Dreaming of Silence

1999.
London.
Some very old cathedral whose name escapes me.
Candles, darkness, stillness.
Community.
Peace.

The first time I remember ever experiencing contemplation. Intentional stillness. Breathing in prayers.

It was a small taste of many more experiences to come. Staff retreats, personal times of solitude, early morning intentional quiet before the sun (and my children) rise.

But it's elusive these days.

Don't get me wrong. I like to be on the move. People look at you like you're five kinds of crazy when you are out and about with three boys. They assume you are run ragged all day long. And I am.

But I happen to like exercise. And games of chase, hide-and-go-seek, endless games of soccer and catch. I like the movement. The noise level, maybe not so much, but I don't mind never sitting still with them.

I do, however, miss quiet and contemplation and slowing down intentionally, particularly in community. There's not a lot of time to get to our church's contemplative service right now. It's at dinner time on a Sunday, when it's Defcon 5 around here and we hit survival mode with all hands on deck until bedtime.  I could go to a women's bible study at a local church if my child's nap would cooperate, but really that's just more input. More words and noise right now. I like to chew on my pastor's sermon all week and read alone...but my brain can't take too much more information at the moment. It's filled up on so much. Sensory books. Parenting books. Sermons. Worship prep. Therapy plans for the middle child.

And as I've begun to think about what "yeses" I can say when we move, I'm wondering if there will be a place, a space, just in the middle of the week, maybe mid-morning. A place where child-care is offered and men and women can gather in quiet, in contemplation. Maybe it's led by someone, maybe it's just an open time to come, be, listen, breathe. Maybe it doesn't exist yet. Maybe it can.

I don't know.

But I'm dreaming of it.

One time a week, where harried people (parents or not) can come and contemplate the glory of our God. Soak in the stillness and calm of His Spirit. Bask in the love of His Son.

I long for it. I cannot be the only one who does.

Untangling RVA

In just a few short months we'll head south again to Richmond. Back to where our family began. We met there, married there, bought our first home there, got our first pet there, had our first child there. You know, became adults. Or at least we looked like adults. When do you really start feeling like an adult, anyway?

Richmond was not first on our list to return to. In fact, in some ways, it was probably last. It was a place we never planned to return. A place that, for me at least, represented pain. Represented exhaustion and chaos and all the ways I didn't want our family to function. When we left it for NC seven years ago, we left it with a big sigh of relief.

It was a chance to start over. Fresh. New.

I still remember those first few months after we moved. The days were calm and joyful, filled with house projects and playing and attempting not to melt in the Durham humidity as we met our awesome neighbors. The evenings were filled with family dinners and twilight walks and long conversations with my husband after our son, then only 2, went to sleep for the night.

It was peace.

And in the midst of that peace, I blamed all of what I had felt IN Richmond ON Richmond.

The overwhelmed. The exhausted. The angry. The alone. The sadness.

It was Richmond's fault.

Even those first few years in NC, if I drove through RVA on the way north, I would tense up. I couldn't stop for a fill-up or a coffee. I drove through it as quickly as possible and kept my eyes facing forward.

It was in NC that I started blogging. Made the attempt to move from unable to even articulate a feeling to myself from occasionally being brave enough to share a feeling with the public. I shared about our miscarriage. Our infertility. Our adoption process. Parenting. Friendships. Marriage.

But never once did I write about Richmond.

It was, until a few months ago, a place I kept closed off. Until we got that call from VCU. And began to ask God if it was maybe, just maybe, a chance for a do-over. An adventure in redemption.

Friends, I had to get down on my knees. I had to surrender my anger. Surrender my fear.

And in so doing, I began to see that it wasn't Richmond's fault at all.

It was me, and me alone.

Those who know me now, know that I share about the hard places. I blog, I write, I try to find funny things to say in the midst of the hard moments. I work at being open.

But back then, I was one big secret. I was fine. All the time.

So much so that I was actually going through a miscarriage in the middle of a church leadership meeting, chose to stay there, not tell anyone it was happening and just occasionally rush off to the bathroom to panic and breathe and come back as if nothing was wrong.

So much so that I went away on a retreat with my colleagues during that same time and only told the woman I roomed with. 3 whole days away togther in a beach house and no one knew a thing was wrong. They just thought I was tired.

So much so that during that drawn-out month in which we lost our daughter, when a good friend called and asked if she could bring us a meal(because clearly she knew something was wrong), I chose to pretend that nothing was wrong at all and didn't tell her what was going on. And refused the meal.

So much so that I began to avoid our friends because I didn't want to answer any questions about why I was sad or distant. I focused on packing. I focused on thinking ahead and ignoring the now.

So much so that my marriage was basically a setup of excellent roommates who were over-committed and exhausted. Ships passing in the night who traded off childcare. Because to interact was to deal with pain that we weren't sharing with anyone else. And who had the time to interact, anyway, with all the ways we were involved in life around us?

Ironically, we were a part of a very intentional community of people at that time. A new church plant, people who had moved into the city to be in each other's lives. We were on church committees, worship teams, small groups. We had friends nearby.

But we had put our community BEFORE our marriage rather than inviting our community INTO our marriage.

There is a big difference, friends.

One way allows me to present the illusion of service and love and the other let's me actually LIVE a life of service and love.

I chose the wrong way.

I am a long way away from untangling all this. I know that almost 10 years later, I am no longer a walking secret. I have talked about the miscarriage. I have adopted two beautiful sons. I have dealt, as best one can, with the infertility. I have a good marriage that is way more than a roommate situation. I keep a feelings chart handy because, on top of trying to figure out what I am feeling at any given moment, I am trying to teach my children how to identify what they feel. I am clearly not equipped for that particular quirk of parenting but I soldier on and we learn together.

But as I look forward, there are things I need to do.

I have never apologized to the friends I shut out. I hope to do that.

I have never driven by our home in Church Hill on my trips through Richmond. I want to do that.

I have only once been back to our church community there and, at the time, all it did was dredge up the pain. I have to visit and let the Lord practice his work of redemption.

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.

Friday Ice

I woke up this morning to a glittering, ice-encrusted world. The sun is bright and reflecting, the air is brisk. It's Good Friday.

Much of yesterday as the snow and sleet and ice came down I was mired in bitterness. Bitterness over a winter that is hanging on in full ferocity, bitter that my toddler spends most of his time angry at the world, bitter that a particular recurring ailment of mine seems to have returned to add physical discomfort to my emotional frustrations, bitter that my whole life is currently spent cleaning up, bitter that soon our life will be filled with goodbyes again.

Bitter.

And on this day, one of the most sacred in the Christian calendar, the day that marks when the cross changed from the instrument of common criminal death to the symbol of God's greatest act of love and humility, His creation is encased in ice. Frozen.

My tulips that had such promise will have to fight for life.

The lilac buds that were set to bloom in just a few weeks may now have to wait longer to burst forth in their lavendar glory.

I can't help but see the similarities between this storm and my heart. For what else is bitterness but a layer of ice built around the heart preventing one from reveling in gratefulness? Preventing me from seeing the gifts that overwhelm my life?

What else, indeed.

This morning as I stole 5 quiet, lovely minutes to creep outside in my pajamas with my camera before the sun began to melt the ice, I was reminded of why the bitterness cannot define me. Of how Good Friday isn't the end of the story.

Because even as I gazed dolefully at my poor, pathetic tulips, I saw the stark beauty that surrounded me. The beauty in the ice that just moments ago had angered me because I wanted the beauty of spring. The way it made the colors of green and brown and red pop out in the landscape. Of how the world just seemed clearer, somehow.

I thought back to the confusion of Jesus' followers on this day so many years ago. To see their hopes, their dreams, the very life they had longed for slipping from their grasp. Their fear, their own bitterness at what they thought was the end of life as they knew it. Of how they didn't know the end of the story like we do.

Friends, it is clear to me that my biggest struggle in this phase of my life is the tendency towards discontent. Towards bitterness. In seeing in my life what is lacking, rather than what is Good.

And since I often tend to rush through Holy Week to get to the joy of Easter rather than engage the emotions that came before the morning that changed the world forever, I was suddenly thankful for the ice storm. Thankful for the way it revealed to me, once again, the ways my heart stays frozen even in the midst of so much light, so much warmth, so many gifts I've been given in my life.

The ways that I let what I think SHOULD BE crowd out the beauty that IS.

Today, on this Good Friday, I am asking God once again to help me let go of all that seeks to steal my joy so that in two days from now, when I stand with my community on Easter morning, I will truly be able to see anew the astounding glory of the resurrection, of the world made new, of death conquered and promises fulfilled. Of life in all it's messy goodness.

Sprucing Up

Just a few short days ago, we met with our realtor. Some people wait until then to figure out which projects need to happen around here. As this is the third home we'll be selling, I've learned at least a little over the years about what needed to happen before he even came.

Hence, the massive decluttering exercise I've been working on for months.

Hence, painting the outside trim last fall to get that out of the way.

Hence, powerwashing all the outdoor surfaces so they'll only need a quick once-over this spring.

Hence...and on and on...

You get the idea. I've been working hard.

And now it's time for some of the fun stuff. I need to make the house look a little updated, a little cheerful...and I need to do it cheaply. If there's on DIY I love, it's finding old things to make new. So, I picked a color palette that goes with our main living space and am boldly moving forward.

Project 1: Color Accents

When we moved in, the entire main floor was boring old white. And while I know it's trendy to have white walls and lots of colorful amazing artwork, I still love a little color on the walls myself. So, I painted most of the main room a pale grey with blue undertones and the kitchen and accent wall a smoke blue. Then I opened up a magazine just yesterday and saw that smoke blue is a very IN color. Well. I am rarely ahead of the game in that department. So, yippee. They had some fun suggestions on accents to go with smoke blue: mint, coral/orange, pale pink and grey. Since the walls and kitchen have lots of grey, I thought it'd be fun to pull out the spray paint.

1a: Lamp

Ok, so there isn't anything wrong with this lamp except for it's just...blah. So, I figured a coat of paint and a patterned shade could spice things up a bit. Except I can't find a patterned shade I like. So, I just painted the base so far and I'll keep my eyes peeled for a nicer shade.

BEFORE

AFTER

1b: Vases

Two old vases, scuffed and cloudy meet fresh coats of paint.

BEFORE 

AFTER

AFTER

1c: Canisters

These used to be a beigy color with rusty and green leaves so I understandably updated them when we moved here. Just a plain old white. But I thought it was time for something that would pop just a smidge more.

BEFORE

AFTER

1d: Fruit Bowl

We've had this plastic bowl for years and it's fuzzy and scuffed up now. Not exactly good for making the fruit look more appetizing. Again, a fresh coat of paint. I only painted the outside on this so the fruit wouldn't rest on the paint when I was done.

BEFORE

AFTER

Project 2: Desk Chair

We've always had this sad little corner of the kitchen without a chair. Partially I didn't want one because that area becomes even more accessible to my toddler if he can climb on to a chair, but I also just didn't feel like spending money on a chair we might only need for a few years.

Then I found a chair for $2 last week. And figured, what the heck?!

Stained, dirty and scuffed with a horrible, musty, vinyl covering.

BEFORE 

BEFORE

AFTER

AFTER

Project 3: Icky Blinds

The moment we moved in I knew our vertical blinds had to go. Dated, ugly, blah. And now, thanks to our exuberant eater, covered in food stains that won't come out. So, one quick weekend pulling them down, putting up rods and curtains and, voila!

OK, they are cute, but check out the hideous blinds in the background.

AFTER

AFTER

Man, I love curtains. What a difference.

Once done with the projects, I cleaned from top to bottom and put everything back.

At least this floor is show-ready!

The Enemy Thing

Every day I wake up, flip on the computer and wait.

Wait to see post after post, memes, articles..all begging us to run as far from Trump as possible, to denounce him, to make fun of him. Wondering WHO really supports him. Questioning why Christians might be behind him. Mocking him.

I, myself, have offered my fair share of semi-humorous commentary on the subject. I, myself, have mocked him.

But the bottom line is...I have not once prayed for this man.

As a Christian, a woman and a mother to two black boys, I think it would be fair to consider Trump and his followers the "enemy." I have heard what he has to say about minorities (both religious and ethnic), I have watched my black friends post about leaving the country if he gets elected and I do not blame them or believe they are kidding. I have witnessed his misogyny. I truly believe he is a fascist of the first order and his rise is eerily reminiscent of what went on in Germany in the 1930's. The "othering', the fierce nationalism...the fear mongering, the pledges to exact revenge on those who disagree.

But, the bible tells me to pray for my enemies. To love them. And I have not done that. I have bought into the fear, the hysteria, the mocking. And let's be honest...being able to find ways to laugh at him makes the fear disappear for at least a few minutes a day. What's the harm, right?

From now on, though, I am going to pray for this man. That God would meet him where he is and show him that God is bigger than he is. That he would turn his heart from hate and fear. That he would value women instead of objectifying them. And on and on and on.

But while I will stop mocking him and I will pray that God will help release me from the fear of what he can do, I will not stay silent about what he says and does. To be silent, to not speak up for the oppressed, the persecuted...is to be complicit in that oppression, that hatred.

I saw a quote this morning:

And, as a student of World War II history, I was immediately reminded of Pastor Martin Niemoller, who said something eerily similar as he saw hate and tyranny swirl around him when Europe descended into war and holocaust in the 1930's and 40's.

You think I am exaggerating in comparing these two?

That's fine. But humanity has not progressed. What happened then could happen again. Easily. And there are thousands of people who are following and agreeing with the hatred that is spewing forth. He is not one lone voice.

So while I will no longer choose to mock and moan, I will choose to find the truth, speak it as often and as loudly as I am able, go to the polls and vote against him and move boldly forward trusting that God is bigger than this election, more powerful than Trump can ever hope to be and that he is a God of mercy, love and justice.

Who is with me?

Decision '16

It's here.

The journey that started in 2008 way back in Virginia will be coming to an end. Grad school conquered, post-doc finished in another few months - and what remains is the decision.

Where will we call home for the long haul?

Becoming a tenure-track professor is no easy thing. Years of research, classes, conferences. Networking, hoping, publishing, dreaming, dozens of job applications and, gratefully, many interviews. Traveling across the country to see campuses and meet departments and see cities.

Hours of pouring over the racial dot map, of looking at school demographics and neighborhoods.

Knowing that this decision is harder because of the reality of being a multi-racial family. Knowing that when we said yes to that characterization, we were saying yes to more than just loving our sons because, my friends, love is not enough. We were saying that we knew it would all matter. All the schools, churches, neighborhoods, friends...the "who" involved in those places would matter. The mirrors in their lives would matter. The representation in their books and movies and music. In their lives. They cannot be the only black people they know.

So some might just look at the job, the salary, the benefits, the "can we afford to live there" question that comes with some of these places.

We have the added privilege of asking "can ALL our sons thrive here?" Is this a place of overt or covert racism? Are the schools set up to fail our black sons? Are there churches where they will see people of color in leadership positions? Or will they always be "other"?

So while maybe some people would be kept up at night wondering about test scores or income taxes, I have to wonder if the school is the type of place where my son could have the police called on him in kindergarten. Or whether the town will offer one long string of micro-aggressions all the livelong day in his direction. Or whether there is a barbershop that will know how to do their hair. Or a store that will even sell non-white dolls. (Yes, my toddler boy loves his dolls.)

I would love to say that God is making this all clear but the truth is, this may be the hardest decision we've ever had to make. Possibly because of the feeling of finality. Most people start their tenure-track position with the intent of retiring there. This is not a 5 year job, it's a 30 years or more position.

This is where we will do life. For the long haul.

And this decision has to be made. For someone like me, a thinker who hates the uncertain, this is where it gets too hard. No amount of spreadsheets and powerpoint presentations can fully encompass what we need to know to make this choice. There is going to have to be some risk, some intuition, some hope.

I am so not good at those things, especially after several years worth of transitions and other huge decisions. That part of my brain is refusing to function.

I know I often tie up my posts with some deep realization I've had, some way that God has helped me to see something right and good and helpful. Today is not one of those days.

Today, I am unresolved. Grateful beyond words that we HAVE choices that are good, but unresolved, nonetheless.

I know once the decision is made and we move and look back, that things will have fallen into place. I know God goes before us and with us in this. My head does know that.

In the meantime, though, I could use a decision-making miracle. An infusion of life into that exhausted area of my brain. Clarity. Hope. Risk.

And, honestly, I could use it now.

Who Are Your Sons?

They were standing in front of me. I'm not sure they knew I was there or that I could hear them. Even if they knew, I don't know if they would have cared.

They had their faces pressed to the glass, pointing, laughing.

Mocking.

I watched the ice, where young kids from ages 4 to 9 skated. For most, this is their first season of hockey. Some just learned to skate. A few, like my son, tower above the rest, looking out of place, but needing to be there because they, too, are beginners.

They skate by these four kids who are watching. The younger ones don't seem to notice. Their heads are down, tongues out in concentration, desperate to stay on their feet, determined to try to get the puck this time.

But the older ones, like my son?

They see.

They see the fingers, the open mouths in silent laughter that they can't hear through the glass. They know that fun is being made. And that they, the larger ones, are the likely targets.

I glance around, bouncing my infant in my lap, wondering if their parents are here. I guess their ages to be maybe 12, 13 years. Probably they're here early for their own practice or possibly to watch the high school game that will be starting on the next rink over in a few minutes.

And I sigh.

I have learned the hard way that attempting to engage pre-teens in meaningful dialogue without any relationship is a recipe for disaster. For being called the F-word or worse, for being mocked myself. And right now I am surrounded by young children watching their older siblings play hockey, my own infant playing in my lap and trying desperately to get out of my arms and crawl on the bleachers. The last thing I want to do is invite these young children to be a witness to vitriol or, let's be honest, violence if I confront these kids. If I were alone, I would say something.

But today, I stay silent. They don't know me. They won't listen to what I have to say. And, honestly, their parents COULD be sitting right next to me. And as many of us attempting to raise respectful children know, parents may not take kindly to watching their kids be reprimanded, even when it is absolutely certain their kids need intervention.

So I sit there, sadly, wondering about authority and where it has gone, hoping my son doesn't totally understand what's going on, that this won't dampen his enthusiasm for hockey.

When I was their age, if ANY adult had called out my behavior, I wouldn't have dared called him or her a foul name in response. Most likely, I would have hung my head in shame and endured the certain discipline of my own parents when they found out about it later.  As most certainly they would have.

Have I mentioned these were boys? White boys? (Just in case you are making any assumptions.)

We hear a lot about so called "mean girls." About the bullying, the horrible treatment, about girls as young as preschool forming cliques and saying awful (and even racist) things to the little girls around them. I, myself, have still not recovered from middle school and the treatment I received there from girls who could have been friends, allies, teammates but instead chose power and pettiness and sent a girl to her bed sobbing every night.

But these boys. Mocking, laughing, taunting. Seeping privilege and meanness from their pores. Boys can be mean, too.

If this were an isolated incident, I would have written it off.

But it seems like there is just so much meanness, so many kids cursing out adults and parents, so many kids lost in a world without boundaries.

Parents, what are we doing? Are we giving up our parental authority and firm boundaries in the name of raising kids with "minds of their own," producing unkind, entitled children who don't have a freaking clue what the difference is between healthy independence (which is what I'm shooting for) and premature abusive power?

I for one would want to know three things if my sons were perpetrators of this type of shenanigan:

(1) That my son at least KNOWS this is terrible behavior.
(2) That if another adult were to approach him and point this out he would respond with respect and repentance.
(3) That said adult would feel comfortable telling me about my child's behavior and being confident that there would be discipline involved.

And let me make something clear. I don't propose to be any kind of child development expert. I don't read a ton of how-to books about parenting. I don't propose that I am perfect or that I don't mess up all the time or that my kids never do anything wrong or hurtful to others.

But, gosh darn it, I am trying. Trying to raise my boys with an understanding of right and wrong, with a bent towards kindness and justice and respect, with a love for God and his children. Sons that would be able to withstand this type of treatment with their confidence and joy intact and would, if being mean themselves, be able to receive chastisement, repent of the behavior, accept forgiveness, change in a positive way and move forward in new understanding of how their words DO have power.

So, parents, take a look.

Who are your sons becoming? The mocking, cruel boys on one side of the glass? Or the type of boy who might intervene and say "Hey, those kids are just learning...let's stop laughing at them and help them out!"