflect our cultural obsession with busyness and consumerism this time of year, but that it would undeniably point to the Christ that I am waiting for.
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Having to actively fight the perfectionist side of myself while I take these three classes is a true battle. I want the A. Gosh darnit, I ...
