Recently Anne Lamott started something on Facebook. She talked about a friend of hers who struggles with an awful rash and how, when Anne tried to identify with her friend, she couldn't actually possess her own suffering. What I mean is she remarked that she had friends who had cancer and friends who'd lost their home...the "those worse off than me" concept.
Anne opened up her Facebook page to the whiners and complainers...she gave us all free reign to own those things which have been bugging us, weighing us down, tearing us apart. The response was amazing. There was no belittling our own hurts and struggles...there were posts about health issues, loss of jobs, visiting mother in laws, and annoying pets. One lady called her son an "asshat" which made I adored. Another lady of 60+ years had lost her job and threatened the next person who promised her "when God closes a door, He opens a window" that she would respond with "F--- Off." It was beautiful. No one told anyone their problems weren't that bad. No one one-upped anyone else. No one threatened the lady's salvation because she had used the "F Word".
For once we could wail "It's not fair" without the trite responses the world often gives us. Or being made to feel guilty because there are those worse off than us.
Don't get me wrong...I know for a fact that there are people worse off than me. And I'm aware that keeping that in mind is important in keeping my perspective. The danger is that I can be so aware of it that I ignore or refuse to acknowledge my own suffering.
When I was a little girl living with my Grandma, she had a strategy. Every time I started feeling sorry for myself, she gave me my scrap book and the collection of Macon Telegraph newspapers waiting to be delivered to recycling. My job was to find stories of children that were worse off than me and put them in my scrap book. There were stories of children fleeing their homes from war torn countries, children whose homes had been lost in fires, stories of children who'd been abused far worse than me. There was actually a story from an article about play therapy...I figured any girl who put the doll family in the oven must be worse off than me.
I needed that perspective. I was admittedly a brat who needed to know how good I had it. But I also needed permission to say that I'd been hurt, that life wasn't fair, and that bad things had happened. I learned to not talk about feeling bad so that I wouldn't have to break out the scrap book and that habit continued until as a young adult I began struggling with depression so bad I couldn't get out of bed and attempted suicide twice.
Why we need permission to own our pain and struggles I don't know...but we do. Especially as Christians. We are told we have to be joyful and God makes all things beautiful...and all things work together for the good of those who love Him...and that is all true. But no where does it say, so stop your whining. In fact, David was well known for going to God and being honest with his struggles. It makes up the entire book of Psalms. And yes, we will always be able to find those who have it worse. But a therapist gave me this example: If your child comes in and they've scraped their knee and it's all torn up and bleeding and the child is crying, you go to that child and you kiss and comfort and get the antibiotic cream and the band aid. In the midst of that, your other child comes in and has broken their leg...well, obviously the broken leg needs immediate attention and therefore becomes the priority. But that doesn't mean we look at the child with the gashed leg and tell them their leg no longer hurts because the other child is hurt worse.
And when someone owns their pain, be okay with not having the answers. Be okay with just listening. Say "I'm sorry for your pain" but don't try to be logical with it. Sometimes there is no "why"! Job's friends sit with him for two weeks without speaking and offering comfort. As soon as they open their mouth, they mess it up. They try to explain why these bad things must be happening and all they do is cause hurt. God finally shows up and never gives the "why" but the comfort that He is God, He has not lost control, and He knows that Job is suffering. And Job is content with that. One thing I noticed in the Facebook thread is how much dangerous pat answers, cliches, and attempts to answer the why had hurt others.
When my Grandma died from cancer, I was destroyed. My grief went beyond tears. And I was angry...at God...because I couldn't figure out who else to be angry at for the loss of someone who loved me so much. And someone, a well meaning someone, came up to me and told me God needed good biscuits in heaven and so He had to take my Grandma. I decided then and there God must be a selfish, mean God and I wanted no part of Him. And I kept that promise for years. Until I was 16 years old, I wanted nothing to do with God because He seemed random and cruel. And as illogical as it was, part of my theory included the fact He had taken my Grandma from me because He couldn't make biscuits.
Here's the thing, I think it is time we allow ourselves the right to go to God and trusted friends with our hurts, fears, and pain. I think we have the kind of relationship with God where we can trust that He is good and faithful while at the same time telling him this and that suck and we cannot for the life of us figure out why it has to be this way. I think we find friends who can say "you are right, that does suck and there isn't anything I can do about it but love you through it" I think it is time that we are those friends. I think in doing so, we learn more about loving others and about empathy. I think we become stronger and that we build stronger relationships. I'm not advocating one continuous pity party. At the end of the day, despite the fact it sucks, you still have to make the best of it. But there's a difference in stuffing or ignoring problems and persevering through them. And I think perseverance means recognizing the issues not turning a blind eye.
So, I'm no Anne Lamott, but I'm here..so fire away!
Monday, December 9, 2013
Monday, November 4, 2013
New Journeys and Dreams
I once learned that the Hebrews had no actual word for repentance. Instead, they call it "Teshuvah" which can quite literally be translated "a new journey" or "return" This is because the concept of teshuvah doesn't just mean saying "I'm sorry" but also a true repentance and a new behavior. I'd encourage you to research the full meaning...it's quite beautiful.
I've always loved the concept. But I have to tell you the other day I was thinking I'd had too many "new journeys" in my life. It had hit me that I'm on a new journey right now...and that I have no idea where we are going or what I will be doing or what it will look like once we get there. I sort of went "another one...really Lord?"
And suddenly, I realized I had the title for my book. That book I've always wanted to write but haven't. That goal I set for myself back when I was nine years old writing really cheesey fiction stories and poetry that was just...well, bad.
I am resolving to write it. I am not resolving to get it published. We'll see what it looks like at the end of it. I'm giving myself a year. My computer died and even the most gifted hands could not resurrect it so I'm writing everything in notebooks and then putting it on the blog. I have a special notebook for the book since I'm not planning on putting it on here (at least, not yet planning to) and it feels more like a journal.
Working on this has made me curious...what is that one thing that you want to do but haven't? Why haven't you? What's holding you back?
Feel free to share!
I've always loved the concept. But I have to tell you the other day I was thinking I'd had too many "new journeys" in my life. It had hit me that I'm on a new journey right now...and that I have no idea where we are going or what I will be doing or what it will look like once we get there. I sort of went "another one...really Lord?"
And suddenly, I realized I had the title for my book. That book I've always wanted to write but haven't. That goal I set for myself back when I was nine years old writing really cheesey fiction stories and poetry that was just...well, bad.
I am resolving to write it. I am not resolving to get it published. We'll see what it looks like at the end of it. I'm giving myself a year. My computer died and even the most gifted hands could not resurrect it so I'm writing everything in notebooks and then putting it on the blog. I have a special notebook for the book since I'm not planning on putting it on here (at least, not yet planning to) and it feels more like a journal.
Working on this has made me curious...what is that one thing that you want to do but haven't? Why haven't you? What's holding you back?
Feel free to share!
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Dear Teenage Girl...
Dear Teenage Girl,
The one who is staring at my teenage son. He's adorable isn't he? Tall, nice hair, strong chin. Great smile. You are thinking of ways to start a conversation, wondering what he likes or doesn't like, wondering if he likes you. You want to get his attention.
Here is where it gets messy.
Media, culture, the music you listen to, possibly your friends have taught you that the way to get his attention is by getting him to notice your body. You might wear your shirts too low, your pants too tight, or your dress too...everything. Without even thinking about it, you have listened to society and not only given my son permission to objectify you, but actually objectified yourself.
There are mothers who will look down on you. Call you names. See your pictures on Facebook and demand their son "unfriend you" because they don't want their son looking at those pictures or relating to those girls or...whatever. I'm not that Mom. I'm more aware than that of the pressures and messages you and my son get every day, all around you. I am not going to be just one more person who judges or objectifies you. I am aware that no matter where my son is, there are images he will have to see and he has to learn to look beyond them to the man and person he wants to be.
I will tell you that as awesome as my son is...and he is awesome...he is not worth you doing that to yourself. I will tell you that the time you spent wondering if you are as pretty as the other girls, if you are pretty enough for this guy or that guy to like you, and if your clothes make you look fat isn't worth it. I will tell you that the worry and fear of measuring up that causes you to despair...even to the point of not eating, throwing up, and hurting yourself is not worth it.
Be kind to yourself. Be kind to the girls around you. Give each other permission to dress in a t-shirt and jogging pants if you feel like it. Celebrate who you are. The brain and talent you have is what defines you...not the cleavage. There are those that will tell you that dressing in revealing clothing and showing that much of yourself is "freeing" and flying in the face of convention...that it is what it takes to be a strong, independent young woman. That's a lie. And a trap.
My son has grown up with certain values. Some of those I have taught them. Some of them were influenced by other men in his life. A good many of them he developed himself...sometimes as a result of having a sister that he loves very much. He has discovered that he can look at each girl as someone's sister and he will treat each girl like he wants his sister to be treated. He made a choice long ago to abstain from sex until after he is married and he has stuck to that. He actually had a girl break up with him because of it! My son will respect you. Listen to you (well...most of the time). And treat you well. It'll help if you watch The Walking Dead...then you will have something to talk about. I will welcome you into our home and along with our adventures. Feel free to be yourself. But value yourself. If my son lets himself and me down and disrespects you, fails to live up to his principles, or isn't acting like the man he hopes to be...walk away. It's the same for any boy or man you date. They do not define your worth. You do. And when you value yourself, you inadvertently demand to be treated with value. Not in a loud, obnoxious way...but by every action, word, and attitude. Be confident in who you are. My son is definitely more likely to want to date you. But more importantly, you are more likely to be happy with yourself and your life.
Sincerely,
A Mom
PS My son and his sister are very close. If you treat him wrong, he isn't likely to tell me about it. But he will definitely tell her. And she will most likely tell you how she feels about it. Just something to keep in mind...
The one who is staring at my teenage son. He's adorable isn't he? Tall, nice hair, strong chin. Great smile. You are thinking of ways to start a conversation, wondering what he likes or doesn't like, wondering if he likes you. You want to get his attention.
Here is where it gets messy.
Media, culture, the music you listen to, possibly your friends have taught you that the way to get his attention is by getting him to notice your body. You might wear your shirts too low, your pants too tight, or your dress too...everything. Without even thinking about it, you have listened to society and not only given my son permission to objectify you, but actually objectified yourself.
There are mothers who will look down on you. Call you names. See your pictures on Facebook and demand their son "unfriend you" because they don't want their son looking at those pictures or relating to those girls or...whatever. I'm not that Mom. I'm more aware than that of the pressures and messages you and my son get every day, all around you. I am not going to be just one more person who judges or objectifies you. I am aware that no matter where my son is, there are images he will have to see and he has to learn to look beyond them to the man and person he wants to be.
I will tell you that as awesome as my son is...and he is awesome...he is not worth you doing that to yourself. I will tell you that the time you spent wondering if you are as pretty as the other girls, if you are pretty enough for this guy or that guy to like you, and if your clothes make you look fat isn't worth it. I will tell you that the worry and fear of measuring up that causes you to despair...even to the point of not eating, throwing up, and hurting yourself is not worth it.
Be kind to yourself. Be kind to the girls around you. Give each other permission to dress in a t-shirt and jogging pants if you feel like it. Celebrate who you are. The brain and talent you have is what defines you...not the cleavage. There are those that will tell you that dressing in revealing clothing and showing that much of yourself is "freeing" and flying in the face of convention...that it is what it takes to be a strong, independent young woman. That's a lie. And a trap.
My son has grown up with certain values. Some of those I have taught them. Some of them were influenced by other men in his life. A good many of them he developed himself...sometimes as a result of having a sister that he loves very much. He has discovered that he can look at each girl as someone's sister and he will treat each girl like he wants his sister to be treated. He made a choice long ago to abstain from sex until after he is married and he has stuck to that. He actually had a girl break up with him because of it! My son will respect you. Listen to you (well...most of the time). And treat you well. It'll help if you watch The Walking Dead...then you will have something to talk about. I will welcome you into our home and along with our adventures. Feel free to be yourself. But value yourself. If my son lets himself and me down and disrespects you, fails to live up to his principles, or isn't acting like the man he hopes to be...walk away. It's the same for any boy or man you date. They do not define your worth. You do. And when you value yourself, you inadvertently demand to be treated with value. Not in a loud, obnoxious way...but by every action, word, and attitude. Be confident in who you are. My son is definitely more likely to want to date you. But more importantly, you are more likely to be happy with yourself and your life.
Sincerely,
A Mom
PS My son and his sister are very close. If you treat him wrong, he isn't likely to tell me about it. But he will definitely tell her. And she will most likely tell you how she feels about it. Just something to keep in mind...
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Letting My Freak Flag Fly
Thanks to a friend of mine, I scored a temp job doing data entry at Giant Impact. Among other things, this is the company that organizes Catalyst. When she texted me asking if I was interested in the job I didn't ask where it was located, what we were doing, etc...
All I knew is I hadn't gotten out of my pajamas until four o'clock the day before and the pink fuzzy pants really needed a rest! I'd actually prayed the night before, "Dear God, please...do something"
So, I drove up to the Giant Impact office. Filled out my paperwork. Took my seat in front of a computer. And started entering the data from thousands of contact cards.
Sometime around lunch I sent my friend the following text: "OMG! I waited until later to take my lunch break because I was trying to avoid people and small talk and stuff! But there is constant traffic in the breakroom and since I am the only person in here and everyone is so nice...they are ALL talking to me!"
And my wonderful, understanding, fellow quirky friend texted back "Eat outside on the patio. It's what I do"
A little later, I sent another text to my friend (who has worked with me, knows me well, and would understand) "YES! I haven't burst into song ALL day!!!" And she texted me back and simply asked "Why?" To which I replied "Because it's SO quiet in here...like a library! And everyone would hear me...and that would be bad."
It's horrible isn't it? Walking into a room, wanting to fit in, wanting people to like you, wanting to avoid the looks that say "you are strange"...So I acted normal as long as I could.
Three days. It took three days.
It was inevitable I suppose. Made more inevitable by the fact that when I bragged to my kids on the night of the second day that I'd managed to be normal for two days my daughter immediately lectured me on the fact that I was amazing, that all my quirks made me that way, and that she was taking away my "freak flag" because I was unworthy of it. (I wasn't aware of the fact that I had a freak flag. Or that it existed. I now want a pride flag, a freak flag, and a pole standing in my front yard so both of them can fly proudly)
At first it was only a crack...I didn't actually sing out loud but I did mouth the words and dance a little. I freaked out a little more than I should when I thought I'd messed something up so people heard that weird tone in my voice I get when stressed and then my obsessive need to know everything. Because of that I made a couple of theatre references that no one got. And then, when we finished a major assignment I asked our leader if we could celebrate with a song and dance number. My first clue that this group of people could handle my quirks was when, without missing a beat, he looked at his watch and replied "maybe at lunch".
The next day, our supervisor had bought us lunch and it was our first chance to really get to know each other. I was aware that I hadn't completely thrown the door open wide revealing how truly weird and socially awkward I was so I thought maybe I could just...play it cool. Then one girl noticed the other girl's burger and said "Oh my word, what happened to your bun?" And the other girl said "Oh...I have this weird thing with bread. Along with all my other weird things..." And I gleefully confessed how hard I'd been trying to appear normal and how truly odd and socially awkward I was. No one seemed that surprised. But that led to everyone sort of flying their own freak flag and the sharing of stories and after that we all felt much more comfortable just being ourselves. Well...I still haven't sang out loud. It really is quiet like a library.
Be yourself, guys. Chances are...everyone is just waiting for the chance to be themselves too.
All I knew is I hadn't gotten out of my pajamas until four o'clock the day before and the pink fuzzy pants really needed a rest! I'd actually prayed the night before, "Dear God, please...do something"
So, I drove up to the Giant Impact office. Filled out my paperwork. Took my seat in front of a computer. And started entering the data from thousands of contact cards.
Sometime around lunch I sent my friend the following text: "OMG! I waited until later to take my lunch break because I was trying to avoid people and small talk and stuff! But there is constant traffic in the breakroom and since I am the only person in here and everyone is so nice...they are ALL talking to me!"
And my wonderful, understanding, fellow quirky friend texted back "Eat outside on the patio. It's what I do"
A little later, I sent another text to my friend (who has worked with me, knows me well, and would understand) "YES! I haven't burst into song ALL day!!!" And she texted me back and simply asked "Why?" To which I replied "Because it's SO quiet in here...like a library! And everyone would hear me...and that would be bad."
It's horrible isn't it? Walking into a room, wanting to fit in, wanting people to like you, wanting to avoid the looks that say "you are strange"...So I acted normal as long as I could.
Three days. It took three days.
It was inevitable I suppose. Made more inevitable by the fact that when I bragged to my kids on the night of the second day that I'd managed to be normal for two days my daughter immediately lectured me on the fact that I was amazing, that all my quirks made me that way, and that she was taking away my "freak flag" because I was unworthy of it. (I wasn't aware of the fact that I had a freak flag. Or that it existed. I now want a pride flag, a freak flag, and a pole standing in my front yard so both of them can fly proudly)
At first it was only a crack...I didn't actually sing out loud but I did mouth the words and dance a little. I freaked out a little more than I should when I thought I'd messed something up so people heard that weird tone in my voice I get when stressed and then my obsessive need to know everything. Because of that I made a couple of theatre references that no one got. And then, when we finished a major assignment I asked our leader if we could celebrate with a song and dance number. My first clue that this group of people could handle my quirks was when, without missing a beat, he looked at his watch and replied "maybe at lunch".
The next day, our supervisor had bought us lunch and it was our first chance to really get to know each other. I was aware that I hadn't completely thrown the door open wide revealing how truly weird and socially awkward I was so I thought maybe I could just...play it cool. Then one girl noticed the other girl's burger and said "Oh my word, what happened to your bun?" And the other girl said "Oh...I have this weird thing with bread. Along with all my other weird things..." And I gleefully confessed how hard I'd been trying to appear normal and how truly odd and socially awkward I was. No one seemed that surprised. But that led to everyone sort of flying their own freak flag and the sharing of stories and after that we all felt much more comfortable just being ourselves. Well...I still haven't sang out loud. It really is quiet like a library.
Be yourself, guys. Chances are...everyone is just waiting for the chance to be themselves too.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Mom Scale
I started forming this blog yesterday. This morning I woke to find this post on Momastery: Friendly Fire. Great minds think alike! Be sure to check it out. Today's message seems to be "Be kind. To yourself and others."
Yesterday one of the neighborhood kids was hanging out at my house. She was lamenting the fact her Mom couldn't afford to buy her a costume for Halloween. Before I knew it, my daughter had taken charge and with some brain storming, makeup, and things we had around the house the little girl was transformed into a kitty cat! She came up to me excitedly showing off her costume. I made some comment about how awesome and creative Embree is and Embree immediately replied that she got it from me. I started to argue when Trey reminded me of the time that I made costumes for some friends of theirs whose parents couldn't afford costumes. I had totally forgotten about it. I don't remember what we did for the girl, but I took a bunch of brown curtains out of a bag of household items someone had given me and along with a hiking stick, made what the boy swore was the coolest Gandalf costume ever. (He was also seriously impressed by the fact I knew who Gandalf was.)
Since becoming a Mom almost nineteen years ago, I step on the Mom Scale at least once (usually more) per day. I'm not sure if I do it to myself or the culture does it to me...or a combination of both. But what I do know is, when I look down at the scale, I rarely if ever see what I want to see. I never quite "measure up". But here is what I realize, when I look down at the scale, I see one thing...when my children peek over my shoulder at the scale, they see another.
The reason is that while I spend so much time focusing on where I fell short, what I got wrong, my mistakes and failures...my kids spend the majority of time focusing on what I did right.
They don't talk about all the nights I was too tired to read to them. But they will tell you about how we read the entire Chronicles of Narnia series and I did all the voices. (Bree will tell you to this day that the voice of Reepicheep in the movie is not right...because it isn't the voice I gave him.)
They might tell you about the years where Christmas was slim because I was so broke...but they are more likely to tell you about our tree cutting adventures, hot cocoa deluxe, and the years they got exactly what they wanted (and the fact that I often had help is seen more as the fact they are so loved by so many than the fact I didn't do what I needed to).
Ask them about my temper and the first story that comes to their mind is the time I lost it and let a bully coach have it while they sat in the car exclaiming "She put her hand on her hip!" and "OH, she's got BOTH hands on her hip!"
They may acknowledge that they knew about things like trafficking and poverty way before they actually wanted to but they will also tell you how they learned to really see a person because of me. To not just see a "prostitute" but the woman, life, and possibilities beneath the clothes, heels and makeup.
They will tell you about how they have come to me with questions and problems and we've dealt with them together. They will tell you I didn't chastise them when they struggled with their faith but stayed up to the wee hours of the morning talking through it. They will tell you about hugs, playing "hookie" and going to the park, growing up doing theatre together, games where I yelled louder than any other parent (okay...he might not actually enjoy that one! ha!).
If those are the memories and the stories my kids hold on to, why do I hold onto the stories where my daughter fell asleep in class because I was working two jobs and couldn't get them home from the sitter until after one in the morning, or how I lost my temper at Trey so many times, how I struggled to get my mind right after their dad left, or the times of financial difficulty?
Why am I so insistent on being unkind to myself?
I don't know. I don't know if it's my fault or society's fault or the television's fault. I don't know if it's the PTA Mom's fault when she looked at my packets of instant cocoa at the 3rd grade class party and remarked "Oh, I thought you were making home made cocoa" without caring how I'd used my lunch break and broken every speed limit to even be at the party. But here is what I do know, if I continue to step on the Mom Scale and see myself as a failure, it's my own choice. No one is forcing me to do so. As a matter of fact, if I choose to step on the scale and see myself as a failure, I am making my children, my friends, and members of my family out to be liars. I am telling them that all the kind things they say to me and about me are untrue. That the only thing that matters is what I see on the scale. And who in the world am I to say that? Who am I to look at my two amazing, beautiful, and loving children and not believe I didn't get it right-at list a good percentage of the time? What am I teaching them if I continue to judge myself so harshly?
So today, tomorrow, next week...and beyond, I am going to be kind to myself. I accept that I will fail, falter, and mess up. But I will also succeed, get it right and try again. It's going to be a challenge. But I will take it. And I challenge you too. Be kind to yourself. Be gentle when you step on whatever scale you find yourself stepping on...give yourself permission to love you, to be good enough.
Peace.
Yesterday one of the neighborhood kids was hanging out at my house. She was lamenting the fact her Mom couldn't afford to buy her a costume for Halloween. Before I knew it, my daughter had taken charge and with some brain storming, makeup, and things we had around the house the little girl was transformed into a kitty cat! She came up to me excitedly showing off her costume. I made some comment about how awesome and creative Embree is and Embree immediately replied that she got it from me. I started to argue when Trey reminded me of the time that I made costumes for some friends of theirs whose parents couldn't afford costumes. I had totally forgotten about it. I don't remember what we did for the girl, but I took a bunch of brown curtains out of a bag of household items someone had given me and along with a hiking stick, made what the boy swore was the coolest Gandalf costume ever. (He was also seriously impressed by the fact I knew who Gandalf was.)
Since becoming a Mom almost nineteen years ago, I step on the Mom Scale at least once (usually more) per day. I'm not sure if I do it to myself or the culture does it to me...or a combination of both. But what I do know is, when I look down at the scale, I rarely if ever see what I want to see. I never quite "measure up". But here is what I realize, when I look down at the scale, I see one thing...when my children peek over my shoulder at the scale, they see another.
The reason is that while I spend so much time focusing on where I fell short, what I got wrong, my mistakes and failures...my kids spend the majority of time focusing on what I did right.
They don't talk about all the nights I was too tired to read to them. But they will tell you about how we read the entire Chronicles of Narnia series and I did all the voices. (Bree will tell you to this day that the voice of Reepicheep in the movie is not right...because it isn't the voice I gave him.)
They might tell you about the years where Christmas was slim because I was so broke...but they are more likely to tell you about our tree cutting adventures, hot cocoa deluxe, and the years they got exactly what they wanted (and the fact that I often had help is seen more as the fact they are so loved by so many than the fact I didn't do what I needed to).
Ask them about my temper and the first story that comes to their mind is the time I lost it and let a bully coach have it while they sat in the car exclaiming "She put her hand on her hip!" and "OH, she's got BOTH hands on her hip!"
They may acknowledge that they knew about things like trafficking and poverty way before they actually wanted to but they will also tell you how they learned to really see a person because of me. To not just see a "prostitute" but the woman, life, and possibilities beneath the clothes, heels and makeup.
They will tell you about how they have come to me with questions and problems and we've dealt with them together. They will tell you I didn't chastise them when they struggled with their faith but stayed up to the wee hours of the morning talking through it. They will tell you about hugs, playing "hookie" and going to the park, growing up doing theatre together, games where I yelled louder than any other parent (okay...he might not actually enjoy that one! ha!).
If those are the memories and the stories my kids hold on to, why do I hold onto the stories where my daughter fell asleep in class because I was working two jobs and couldn't get them home from the sitter until after one in the morning, or how I lost my temper at Trey so many times, how I struggled to get my mind right after their dad left, or the times of financial difficulty?
Why am I so insistent on being unkind to myself?
I don't know. I don't know if it's my fault or society's fault or the television's fault. I don't know if it's the PTA Mom's fault when she looked at my packets of instant cocoa at the 3rd grade class party and remarked "Oh, I thought you were making home made cocoa" without caring how I'd used my lunch break and broken every speed limit to even be at the party. But here is what I do know, if I continue to step on the Mom Scale and see myself as a failure, it's my own choice. No one is forcing me to do so. As a matter of fact, if I choose to step on the scale and see myself as a failure, I am making my children, my friends, and members of my family out to be liars. I am telling them that all the kind things they say to me and about me are untrue. That the only thing that matters is what I see on the scale. And who in the world am I to say that? Who am I to look at my two amazing, beautiful, and loving children and not believe I didn't get it right-at list a good percentage of the time? What am I teaching them if I continue to judge myself so harshly?
So today, tomorrow, next week...and beyond, I am going to be kind to myself. I accept that I will fail, falter, and mess up. But I will also succeed, get it right and try again. It's going to be a challenge. But I will take it. And I challenge you too. Be kind to yourself. Be gentle when you step on whatever scale you find yourself stepping on...give yourself permission to love you, to be good enough.
Peace.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
This Is The Church
Today I walked into church and took my seat.
Third row back.
Middle section.
Aisle seat to the left.
It's my spot.
A creature of habit, I sit there unless someone else is sitting there and if someone else is sitting there, I sit as close to there as possible. However, before you decide I am some hyper spiritual, goody two shoes, super Christian, you should know something.
I don't sit in the front row because I'd get whip lash looking up at the pastor. I don't sit in the second row because there are these two big speakers that my knees would knock up against. So the third row is perfect.
The reality is that when I sit in church, I sit as close to the front as possible and take notes because...I'm easily distracted. I don't mean to be and as much as I'd like to blame ADD or ADHD, the reality is that if I'm not careful I will find myself noticing the guy on his phone and the cute baby in front of me and the woman's necklace...and then I'm wondering what we are going to have for dinner...
And it is a shame because Ed and Jason are two of the best pastors I've ever heard. And that is no exaggeration. So I have adopted survival techniques. Close to the front. I'm not allowed to use the Bible on my Kindle. Take notes. Oh...and for my children's sake, try not to verbally express my agreement with a "hmmm" when the sermon is especially good. Apparently I sound like I'm eating ice cream and it's louder than I realize. And embarrassing.
Anyway, I took my seat and gave a mental "Okay, I'm here" to God. I felt pretty impressed with myself. Thanks to Twitter the night before and the Christians fighting over MacArthur's "Strange Fire" conference and the "Act Like Men" conference and all the other things Christians tend to publicly sling mud over, I was feeling pretty disgusted with the church as a whole and may or may not have attempted to use that as an excuse to sleep in rather than get up and go to church.
The worship music was really good and I sang along so glad I had gotten my carcass out of bed and here. We sat down for announcements...and they arrived. I assume they sat where they did because it was the emptiest aisle. Maybe they get distracted too. Maybe a quick scan of the sanctuary revealed those were the only three seats together and easily accessible...I don't know. But they sat in front of me. Two girls and a guy. Younger. And they talked during the video. And they didn't stand and sing during the last worship song before communion. And they were whispering during prayer.
And my theatre snob persona took over...for just a minute. "Oh Lord, I hope they don't talk all through service" I inwardly moaned. It wasn't a prayer as much as a thought out eye roll. I actually thought through a quick list of indirect ways I could let them know they were disturbing me.
And God gave me sort of a "you better check yourself" nudge.
Okay...it was more like a shove.
The guy was holding one of the Bibles that we give out at the welcome center. It was brand new, never opened. When communion was served, the guy asked questions and the lady serving patiently answered. I watched as the whispers and the giggles that were obvious signs of discomfort gave way to settling in seats, taking notes, nodding heads, and (I am more than happy to say) a couple of verbal "hmmm"s. The sermon was the latest in CCC's "Really?" series and explored the idea that we could believe in science and the gospel. It was intelligent, well thought out and well presented and all three of them were totally into it. So was I once I'd started taking my own notes. At one point, one of the girls dropped the lid to her water bottle and it rolled behind her seat next to my foot. It took me three times to pick it up because I'm a klutz. I whispered as I handed it back to her something about "trying to be helpful" and she gave me a smile and whispered apology to which I replied "No problem"
After service, I introduced myself. Turns out the one girl had just moved to the area and hadn't been to church since she was ten. She was thinking of maybe going when her neighbor who attends our NA meetings on Tuesday showed her our church bulletin. To give you a clue, the cover to our bulletin looks something like this:
Third row back.
Middle section.
Aisle seat to the left.
It's my spot.
A creature of habit, I sit there unless someone else is sitting there and if someone else is sitting there, I sit as close to there as possible. However, before you decide I am some hyper spiritual, goody two shoes, super Christian, you should know something.
I don't sit in the front row because I'd get whip lash looking up at the pastor. I don't sit in the second row because there are these two big speakers that my knees would knock up against. So the third row is perfect.
The reality is that when I sit in church, I sit as close to the front as possible and take notes because...I'm easily distracted. I don't mean to be and as much as I'd like to blame ADD or ADHD, the reality is that if I'm not careful I will find myself noticing the guy on his phone and the cute baby in front of me and the woman's necklace...and then I'm wondering what we are going to have for dinner...
And it is a shame because Ed and Jason are two of the best pastors I've ever heard. And that is no exaggeration. So I have adopted survival techniques. Close to the front. I'm not allowed to use the Bible on my Kindle. Take notes. Oh...and for my children's sake, try not to verbally express my agreement with a "hmmm" when the sermon is especially good. Apparently I sound like I'm eating ice cream and it's louder than I realize. And embarrassing.
Anyway, I took my seat and gave a mental "Okay, I'm here" to God. I felt pretty impressed with myself. Thanks to Twitter the night before and the Christians fighting over MacArthur's "Strange Fire" conference and the "Act Like Men" conference and all the other things Christians tend to publicly sling mud over, I was feeling pretty disgusted with the church as a whole and may or may not have attempted to use that as an excuse to sleep in rather than get up and go to church.
The worship music was really good and I sang along so glad I had gotten my carcass out of bed and here. We sat down for announcements...and they arrived. I assume they sat where they did because it was the emptiest aisle. Maybe they get distracted too. Maybe a quick scan of the sanctuary revealed those were the only three seats together and easily accessible...I don't know. But they sat in front of me. Two girls and a guy. Younger. And they talked during the video. And they didn't stand and sing during the last worship song before communion. And they were whispering during prayer.
And my theatre snob persona took over...for just a minute. "Oh Lord, I hope they don't talk all through service" I inwardly moaned. It wasn't a prayer as much as a thought out eye roll. I actually thought through a quick list of indirect ways I could let them know they were disturbing me.
And God gave me sort of a "you better check yourself" nudge.
Okay...it was more like a shove.
The guy was holding one of the Bibles that we give out at the welcome center. It was brand new, never opened. When communion was served, the guy asked questions and the lady serving patiently answered. I watched as the whispers and the giggles that were obvious signs of discomfort gave way to settling in seats, taking notes, nodding heads, and (I am more than happy to say) a couple of verbal "hmmm"s. The sermon was the latest in CCC's "Really?" series and explored the idea that we could believe in science and the gospel. It was intelligent, well thought out and well presented and all three of them were totally into it. So was I once I'd started taking my own notes. At one point, one of the girls dropped the lid to her water bottle and it rolled behind her seat next to my foot. It took me three times to pick it up because I'm a klutz. I whispered as I handed it back to her something about "trying to be helpful" and she gave me a smile and whispered apology to which I replied "No problem"
After service, I introduced myself. Turns out the one girl had just moved to the area and hadn't been to church since she was ten. She was thinking of maybe going when her neighbor who attends our NA meetings on Tuesday showed her our church bulletin. To give you a clue, the cover to our bulletin looks something like this:
She took one look at the bulletin and thought that this might be a church she could fit into. So she convinced her two friends who had never been to church to come along. And they had sat in front of me. And everyone had been so nice and welcoming...(insert quick, appreciative prayer for attitude readjustments here!)...they were definitely coming back!
I took a look around the lobby of our church. At all the different types of people. Our Sunday crowd definitely gives an apt depiction of our desire to be the "church". They call it "church for the rest of us" because CCC wants to give people who wouldn't normally feel comfortable in church a place to where they feel welcomed. But I think that our lobby full of bikers, parents holding toddlers, those struggling with addictions, those who've never even smoked a cigarette, teenagers with mohawks, older folks with white hair...this is what the church is supposed to look like. And we as individuals make choices to make sure the church is what it is supposed to be. We can get frustrated with the stance of the "church" or the public image of the "church" but we are the ones who have to act to change it. And it happens in little ways. And we as Christians have a responsibility to make those choices. I'm so thankful for those three. They are grateful because I'm "so nice" and I'm grateful because they reminded me what the church is...
One beggar telling another beggar where to find food. (D.T. Niles)
PS To hear/watch the sermon series "Really?" Check out CCC's website
Monday, October 7, 2013
The Meaning Of Matthew
Fifteen years ago today, a young man took his bicycle for a ride just outside of Laramie, Wyoming. This was not an unusual occurrence. But today would be different. On his ride, he discovered what he at first thought was a "scarecrow" or a "Halloween trick" but was actually the body of college student Matthew Shepard. Matthew had been beaten and left for dead.
Because he was gay.
Two young men took him to an isolated spot, tied him to a fence, and beat him.
Because he was gay.
Matthew was taken to the hospital where he never regained consciousness and died several days later. His mother, father, and brother by his side. The two young men who plead guilty to his murder received plea bargains with the consent of Matthew's family and will spend the rest of their life in prison. They have since broken portions of that bargain and spoke out in the media, actually changing their story several times. However, their original confessions, attempted use of the "gay panic defense" and original stories of witnesses, etc all claimed that Matthew died for one reason. McKinney and Henderson didn't like gay people.
I'll confess, that October that Matthew died, I didn't pay a ton of attention to the story on the news. I saw pictures of memorials, news reports, speeches, etc. But I was in Georgia. Mother of a two year old and a three year old. I vaguely remember shaking my head at the hate in the world but then went about cooking dinner, taking care of my family, and getting ready for work the next day.
It wasn't until 13 years later, while at Newnan Theatre Company, hanging out with the cast of the Laramie Project, a play that details the murder of Matthew and it's impact on those involved as well as the community of Laramie, Wyoming that the story of Matthew really began to impact me.
I began to research. I read Judy Shepard's book "The Meaning Of Matthew" and cried as she talked about losing her son. I became more familiar with the Matthew Shepard Foundation and the work they do to "Erase Hate". I talked to the kids in the cast and heard their stories of how their families reacted to their coming out or bringing gay friends over, their thoughts on Christians who constantly clobbered the LGBTQ community.
Matthew's life...and death...began to have meaning for them and for me.
And even fifteen years later, with the hate crime bill old news, states approving marriage equality, etc. Matthew's life and death continues to have meaning. Hate crimes are increasing in New York. Last week approximately 20 football players from Ole Miss attended a performance of The Laramie Project and interrupted the play with taunts and homophobic slurs. And people in my neighborhood still unthinkingly use the word "fag" in incredibly derogatory tones.
It is time that we take the Meaning of Matthew and apply it to our world and the world around us. I don't care if the group of people you hate are homosexuals or the Republican Party...hate is never the answer. It is time to understand that all people deserve dignity and respect. It is time for Christians to stand up for the LGTBQ community because regardless of whether you approve or not, you are commanded by the one you call Savior to love them.
This week, as Matthew's family and friends face a tough anniversary. As they mourn the loss of someone they held dear. As the town of Laramie remembers...
Let's do our part to "Erase Hate". To make the meaning of Matthew's life more about the love he knew than the prejudice and anger that took his life.
Here's some ideas:
1) Check out the Matthew Shepard Foundation. Give a donation in Matthew's memory.
2) Make a NALT video.
3) Get involved in an organization that supports LGBTQ youth. For Atlanta people, there's Lost N Found (homeless shelter for LGBTQ youth in Georgia). There's also Forty To None and the Trevor Project.
4) Research: go see a production of The Laramie Project or read the script. Also, read Judy Shepard's book the Meaning Of Matthew.
5) Do a small kindness to someone. Someone you probably wouldn't normally reach out to. Take time to write an email or note and let Judy Shepard know you were thinking of her and Matthew when you did it (send them to the Matthew Shepard Foundation).
6) Examine yourself. If you know you are prejudice against a group of people, start taking steps to change it. You'd be amazed what building relationships would do to your mindset.
7) In the play, The Laramie Project (and therefore in real life), the hospital director reads a statement from Judy Shepard where she tells everyone "Go home and hug your children" So, go home...and hug your children.
Peace.
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