Washed Ashore

"Vulnerability is our most accurate measurement of courage"
- Brené Brown

A few years back, we were on a beach vacation in Florida.  One morning I got the girls out of bed early and took them down to the beach to watch the sunrise in our pajamas.  I brought along a few bagels for breakfast and an empty pickle jar I had saved for the occasion.  We watched the ball of fire rise up from the water as we ate our bagels on the cool sand.  After the sun was up, we took the pickle jar I brought and knelt in the sand together.  I talked to the girls about the times in the Bible when something significant happened and people built altars to mark the significance of what had taken place there.  I told them that our pickle jar was to become an altar to mark the sunrise we had shared together on the beach.  We scooped up sand by the handful and made wishes as it ran between our fingers into the jar.  Then we searched for shells to place on top of the sand so we could take the memory home with us.  

As my daughters excitedly found shells for our altar, I found myself silently critiquing their selection.  I had hoped for the most beautiful shells we could find, as I planned to transfer the sand and shells to a vase to display on our mantle.  But instead, the girls brought me fragments of shells, misshapen shells.  To my dismay, my initial reaction was disappointment.  As I held out the pickle jar to collect their treasures, I realized that the problem lay within me, that my definition of beauty needed altering.  I let out a sigh as I let go of my idea of perfection and chose to instead embrace the perfection of the moment.  

Here is the shell that I found for our altar.

I laughed aloud when I found it, envisioning a youth group activity on the beach in which people write things on shells and cast them into the ocean to be rid of them.  

But here's what we know about the ocean - everything washes ashore eventually.  

I reveled in the irony of a shell that said, "Weakness."  Isn't this just like us?  Don't we, in so many ways, hurl into the ocean things that we find unacceptable, parts of ourselves of which we are ashamed, memories we'd just as soon forget, decisions we regret, things of which we wish to be free - only to look down and see those things washed up amidst the seaweed and the broken bottle pieces, once again laying at our feet? Don't we try to adorn our mantles with vases containing picture perfect shells rather than fragments?  Don't we try to seek perfection, desperately searching for things that meet our definition of beauty?

For a very long time, I tried to hurl my weaknesses into the sea, far enough that they would never wash ashore.  I tried to present only "perfect" shells to the world, until I felt like a shell of my former self.  I am done with that now.  Now I am into truth-telling.  I am into accepting shell fragments from the ones that I love, finding them perfectly imperfect and beautiful just as they are.  I am into collecting the parts of myself that would wash ashore anyway and displaying them in jars instead of casting them into the ocean.  

I think what it is is vulnerability.  Brené Brown says that is our most accurate measure of courage.  To me, it just feels like freedom.

Unraveling

I am sitting in a room lit only by the lights of the Christmas tree, eating Halloween candy.  What I should be doing is cleaning the kitchen, doing the laundry, and prepping for the week.  What I need to be doing is writing.  My soul breathes best when I'm writing, and breathing always comes first.  So here I sit.

There is an angel smiling at me from the tree, her arms outstretched in joyful surrender.  She is one of many ornaments that have shown up on my doorstep over the past few weeks, part of the outpouring of love I have received as I enter into this unique Advent season.  As I await my first childless Christmas since becoming a mother.  I look at the smiling angel and choke back a sob.  I think of my favorite line from Love Actually, "At Christmas, you tell the truth."

So here is my truth this Christmas:  I am unraveling.

I have spent the weekend in full-on-celebration mode, cramming every tradition and holiday event I could muster into my last weekend with the children before saying goodbye to them for two whole weeks.  We all piled into my bed on Friday night, arranged like straws in a game of pick-up sticks -   which is to say, not arranged at all -  all pillows and arms and legs and blankets and love.  We snuggled in front of Christmas shows with all three children piled onto my lap like puppies in pajamas.  We got takeout so I could snuggle instead of stand at the stove top.  We sang and danced and went to concerts and gathered with friends and went to church and saw Santa's Village.  We ate donuts and reindeer-shaped sugar cookies and endured the pure exhaustion of a three-year-old twice deprived of a nap.  It was all of the things.  It was magical and musical and tiring and tedious and wild and wonderful.

As I served my children one final snack before bed, my daughter crawled into my lap and said, "I don't really want gifts for Christmas.  The best gift of all is just being together.  For Christmas, I just want to be with you."  And that's when I felt it again - the unraveling.  I sat choking back tears, knowing that neither Santa nor baby Jesus can grant her that wish this year.  Knowing that she and I want the same thing for Christmas.  Knowing that it's all going to be okay, but it's also going to hurt like hell.

I want you to know that I am okay with the unraveling.

It seems that God does God's best work with people that have come unraveled.  I think unraveled people make the best raw material.  And here's the thing.  In the midst of the unraveling, there you are.  Here you come, your best thread in hand, stitching me back together again.  Here you come with your cards and your Christmas gifts, your generosity and your joy, your treasures and your time.  I can feel you stitching me back together, re-knitting the very fabric of my life.  And I find that I am better for having unraveled.  I am stronger, I am more beautiful, I am more real - and it's because I am fully me, and mixed in with the me is the fully you.  We are meant to live in community, lending each other thread, stitching one another back together, mending the tears and wiping the tears and spending the time and showing up over and over again until we all look like the best-loved patchwork quilts.

Thank you to those of you who have witnessed my unraveling, you who have come to my rescue in the most thoughtful and precious of ways.  I am so honored to have your lives woven in with mine. Just thinking of you, I can smile back at the angel on the tree, can take a deep breath in and lift my own arms in joyful surrender.

Life is Not a Contest: A Letter to My Children and to Myself

Precious ones,

A new school year is upon us.  It’s a big one - new schools for all of you, Kindergarten for one of you, full-time preschool for another.  A new job for me.  We will be seeing a lot less of each other as we spend our days at our schools and jobs, but that’s a letter for another day.  Today I want to share with you (and remind myself of) something that will change your life if you’ll let it.  As you advance through your school careers, you’re going to be faced with numerous measuring sticks.  There will be grades - and eventually ranks based on those grades.  There will be standardized tests.  There will be passing and failing.  There will be tryouts for teams that not everyone will get to join. There will be numbers assigned to you, meant to measure your worth in some arbitrary way.  There will be contests with winners and losers.

There will be other contests as well, but people won’t speak of those.  Beauty contests.  Contests for friendships and popularity.  Comparisons - who has the most money, the coolest toys and latest gadgets, the most fashionable clothes, the best summer vacations, the most exciting plans for the weekend.  Who is the fastest, the fittest, the best in social situations, the funniest.  Who fits in and who doesn’t.  Contests everywhere you look.  No one will mention these and no ribbons or medals will be awarded, but you’ll feel it just the same.  

Here’s the grand secret, sweet children.  Life is not a contest.  It’s just not.  No one else has to lose in order for you to win.  No one has to be “out” in order for you to be “in.” There is enough for everyone.  There is plenty for everyone, and there is plenty for you.  You will NEVER have to take something from someone else in order to have it for yourself.  That’s just not the truth, no matter what the world will try to tell you.  You don’t need to be the prettiest or the smartest, the fastest or the funniest - and neither does anyone else.  This is a myth - to chase after it would be to spend your life searching for a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, missing everything along the way.  There is enough beauty to be found in everyone if you will see people for who they are.  There are enough ideas if you will generously listen to those of others and share yours freely. You don’t need to hold on too tightly to anything.  Nothing worth keeping can ever be taken from you.  So lower your fists and open your hands.  Open your hearts.  

You don’t need to be the best.  The only thing you need to be the best at is being fully yourself, and guess what?  No one is competing against you for that job.  It is rightfully yours and always will be.  Learn to relax into that.  You are becoming who you will be, and you already are who you will be.  And who you are is ENOUGH.  You don’t have to strive or compete.  This is not a contest.

You will meet people along the way who are striving with every fiber of their being.  You will know them because there will be no peace in their faces or joy in their eyes.  You will see the struggle on them, for it is a heavy burden they carry.  They will see you as a competitor at best, an enemy at worst.  It’s okay.  These people are not bad people. They just believe the lie that life is a contest, that there is a limited amount goodness in this world and that they have to fight to get their fair share. They are searching relentlessly for a pot of gold that doesn’t exist.

Here’s how you can show grace to those who are striving and struggling - stand in the fullness of grace and truth that belongs to you.  Stand with your hands and hearts open.  REFUSE to join this race with no finish line.  Stand in the eye of the storm and invite others to enter in with you.  Become a place of peace for others by being at peace with yourself.  Someone may see you in all of your beautiful uniqueness - in all of your YOUness - and put down their fists as well.  Someone may cease to fight against you and instead come alongside you.  Others will continue to compete, and that’s okay.  Because you are not in this contest.

Life is a team sport, and we’re all on the same team.  And as soon as we realize that, we have already won.  Let’s get this victory party started!

Always on your team,

Mama

In Transition

I stood leaning over the hospital bed and started to sob.  

It was my third time to give birth, and my first time to do so without the support of a doula or my mother, who had stayed at the house to keep the girls.  It was a busy night for the midwife, with several women giving birth at once - I had gotten the last delivery room when I arrived that afternoon - and the nurse would only pop in periodically to see how things were progressing.  My second child arrived 45 minutes after I got to the hospital, so I was told any subsequent births would be similarly swift.  Yet.  Hours after labor had begun in earnest, the contractions kept coming like crashing waves but I had no indication that the end was in sight.  I was playing a little game with myself to try to pass the time.  I'd look at the clock and think to myself, "Okay.  This baby will be here in two hours.  By ten o'clock you will meet your son.  You've got this."  And then at ten, I would repeat this promise to myself.  "By noon.  He'll be here by noon."  (Some proponents of natural childbirth say that it's not really pain you are experiencing during childbirth, and that you must simply reframe it in your mind.  Isn't that precious?)  I began to cry, uncertain of how much longer I could withstand the pain without the arrival of my favorite part of the labor process - the part when I get to push.  (Again, some people claim that no pushing is necessary and that you can simply "breathe the baby down."  I guess my mind isn't strong enough for this.)  The part when it doesn't feel like I'm on a roller coaster of pain because there is finally a modicum of control, an active participation on my part.  But that part hadn't arrived yet, and so I cried.

My husband, who stood behind me rubbing my back, said, almost under his breath, "You're crying.  You must be in transition.  You always cry when you're in transition."

His words were like a second wind for me.  Aha!  I'm in transition.  The most intense part of the birthing process, the part that comes right before the pushing, the part that means, this baby is actually coming.  Of all of the wonderful ways he supported me through that process, his recognition that I was in transition was by far the most helpful.  I was too deep in the middle of it to recognize it for myself, but because he had been with me each time, he knew what was happening.  There was a light at the end of the tunnel.  There was hope and renewed strength, there was energy.  And on the other side of the pain, there was a beautiful birth.

Fast forward a couple of years to an empty house, the last of the boxes loaded on the moving truck, the final moments in the place we had called home for the past two years.  The only home my son had ever known.  The place my girls had learned to swing with their feet reaching toward the sky, the place my oldest had started Kindergarten, the place we had carved out friendships in a new town for the first time. The place we had made countless memories as a family as we picked strawberries and hiked at Radnor Lake and returned to the family-owned pumpkin patch for the fall festivities.  The place with the changing seasons and rolling hills and so much beauty you could burst.  Home.  And we were leaving it.  

I did what I always do when we move out of a house.  I went from room to room, gathering up the memories that took place in each, treasuring them up in my heart, awash in gratitude for the time spent in that place.  Thankful.  And I cried.  My children climbed up in my lap as I sat sobbing on the floor in my son's room, looking out the window for the last time.  And it occurred to me - you're in transition.

Transition.  The most intense part, the most challenging part.  The part that brings you to your knees and wracks your body with sobs.  The part that happens right before you give birth to something beautiful.

And really, so much of our lives are spent in transition.  We move, we get married, we get divorced, we have children, we make new friends, we say goodbye to old friends, we begin a new job, we start a new school.  Old ways of thinking about God, of how we see the world, are pulled out from under us like a rug, giving birth to new theologies and fresh perspectives.  We work to give up bad habits and addictions, we try again and again to begin anew.  We grow up.  We try to figure out our place in this brutal, beautiful world.  New things are painful.  Or rather, letting go of the old and familiar things is painful.  The process of being in transition, the places where we haven't yet given birth and the pain is crashing down in seemingly unending waves.  

I think the best thing we can do for one another is to speak truth to the process, to recognize the pain of another during their time of transition, to recognize the transition itself when those around us are too blinded by the pain to see it for what it is.  There is a light at the end of the tunnel, there is something beyond the pain you feel in this moment, there is something beautiful waiting to be born.  Let us hold up a candle in the darkness.  Let us see the tears of another and lovingly reassure them - I know why you're crying.  You're in transition.  

Wise Ones Rush In

"Mama," my five-year-old tells me, "if I ask Soren to give me a hug, he won't, but if I fake cry, he'll hug me every time."

And it's true.  My nineteen month old son doesn't say much yet, but he is a barometer for the pain of others.  He's like a beloved dog in this way - a silent comforter.  When one of his sisters is crying, he walks up to her, wraps his chubby little arms around her waist, and puts his head against her chest.  Then he just stands there holding her for as long as she'll let him.  It is magical to see the transformation in his sisters as they experience the wordless comfort of their brother - care and concern with no stipulations or strings attached.

I am not much of a crier, but one morning in a fit of hormones I was walking around the house crying, holding Soren on my hip as I pulled laundry out of the dryer and tried to get everyone ready for a day of school and work.  Soren took my face in his hands to look me in the eyes, then touched our foreheads together, pulled back to look in my eyes again, and then put his head on my shoulder and gave me a big hug.  He continued to do this for as long as the tears flowed, which wasn't long since I quickly became caught up in this profound moment of connection with my son.  I have never experienced anything quite like it.

Soren doesn't care why the tears are falling, and he makes no distinction as to who he will comfort or how or when.  When his sister is in time-out (and is loudly lamenting her punishment), Soren runs down the hallway to her bedroom, pushes the door open, and throws himself on top of her in a hug.  Although being alone is generally an important component of a time-out, we do not prevent him from rushing to comfort his sister because we want to encourage this instinct.

He reminds me of his father in this way.  While most of us want to head for the hills when faced with sickness and death, my husband has chosen to run toward it, to run toward those in pain and to sit with those who mourn, to look death in the face again and again and to avoid the urge to run away.  He has chosen the hard calling of chaplaincy.  He is brave and kind, which are two things I pray for my son every night before bedtime.  I don't know how Soren will choose to be brave and kind in this world, but I love seeing these little seeds bearing fruit in him already.

There are so many hard things going on in our world right now.  It seems that everywhere I look, people are hurting.  Individuals and groups.  Young and old.  Black and white.  Christian and Muslim.   Gay and straight.  People are being marginalized and pushed out, beaten down both figuratively and literally.  People are being misunderstood, and too often fear and hatred seem to have the final word.  I feel overwhelmed by it all.  I sometimes feel hopeless and helpless in the face of the violence and the fear and the hatred.

And then I think of my son running to comfort his sister, and a little spark of hope wells up inside of me.

The world doesn't need more referees, more people deciding who's in and who's out.  The world doesn't need more judgment and more dividing lines.  It doesn't need people who look for differences rather than commonalities.  And I don't think that's what most of us are doing.

Here's the thing.  The world doesn't even need people who have it all together.  The world doesn't need people with Pinterest-worthy homes, with clean minivans and organized fridges (thank God!).  The world doesn't need people who are better dressed or better looking.  The world doesn't need people who are ready - I remember a certain guy who was given his marching orders from a burning bush and was still like, "No, thanks.  I'm pretty sure you've got the wrong guy." I will NEVER be ready, and neither will you.

The world needs people who run toward pain rather than away from it.  It needs those who sit with the dying and hold the hands of the ones who grieve and, in doing so, show the world that God cares and cries and comforts.  The world needs people who are scared and unprepared and willing to put themselves out there anyway, to use their gifts to be brave and kind in the world in their own unique ways.  The world needs people who run down the hallway with the unsteady gait of a toddler, who fling the door open and rush in to love and to comfort.

The world needs me, and the world needs you.  God, help us.

Sink Your Teeth In

We're all about not choking at our house.

You're probably all about not choking, too, but I doubt your paranoia can rival that of a preschool teacher and a former pediatric chaplain.  We've been trained and scared with worst-case scenarios, and we're not taking any chances.  Our son, Soren, enjoys applesauce but has never really been into apples. When I give the girls apple slices for snack, I always peel a few extra slices and then cut them into impossibly small pieces to put on the high chair tray for Soren.  He puts a small fistful of tidbits in his mouth and then lets them fall off of his tongue back onto the tray.  Okaaayy... the boy doesn't like apples, I guess.

But the other day, I had this wild idea to do it differently.  I had only cut a small section out of an apple, and Soren was eyeing the remainder with interest from his high chair.  Since he has recently begun to reject every vegetable in every possible form, my move was one of desperation to try to get him to eat something just as it was picked.  [Yes, I am aware that apples are not vegetables.  I was desperate, I tell you.]  I peeled the skin off the giant chunk of apple and, ignoring every impulse that told me this was a choking hazard, I handed the apple to Soren.  I stood hovering over him, ready to jump into action and perform the Heimlich at any moment.

But my worst fears weren't realized.  Instead, something absolutely magical happened.

Soren sunk his little teeth into that apple, and a look of pure amazement came over his precious little face.  As juice ran down his sweet chin, he began to laugh as he truly tasted a fresh apple for the first time.  The minutes that followed will be forever burned into my memory.  Just joy.  Pure joy.  That baby boy could not believe that he was so lucky.  He took another bite, then another, and each bite produced as much enthusiasm as the first.  Smiles, laughter, eyes dancing, juice running down.  Look at me!  I'm eating an apple!  Did you KNOW these things exist?!

I stood watching him eat, and all I could do was cry.  I felt so honored to be present for that magical moment, so humbled to get to bear witness to such unadulterated joy, so glad I had taken the risk and given him that apple.

The whole thing got me thinking - how am I living my life?  Am I experiencing life in impossibly small, flavorless tidbits because I'm afraid to choke?  Are my decisions too calculated, too safe?  What would it be like if I were to start taking risks, to really sink my teeth into life?  Maybe safe, calculated decisions require no risk, no faith.  Maybe to become my truest self, I'll have to step out in faith and do things that scare me.  Maybe to feel truly alive, we have to be willing to do things that scare us to death. Maybe in those places of unknowns and risk is where joy resides, just waiting to be bitten into by those who will dare.

As great as that experience was, we have now found a happy medium of peeled, reasonably-sized apple slices to serve our son.  I want him to enjoy his food, of course, but I also want him to live to eat another day.

Obviously, I'm not advocating throwing caution to the wind when it comes to safety.  For heaven's sake, keep cutting up those grapes and hotdogs - but if you want to taste life as it was meant to be tasted, if you want to experience the pure joy of juice running down your chin, sometimes you have to bite off more than you can chew.

Beautiful Things

When you found out today

That the spring blossoms would soon turn to green

You cried

Not silent, weepy tears

But the loud, wailing kind

I joined you in your lament

Isn't it sad, little one

That the blossoms we so enjoy

Will soon fade from view?

We sat together in sadness

Mourning the inevitable loss

The changing of the seasons

The impermanence of everything

And through your tears

You said it best

I just want beautiful things to stay

Me, too, I agreed

Me, too

Only I wasn't thinking of the trees 

I was thinking of the dimples that still cling to your elbows

A faint trace of the baby inside my little girl

And the way I will one day look to that spot

And see only the bone beneath your porcelain skin

Such fleeting changes, these

In both the child and the trees

I must pay attention, I remind myself

Pay attention

As if my willful watching will slow the pace of change

The summer leaves hold beauty, too,

We assured one another once the tears subsided

And the blossoms will return again 

Next year in their time

Same with you, sweet child

Each stage will hold a beauty of its own

And that pang of sadness you felt 

When you found out your beloved "purple tree"

Will soon turn green

Well, now you know 

The beautiful ache

Of motherhood

Of life

Of love

Me, too, precious child

Me, too

I just want beautiful things to stay