Little (Unnecessary) Helpers

Anabel (2 years old) sat on the counter next to me while I made beef stew this morning. When I measured a tsp. of salt and poured it in, she yelled, "No! Me!" She wanted to help. So I measured one tbsp. dried parsley and gave her the spoon.  I made sure to hold it over the pot when I handed it to her, and I kept close lest she pour parsley all over the stove, onto herself or ate it.  She put on a very serious face, and though I joke about her clumsiness, she proceeded very slowly and got it all in pretty much by herself. We did the same thing with the oregano, and I enjoyed her participation, the closeness between us, and her great effort.

I was struck by her seriousness, her desire to join me and how she seemed to really think that she was playing a crucial role. And in a way, I played along. I thanked her after each spice and commented on how she'd gotten it all in.

And then it hit me: How deluded am I to ever think that I am helping God? Creator and Master of the universe, who with a word calls into existence that which did not exist.  He who can raise the dead and multiply food, does he need me to assist in any of his work? Clearly not. Yet I walk around deceived by how necessary I think I am, how indispensable to the healing, educating, correcting, etc. of the world.  Not only do I walk with pride in my essentialness, I walk in worry and fatigue by the weight of the tasks in front of me.  If I don't do this or that, who will? How often have I thought, "I better not get sick this week!"? And sadly, if I'm really honest here, I've found myself more important than others thinking I can do things that others can't or I can do them better. The common, "You better let me handle this" or the uglier, "Just let me do it!"

Now let me stop for a second and tell you that I've always hated the idea that since God has everything in his hands and he's in control, we can just rest and dream of eternity. I've been truly saddened by folks who continue in broken relationships, doing very little to break unhealthy patterns, but boasting on how much they pray about it and how great their faith is that God will do it. No, I believe in working hard for a better world, whether by reading some Brené Brown or John Gottman, being educated and mindful of the suffering in the world, and of course, recycling.

But today, as I pictured myself sitting on God's counter, watching him make the delicious stew of healing, restoring and cultivation, I realized this: any work that I do, that he let's me take part in, is the sweet invitation of the Father letting his child come close, participate with him, and learn to hold spoons a little more steadily.  So often I miss this!  Most of the time I think I work alone, tired and bitter at others that I don't see working (please hear the "I don't see," not that they are not). I miss out on the excitement of joining God who is making something much more beautiful than I can imagine.  All I see is a teaspoon of oregano or parsley here or there and he sees a delicious stew simmering until dinner.

Regularly, I walk around exhausted thinking that I have to be in control and work so hard because I'm the one making things happen. This is as silly as Anabel thinking that she's making the whole stew.  Imagine the mess she would make if I let her attempt a meal on her own! How ridiculous is that idea! And yet I think that's what I'm doing on a grander scale all the time. I put on myself the weight of my children's physical and emotional wellbeing, my husband's happiness, my extended family's unity, my friends' comfort, and so on. When really, all I can help with is a teaspoon of this or that here and there, and even then, with lots of guidance and help, which I often fail to see. And that tiny amount of help that I contribute is really no help at all because if he really wanted something done, with a word it would happen and it would be better.

But he does invite. He plans for my participation. He remains close and guides my work even when I don't recognize him.  Any good that I manage to do in the world, he smiles like a proud Daddy and rejoices in the fact that it's changing and molding me more than anyone else.

This Is Your Life

I sat next to my 2-year-old who laid in bed, not taking a nap. She wiggled and turned over and over. She grabbed my arm, which caressed her forehead and hair, and tried to play with my watch.  The whole time I thought,

- When she falls asleep I'll get started on the laundry.
- When she falls asleep I can respond to emails.
- OMG, when is she going to fall asleep?
- It's been fifteen minutes, how long is this going to take?

And then we made eye contact, and she gave me this mischievous I-know-I-should-be-sleeping-but-I'm-so-cute smile, while hugging my arm.

During a similar waiting season of my life, my friend Cindy told me something like, "The waiting is your life. You have to start living in the waiting." As my 2yo made eye contact and she smiled at me, not sleeping, Cindy's words ran through my mind, and they changed my life, again.  Call me slow, but it takes two or seven times for me to really start to learn something.

Stinking waiting. I hate waiting. And if there's something I hate more than waiting, it's waiting without knowing.  At least if I know for certain that some outcome will take place, I can try to imagine it, prepare for it, anticipate the joy of it. But waiting without knowing, it's torture.  Depending on what you're waiting for, I guess.

On this particular day, I was just waiting for chores.  But the moment Cindy's words flooded my mind again, it was the bigger waiting that also came to mind.  Waiting for the perfect part-time job. Waiting for a tenure-track position for my love. Waiting for healing in that one relationship. Waiting without knowing if and when those things might take place.

Now my mind is like the highways in Houston, where 59 and I-10 and 45 all criss-cross.

Songs frequently pop in my mind, usually connected to a phrase someone says.  So when I heard Cindy's voice saying, "The waiting is your life," Switchfoot's song began to play, "This is your life, are you who you want to be?" (which I've decided to listen to while I continue writing).

In the room with my #2, the decision was easy, I was going to stop focusing on the waiting and really begin to notice her. I noticed how she hugged my arm with her chubby hand and noticed her perfect almond-shaped, almost black eyes.  After about 45 minutes, I noticed the time and decided to get her up and have her join me in my chores. 

About the others, I still have to decide how I will wait.  It's not that I stop waiting. I hate hearing married people tell single people, "When you stop waiting for him (or her), that's when they'll show up."  That's crap. No one knows if and when they'll show up. The waiting doesn't stop, even if I pretend I'm not waiting.  The longing, whatever longing, continues. Sometimes it's drowned in busy work or partying or writing - ha! - but it's still there.

But this is my life. Am I who I want to be? Well, no. I need to be careful, though, that I don't get confused and think that I'm not who I want to be because I don't have that thing I'm waiting for. Because likely, if I'm not who I want to be now, I won't be either once I get that thing.  I think the reality is that right now, in the waiting, I can move toward being who I want to be. There is so much, in this present moment, in the waiting, to cultivate, to work with, to notice.

A new friend, who is in a similar waiting season, has been teaching me a lot about cultivating in the present moment.  Just like me, she doesn't know how long she'll live here, whether her husband's job will be renewed.  This week, she showed me the cactus she's planting in her front flower bed and all the native plants she got for her back yard.  She registered for classes, even though she doesn't know if she'll be here long enough to finish her degree.  And after only a couple of months living here, she knows so much about the area - cool hiking spots, community events - that she seems like a long time local.  This is her life, and she's living it. She's still waiting, I think, for a stable life, to stop moving so much, to be able to focus on her career. But she's living all the while, while she waits.

Can I Cry in Front of You?

I recently listened to a woman describe her shame about crying during her first chemo. She didn't describe it as such, but the way she talked, it sounded like shame to me. Feeling like she was less, weak, wanting to hide.

I can't imagine what it must feel like to be diagnosed with cancer. To sit through numerous doctor's visits at which the topic of conversation is my life expectancy. But crying during the first chemo session is not something I would consider shameful.  Talking with some new friends later, I realized, this woman is not alone.  Though I have not experienced chemotherapy and the emotional rollercoaster that being diagnosed with cancer must be, I, too, have often felt shame for displaying certain emotions publicly.

Not all public displays of emotions trigger shame, but in my experience, it's the ones that we'd consider negative that seem to make people particularly uncomfortable.

Our two-year-old will not smile just to make people happy.

And I love that!

During my first year of marriage, I quickly realized that my husband and I became angry over very different things. In fact, I realized that my husband was more prone to anger, and I was more prone to sadness.  Sundays were one of the few days of the week that we would ride in the car together toward a place where punctuality kind of mattered: church.  Our apartment was next to a megachurch (not the church we attended), which created a lot of traffic, both car and pedestrian. So there we were, most Sundays running late, and my husband would begin to rant.  There were bad, slow, or unaware or inconsiderate drivers. There were pedestrians who allowed their tiny children to walk across the street with their tiny little legs at their very slow pace.  There were lights that turned red at the most inconvenient times. And the ranting grew, sometimes into expletives.

Sitting next to him, I became more and more uncomfortable because I wasn't experiencing the same emotions he was; I wasn't as bothered the drivers or the children or the lights.  I was definitely affected by his anger, but without understanding it, I didn't know how to respond. I remember now going through a process of responses.  At first, I became super quiet, unsure what I should say, totally uncomfortable. The emotional response I saw and heard (boy did I hear it) oozing out of him was not one I could relate to.  I didn't want to engage him, but I couldn't ignore him either.   The next response was to become aggravated with him for reacting to this situation differently than I would.  In my mind, this was not a good reason to become so angry, and yelling at people who couldn't hear him was not doing any good.  Of course, this second response was not good for my marriage, especially if I vocalized it.  Anger at drivers soon became anger at me, and with good reason.  Why should my emotion be the correct one?!  My last response, though looking back, I'm not sure it was a good one, was to sort of join him.  I could not honestly become angry at traffic, but I would pretend to, jokingly.  I sort of mocked him, began to curse at traffic myself and became even louder than he was.  We would both laugh and his anger would subside.  Thankfully, he didn't take offense at this, though maybe he should have, because what I wanted was to diffuse the situation to make myself feel more comfortable.

Going back to the woman undergoing chemo, I doubt that anyone in the room would have judged her, and she didn't describe that happening.  In fact, I imagine that many if not all could relate to her.  But living in a world where "negative" emotions make people uncomfortable, often I think we want to hide them, unsure how others will respond.  If I cry in public, all of the sudden I become extremely aware of the strangers around me, instantly caring about their well-being, their discomfort, their questioning looks, and possibly their judgment.  If I show offense at someone's joke, I might be seen as uncool, uptight or too serious. And this has been going on since childhood.  Who hasn't heard the threat, "Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about"? Too common is the idea of telling a child, often a boy, to toughen up.

On the flip side, when I see others display emotions that I can't relate to or am not currently experiencing, what is my response?  Is it difficult for me to be close without feeling the same things? Can I engage even if I can't understand?

After nine years of marriage, I've become a lot more comfortable with my husband's anger at things that I would consider trivial: traffic, clumsiness. But I also experience emotions that don't make sense to him (do I ever!).  There are times when I don't even understand my emotions, but they are still very real.  So what's the deal with having to either understand others' emotions or feel the same way? Why can't we just allow others to feel whatever they feel, and if it's our place, with a friend, spouse, child, provide whatever comfort or sympathy we can.  Who knows why we experience so many things differently? Personality, family of origin, sleep deprivation, hormones, or past hurts.

Sometimes, the only true thing to say is, "I'm sorry you feel this way."  It's not my fault, nor my responsibility, but I am truly sorry that another human being is feeling something other than happy.  Trying to manipulate others to act happy to make me feel comfortable doesn't seem like the answer.  In fact, as a parent I've noticed that the opposite is true.

My two and four-year-old daughters often feel things that I can't match.  They cry over a doll that doesn't balance on their shoulders.  They throw themselves on the floor in anger after being unable to open a cabinet door.  My least favorite, the helpless arms hanging lifeless with eyes rolled back as if dying because she can't seem to buckle her seatbelt.  Not only can I not match their emotions, often I find myself annoyed or angered by them.  I want to scream, "THIS IS NOT AN APPROPRIATE RESPONSE!" But in that moment, appropriate or not, it's what they have; it's all they can offer.  And that I can relate to.

What my husband and I have realized is that usually all they want is for us to notice and sympathize. In our better moments, we'll say, "Oh no, that stinks," "Aww, I'm so sorry that happened," or "Oh man, that seems really hard."  Of course, it's the tone, the actual sympathy that usually begins to break down the intense emotion and allows them to move past it.  More often than not, they look at us when wailing their arms and it's our response that makes it either escalate or gradually subside.

I think that's all we ever want from others. They don't have to understand.  They don't have to agree.  They definitely don't have to feel the same way.  We just want someone to see our pain, to really see us, even in our less than happy moment, and accept us where we are.

A Mom and Then Some

I quit my job of seven years in May, moved from St. Louis to Dallas in June, had my third child in July, and moved to San Marcos in August. Needless to say, I've been going through a lot of changes. Surprisingly, though, the slap-in-the-face shock has been my new role as a stay-at-home mom.  I knew it would be an adjustment, specially since I'm such an extrovert, but I never expected the identity crisis, the guilt and the boredom.

"Boredom?" You might ask, "How can you be bored when there's so much to do?" True, my to-do list is never complete.  I can't keep up with laundry because the little one spits on everything and my two-year-old is still mastering the spoon.  I barely manage the time to grocery shop and cook meals that are both healthy and appetizing to a four and two year old. Knowing my need for adult socialization, I've also carved some time to meet up with other moms and interest groups a few times per week.  With all this going on, I still haven't unpacked everything, and I never sleep or shower enough.

So, not without activities or chores to tackle, but bored. I used to think thoughts that were bigger than my home. My former life included weekly conversations with other adults that covered everything from Black Lives Matter to the existence of God to gender identity confusion in children. These days, I spend my nursing time taking turns reading the news, watching TED Talks, some fiction and other interesting articles that are currently trending on Facebook.  But as a verbal processor, I miss the mental sparring I used to enjoy when I facilitated a seminar on diversity at work or when my office mate and I would get into conversations about cultural differences in our students.

While I'm grateful for other moms in my life to commiserate with and exchange child anecdotes, I'm not used to my conversations being mostly about diapers and breastmilk.  More than that, I'm not used to my identity being mostly about this one role.  I love my children, more than that, I delight in them. Each of them bring a new and exciting personality into my family that continues to surprise and bring joy to my soul.  But up until now, during the first four and half years of my role as a mother, I also busily enjoyed several other roles that brought great delight and pride to my life.  My world was bigger than just my family and my home.  My world included fighting for equity in education for minority children.  My world was full of a diverse group of co-workers and a community that challenged my tendency toward comfort and entitlement.  My world was a balancing act of priorities, constantly trying to figure out whether it was more important to make a home-cooked meal and spend an extra hour with my kids or stay for that meeting at work which might influence curriculum to be more culturally sensitive for hundreds of children.  I loved that world. And I feel guilty that this one is not satisfying.

Not only that, I feel guilty that even though I'm not working and influencing the world the way I used to, I'm also not enriching my children's lives the way they used to be when they attended an amazing school.  I don't do finger painting multiples times per week, or at all, let's be honest. I don't sit on the floor for hours and introduce new shapes and textures like their teachers used to do.  I try to plan play dates, but I don't know if my two-year-old is socializing enough.  Do I even talk to her enough during the day?

So there's the identity crisis.  I am no longer the leader, facilitator, teacher, advocate I used to be, but I don't feel like a successful stay-at-home mom either.  I don't regularly experience the joy and pride one feels at the end of a long day doing what you love, and I feel guilty that staying at home with my kids is not the vocation that brings me that joy.  Being a mom is part of who I am, but I'm missing a bunch of parts that I think in the end made me a better mom.

So this is what I've realized: the world I was a part of six months ago easily offered outlets for my many thoughts and gifts.  Thanks to my former job and scheduled childcare for my children, I could join committees and groups in which to exercise my non-domestic gifts and talents.  There were titles that brought pride and evaluations that affirmed and appreciated my hard work.  But just because I don't work outside the home anymore doesn't mean that the part of me that came alive through those activities has to die or be put on hold until my kids are older.  I just have to figure out how to create opportunities to resurrect a part of me that is unseen or asleep in my stay-at-home life.  I might have to create organizations of my own or start discussion groups in my home to provide an outlet for a part of me I'm not willing to let go of.

After a weekend with two strong women, friends who knew the me of six months ago and got to see the me that lives this new stay-at-home life, I was reminded a little bit of who I am.  I was encouraged to be more me.  I want to live my life being constantly reminded that the world is bigger than my kitchen, that my children are not the only ones that matter and my gifts are a resource I must give back to my community.

Writing

The first few pages of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society have inspired me to write. To write what? I don't know. Just write. If you haven't read it, the book is all letters from one character to another, to another and another. Friends, strangers, co-workers, etc. and it makes me want to write letters, too. Hand-written letters to everyone. I still hand write some letters for birthdays or special circumstances, but I always feel like I need to be saying something really important. Not in this book, the characters write the way we email now or send texts. The random thoughts or running commentary about life and its details. I guess maybe increasing my random emails would be nice. I shouldn't think I have to have a good reason to write an email. Thinking of someone and how they're connected to some random event in my life is a good reason! Imagine how special you would feel if you knew every time someone thought of you. It would probably freak you to know how much some people think about you.  Now I'm not being mean, I'm thinking about how much I would freak people out if they knew my thoughts and how much I think of them. So yeah, let's not start writing everyone about every one of our thoughts, but being tactful and careful about obsessions, more writing, more emails, more texts, and definitely more hand-written notes could improve a lot of our relationships. And writing, just for myself, for self-reflection, for thanksgiving, jotting down memories or even working through difficult emotions could really transform my own experience of the world and the world's experience of me. 

Some light reading that supports this kind of writing:

- Opening Up: The Healing Power of Expressing Emotions by J.W. Pennebaker

- "Sharing one's story: On the benefits of writing or talking about emotional experience." by Kate G. Niederhoffer, and J.W. Pennebaker.

- "The health benefits of writing about intensely positive experiences" by 

Chad M Burton and 

Laura A King.