In Which Keegan Keeps Me up All Night by Not Waking

January 23, 2012 By 2 Comments

The past couple of days, Keegan’s been refusing to nurse, and I didn’t know how this would break my heart. Sure, he could be teething, and perhaps he’ll resume, but he could also be done.

I had no warning.

I thought I’d have more time to watch how he watches me, how he plays with my hair (pulls, yanks, strips it from my head) while nursing, how I cuddle him close to me, how he sometimes falls asleep. And this is motherhood: little goodbyes as they grow up and start walking then start walking away from you. How does a heart handle this?

So last night, I woke up when I heard him at 4:00, hopeful that he needed me, though at the same time hoping he’d sleep through the night, but he didn’t need me; it was the latter, and within a minute, after soft whimpers, he had fallen back asleep on his own without his mama. And I spent the rest of the night in tears wondering when this happened, and I thought he would wean, I thought it would be slow, first the mid-day feedings would disappear then the morning, then that last feeding before he goes to bed. But last night he didn’t even want that last feeding.

This is how it’s supposed to be, I know, yes, I know that, but my heart hurts because in this way, my little boy doesn’t need me anymore, and he’s not really my baby anymore. He walks, and he knows what he wants and what he doesn’t want.

So I mourn this passing, but I remind myself that this is not it, this is not all there is to motherhood. (Funny that a woman who thought she’d have to get through the baby stage has to remind herself that there’s so much more than the baby stage.) We have more cuddling and playing and learning and dancing in our future, and this is how life moves, this loss and gain together, and it’s beautiful, watching my son develop, even when it means saying goodbye.

 

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To Being Known

January 19, 2012 By 1 Comment

Since it’s 1:00 in the morning and I can’t sleep–the reason that I can’t sleep isn’t important (thank you, insurance company of man who rear-ended my husband and son, and may a camel spit in your eye)–and tomorrow will be miserable because of this lack of sleep and I’m not working on my teaching as I should be because I told Chris that if I committed to teaching this semester I’d have at least three, no four, lessons done before we started and I haven’t started on next week’s lesson and next week is the third week, I thought I’d come to this space, this little corner that’s mine.

I don’t really have anything to say. (That’s not entirely true. I jotted down some notes for blogs, but those are on my phone, and right now, I’m too lazy to walk back into the bedroom to get my phone and read my notes. Probably for the best. I don’t know if a 1:00 in the morning too-angry-at-the-injustice-of-the-situation-too-sleep mindset would do these brilliant ideas justice.)

But I came here because I feel safe here. An odd statement to say about a space open to the world, but there’s something about this place being my corner in the world, a place where I can sit with my tea and write words on page.

It’s nice to know that in some sense, I am known here, that in this space, you know me. Maybe you don’t know how I take my tea (with honey and milk) or which wine I prefer (sometimes Syrah, sometimes Malbec). Maybe you don’t know my quirky habits, but you’re here, and I’m here, and you (sometimes) read these words, and I read your words, and words can sneak in and out of hidden spaces.

So when I have nothing more to say and you’re still here: thank you.

Filed Under: blogging

In Which I Throw Chris Under the Bus and Go on a Christian Verbage Rant

January 12, 2012 By 11 Comments

A recent conversation:

Chris (to Keegan): You’re doing so good, my boy!

Me: So well.

Chris: Your mom doesn’t want me to teach you how to speak normal.

Me: Normally.

I realize I’m throwing Chris under the bus here, but it made me laugh, this and conversations like it in which I attempt to use correct grammar so that we may teach our son when to say “to whom” and when to say “who,” when to use “I” and “me,” the difference between an adverb and an adjective.

Not to use “literally” when he’s speaking metaphorically.

Lessons such as these may seem minor compared to big things like who God is and why Jesus came to earth, but I believe words matter.

For example: the phrase “make him Lord of my life.”

Right. I’m going to make the the one who has authority over life and death, the one through whom all things were created, the one who now sits at the right hand of God the Father, the one who sits on David’s throne eternally, I’m going to make this man Lord of my life.

Except that he’s already Lord of all creation. He’s already king of the eternal kingdom. My options: join his kingdom or oppose it. When I became a Christian, I became a citizen of his kingdom, which means he is Lord of my life. My life might reflect the culture of his kingdom, or at times it may reflect the culture from which I came–the culture over which Death reigns. But I do not choose through my actions whether or not Christ is Lord of my life.

How silly.

Every once in a while, I have to get these rants out of my system.

Filed Under: theology Tagged With: , , ,

My Son, the Artist

January 9, 2012 By 3 Comments

The music plays, and Keegan dances. He dances to Tchaikovsky and Veggie Tales. He dances to jazz and to Kid’s Praise. He dances to his maracas. He dances to the jingles on his toys. He dances to the motor of the blender and to the click of the refridgerator.

To Keegan, everyday sounds aren’t random noises; they’re music. And music calls for dancing.

Perhaps influenced by John Cage (best known for his 4’33” piece) or the composers of musique concrete, Keegan rejoices in the sounds around him. Or perhaps he hears the praise of the trees clapping their hands, the mountains and hills bursting forth in song for their Creator.

And I learn from my son that being an artist isn’t just about the craft we practice. It isn’t just in words on page, paint on canvas, notes on staff. Being an artist is a way of life. It influences how we see the world around us and how we respond to it. It consumes our waking up and going to bed.

Being an artist means recognizing the music and story and beauty of everyday life, of seeing how God takes the ashes of our pain and uses them to sculpt new life. It means participating in God’s redemption of his people and his earth.

While words on page are fewer these days than in my past life, I am artist. I dance to the music around me. I tell stories to my son. I make beautiful the space in which my family walks.

I am artist.

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Seasonal Faves

December 13, 2011 By 2 Comments

I dreamed last night that I blogged. Who says you can’t make your dreams come true?

Rather than offer up the repetitious excuses of why I’ve been tacit here, I thought I’d spend the time reveling in my favorite time of year: Christmas.

"Christmas Tree" by iamashleyhello via FlickrI’ve always loved Christmas. I turn into this sentimental sap, and I confess, my tastes can go a bit Norman Rockwell for the month. I eat up all the ABC Family Christmas movies (not to mention the old standards like White Christmas, Rudolph, and now, Elf). I fill my Pandora radio stations with classic Christmas standards, Indie holiday songs, and even a station named for the Waitresses holiday music. My house looks like Frosty exploded.

And don’t forget the trees: Maggie, our red tree; Henry, our mini-tree; and Rose, the table-top tree that was a hand-me-down from my parents when I was in college, who got it as a hand-me-down when they got married from my grandparents’ neighbor. Then there’s our real tree, Marty this year, chosen by Keegan.

This year I’m learning how hard it is to not spoil your kids. Chris and I agreed that this is a good year to go minimalist. Keegan’s not old enough to have a Christmas list. But for the love of mistletoe and holly, how do you not buy all the fun (and educational!) toys out there?

I think how this is just the beginning, how in years to come I’ll introduce Keegan to the misfit toys, to the history behind our ornaments, to the Miser brothers’ dance. But most of all, I’ll introduce him to the story Christians celebrate this time of year: to the waiting for our Messiah, how he came once and how he’ll come again, to the mystery and majesty of the incarnation, to the beauty of a man and woman who submitted to God’s will and raised a little boy who is God. (Did Jesus fight his naps too?) I dream of teaching him how it is more blessed to give than receive, but how we receive the sacrament of God’s grace, of how our attitude should be like Christ / who being in very nature God / did not consider equality with God something to be grasped / but made himself nothing. I dream of showing him how Christmas lights reflect the Light of the World, of how we long for peace on earth, goodwill toward men and how we can have this in our hearts and lives.

‘Tis the season.

Filed Under: Christmas Tagged With: , , ,

Here I Sit

November 29, 2011 By 1 Comment

I recounted to a friend the other day my background with writing. Not the resume, the stories and articles published, the conferences and workshops attended or the awards won, but the whys and wherefores. The ones before my husband told me I should do this thing.

I remembered a writing conference my English teacher took me to in junior high. The teacher, a published writer whose name I’ve long since forgotten, gave us a writing prompt: here I sit. We could take this anywhere. We could look out an imaginary window, describe the room in our head, share why we sat, what we contemplated as we sat. Anything. Here I sit.

This was not the first time I moved pen on paper. I had written before this, which explains why my English teacher chose to take me to the conference (did I win a competition? I don’t remember). Under my belt I had tucked short stories and even one novel written the year before (a murder mystery in which a girl on a sixth-grade class cruise was found dead when the cruise ship made an emergency dock on a deserted island before sinking; let’s not discuss the suspension of belief required to get into a story of sixth graders going on a cruise together as a class–I dreamed big).

But this, these simple words, brought my writing from class cruises and unicorns and whales to something closer to home, something more me. Here I sit, gazing at the world around me, observing how it spins, noting how its people move. No one else can see it exactly the way I see it.

This is not to say that stories of class cruises and unicorns and whales can’t be close to home, can’t describe our world and how it spins, but mine didn’t. Not anymore. They encapsulated the world of a third grader and sixth grader. But in junior high, moving from one state to another, saying goodbye to my entire known existence and discovering that life existed somewhere else, my world had changed, and this prompt gave me the voice to express that.

Now here I sit, chronicling the life changes of humanity, the seven acts and the exits and entrances, the dreams lost and gained, the relationships developed and unraveled, and I always have this, a unique perspective from my chair, in my own little corner in my own little chair.

Filed Under: writing

The Master’s Artist: The Particular Sadness of Art

November 22, 2011 By Leave a Comment

Prepared to write about how art is communal, a disappointing experience with art and the community I love made me think instead about how art can sometimes rent us apart. But all is not lost, for this is community–beautiful and hurtful–and so, this is art.

Afterwards, as we cleaned dishes and wrapped up the particularly sad lemon cake, my friend and I wondered how you can talk about something so personal without it being personal, without it hurting when you disagree on something that reaches so deeply inside of you, winding into the labyrinth of your hopes and fears and weirdness.

Read the rest of the post at The Particular Sadness of Art.

Filed Under: The Master's Artist Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

I Might Be an Idiot

November 18, 2011 By 1 Comment

During the two hour-long (optimistically speaking) naps Keegan (sometimes) takes, I try to fit in:

  • prep for teaching I’ll be doing beginning in January
  • editing work I recently acquired (yay for paying gig!)
  • the housework I refuse to do when Keegan’s awake like cleaning toilets because the last thing I need is for Keegan to start playing on or in the toilet (he discovered a couple of weeks ago the joy of unrolling the toilet paper)
  • dinner prep if it requires more than the half hour Keegan can handle in the high chair downing Puffs while waiting for Daddy to return home from work to save him from such inhumane imprisonment
  • blogging (stop laughing)
  • my fiction writing (often accompanied by the soundtrack of crickets), and, occasionally, when I’m feeling ambitious
  • a shower

"Overworked" by Stress-Relief via flickr (this is not a joke: that seriously is the title of both the photo and the photographer)

I’m either an idiot, or I have no concept of time.

Some of you think that I can divert some of these activities, such as writing or teaching prep to either (1) evening after Keegan goes to bed or (2) morning before Keegan wakes up (or while Chris can take him if he does awaken). To these suggestions I say (1) doing any brain stimulating activity such as writing or teaching prep so late in the day contributes to my insomnia, and (2) not gonna happen–to even suggest such a thing is to not know me. Plus, when would I sleep or knit if I did that? Come on, people.

Completely unrelated side note: when I transferred from Drupal to WordPress (a decision I laud to this day), WordPress translated all my tags into categories. In choosing the category for today’s post, I discovered in my long list a category entitled “Golden Girls.” Really? Why on earth did I write about the Golden Girls?

Filed Under: motherhood

That Old Black Magic

November 17, 2011 By Leave a Comment

picture by ruslou koorts via flickr, all rights reserved

It happened again. I had penned the first couple of pages of a new novel when I realized I had no idea what I was doing. What right do I have to tell this story? What is this story? I closed the lid of my computer and turned to housework.

You know it’s bad when I prefer housework.

Maybe I should put writing aside for a bit, I thought. I could peck away at a short story here and there, but no pressure, no thoughts of pushing myself, of duty to character or audience. What did it matter? What did it matter if I didn’t put my butt in the chair every day, or at least most days, and look at the one-inch frame?

Maybe I don’t have to be artist right now. I could be wife, mother, homemaker, and not writer. Later, I thought, I’ll be a writer later. And I settled in to this new unplugged life.

Only to wake up early the next morning with ideas. Ah-ha, that’s what this story is about. Not wanting to disturb the muse, I lay in bed watching the ideas bloom like a time-lapse video of spring.

So back to the hard work of writing during nap time.

Filed Under: writing

Review–The Gospel of Matthew: God With Us by Matt Woodley

November 12, 2011 By Leave a Comment


IVP has a new commentary series, Resonate Series, edited by Paul Metzger, a theologian for whom I have much respect. The series seeks to bridge the ancient teachings of the Bible with today’s culture. In this book on Matthew, author Matt Woodley picks up the theme of God with us to challenge us to the adventure to which Jesus calls us, one that asks for wholehearted commitment but is “especially designed for all the ‘little faiths’ who never have to walk alone” (pp. 21-22). Woodley presents the challenge and encouragement found in Matthew.

I’m honored to be part of a blog review on this book and have been asked to take a particular look at Woodley’s essays on Matthew 18. (You can find out more about the book on its Facebook page, as well as links to reviews on other chapters.)

Matthew 18 is a difficult chapter–both to understand (with sections about binding and releasing on earth and heaven) and to follow (ach! that darned command to forgive and forgive and forgive!).

This commentary simplifies the passage so that as Christians, we can understand how Jesus wants us to follow him. Matt Woodley presents a more lay-level commentary. He doesn’t concern himself with verse-by-verse interpretation but with viewing larger passages in a culturally sensitive light–sensitive to the culture in which it was written and the culture in which we must now live it out. To facilitate this, the author writes in essays about sections of Matthew, including his interpretation, large-scale ideas for applications, and illustrations from his own life.

Or, to put it another way, this commentary reads less like a traditional commentary and more like collected preachings–or blog posts–on the book of Matthew. Those looking for a more in-depth commentary that surveys and works through the different theologies of difficult passages (such as that binding and releasing passage in 18:18-20) may be disappointed, but those looking for an aide to understand how to practically take these teachings of Jesus and apply it in our interactions with others will find a good resource in The Gospel of Matthew: God With Us.

The essays for chapter 18, “A Person’s a Person, No Matter How Small” (17:24-18:20) and “The Unnatural Act of Forgiveness” (18:21-35), both point out Jesus’s concern with how we treat others according to God’s compassion: the socially forgotten or outcast and those who have hurt us. In both cases, Woodley shows us how dealing with people God’s way differs from dealing with people according to the world’s way. I would have liked to have seen more connection and crossover between the teaching on confronting sin and on forgiveness (perhaps breaking the essays in 17:24-18:14 and 18:15-35), which gives balance for these two hard truths and more context for the passage on binding and loosing (which Woodley doesn’t deal with at all), but I also appreciate how Woodley connected them, using the value of respecting others and understanding that we’re all little people in God’s sight to bring together how we approach others. Of course, each teaching in this chapter flows into the next–chasing the lost sheep, restoring a lost brother through confronting his sin, forgiving a brother–that any type of break is difficult to do (and yet needed for practicality’s sake).

In the first essay, Woodley makes a comment about the childlike attitude Jesus calls us to have: “We enter through that door by receiving Christ, but we must reenter the same door every day for the rest of our life.” In context, I believe the author doesn’t mean that we must be re-saved every day but that we must persevere with a humble, childlike attitude so that we respond properly to God and to others around us. That being said, I would have liked to have seen him more careful with his wording to prevent misunderstandings. (I remember as a child feeling like I had to be saved again every day after that day’s disobedience until my dad explained to me Christ’s faithfulness and the assurance I had, so I’m sensitive to this issue.)

In the second essay, I came across a favorite line: “Jesus didn’t ignore ordinary human feelings; this Gospel begins and ends with a God who enters our godforsaken places.” Reminders like these make this a readable, challenging commentary that gets us on our feet for God’s kingdom.

I highly recommend this commentary for personal study, to use as a small group book study, or as a resource for lay-level teachers. The Gospel of Matthew gets to the heart of Jesus’ teachings and makes them hard to ignore.

I received a free copy of the book from IVP with the agreement that I’d review it on my blog. This in no way committed me to a positive review.

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