This morning my son and I walked to school. He skipped around, swinging his lunch box, dodging half-frozen puddles in his boots and talking to me about life, love and first-grade happiness. I love these walks. Five minutes of calm in our morning- lunch is packed, clothes on, shoes tied, coats zipped (sometimes)...the frenzy of the getting ready gives way to the quiet of the journey. I would love to say that we talk about a vast array of topics, delving deep into culture and dreams. In reality, we talk about snow. Every morning. It goes something like this.
J: Mom, do you think it will snow today?
Me: Maybe. Not too much, I think.
J: But it will snow more than North Carolina, right?
Me: Yes, it will definitely snow more than in North Carolina.
J: Taller than me?
Me: Yes, buddy, taller than you. Though not in one storm. Total, you know, over the whole winter.
J: Wow. Are you sure?
Me: Yes, bud, totally sure. It ALWAYS snows more in Wisconsin than in North Carolina. I promise.
J: (satisfied smile and stare at the sky willing it to snow immediately)
I should probably clarify that we have been having this conversation ever since the second day of school. The first day, rightly, was preoccupied with the whole "we just moved here and I don't know anyone and do you think I will make friends and have fun" conversation that inevitably precedes the first day in any new community. But day two? Snow. Day three? Snow. Day 50? Yup, you got it. Snow.
Most days I quietly chuckle as I answer him, loving his raw enthusiasm and his need to KNOW that it is going to happen. Not just to hope, but to trust he will be getting the snow storms of which he has only dreamed. Some days I get annoyed. Any parent can tell you that a sweet question is nice the first ten times but after the 1000th? Well, it can take work to keep the frustration out of your voice when you've already answered a question 999 times. Sometimes I wish could record my answers and press repeat for him.
But today was different. I didn't chuckle. I didn't feel frustrated. I felt struck. Here was this innocent little boy. This person who I love more than I could've ever imagined. This amazing boy who loves snow and wants it to happen as soon and as often as possible. In fact, his only request when we were moving was that we would move somewhere with a better winter. Wisconsin has been happy to oblige. It's actually snowing again as I type this and I am watching all the Christmas lights twinkle through the flakes. Just beautiful.
Today was different because I finally realized that he asks the same question every day because he cannot believe that the answer he has been given is real. It seems too good to be true given his prior experience with frustrated hopes and thwarted snowstorms that turned into "rain events". Is there anything worse than hearing that phrase on the news when you were supposed to wake up to a winter wonderland? And so he continues to ask and I suspect that until we are all finally sick of the snow in April, the trend will continue. Until he has experienced the winter he wants, he won't believe it. Even then, I imagine that next September will bring a renewed conversation. We forget so easily, even the good.
Today was different because I suddenly have this vision in my head. God and I are taking a walk, as we often do. And he is listening to me prattle on about something or other in that patient way that he does. And I ask him a question. And if I watch his face carefully, I see that tension between amusement, frustration and love. Because he has given me the answer 999 times but I need to ask again. I cannot help myself. What he offers to me is too unbelievable, too good, too patient, too real to be truly comprehensible. And so I have to ask again. How can this God love me? How can I be forgiven? How in the world did God become flesh so that I could know Him better? How is it possible that someone so huge can walk so closely beside me in my suffering? How? Why? Who is he, really? When my experience in life often makes me feel cynical or frustrated or angry because of the hate and suffering and racism and bullying and infertility and lost dreams and all the other things that shout our brokenness from the rooftops, it's hard for me to truly believe in the Good, the Beautiful, the God who is himself Love. The God who doesn't just record his answers and press repeat but delights to engage with me for the 1000th time.
So I keep asking. I look up and I hope. And because he has answered the same way 999 times, when he answers again I believe it. At least for a day. And a day is enough.
My son and I will walk to school tomorrow on snow-covered streets and ponder that great question about "whether or not it will snow today" and he will believe me again that he will get the winter he wants. So, too, I will wake up tomorrow and ask my same questions of God and ponder anew the unrelenting grace and generosity of a God who Loves me more than I can possibly understand.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Saturday, November 30, 2013
The Dread of Advent
As December has approached, a time of year I have always loved, my heart has grown a little heavier. As I realized today that tomorrow is church, that tomorrow is a Sunday in December, it finally occurred to me. Day 1 of advent. Christmas countdown. That time of year when everyone talks about God in the form of a child, when we talk about waiting on the arrival of this little baby, when people read poetry about motherhood in an attempt to relate to what Mary may have felt. The time of year when I am told that to truly understand Christmas better, I need to focus on this concept of Advent. Of waiting. Of expecting. Of not rushing or wanting or striving.
The thing is, I feel like my whole year is lived in a quiet, but painful, advent. Of waiting and expecting. Of not having any control or ability to rush any of this. This year's Christmas season marks the 5 year mark since we started trying to have a baby. Five years ago it was exciting to think about waiting on a physical baby as we waited on the Christ child. That excitement has long since worn off. The rest of the year is one month after another with no results when it comes to that initial desire. With reading books about waiting better and faithfully desiring God and not focusing on this baby. Or finding articles and poetry and art that speaks to perseverance and hope. Of seeking to be content without another child. Of fending off questions and trying not to be annoyed when people try to attribute this particular wait with God's lesson for us or our own inability to learn something he has clearly been trying to teach us or being told for the 100th time that once we stop caring, then we will get pregnant or our adoption will come through. Yeah. Because all my hundreds of friends around me who have tons of kids didn't care about being pregnant. Clearly that's the trick. Manipulating God or anatomy or whatever into making this happen. Sounds like a good idea.
So when my husband asked me a few minutes ago if we were on for our usual plan for church tomorrow? My heart sank. My stomach began to churn. I began to wonder how many glowing pregnant women would totter down the aisle while the band plays "Away in a Manger" in the background and I try to look at the floor instead of envy their bumps. I began to wonder if our church here, in their desire to make and show videos on Sunday mornings, would come up with some artistic portrayal of motherhood and expectancy that I'll have to sit through. In short, I began to dread church. I began to search for legitimate ways to opt out of a gathering in which I normally find life and hope. I began to worry that I wouldn't be able to actually see God through all the God-infant imagery that will now bombard us for the next 25 days.
I hate that. I hate that this wait and the pain within it has robbed me of my favorite season in the church. I hate that I cannot overcome my sadness and my longing and just be able to fully enjoy the advent season. I hate knowing that come Christmas morning when my son places the baby Jesus in our manger scene at home, my heart will also pang with the knowledge that while that manger is full and that should be enough for me, our crib is still empty and I am still waiting.
And to be honest? I don't really know what to do next. People tell you to not think about it, to find other outlets, to pursue contentedness. To just seek God and not what he can give me. But how do you seek God well in a season where every avenue is reminding you to seek Him in the form of a baby, a form that only highlights your own desire for that good and beautiful gift of children? How do you do that well? Most of the year I can conveniently ignore the Christmas story and focus on the Easter one. But advent? Advent feels like one more big reminder that while I can wait on the Christ-child, while I can cultivate my experience of expectancy of what God can do, at the end of the day our long, physical wait still goes on.
And I am exhausted. I wish I could say I'll definitely push through and go to church anyway tomorrow. I don't know. I wish I had some neat package with a lovely Christmas bow that would tie up these thoughts. But much like advent itself, much like all the uncertainty we like to talk about as we celebrate it, all the fears Mary and Joseph must have felt, all the confusion about their future, this post doesn't have a neat ending. I will wake up tomorrow. Maybe I will go to church or maybe I will stay home and take a very long, cold jog with Tim Keller on my ipod. Most of the day I suspect I will be happy and enjoy my family and look forward to class on Monday morning. I will find joys in the quiet moments of the day. I may even listen to Christmas music. Most likely, though, I will not sit around and ponder the birth of Jesus. And I suspect God is ok with that right now.
The thing is, I feel like my whole year is lived in a quiet, but painful, advent. Of waiting and expecting. Of not having any control or ability to rush any of this. This year's Christmas season marks the 5 year mark since we started trying to have a baby. Five years ago it was exciting to think about waiting on a physical baby as we waited on the Christ child. That excitement has long since worn off. The rest of the year is one month after another with no results when it comes to that initial desire. With reading books about waiting better and faithfully desiring God and not focusing on this baby. Or finding articles and poetry and art that speaks to perseverance and hope. Of seeking to be content without another child. Of fending off questions and trying not to be annoyed when people try to attribute this particular wait with God's lesson for us or our own inability to learn something he has clearly been trying to teach us or being told for the 100th time that once we stop caring, then we will get pregnant or our adoption will come through. Yeah. Because all my hundreds of friends around me who have tons of kids didn't care about being pregnant. Clearly that's the trick. Manipulating God or anatomy or whatever into making this happen. Sounds like a good idea.
So when my husband asked me a few minutes ago if we were on for our usual plan for church tomorrow? My heart sank. My stomach began to churn. I began to wonder how many glowing pregnant women would totter down the aisle while the band plays "Away in a Manger" in the background and I try to look at the floor instead of envy their bumps. I began to wonder if our church here, in their desire to make and show videos on Sunday mornings, would come up with some artistic portrayal of motherhood and expectancy that I'll have to sit through. In short, I began to dread church. I began to search for legitimate ways to opt out of a gathering in which I normally find life and hope. I began to worry that I wouldn't be able to actually see God through all the God-infant imagery that will now bombard us for the next 25 days.
I hate that. I hate that this wait and the pain within it has robbed me of my favorite season in the church. I hate that I cannot overcome my sadness and my longing and just be able to fully enjoy the advent season. I hate knowing that come Christmas morning when my son places the baby Jesus in our manger scene at home, my heart will also pang with the knowledge that while that manger is full and that should be enough for me, our crib is still empty and I am still waiting.
And to be honest? I don't really know what to do next. People tell you to not think about it, to find other outlets, to pursue contentedness. To just seek God and not what he can give me. But how do you seek God well in a season where every avenue is reminding you to seek Him in the form of a baby, a form that only highlights your own desire for that good and beautiful gift of children? How do you do that well? Most of the year I can conveniently ignore the Christmas story and focus on the Easter one. But advent? Advent feels like one more big reminder that while I can wait on the Christ-child, while I can cultivate my experience of expectancy of what God can do, at the end of the day our long, physical wait still goes on.
And I am exhausted. I wish I could say I'll definitely push through and go to church anyway tomorrow. I don't know. I wish I had some neat package with a lovely Christmas bow that would tie up these thoughts. But much like advent itself, much like all the uncertainty we like to talk about as we celebrate it, all the fears Mary and Joseph must have felt, all the confusion about their future, this post doesn't have a neat ending. I will wake up tomorrow. Maybe I will go to church or maybe I will stay home and take a very long, cold jog with Tim Keller on my ipod. Most of the day I suspect I will be happy and enjoy my family and look forward to class on Monday morning. I will find joys in the quiet moments of the day. I may even listen to Christmas music. Most likely, though, I will not sit around and ponder the birth of Jesus. And I suspect God is ok with that right now.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
A Little Perspective
Earlier this week I stumbled through a video of Chinese orphans answering questions about adoption and what they hoped for in a family, if they ever get one. Later that day, I cried through a homemade video of a dad talking to his three young babies who had just passed away that morning. The internet is awful in a lot of ways, but you know what I've finally realized? It IS good for a little perspective.
We live in an overly dramatic and self-centered culture. One night of watching reality television illustrates only too well the art of overreaction, self-pity, and self-focus that we are being cultivated to understand as the normal, default way of functioning today. Look at my problems. Listen to what so-and-so had the nerve to say to me. It's all about me, after all. Let me be as nasty as I want to be without repercussions.
For years, my knee-jerk reaction to any tendency toward the dramatic was stoicism. Don't tell, even if asked. Smile when it hurts. Be thankful in all things. Never let 'em see you cry or, better yet, don't cry at all. The biggest insult I could have ever received would have been to be termed a "drama queen." Call me nerd, dork, whatever. (And, to be quite honest, many people did.) But as long as I was emotionally in control, I was golden. Responsible. Dependable. Solid.
These last five years have made me seriously doubt the merits of this particular overcompensation. I have delved into the world of counseling, I have used my "feelings" worksheet and attempted to articulate when things have been hard and when they've been good. I have had my own dramatic moments, where it felt too hard to hope anymore or too painful to understand what greater good might have been going on or bigger perspective there was to be gained.
A friend of mine shared a startling statistic: a high percentage of people dealing with infertility are encumbered by the same levels of depression as very ill cancer patients. This seemed crazy to me. I have never had cancer nor even been close to someone who has but have had dear friends lose parents to this horrible disease. I found the comparison terrifying and freeing all at once. Its normal to be sad, even depressed over this at times. This, too, is loss in our lives that needs grieving.
At the same time, that part of me who shies away from the emotional clings to the need for perspective here. Confession time: on my darkest days of frustration I will watch Band of Brothers, Saving Private Ryan or some documentary on human slavery or poverty or adpotion that significantly widens my scope of human suffering. I need to. A friend recently told me she thinks it's fine that I do that but that it's ok to be sad, too. Not to diminish my own pain. And she's right.
The thing is that sadness without perspective tends to lead me, at least, to self-pity. I don't watch those movies or online videos to erase my pain but to remind myself that in the grand scheme of life pain is everywhere. And yes, much of it is far more intolerable or unbelievable than anything I've had to endure in my incredibly privileged life. Keeping perspective helps prevents the sadness form insulating my world, makes my lens to those around me clear so I can see their pain, too, and reminds me that justice is actually an anomaly in today's world. That the forces of evil and brokennness are hungrily at work, snatching away babies, dreams, freedom and hope from people all over the globe. That my story is not singled out in an otherwise perfect world. This may seem obvious. But in a culture that tells me that it's ok to focus on myself all the time, I need this reminder. It enables me to keep on with much more humility, grace and hope than I would otherwise muster on my own. Maybe to some this reminder would cause despair or hopelessness, but the idea that I am a part of a humanity that is searching for hope in the midst of pain makes me deeply grateful for those beautiful moments of justice, the many gifts I have been given in this life, those days when hope is ever-present and birds are singing and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that no matter how my story ends, I am not alone in it.
That, my friends, is perspective. None of this is about me, after all. Any suffering of my own is a drop in a much larger bucket. Any tendency to want to have a Jersey Shore kind of day and blame my problems on someone else is just a fruitless, selfish endeavor.
Suffering with perspective allows me to enter into the suffering of Jesus himself and further understand what he has done for me, into the suffering of friends and family and love them better, to not be indifferent to the suffering of the world. It teaches me what not to say to someone in times of grief and that, in fact, there is very little that needs to be said at all that can possibly be more meaningful than mourning quietly alongside someone. It shows me that the power of transparency and honesty is about a lot more than self-revelation and inner peace, that it's about giving others' suffering a voice and a space to grieve, too.
This morning I watched a video of a woman who was about to have a double mastectomy holding a dance party in the OR. I don't know her. I don't know what transformed a situation that was probably full of solemnity, fear and anger into a moment of audacious hope and laughter. This was a sweet and painful moment of perspective for me.
For today, a woman chose to dance in the face of suffering. And so I am going to get off my computer and turn on a little Michael Jackson and have myself a dance party, too. I am going to laugh and cry and keep hoping. Life is short, after all. I'd rather be dancing than sighing.
We live in an overly dramatic and self-centered culture. One night of watching reality television illustrates only too well the art of overreaction, self-pity, and self-focus that we are being cultivated to understand as the normal, default way of functioning today. Look at my problems. Listen to what so-and-so had the nerve to say to me. It's all about me, after all. Let me be as nasty as I want to be without repercussions.
For years, my knee-jerk reaction to any tendency toward the dramatic was stoicism. Don't tell, even if asked. Smile when it hurts. Be thankful in all things. Never let 'em see you cry or, better yet, don't cry at all. The biggest insult I could have ever received would have been to be termed a "drama queen." Call me nerd, dork, whatever. (And, to be quite honest, many people did.) But as long as I was emotionally in control, I was golden. Responsible. Dependable. Solid.
These last five years have made me seriously doubt the merits of this particular overcompensation. I have delved into the world of counseling, I have used my "feelings" worksheet and attempted to articulate when things have been hard and when they've been good. I have had my own dramatic moments, where it felt too hard to hope anymore or too painful to understand what greater good might have been going on or bigger perspective there was to be gained.
A friend of mine shared a startling statistic: a high percentage of people dealing with infertility are encumbered by the same levels of depression as very ill cancer patients. This seemed crazy to me. I have never had cancer nor even been close to someone who has but have had dear friends lose parents to this horrible disease. I found the comparison terrifying and freeing all at once. Its normal to be sad, even depressed over this at times. This, too, is loss in our lives that needs grieving.
At the same time, that part of me who shies away from the emotional clings to the need for perspective here. Confession time: on my darkest days of frustration I will watch Band of Brothers, Saving Private Ryan or some documentary on human slavery or poverty or adpotion that significantly widens my scope of human suffering. I need to. A friend recently told me she thinks it's fine that I do that but that it's ok to be sad, too. Not to diminish my own pain. And she's right.
The thing is that sadness without perspective tends to lead me, at least, to self-pity. I don't watch those movies or online videos to erase my pain but to remind myself that in the grand scheme of life pain is everywhere. And yes, much of it is far more intolerable or unbelievable than anything I've had to endure in my incredibly privileged life. Keeping perspective helps prevents the sadness form insulating my world, makes my lens to those around me clear so I can see their pain, too, and reminds me that justice is actually an anomaly in today's world. That the forces of evil and brokennness are hungrily at work, snatching away babies, dreams, freedom and hope from people all over the globe. That my story is not singled out in an otherwise perfect world. This may seem obvious. But in a culture that tells me that it's ok to focus on myself all the time, I need this reminder. It enables me to keep on with much more humility, grace and hope than I would otherwise muster on my own. Maybe to some this reminder would cause despair or hopelessness, but the idea that I am a part of a humanity that is searching for hope in the midst of pain makes me deeply grateful for those beautiful moments of justice, the many gifts I have been given in this life, those days when hope is ever-present and birds are singing and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that no matter how my story ends, I am not alone in it.
That, my friends, is perspective. None of this is about me, after all. Any suffering of my own is a drop in a much larger bucket. Any tendency to want to have a Jersey Shore kind of day and blame my problems on someone else is just a fruitless, selfish endeavor.
Suffering with perspective allows me to enter into the suffering of Jesus himself and further understand what he has done for me, into the suffering of friends and family and love them better, to not be indifferent to the suffering of the world. It teaches me what not to say to someone in times of grief and that, in fact, there is very little that needs to be said at all that can possibly be more meaningful than mourning quietly alongside someone. It shows me that the power of transparency and honesty is about a lot more than self-revelation and inner peace, that it's about giving others' suffering a voice and a space to grieve, too.
This morning I watched a video of a woman who was about to have a double mastectomy holding a dance party in the OR. I don't know her. I don't know what transformed a situation that was probably full of solemnity, fear and anger into a moment of audacious hope and laughter. This was a sweet and painful moment of perspective for me.
For today, a woman chose to dance in the face of suffering. And so I am going to get off my computer and turn on a little Michael Jackson and have myself a dance party, too. I am going to laugh and cry and keep hoping. Life is short, after all. I'd rather be dancing than sighing.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
A Party in a Galaxy Far, Far Away
Someone should warn you when you are pregnant with a boy: be prepared to watch Star Wars, hear about Star Wars, playact Star Wars, construct Star Wars Legos, dress up like Star Wars characters and, of course, be prepared to host a killer Star Wars party. I think there has been some unexplainable and universal change to the boy genome that makes it physically impossible for them to resist the allure of this massive commercial dynasty. My son, despite my own lukewarm feelings about said film, is obsessed and hasn't even actually seen all the movies. It doesn't matter. 2 minutes of a Youtube clip of Han Solo careening through the universe and they are all hooked.
When we were moving to Wisconsin this summer my sweet boy was concerned that he wouldn't be able to have a Star Wars party this fall. "What if I don't have any friends by then?" Well, that'll break any parent's heart. After reassuring him of that distinct impossibility and promising him all the same that we would actually fly back to NC for his birthday if it ended up true, we moved forward to plan a party. Yes, he has been talking about this since approximately five minutes after his lego party last year ended. So yes, it was going to happen.
I geared up my creative juices, scoured the internet for good ideas and here you go. One party in a galaxy far, far away.
LIGHT SABERS
What good jedi festivity would be complete without a lightsaber? The kids loved making their own and then trying to use the "force" to keep balloons afloat. Of course, that particularly activity lasted all of 2 minutes before devolving into an all out light saber battle. Really easy project with big returns.
PIN THE LIGHT SABER ON YODA
I'm guessing this is the last year that pinning something on anything will hold much appeal for my boy, but he was excited for this one. What's better than Yoda overseeing the festivities? Pinning a lightsaber on him.
LEGO SCAVENGER HUNT
It's always fun to put together a clue hunt for these kids. They had to follow a set of riddles around the house and find bags full of legos. At the end they raced to put together small star wars sets. This was a total hit!
THE FOOD
Apparently lego-themed food is a big deal. The internet had tons of suggestions and here's what we made! I take just about zero credit for these ideas, just their execution.
FAVORS
Nothing fancy, just some bags with fun Jedi labels filled with some little treats. The kids went home with a bag and their light saber to continue to have fun.
There you go. Nothing too pinterest-worthy, but I have a happy little jedi who spent his 7th birthday with new friends and lots of laughter. Can't ask for more than that. Except, in his eyes, for Star Wars to be real.
When we were moving to Wisconsin this summer my sweet boy was concerned that he wouldn't be able to have a Star Wars party this fall. "What if I don't have any friends by then?" Well, that'll break any parent's heart. After reassuring him of that distinct impossibility and promising him all the same that we would actually fly back to NC for his birthday if it ended up true, we moved forward to plan a party. Yes, he has been talking about this since approximately five minutes after his lego party last year ended. So yes, it was going to happen.
I geared up my creative juices, scoured the internet for good ideas and here you go. One party in a galaxy far, far away.
LIGHT SABERS
What good jedi festivity would be complete without a lightsaber? The kids loved making their own and then trying to use the "force" to keep balloons afloat. Of course, that particularly activity lasted all of 2 minutes before devolving into an all out light saber battle. Really easy project with big returns.
PIN THE LIGHT SABER ON YODA
I'm guessing this is the last year that pinning something on anything will hold much appeal for my boy, but he was excited for this one. What's better than Yoda overseeing the festivities? Pinning a lightsaber on him.
LEGO SCAVENGER HUNT
It's always fun to put together a clue hunt for these kids. They had to follow a set of riddles around the house and find bags full of legos. At the end they raced to put together small star wars sets. This was a total hit!
THE FOOD
Apparently lego-themed food is a big deal. The internet had tons of suggestions and here's what we made! I take just about zero credit for these ideas, just their execution.
FAVORS
Nothing fancy, just some bags with fun Jedi labels filled with some little treats. The kids went home with a bag and their light saber to continue to have fun.
There you go. Nothing too pinterest-worthy, but I have a happy little jedi who spent his 7th birthday with new friends and lots of laughter. Can't ask for more than that. Except, in his eyes, for Star Wars to be real.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Back to School
I sat in class last week using all the energy I could muster to keep from turning around and stabbing the guys behind me with my gel pen. With one hand cupped behind one ear and the other on said pen, I strained to follow the lecture which was being largely drowned out by the musings of the aforementioned gentlemen, musings that included their most recent foray into alcohol consumption and how they were determined to "try not to cheat" this semester. Noble endeavor. Apparently, some very basic things about college have not changed. Except, of course, my inability to focus on one type of noise (the professor) while another type of noise (alcoholic boasting) is going on in my vicinity. I'm pretty sure I was experiencing age rage due to hearing loss. I'm not sure. Thankfully, my good sense won out and I have not been arrested for a felony.
Other things unrelated to my aging have changed a lot. Just yesterday, I frantically made notes on a mitosis lecture while the people who surrounded me spent time on espn.com or texting their friends. One totally unashamed guy slept through the whole thing and another young woman kept asking me "what did she just say?" after completing her most recent text message. This is all at a very reputable university. Folks, I came of age when laptops and cell phones were still in rare use. My roommate in college had a big "car phone" that she kept locked away except for long trips or if she wanted to avoid using long distance when she called her family. When I walked across campus, people either smiled at you and said hello or awkwardly looked at the flowers on the side of the path, but they did not have earphones plugged in (unless they were carrying around their big ol' cd walkmans) and they certainly weren't chatting with some apparently nonexistent human at their side. People who didn't pay attention in class had to resort to daydreaming or writing notes on actual paper to other humans present in the room. Unless, of course, they slept like the guy next to me. We did that, too, although at a much smaller university it was a lot harder to get away with it.
The thing about school is that I absolutely love it. I loved being a student all the way through college and I love it again. It's amazing getting to learn new things and after being gone for so long to feel those synapses firing in that specific way they do only when being challenged in an academic way is exhilarating. And like pretty much every other class I've ever taken, I'm working hard and taking this seriously. Which seems to put me in the minority. When no one around me seems to be as excited about lecture, I go through a range of emotions. First, aggravation: Don't they know they are distracting those who actually want to learn and, thereby, risking impalement by gel pen? Second, sadness: Don't they know that they are missing out on an incredible opportunity to learn really interesting stuff? Third, confusion: How can they just waste their money (or, more likely their parents' money) and not care? Fourth, dawning realization of curve benefits: Don't they know if they don't do well, my score will only get better since they will boost the curve? General feeling of ashamed thankfulness toward these punks accompanies this thought. Fifth, astonishment: Are there really people out there who don't want to do their best at this? Why I continue to ask this last question over and over again in my life I do not know, but the answer is one around which I cannot wrap my mind. How can you not want to do your best at a task set before you?
So here I am, 12 years after graduating from a small, private, liberal arts university in the south, trekking the halls of an enormous, public research institution in the midwest. And just before my first test, the only test I've taken (besides the Myers-Briggs assessment) since 2001, I was nervous. I had my flash cards and had rewritten my notes. I had done all the readings and taken all the quizzes. I'd gone to the Q & A and discussion groups and emailed the TA with extra questions. And still I was sick-to-my-stomach, hands-shaking nervous when I showed up. Once upon a time, I was a great test-taker. Matching and definitions? No problem. Essays? Even better. But Scantron and I were no longer well-acquainted and that test, my friends, was 100% multiple choice.
Why was I so nervous? Well, despite my delusions that I am a recovering perfectionist at this point in my life, it seems that when it comes down to it, I still really want a 100% on a test, possibly even more than I did in college because now I feel like the old lady in the room has something to prove. I still wrestle, deep down, with needing to get the highest score possible and feeling really, really good when I do. I love being a student, which is good, but I still struggle with letting the fact that I'm good at it define who I am. Not so good.
Apparently I have not recovered as completely as I thought. I did really well on that first test, I'm not ashamed to say. And I basked in the glow of that grade for a good week. And it's ok to rejoice that I worked hard and it paid off. But it seems I still need a daily reminder that my worth and my identity don't lie in what I can accomplish, but in Whose I am. Does God rejoice that I work hard and love what I'm doing? Sure. But he rejoices all the more when I am content in who I am in Him. Loved, forgiven, precious, even if I don't get an A+. That was a lesson I did not believe in high school.
Tonight is my second test of the semester. I am decidedly calmer. I haven't studied as long or as hard but I suspect I've still studied longer than most of my classmates. I am not going to panic if I only get a 90 (or, gasp, lower!), but I'm still going to work my hardest and go for that 100% because I believe it will reflect the fact that I know this information, have worked my hardest and have enjoyed learning it. And have spent a lot of time this last month just enjoying God and letting Him remind me that in the grand scheme of things, of life, perfectionism is an illusion and I will not always be the best at something. And at the end of the day, no matter what happens, that test score will be something (I hope) to rejoice in, but not something to define me.
Other things unrelated to my aging have changed a lot. Just yesterday, I frantically made notes on a mitosis lecture while the people who surrounded me spent time on espn.com or texting their friends. One totally unashamed guy slept through the whole thing and another young woman kept asking me "what did she just say?" after completing her most recent text message. This is all at a very reputable university. Folks, I came of age when laptops and cell phones were still in rare use. My roommate in college had a big "car phone" that she kept locked away except for long trips or if she wanted to avoid using long distance when she called her family. When I walked across campus, people either smiled at you and said hello or awkwardly looked at the flowers on the side of the path, but they did not have earphones plugged in (unless they were carrying around their big ol' cd walkmans) and they certainly weren't chatting with some apparently nonexistent human at their side. People who didn't pay attention in class had to resort to daydreaming or writing notes on actual paper to other humans present in the room. Unless, of course, they slept like the guy next to me. We did that, too, although at a much smaller university it was a lot harder to get away with it.
The thing about school is that I absolutely love it. I loved being a student all the way through college and I love it again. It's amazing getting to learn new things and after being gone for so long to feel those synapses firing in that specific way they do only when being challenged in an academic way is exhilarating. And like pretty much every other class I've ever taken, I'm working hard and taking this seriously. Which seems to put me in the minority. When no one around me seems to be as excited about lecture, I go through a range of emotions. First, aggravation: Don't they know they are distracting those who actually want to learn and, thereby, risking impalement by gel pen? Second, sadness: Don't they know that they are missing out on an incredible opportunity to learn really interesting stuff? Third, confusion: How can they just waste their money (or, more likely their parents' money) and not care? Fourth, dawning realization of curve benefits: Don't they know if they don't do well, my score will only get better since they will boost the curve? General feeling of ashamed thankfulness toward these punks accompanies this thought. Fifth, astonishment: Are there really people out there who don't want to do their best at this? Why I continue to ask this last question over and over again in my life I do not know, but the answer is one around which I cannot wrap my mind. How can you not want to do your best at a task set before you?
So here I am, 12 years after graduating from a small, private, liberal arts university in the south, trekking the halls of an enormous, public research institution in the midwest. And just before my first test, the only test I've taken (besides the Myers-Briggs assessment) since 2001, I was nervous. I had my flash cards and had rewritten my notes. I had done all the readings and taken all the quizzes. I'd gone to the Q & A and discussion groups and emailed the TA with extra questions. And still I was sick-to-my-stomach, hands-shaking nervous when I showed up. Once upon a time, I was a great test-taker. Matching and definitions? No problem. Essays? Even better. But Scantron and I were no longer well-acquainted and that test, my friends, was 100% multiple choice.
Why was I so nervous? Well, despite my delusions that I am a recovering perfectionist at this point in my life, it seems that when it comes down to it, I still really want a 100% on a test, possibly even more than I did in college because now I feel like the old lady in the room has something to prove. I still wrestle, deep down, with needing to get the highest score possible and feeling really, really good when I do. I love being a student, which is good, but I still struggle with letting the fact that I'm good at it define who I am. Not so good.
Apparently I have not recovered as completely as I thought. I did really well on that first test, I'm not ashamed to say. And I basked in the glow of that grade for a good week. And it's ok to rejoice that I worked hard and it paid off. But it seems I still need a daily reminder that my worth and my identity don't lie in what I can accomplish, but in Whose I am. Does God rejoice that I work hard and love what I'm doing? Sure. But he rejoices all the more when I am content in who I am in Him. Loved, forgiven, precious, even if I don't get an A+. That was a lesson I did not believe in high school.
Tonight is my second test of the semester. I am decidedly calmer. I haven't studied as long or as hard but I suspect I've still studied longer than most of my classmates. I am not going to panic if I only get a 90 (or, gasp, lower!), but I'm still going to work my hardest and go for that 100% because I believe it will reflect the fact that I know this information, have worked my hardest and have enjoyed learning it. And have spent a lot of time this last month just enjoying God and letting Him remind me that in the grand scheme of things, of life, perfectionism is an illusion and I will not always be the best at something. And at the end of the day, no matter what happens, that test score will be something (I hope) to rejoice in, but not something to define me.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
What Happens in Wisconsin
We've been in the great Midwest for 4 months. And during that short time, I have observed some interesting things about life here in lovely Wisconsin.
First, everyone, and I mean everyone, asks you if you own a snowthrower (read "snowblower" for my northeastern friends) when you meet them. What is that? Is it a mark of honor?
Second, the rule at Josh's school is that they play outside for recess until it is below 0 degrees. That's Fahrenheit friends, not Celsius. I guess we'll be sending him in with snowpants and boots starting, well, next week.
Three, everyone loves the Packers. Everyone wears Packers gear as often as possible to any type of event, up to and including Sunday morning church services. If you want to experience a sane grocery shopping experience never, I repeat, never go to the grocery store in the 4 hours preceding a game.
Four, people complain when it is 85 with low humidity. I, on the other hand, run around rejoicing that I can breathe and enjoy the outdoors in the summer.
Five, people like guns. There are signs on the sides of roads promoting gun ownership, revering guns, advertising gun shows. Kids play with toy guns like it's no big thing. What's with all the guns, folks? Are we afraid the corn fields are going to rise up and attack us?
Six, aforementioned corn. Everywhere. All the time.
Seven, those crazy accents I anticipated really do exist. And my neighbor even said "Don't you know?" in that fantastically Canadian way us East-coasters imagine people out here talk. Also, someone told me to "yak it up"(read "Yayk it uop") with my hubby. Apparently that's English.
Eight, everyone who finds out that we moved from North Carolina asks us why in the world we would move to Wisconsin and then they proceed to tell us the winters aren't really "that bad." They are lying through their teeth and I can see them holding back a mixture of hilarity and pity in their eyes. My neighbor actually admitted that he wants to watch us the first time we shovel our driveway. Possibly he'll bring popcorn. Maybe laughing at transplanted southerners is a form of winter entertainment during the dark months around here.
Nine, water fountains are now bubblers. I shall never call them that. At least not with a straight face.
Ten, and I'll end with a straight-up nice one, the people are awesome. Down to earth, friendly and helpful. Our neighbors invited us over for "brats" the 2nd night we were here and are now good friends. A group of people we'd never met before helped us unload our moving van and provided friends for my son, as well as a heavenly coffee cake, towels and sheets so we wouldn't have to find ours that first night in a new house. They are now good friends, too. How could they not be? The coffee shop people are nice, the toll booth people smile and I promise you I met the friendliest receptionist ever born at my son's dentist office. She should have an award for nicest human.
So, Wisconsin, four months down, countless months to go. I love your accents and will continue to enjoy encountering your quirks of culture and language. Thanks for providing the prettiest summer weather ever to welcome us here - surely it provided a good enough foundation for us to make it through the winter that, apparently, started today with our first flakes of snow.
First, everyone, and I mean everyone, asks you if you own a snowthrower (read "snowblower" for my northeastern friends) when you meet them. What is that? Is it a mark of honor?
Second, the rule at Josh's school is that they play outside for recess until it is below 0 degrees. That's Fahrenheit friends, not Celsius. I guess we'll be sending him in with snowpants and boots starting, well, next week.
Three, everyone loves the Packers. Everyone wears Packers gear as often as possible to any type of event, up to and including Sunday morning church services. If you want to experience a sane grocery shopping experience never, I repeat, never go to the grocery store in the 4 hours preceding a game.
Four, people complain when it is 85 with low humidity. I, on the other hand, run around rejoicing that I can breathe and enjoy the outdoors in the summer.
Five, people like guns. There are signs on the sides of roads promoting gun ownership, revering guns, advertising gun shows. Kids play with toy guns like it's no big thing. What's with all the guns, folks? Are we afraid the corn fields are going to rise up and attack us?
Six, aforementioned corn. Everywhere. All the time.
Seven, those crazy accents I anticipated really do exist. And my neighbor even said "Don't you know?" in that fantastically Canadian way us East-coasters imagine people out here talk. Also, someone told me to "yak it up"(read "Yayk it uop") with my hubby. Apparently that's English.
Eight, everyone who finds out that we moved from North Carolina asks us why in the world we would move to Wisconsin and then they proceed to tell us the winters aren't really "that bad." They are lying through their teeth and I can see them holding back a mixture of hilarity and pity in their eyes. My neighbor actually admitted that he wants to watch us the first time we shovel our driveway. Possibly he'll bring popcorn. Maybe laughing at transplanted southerners is a form of winter entertainment during the dark months around here.
Nine, water fountains are now bubblers. I shall never call them that. At least not with a straight face.
Ten, and I'll end with a straight-up nice one, the people are awesome. Down to earth, friendly and helpful. Our neighbors invited us over for "brats" the 2nd night we were here and are now good friends. A group of people we'd never met before helped us unload our moving van and provided friends for my son, as well as a heavenly coffee cake, towels and sheets so we wouldn't have to find ours that first night in a new house. They are now good friends, too. How could they not be? The coffee shop people are nice, the toll booth people smile and I promise you I met the friendliest receptionist ever born at my son's dentist office. She should have an award for nicest human.
So, Wisconsin, four months down, countless months to go. I love your accents and will continue to enjoy encountering your quirks of culture and language. Thanks for providing the prettiest summer weather ever to welcome us here - surely it provided a good enough foundation for us to make it through the winter that, apparently, started today with our first flakes of snow.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Why We Wait
In church yesterday, I sat down with tears streaming down my face. I know this might be a regular occurrence for some people, but I'd rather become a dog-feces collector at the local park than cry in public. But there was this moment- just a few words in a song- that reminded me again of why we continue to wait. Why, in the face of loss, frustration and no change in our circumstances, we continue to hold onto hope that we will become a family of four.
There was a line in the song that spoke of God being the father to the fatherless. And many times I've sung that and not thought it through very far. Not thought about all the individual stories I've now heard about children out in the world who are legally or effectively parentless. Whose stories, even if they end in good, have started off hard. Have begun with loss and grief. A lot of people think adopting an infant will make it easier on that infant who never knew a different life but doctors now know that even those little ones know. They know they were taken from the arms of the woman who carried them for 9 months and placed with strangers. They need reassurance, to build trust, to learn to love. And no matter how amazing their adoptive families may turn out to be, the story of loss will still be there. It was never intended for them to lose so much so young. But it happens to way more children than we can even fathom.
So, why do we continue to wait? Not because we're amazing or particularly good at waiting. Not because this process is fun and enjoyable and we want to prolong this period of invasive questioning and interminable inaction. Some people have said to me "I could never do that." I always think first, "Well, goodness, neither can I." Who really can? God alone is really the father to the fatherless, really the only one who can fill any of us, can redeem any of our losses. By saying yes to adoption we are not saying we are amazing parents sent to heal a child. We aren't saying we have better coping skills or that we are the "right" family for a little kid to come into. We don't believe we have it more together than most of the families we meet. In fact, the whole home study process really shines a light into all the ways you don't have it together in ways you never realized. All we are saying is that there is a need that we can fill and a missing place at our dinner table. And while well-intentioned people who love us tell us whichever child comes into our life will be lucky to have us, privileged to be a part of our family, I know in my heart it will be the other way around. That this child, this one we've been waiting for, will cause us to be overwhelmed with gratitude. Just like our firstborn biological child, we'll struggle through those early feedings and sleep-deprivation and wonder (guiltily) what we were thinking. Just like him, we'll marvel at her first words and cheer when she takes her first steps. We'll agonize when she's sick, we'll teach her the abc's and soccer (which are equally as important, by the way), and we'll watch her while she's sleeping, careful not to wake her, wondering what dreams a little baby has. And we will look at each other all the time and say "Where did she come from? How did we get this gift?", just like we do with our son who came to us another way.
So, we hope and wait. Not to be someone's savior, not to change someone's life, but for the life that is going to radically change ours.
There was a line in the song that spoke of God being the father to the fatherless. And many times I've sung that and not thought it through very far. Not thought about all the individual stories I've now heard about children out in the world who are legally or effectively parentless. Whose stories, even if they end in good, have started off hard. Have begun with loss and grief. A lot of people think adopting an infant will make it easier on that infant who never knew a different life but doctors now know that even those little ones know. They know they were taken from the arms of the woman who carried them for 9 months and placed with strangers. They need reassurance, to build trust, to learn to love. And no matter how amazing their adoptive families may turn out to be, the story of loss will still be there. It was never intended for them to lose so much so young. But it happens to way more children than we can even fathom.
So, why do we continue to wait? Not because we're amazing or particularly good at waiting. Not because this process is fun and enjoyable and we want to prolong this period of invasive questioning and interminable inaction. Some people have said to me "I could never do that." I always think first, "Well, goodness, neither can I." Who really can? God alone is really the father to the fatherless, really the only one who can fill any of us, can redeem any of our losses. By saying yes to adoption we are not saying we are amazing parents sent to heal a child. We aren't saying we have better coping skills or that we are the "right" family for a little kid to come into. We don't believe we have it more together than most of the families we meet. In fact, the whole home study process really shines a light into all the ways you don't have it together in ways you never realized. All we are saying is that there is a need that we can fill and a missing place at our dinner table. And while well-intentioned people who love us tell us whichever child comes into our life will be lucky to have us, privileged to be a part of our family, I know in my heart it will be the other way around. That this child, this one we've been waiting for, will cause us to be overwhelmed with gratitude. Just like our firstborn biological child, we'll struggle through those early feedings and sleep-deprivation and wonder (guiltily) what we were thinking. Just like him, we'll marvel at her first words and cheer when she takes her first steps. We'll agonize when she's sick, we'll teach her the abc's and soccer (which are equally as important, by the way), and we'll watch her while she's sleeping, careful not to wake her, wondering what dreams a little baby has. And we will look at each other all the time and say "Where did she come from? How did we get this gift?", just like we do with our son who came to us another way.
So, we hope and wait. Not to be someone's savior, not to change someone's life, but for the life that is going to radically change ours.
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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 ...
