The Sad

I walked into his classroom on Monday and saw my little boy sitting by himself reading a book. I could see the dried tracks of tears on his face. I could feel, almost physically emanating from him, his sadness. He (all 60 pounds of him) wanted to be carried out to the car. My boy, my bundle of energy who lives life like it's a competition to get anywhere first, who usually sprints to the car, his beautiful head on my shoulders, slumped in defeat.

On the drive home, I asked him how he was feeling.

"Mama, I so sad." 

"Why, buddy?"

"They took the pictures off the wall. School is ending. I don't want school to end." 

While so many kids around the country are literally bouncing in their seats with anticipation of this Friday or who have already celebrated that last day all the way home in the last few weeks, there are kids like my son. 

Kids for whom school, its regularity, its comforts, its amazing teachers, its friends for the raging extrovert, is everything. Some kids have tough home lives and summer is a long, terrifying unknown. Some, like my son, have a diagnosis that means that any kind of change in his routine causes him actual neurological distress. 

All he could do on Monday was cry. And all I could do was hold him, help him understand that camp is coming next week and try to remember that it's ok. 

I am not a failure as a mom because my boy would rather be at school. It's taken me awhile to be alright with that fact that I am "at home" with my kids but that I have a 3 year-old in school five mornings a week. To know that I am not abdicating responsibility. To be comfortable in the knowledge that I am actually doing the absolute best I can to give him what he needs in all his challenges and gifts. 

On Tuesday he came home sad again. And I knew that we needed to go to his happy place. 

So, after nap, we skipped swim practice and went to Target. Yes, Target is my 3 year-old's happy place. He picked out end of year gifts for his teachers. (And those who know him well will be unsurprised to learn that he chose to give them new water bottles.) We headed to Kid-to-Kid next because he had outgrown yet another pair of shoes and really wanted some new red sneakers. That kid scored some red and white Jordans for 8 bucks. He wore them out of the store, charged home, colored his teachers some pictures and wrote them notes. His smile was back. 

All these rituals. The gifts, the notes...even the buying of new shoes for the summer. They were comforting to him. Things he could do, even at 3, to process saying goodbye. To think about what the summer will hold for him.

And that next morning when he went to school? That child sprinted in wearing his new kicks, hugged the administrators on the way and tackled his teachers with his gifts. 

And they know him so well. 

"Look at your new shoes! Those are amazing! Did you find those at Kid-to-Kid?"

"I did, I did!" 

When I left, there was a little less sadness. A little less clinging. A little less panic. 

Will the next few weeks be hard around here? 

Yep. 

It's ok, though. We are ready.

We are armed with our social story full of pictures of his camp. We have our visual calendar we will do every morning and night. We have our theri-putty and our trampoline. We have our "sensory diet" and our "no drama discipline" to meet him where he is each morning. 

Most of all, we have hugs. Tears are ok. Saying goodbye is hard. I want him to know that it's ok to be sad. That it's fine for him as a boy and one day as a man to FEEL. To be unashamedly who he is in all his chaotic and beautiful and emotional glory.

One Year Away

I can remember pretty vividly a few things about our first year of marriage.

One, when we would meet anyone married more than 5 years, we automatically assumed they had arrived at some kind of marriage wisdom pinnacle.

Two, we had literally no idea what we were doing or who we were as a couple. We just knew we wanted to figure it out together.

June 7, 2003, Right after the ceremony

Three, we spent a lot of time in silence because we didn't yet know how to fight.

And now?

Now we are one year away from celebrating 15 years together in marriage. 15 years, 4 houses, 3 interstate moves, 3 children and countless hours of making the choice, again and again, to say "I will."

I think back on those young people. On how much we didn't know. How we didn't know that he would go back to school and we'd move three times as a result. How we didn't know that we would deal with miscarriage and infertility and come out stronger, by God's grace. How we didn't know we would have to go through the agony of finding a church and a new community (supremely challenging for a couple of introverts) more times that we would like. How we didn't know we would have to learn multiple ways of being parents because of the unique challenges and joys of being an adoptive family. How we didn't know that those hours in silence that first year when we didn't know how to deal with conflict would turn into a faint memory. How we didn't know that it was possible to love someone more 14 years later than we did that wedding day full of love and joy and celebration with all those we held dear.

But we know now.

Marriage isn't easy. It's not all rainbows and unicorns and skipping through meadows of wildflowers. It's not just "Hey, let's have some kids and share our love and grow happily old together." At least not for everyone.

It's a choice. Every single day. To look at one another, say "yes" again, and invite God to help us love that person more than we are capable of on our own.

One of the things I will never forget from our ceremony was the moment our pastor said this:

"You won't wake up every day and look at each other and think "this person is such a blessing to me". You will have to make a decision every day to love."

Our First Dance

We talk about what he said all the time. We remind ourselves that it's not about how we feel in the mornings, but the promise we've made to each other. And that promise usurps everything else. How our kids are feeling and what they need. Whatever else is going on, WE come first in this family. Our marriage has to function for our family to thrive. This reality, I am increasingly learning, is a countercultural way to look at marriage in a very kid-centric America.

So what do I think on this 14th anniversary?

I think that though it is continually about making a choice, I do love this man more than I did on that day 14 years ago. That I have married this incredibly generous person who embodies sacrificial love to me and to our boys. I am reminded every day of his goodness and his light. When I walk downstairs every morning and see him on the back deck, starting his day in prayer, I pause. I can trust him because I know that he is trusting God for what he needs to love me well.

That, my friends, is a miracle. Especially from a recovering marriage skeptic.

I think we don't have any particular wisdom, we just have experience. 14 years and multiple moves and 3 children worth of experience. And that means something. We aren't the same people we were on that rainy day in June. We are so much better.

At UR, June 7, 2003

So, to my love, happiest of anniversaries. 14 years down, hopefully many more to come. Hopefully we will stay put for awhile in this new home, this new town. Hopefully that will give us a much-needed chance to breathe and set down roots and continue to figure out who we are together.

I wouldn't want to do it with anyone else.

Just Jump

Remember when you were a kid and you didn't care whether or not the pool was cold? And you just saw that sparkling water, revved up and jumped in without a second thought?

Yeah. Neither do I.

What I do remember is my mom, grandmother, aunt, dad...anyone, really, over the age of 20, telling me it was cold and not to rush them getting in the pool. Not to get them wet before they were ready. And I get it. Because cold water feels like Satan now that I am an adult.

There have been some videos and articles circulating lately, encouraging women to just stop caring and put on their bathing suits and have fun, for goodness sake. To stop worrying about what they look like and just BE.

And I think those are great. I have friends who struggle deeply with body image. Who hate bathing suit season. Who would threaten your life if you aimed a camera in their direction at the pool. (I am not naming names NOR am I saying this did or did not happen to me just yesterday.)

But I don't really know what that feels like during this phase of life, to be honest. I don't mind putting on a suit if it's high cut enough at the top. My main worry is a wardrobe malfunction that would leave people emotionally scarred. Not all bathing suits were created to parent spirited toddlers, for the love.

What I do struggle with is this: old lady grumpiness.

You know what I want? To sit on the side of the pool, dry, rather than freezing my patootie off in a frigid pool. To read a book for a whole hour straight with the sun beating down while I sip an iced coffee or chat with my friends. I want to RELAX.

I also want to be a good mom.

And it's clear that relaxation and toddlers are not possible at the same time, particularly around water hazards. Or, really, when they are awake.

So.

I woke up Monday morning and I knew we were heading back to the pool in a few hours. I knew my boys were going to want to spend 2 hours straight jumping in, climbing out and doing it all over again because it is exactly what they had done the two days before. I knew it was possible they would ask me to get in that water and not just be content with my pseudo-exercise role of bicep-curling them in a squat position out of the pool so they could jump back in to dad. They had asked me before and I had said no. I wasn't ready for that cold pool.

This time, though, I decided that, if asked, I would just jump.

I wouldn't stick my toe in first. I wouldn't creep, in infinitesimally painful increments, with a look of horror on my face, down the stairs.

I would just say yes. Just jump.

So, after about 20 minutes of bicep curling my two year old, my three year old looked me dead in the eye.

Jumping with Nate

"Mama, will you jump in with me?"
"Yes, bug, I will."
"Really??!!!! Let's do it together, Mama!"

Friends. I wish I could have captured that grin on film.  That toothy, thrilled, exhilarated, water-already-dripping-from-his-face grin. (My neighbor stealthily did manage to capture us jumping together without me knowing it, how cool is that?!)

Was that water cold? YEP.

Was it worth it? YEP.

That grin is going to carry me through every cloudy day when I want to stay on the side. Through every moment when I am carrying a grudge for how he has acted and don't WANT to go in the pool with him in retribution. That grin was pure magic.

I know I will fail to always follow through on this, but my summer goal is to "just jump". Just say yes when my boys ask me to do something that I might not WANT to do but that I know will be good for US.

To not, this summer, be a grumpy old lady.

The Village

Today was opening day for our neighborhood pool.

I watched as my oldest laughed and jumped and swam and raced with all these amazing young people that he didn't know a year ago.

I chatted and laughed with kind and funny people, women and men I know call neighbors and friends. I walked around the outside of the pool with a friend so she could get her "steps" in and, at the same time, spy on her teenage kids. (Shh.)

They helped me laugh off the fact that earlier in the day, within just one short hour of the summer officially starting, I had to wrestle a screaming, kicking toddler and three bags on the long walk of shame from the kiddie pool to the parking lot. One hour was all it took for us to bless the neighborhood with our very special (and ear-splitting) brand of chaos.

Last year I would have left the pool, lonely and dejected and embarrassed, vowing never to come back again. (And then my husband would have eventually talked me into trying again.)

But here's the difference this summer.

This summer I know we are surrounded by people who have been there. Who know us. Who aren't secretly judging us in their heads and saying things behind their hands like "that kid just needs a good spanking, look how he acts in public!" Who remember (and share about) their own times racing from the pool to the car with their own unhinged toddlers in their arms.

Friends.

This time last year I was struggling hard with the reality of moving back to Richmond.  Fearful, really, that we would make the same poor choices we made last time around. That we would overschedule our lives. Hide the true realities of our days. That the painful way we left it last time around would follow us right back and set up shop shop in our home as an unescapable anxiety.

But it hasn't. God is so good.

Yes, we had a slow start last summer.  A lonely first two months here. Tears before bed. Isolation in our chaos. There are few things harder than watching your normally joyful child struggle deeply with sadness and know that you have been the cause.

But then school happened. Neighbors came outside. We took a risk and skipped right past the painful small talk and just got to know each other. No hiding. Our kids became friends. My oldest found some besties. My younger ones found some teenagers to hero worship, boys who actually knock on the door and ask to play with our toddlers. Friends who drop everything when you call and say "we need you to come grab the boys" as your younger one is having  a seizure. Who clean your house and watch your kids and fill your fridge so you can keep going when you come home from the hospital.

I found friends to pray with, who see our boys as beautiful and precious and children created in the image of God who I know will fight with every ounce of their being alongside of us to make our schools and neighborhoods and churches better and safer places in which to raise our black sons.

We have found something so, so precious here.

This time last year I wrote this:

"Most of all, I hope as I continue to untangle and forgive myself and move forward, that we can start

fresh as a family. 10 years later. 2 more pets. 2 more children. 2 more sets of goodbyes under our belts. We have changed and so has RVA.

Ready or not, here we come."

I can honestly say that one year later, I feel like we've been able to do this. To start fresh. To be who we are in this place, in all our chaotic, loud glory. There ain't no hiding it, anyway. We've found that most amazing of things: a real community of friends who treats us like family even when our kids are losing it, when we haven't showered, when the stress is too much. Who helps us get back up after a tough day. Who lets us love on their kids like our own.

Who helps us to laugh at what life throws at us and keep going.

So today, as I watched my son with eyes glowing and smile so wide, and as I sat next to these amazing new friends, I felt overwhelmed. With gratefulness, with hope and with joy.

And with the knowledge that this village has been a part of my healing in ways I never could have expected.

The Longest Walk

I have a growing list of activities that it seems increasingly likely I may possibly accomplish.

• Composing a concerto in my head.
• Memorizing, in chronological order, every president of the United States.
• Learning to rap "Ice, Ice Baby" backwards. 
• Counting the number of times I have said the phrase "listening ears" since my children were born.
• Identifying the current number of gray hairs I have.
• Visualizing a map of Africa and successfully remembering the name of each country and where it is located.

These are just a few of many.

When (and why?) would I possibly accomplish these seemingly useless activities, you wonder, when I am parenting two toddlers at the same time?

The answer is easy: During the time it takes for my youngest child to walk up the stairs.

Let me paint you a little picture of how this goes each time.

(1) We approach the gate. Young one insists on opening the gate but is not developmentally capable of opening said gate. Conflict ensues. Mama opens the gate.

(2) Child takes one step up.

(3) Child takes one step down, opens gate, closes gate, insists on opening gate again. Cannot accomplish this aim. Conflict ensues. Mama opens the gate. Conversation about how we will only go UP from now on.

(4) Child takes one step up and spots a speck of dirt. Child picks up speck of dirt, hands it to mama and looks for more. This can last up to 3 minutes until stair is fully cleaned and mama is reminded of how dirty the step actually is.

(5) Child takes one more step up.

(6) Child gets distracted and asks mama to name every single person in every picture on the opposing wall.

(7) Mama complies because she is desperate for youngest child to be inspired to talk.

(8) Child takes one more step up.

(9) Child teeters on the brink of falling backwards down the stairs but screams in rage if mama attempts to keep him from plummeting to his death.

(10) Child recovers. Mama promises not to touch him.

(11) Child takes one more step up.

(12) Child takes another step up. (Mama tries to pretend she is not exceedingly delighted in this so that child might take another step up because HE WANTS TO.)

(13) Child proceeds to clean this step with same vigor as earlier step. Mama's pockets are now full of crumbs, dirt and leaves because, no, it is NEVER possible for her to vacuum the stairs. Ever.

(14) Child takes another step up and stops to take a break.

(15) Mama breathes in and out. Walking anywhere slowly is not her strong suit.

(16) Mama encourages resting child to make a big push to finish going up the stairs and begins to sing song she has composed to help little bottoms get moving when they are dawdling.

(17) Child responds gleefully to song and dances up the stairs, almost falling backwards again but scaring himself enough that he lets mama help this time.

(18) Mama keeps adding activities to her long list of what she might accomplish within the confines of her brain during stair-climbing episodes.

(19) Child reaches the top of the stairs and immediately turns around to go down the stairs.

(20) Mama attempts to explain that we are going to stay upstairs for at least 3 minutes so she can feel like there was an adequate reason for going up the stairs in the first place. Child isn't buying it. Conflict ensues. Reconciliation occurs. We stay upstairs and accomplish ONE THING and then come back down.

Five minutes later, start over.

Now let me make something clear.

I am happy my child can finally maneuver the stairs. This is another step on the long track that leads towards physical independence. Soon he will only fall up or down the stairs as often as I do. I look forward to that.

But for now? When every trip up the stairs goes so painstakingly slow that I am confident at some point we will forget whether we were going up or down?

I've got that list that keeps my mind busy.

'Cause mama can only stare at an adorable little backside for so long without losing her mind.

Voice - Part 2

Last week I wrote Voice- Part 1 to share a pivotal point in my own understanding of the importance of using our voices. This is my follow-up.


"I can remember heading south on a road trip with my family and seeing, for the first time, "colored" water fountains. I was so confused."

"I don't think I've ever heard a sermon on race. I don't think I've even heard the word used at church."

"I was raised in the colorblind generation - if we don't talk about it, it will go away. I don't know how to teach my kids differently."

I glance around my living room at faces ranging from 30 to 65. Women raised in the south and the northeast and midwest. Catholic, United Methodist, Presbyterian, Assemblies of God, Baptist. Some with grown children and grandchildren, some with very young ones, some newly married, some divorced.

All asking questions. All talking, sharing their stories. All believing that racism is real, that our country and our churches are deeply divided and broken and all wanting to see change.

And also, all white. But we'll get back to that.

Just this past fall, I began to feel an itch. The election was ramping up, tempers were running high. I had been having more and more conversations with white parents who didn't know where to start in educating their children about race. And more and more conversations with black friends who were absolutely exhausted with the current state of affairs.

I took a risk and posted on Facebook asking if anyone local might want to get together to talk about it all.

I thought maybe I would get a private message from one or two people interested, but I got a crowd.

You never really know who is reading your posts, do you?

In the meantime, a good friend and I began talking about what it would look like to host these conversations together as God was moving similarly in her life. To invite both our sets of friends and see what happened. To pray and dream and hope together for what God might do.

So we set a date. I invited those interested. And most of them came. We talked, we laughed, we mourned, we prayed.

We agreed to do it again. Regularly.

And friends, it's been awesome. To be real, to talk about race and racism without wondering if the person to whom you're speaking is going to jump down your throat or tell you it's not real. To have a safe space to air frustrations. To be able to ask and answer questions. To share resources. I am coming to love these women.

But yes, we are an all white group right now. We've acknowledged it to one another. We know that it isn't ideal. And we know that we can only meet for so long and grow so much without that needing to change. We NEED the voices of our sisters of color. We need their lived experiences, their anger, their hurt, their hope, their honesty. We need to look us in the face and TELL US. And we need to be able to listen and really hear.

And we've invited some of our friends of color to come. Knowing that they might be too tired for this. Knowing that they don't know this group. And, therefore, not necessarily expecting them to feel that we are a safe enough space for them.

One of these women, a newer friend of mine, had the boldness to be honest when she said she wouldn't be joining us. And with her permission, I'm sharing her response.

"As an early thirties, stay-at-home mom (to six), wife (to one), ministry leader, friend, etc., I often find that in some spaces there is one distinguishing characteristic that sometimes trumps them all: black woman. I have found that in many spaces that say they are places of safety and for honest dialogue, my race and gender don’t give me the chance to be completely honest and true to how I feel. Sometimes my presence in majority white spaces is solicited to be the “representative”, “token of diversity”,“spokesperson”. My face is valued so long as I hide my story behind its blackness.

My struggle is always that I don't want to posture myself in a way that comes across as entitled to be angry and forcing others, especially my white friends, to see my point of view. Having attended a predominantly white church for the last three years, I've found that there's an unseen line that must not be crossed when it comes to race. I've felt either I'm supposed to be the spokesperson for the whole black race or everyone's "one black friend" but when there need to be conversations, I must not speak lest I come across as "angry black woman." - Cassandra A.

Hear her. Listen. Especially if you are a white woman in the Christian church. Listen, friends.

How do her words make you feel?

Her words break my heart. Because I know they are true. I know I have been a perpetrator. And I know that without repentance, listening and intentional change, our churches will never be safe spaces. They will always feel like this.

And here's the other thing: I couldn't assure her about our group. I know our intentions are good and safe...but I know that impact weighs much more heavily than intentions and until we could be together a little more regularly, I wouldn't truly know how safe we really are. What our impact might be. Whether microagressions might happen. Whether she'd need to code switch to be comfortable. All the things I'm sure weigh on her mind but are usually absent from us as white women.

I hope with a deep yearning that our group will grow in racial diversity. But I also know that for that to happen a friend will need to take a huge risk.

I hope my new friend might come some day, I really do. But I don't blame her for not coming now. I am grateful for her honesty. And I respect her choice.

In the meantime, we are going to keep talking and meeting and praying. We are going to ask the Lord to transform our own hearts. To show us the places where we have failed and send his Spirit to help us do better. To enable us to speak life and truth. To be change in our churches and schools and neighborhoods and circles of friends.

This is, after all, not just about talking over coffee. This is about learning to find our voices and refusing to stay silent.

And you know what else? This is not about politics, friends. This is at the very heart of the gospel, a gospel where God himself reconciles us to him and breaks down the walls of division in our lives and our communities.

Maybe you think sitting around and talking about this and praying together with intention to act doesn't accomplish anything?

I disagree.

If something changes in just one of us, if even one church becomes a safer place, if one less white kid is raised as a racist...well, then, we'll have done something. And because I believe in a God who is exceedingly more passionate about all this than I can ever be, I also believe He is showing up and wants to do big things.

I will leave you with one last sentence from my friend to all of us to ponder:

"My dear sisters, please hear my heart. When you are tempted to ask, “Why is it always about race?” or “Can’t we just get past this?” please remember that your black friends don’t have the choice for it not to be about race. As much as we would like to move forward, we hit roadblocks time and time again when we turn on the news, when we scroll through social media, when we think we can have honest dialogue in predominantly white places, especially in our communities of faith. We want to think that the next time will be different, we want to be hopeful that our seat at the table will be one of welcoming and an opportunity for transparency. Just please know that for every step of progress that gives glimmers of hope we see our country, our friends, our church family regress decades in the past.

Please know, dear sisters and friends, we are hopeful and we will not quit, but we are tired. We need allies to shoulder our burdens, to weep when we weep, to speak when we have no words or when we have been silenced. We need you and in this journey of solidarity, you will learn that you need us too."

Amen, may it be so.

Voice - Part 1

I remember the first day I truly began to hear.

A dear, patient friend of mine looked me in the eye and said "You look in the mirror and see a woman. I look in the mirror and see a black woman."

We had been friends for awhile. I had been asking questions, trying to listen, but, when you've grown up with one perspective on life, an entirely middle class white perspective, opening yourself to another is no easy feat. It takes work, intentionality...and it takes willing to be wrong, to repent and to try again. And again. And again.

No one likes feeling wrong. No one likes seeing the truly ugly parts of oneself revealed. The biases, the failures. It hurts. No one likes admitting a whole society could possibly be so off track. No one.

Her words stopped me in my tracks. She knew that all her interactions during her day would be colored by the truth in that mirror. That though we were sisters, our experiences were vastly different. Could I understand sexism? Sure. Could I understand, truly feel the pain of, racism? No. Not a chance. And there was no way I could understand the particular ways in which racism and sexism collide for a black woman.

It hurt. It made me sad. And angry. And helpless. And it would have been easy that day, in my privilege, to defend myself. To shed white tears and plead for comfort and absolution. Or tell her she was imagining things. Or choose to step off the journey because I have that choice, unlike my friends of color. I can walk away if it gets too hard.

But you know what? Hurt is worth it, my friends. Not if we just stay there, no. Tears, prolonged and self-pitying, are ineffectual. But tears of true lament? Tears that cause us to say enough is enough and then seek to change? Those God can use.

To lament the history of our country. To grieve the lives lost through enslavement and genocide and white supremacy. To weep for those ostracized from the church. To mourn the brokenness of our justice system. To look at ourselves as individuals, root out our own biases, and replace them with a passion for justice rooted in God's good news.

That is the work of a disciple.

And friends, let me make something clear, I have not arrived. No one has. I know more than I did 10 years ago. God willing, I will know more tomorrow than I do today. Because I am making the choice to stay in it.

Some days, I truly wish I were still ignorant. It was way more comfortable.

Being comfortable, though, is not really part of the call to follow God.

And that same friend, during a difficult discussion said one other thing that is always, always in the back of my mind.

I was angry because I felt it unfair that her voice didn't carry as much weight as mine in convincing white people of racism. I was raging. I was guilt-ridden. I didn't want to believe in injustice.

She looked me in the eye and said "Use your voice. Use it. And maybe someday your voice won't be more powerful than mine anymore."

Dang.

Friends, every time I have wanted to back down from a debate on Facebook, every time I have witnessed a racist event and wanted to keep my mouth shut, every time I have wanted to avoid the truth, I have heard her voice in my head.

Use your voice. Use it.

It's a privilege to stay quiet. And so I speak.

What about you?