The Sophisticated Idea and the Frayed Mom

February 26, 2012 By 1 Comment

Let’s call this post “fashionably late.”

It’s late partly because the idea got ready in her own time, dilly-dallying as she dressed for the party, pausing at the mirror, examining first this dress, then that, these earrings, that scarf, the blue eye shadow or the brown? It’s late partly because the idea encountered traffic (a.k.a. life events) on her way to the party, and though she offered the taxi driver extra cash if he got her there on time, if he found some back route, some hidden way, her cash meant nothing.

But here she is, nonetheless, in her favorite black dress and her silk scarf from Spain and her hair swept up in a bun.

And she whispered to me as she clutched her clutch purse: give up blogging and twitter for Lent. Oh, and, for good measure–Pinterest.

I tried reasonable arguments, emotional pleas, and, finally, hair-pulling (she didn’t appreciate me messing up her bun). I’m a mother at home all day with a toddler. I need this time. Please, please, please. But she remained stubborn, impassive, (with the single allowance for Facebook). You need time to pray. You have things to pray about, she said.

So, with food streaked down my arm from lunch and Cheerios stuck to the bottom of my foot, so smelling of spilled milk, I give up and give in.

She allowed me this last indulgence, this late Mardi Gras, a single post to say, “See you on the other side.” I will miss you.

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And Sometimes It’s This

February 16, 2012 By 1 Comment

Sometimes this is motherhood: finding the spiritual in the ordinary, the sublime in the mundane. It’s the dance your son does to Coltrane and the smile just like his daddy’s when he teases you. It’s the prose that lingers in his laughter, the prayer that rises from his babbling.

And sometimes it’s this: he refuses to eat anything but bananas and bread, to let you dress him without a temper tantrum, to let you write (or work or dry your hair), and the load whirling in the laundry right now contains a pair of jeans splattered with pureed raspberry and yogurt and another pair of jeans covered with your son’s vomit, and the pink creeps in the grout because during those last few minutes of his nap after finishing your work project you can either take a shower or clean it, and the measuring spoons and cups litter the kitchen (and the hallway and living room), and the toys create an obstacle course that makes Home Alone look like Mary Poppins–and snap–took care of everything. It’s the broken plate in the sink and the broken chess piece from Africa on the piano, and you’re struggling to live in complete thoughts, forget poetically.

Then it comes to the end of the night, and you rock and rock and rock until he falls asleep, these nights fewer and fewer when he sleeps still in your arms, and you want to hold him all night long and listen to his breathing and feel his warmth against you, and none of those things matter, or at least they matter less, because despite how hard this day was and how tired you are and how can you be out of chocolate?, there is love.

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To the Very End of the Age

February 12, 2012 By Leave a Comment

photo taken by Christina Kieffer

Will you be responsible for seeing Keegan is brought up in the Christian faith and life? the priest asked. Will you by your prayers and witness help Keegan to grow into the full stature of Christ?

Then we–the parents, the godparents, the family and friends who gathered in this small chapel for the purpose of baptizing this child, of witnessing the sacrament of God, the grace he bestows on the little children who come to him–echoed the baptismal covenant, reaffirming our beliefs, our creed, our very identity. I believe in God, the Father almighty, we said.

Individual voices rang out, first this friend’s voice, then that’s, first this grandparent’s, then another’s, even as the sounds joined together as one voice, as one symphony of love. And tears puddled on my lower lids, for this family came together because of their love for us and for Keegan, to see that this child is raised in Christ’s love and mercy. Their voices wrapped around me like my mother’s homemade afghan.

Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them, and I know that the ministry to all nations includes this little one entrusted to our care. And I know that this is the beginning of a journey, of discipling our Keegan, our “little fire,” for this is parenthood, to spiritually form–we will, with God’s help–and I pray that one day he will confirm this truth, that he will trust Christ and follow him.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, the priest said.

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In Which I Eat My Hat (and hope it’s made of chocolate)

February 6, 2012 By 2 Comments

I swore it would never happen. I would not get involved in women’s ministry. After all, I’m egalitarian. I’m not always sure we need a separate women’s ministry, as if women can and should minister only to other women, as if women can and should connect only with other women simply because we are women.

Historically, I believe women’s ministry rose out of necessity: it gave women a place to learn and it gave women a place to serve, to use their teaching gifts in a church culture where they were otherwise silent.

But now? Current archaeological finds in places such as Ephesus help explain Paul’s difficult teachings on women. Historical studies of the church show how God has used women for his kingdom work for millennia. Throughout the Bible, God’s chosen people led the way for women and provided training and opportunities for them to use their gifts, and when necessary, protected them from the culture.

I’m not sure the church does this today in our culture, but I didn’t sit down to write that post.

I sat down to write a post about why I’m teaching a women’s ministry Bible study though I swore it would never happen.

In short, I met the women who attend said Bible study. I met a group of women of different ages and life stages, with different interests and talents, from different countries and cultures, and I loved them. These women love God and want to know him and serve him. They dedicate time from their week to study the Bible individually and corporately, and the carry these lessons into their lives, into the ordinariness and the hecticness, into the mundane and the life-changing events. I wanted to get to know these women, to be a part of them, to learn from them.

Which means that I now teach in the women’s ministry at my church, and I’m thankful to be able to use my training and spiritual gifting with a group of people whom I admire and with whom I enjoy fellowshipping.

This is why all hats and words should be made with chocolate.

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Eyeballing It

February 1, 2012 By 4 Comments

I’m a big fan of eyeballing things. If God gave me two eyeballs, what other tools could I need? A leveler? Eyeball it. It’s straight enough. (This could explain why guests get seasick walking down my hallway where photos line the wall.) A teaspoon? Eyeball it (and if it’s vanilla, add another teaspoon or so). A ruler? Eyeball it. It’s long enough. (Or centered enough.)

My motto: close enough for jazz.

Just don’t open my closets. (Also, I once had a pie come out so, well, fluid-y that we had to serve it as a topping over ice cream. A problem? I think not.)

My husband, on the other hand, is a frustrated perfectionist. Which means his closet is empty, and his clothes are everywhere else. His filing cabinet is immaculate, but the papers are piled on our kitchen counter.

I feel like I should turn this post now toward a spiritual direction, how this amusing tidbit about my life leads to some sort of epiphany, or at least a small commentary on the culture at large and its relationship to something Jesus-y.

Be assured that this is exactly what it appears to be: a small, meaningless tidbit about my life simply because I felt like saying “eyeball it” and confessing to the fact that I view recipes as more of loose guides than strict instructions. Wanna come over for dinner?

But here’s a biblical metaphor that occurred to me while buying my new car last night (after poor Annie was totaled, sacrificing herself to protect my husband and son from the villain who rear-ended them; the new car’s name is Gustav, by the way). Gustav has one of those key-less starts. (Gustav also has three free months of XM radio, which means I’m enjoying all Broadway! all the time! but that’s neither here nor there.) As long as the key, which looks nothing like a key, is in the vicinity of the car, I can unlock my doors, start the car, and drive away. (In a few months, Eddie at Hyundai tells us, I’ll be able to start my car using my cell phone by proxy through their blue tooth technology.) Pay attention to the biblical metaphor lest you miss it:

It reminded me of the centurion who asks Jesus to heal his servant by proxy. You don’t even have to come to the house, he said. Just send your bluetooth(y) authority, and I know that’ll take care of things.

So is Jesus’ power like blue tooth? And does that make the Holy Spirit blue tooth technology? I’ll leave you to ponder on that philosophical genius.

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In Which Keegan Keeps Me up All Night by Not Waking

January 23, 2012 By 3 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 2 Comments

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 12 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.

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My Son, the Artist

January 9, 2012 By 4 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.

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