Manna Each Day

Like all the other really important days in my life, I will never forget the moment when I realized exactly how different I am from Beth. The book title may have proclaimed that men are from Mars and women from Venus, but Beth is from the land of warm chocolate chip cookies and I'm from the land where they make protractors and X-acto knives.

I always find it hilarious when old married people stumble upon these types of epiphanies. As a child I remember my great grandparents debating over whether great grandpa preferred white or chocolate cake. It was at a family gathering when he served himself a piece of chocolate cake and she demanded that he put it back. She reminded him that they had been married over 50 years and she always made white cake because that was his favorite. Dejected, he put the chocolate cake back and took white cake instead. Long ago he had decided that it wasn't worth the argument.

Beth and I had been together for well over a decade when we made one of these discoveries. When we met in college she knew that I was a planner--she just didn't realize to what extent. Pretty early in our relationship we determined that the key to a fulfilling weekend was to start Saturday mornings off with a "goals and expectations" meeting. Over breakfast we negotiate the activities of the weekend. I declare what I feel like we need to accomplish and she declares what she needs to re-charge for the week. After a few rounds of back and forth discussion, we have our plan for the next 48 hours.

We have discovered through a series of hellacious fights and passive aggressive posturing that our vacations need to be a mix of well-scheduled days and days when the "plan" is to lounge around without an agenda.

Left unchecked, my need to plan takes on an obsessive urgency. It was one of those Saturdays when we had been coerced into scheduling more activities than could be reasonably accomplished. The day started with a panel discussion in suburb an hour and a half away. We then had lunch with friends in Chicago and had an evening commitment back in our home town. As we were returning home from Chicago I started to get ramped up about how far behind schedule we had become. Beth assured me that all would be fine and I exploded. I explained how we could not possibly be fine because of the time required versus the time available. I explained that we were still 40 minutes from home. Once home it would take me 25 minutes to get ready and if it were a really good day, then it would take Beth 50 minutes to get ready. We needed 10 minutes to drive Peyton to the babysitter and 4 to 6 minutes to drop her off. In order to be on time for our evening commitment we needed 106 minutes and yet the event was to begin in 90 minutes. There was no way that everything could "be okay."

My partner looked at me as if I had just disclosed a secret obsession with Precious Moments figurines. She stuttered as she struggled to find the words "What the hell are you talking about?" I explained my timeline once again. She questioned why I would ever make such a timeline. I then shocked my partner by explaining how I do that for everything. I awake each morning and back out the activities and time needed in order to get to work on time. I plan each work day with a list of tasks and estimated time to completion. I know it takes me 7 minutes to walk to the train at night (9 minutes if I am stopped by the "do not walk" light on the street that I need to cross). I know how many minutes it takes to drive to church, to the kids' school and to the grocery store. I am obsessed by minutes.

Not only am I obsessed by minutes, I am obsessed by the steps needed to reach a goal. Unconsciously I break large goals into smaller tasks. Whether it is cleaning the house or designing a company-wide reorganization, I think in steps and formulate plans. A well-defined, logical plan is my comfort.

As I started seminary I declared that I would take two classes and if I enjoyed them, I would take two more. And then maybe I would take two more and so on. While that sounded like a noble yet non-committal approach, it wasn't me. During our seminary retreat and orientation I listened to my fellow students talk about their denomination's requirements for ordination. I felt a little panic creep in. My church that I love is non-denominational. I do not have a denomination that will ordain. I started to think about choosing a denomination and a new church. I listened as students described their four class at time, three-years to completion plan and I started to feel inadequate with my two classes at a time approach. I wondered if I could indeed handle three classes at a time while working full time and being a fully present mom and partner.

Since I've started seminary I have experienced a joy and peace like nothing I've experienced in my life. The births and adoptions of my children have brought absolute joy but this is different. This is a joy found through centered peace. When I started to fret about my inadequate or ill-defined plan, a little joy disappeared. The peace-filled slumber I had recently enjoyed was replaced with angst-ridden insomnia.

One night as I lay tossing and turning and trying to re-design an impossible timeline, the story of the Israelites' 40-year excursion in the desert washed over me. Until this point, the story of God providing manna each day was a story about God providing for all my needs. All of the sudden it became about God providing for my needs in the absolute best timing. Without a doubt, I would have been one of those who tried to collect more than a day's worth of manna. I would have calculated my family's needs and projected amounts based on consumption and accidental spills and I would have tried to collect enough to cover us for the foreseeable future. Each morning my extra manna would have been rotten.

Right now, in this moment, the things I'm learning are shaking up what I thought I knew about God, the Bible and myself. The lectures and reading feel like gifts on Christmas morning. I want to rip open the paper and relish in the perfect yet unexpected gift. I am refreshed and challenged and exhilarated. This is my manna and it is enough for today.

A Year

I didn't write last week. Oh, of course I made notes during meetings at work. I signed various forms. I answered email and posted facebook updates. It isn't that I didn't pick up a pen or tap on the keys of a laptop. But, I didn't write.

About a year ago I set out to see if I could write a weekly blog for one year. There were a couple times when I took a week off. When I re-read my year's efforts I saw there were weeks that I probably should have skipped. As I started out I set up a few rules for myself: 1. I would never use my blog as a weapon to hurt or lash out at someone. 2. I would never preach at people. I would share personal insights and hope that at least a couple of people might relate. 3. I would be honest. Don't get me wrong, I consider honesty to be one of my non-negotiable character traits. With this blog I set out to be honest about how I was feeling and what I was thinking. I broadly defined "in good taste" and did my best to honor that code. Beyond that, I tried to be transparent with my doubts, my imperfections and my struggles.

What I didn't expect is that this exercise in discipline would force me to slow down enough to be introspective and look for patterns and signs and meaning. Early on the ideas came easily and the funny anecdotes were plentiful. Some weeks I struggled to figure out what all the ideas swirling around in my head had to do with each other. I found that the weeks when I struggled the most were the weeks that provided the greatest "Ah-Ha!" moments. As I moved through those weeks I would spend more time thinking about the things that matter and less about about the daily grind.

This year I discovered that my children teach me more than I could possibly teach them. They teach me about faith and relationships and unconditional love. They expose my flawed ideology and force me to reconsider. While I've known this for quite a few years, I reconfirmed that I have the absolute perfect partner for me. She makes me my best self and there is no one whose opinion matters more.

This year I discovered that I am not as much of a loner as I profess. I've never been one to say that my friends mean everything to me. I'm just not very good at maintaining long term friendships. Facebook has allowed me to reconnect with people from high school and college. Before social media I hadn't spoken to these people for 15-20 years. However, I realize that I have a very good group of friends who are part of my life now. They provide raucous laughter and sanity checks. They support my family and they nurture of my soul. As I re-read my blog I discovered that my friends do play a huge part of my life. I also found out that my friends who read and comment on this blog have very interesting stories and experiences and should be writing blogs of their own.

When I named this blog it was a tongue in cheek reference to our town and the similarities between it and the fictional town in the movie Pleasantville. While we live only 25 miles from the heart of Chicago, we have a somewhat small town feel. At the center of Flossmoor is the commuter train station. After you descend from the train platform if you were to turn left you would enter the heart of Flossmoor. There are a couple of restaurants, a bakery, a couple of gift/clothing shops, a lawyers' office, an eye doctor and a real estate office. We just built a new library and boast to visitors that 98% of residents have a library card. After exiting the train, if you were to walk toward the right you would encounter a park with our little league baseball fields and community tennis courts. They share a parking lot with one of our elementary schools--the original school in Flossmoor.

As I walked home from my first day of commuting from my office in Chicago back to Flossmoor, I saw a family leave the tennis courts and get into a red 1950's style convertible. The woman placed a scarf on her head--the kind that protects against wind-mussed hair. The man tussled the small boy's hair as he helped him into the back seat. As I crossed in front of Western Avenue Elementary School I noticed that traffic had been stopped going both ways. A big, burly man in coaches garb complete with a whistle around his neck held up his hand to stop traffic as a mother duck and her ducklings crossed the road. One of the ducklings struggled mightily to fall in line with his siblings and was weaving from side to side and in circles. As I got closer I discovered that his shell hadn't fallen off of his head so he couldn't see his way. The coach bent down, removed the shell from the duckling's head and sent him on his way. Traffic backed up. A couple of people got out of their cars to watch. No one honked. No one angrily gestured. Pleasantville.

I have discovered that just like the town in the movie, our town has it flaws under the nostalgic exterior. Our small downtown area means there is a limited amount of tax revenue resulting from commerce. The burden falls on homeowners who are frustrated by our lack of street lights and imperfect sidewalks. Our red brick school with the original bell in a tower out front is often a source of hard feelings from those who feel like their elementary schools are not as well-cared for or financed.

This year I learned that in life, like in my pleasant town, there are always things simmering below the surface. Things are rarely as they seem and while joy is bountiful it isn't always complete. I have learned that imperfections add flavor and character and interest. I have learned to love not in spite of the imperfections but rather, because of them. Most importantly I have learned that whether you call it luck or blessings, my life is absolutely bursting with good stuff.

Next week my seminary experience kicks off with a four-day retreat. The following week is the two-day orientation session. Classes start the week after that. Practically speaking, I'm not sure I can continue to blog each week. As I look back at what this year has meant, I cannot imagine giving it up completely. So what I will commit to is to be thoughtful and introspective and to try my best to be honest about this next part in my life. I am hopeful that all of this will find its way to my blog.

If you have ever read the sidebar on the blog, you will notice that I ask the question: is it still a blog if no one reads it? I still don't know. I know of several people who regularly read my stuff but in no way could I be considered a successful blogger. I know that this blog is now a record of one of the most remarkable years of my life. I know it has been my humble pleasure to share it with you.

Gut Feeling

Toward the end of last summer Beth and I decided that our family needed one more weekend of fun before the school year and resultant over-scheduled life of chaos began. And hey, nothing says fun like a trip north to Milwaukee.

We spent Friday night swimming in the hotel pool. My kids, like most other kids, believe that even the worst 6-foot x 6-foot over-chlorinated, murky hotel pool is a little pre-cursor to heaven. We allowed them to sufficiently exhaust their little bodies and tucked them into bed. We spent the next day exploring the Milwaukee zoo. The zoo is about a third of the size of our local Chicago zoos. With less acreage to explore we spent longer periods of time watching each of the animals. A year later Bennett still describes in vivid detail how the big brown bear spent the morning napping in the hammock in his enclosure. Frankly I was disappointed that we didn't see more movement. At one point there was so little movement that I thought perhaps the bear had expired. In Bennett's mind it was worth the weekend trip just to see a bear in a hammock.

As we left the zoo we noticed that we were extremely close to Sprecher Brewing Company. Sprecher is a micro-brewery that is downright passionate about turning out finely crafted German style beer. The realities of shelf space competition and the need for cash flow forced them into also producing a line of premium sodas. Their soda is hugely popular and profitable. The sale of the soda provides enough revenue that they can continue making their beloved yet not commercially popular beer.

For $3 you can take a factory tour that ends up in a kitschy little German beer garden that has been created in the middle of the plant. Our tour guide explained the tasting rules. Adults would be given four tickets that would allow us to taste some of the beer offerings. Kids would be given a plastic cup and could drink as much soda as they could hold. There would be only one rule for them: just don't puke.

We don't allow our kids to drink much soda. It is a treat reserved for birthday parties and vacation splurges. Sprecher root-beer is the ultimate treat. As soon as we had found a place to sit in the beer garden Peyton took off to stand in line at the bar. She was so comfortable approaching the bar and ordering up her soda that I'm pretty scared for what her later years will bring. She downed the root-beer in a couple of gulps and asked for permission to re-enter the line.

Bennett on the other hand sat at our table staring at his untouched cup of root-beer. When I asked what was wrong, Bennett said that he didn't want to puke. I explained that he would only puke if he drank too much. He looked at me with all the earnestness of a boy trying to figure out so much more than appropriate soda consumption and said: "But Mama, how will I know?"

Such a big part of our growing up process is learning to trust our gut. Quite literally, as children we have to learn how our stomaches will react if given unfettered access to ice cream or soda. As adults we have to "learn" what happens when we answer our midnight craving for a Taco Bell burrito with extra hot sauce.

Metaphorically I continue to learn about trusting my gut. I deal in charts of pros and cons. I do research. I calculate costs and risks versus rewards. Trusting my gut doesn't come easily. But trusting my gut has led me to all the best decisions. I allowed myself to fall in love with the right person even though I knew in my head there would be hardship and sacrifice and conflict. It was a gut feeling that allowed me to say yes to parenthood.

This fall I am beginning a Masters of Divinity program at Chicago Theological Seminary. I will be a part-time student for the next several years. I have had a feeling for a very long time that this was something that I needed to do. I have had many reasons not to pursue it: I should be saving for my children's education not spending money on my own; I am a mother and this will mean too much time away from my kids; I have a very good job and this may mean pursuing an entirely different line of work; there are a lot of out-of-work pastors, who would hire me?

This summer the brewing storm caused by me ignoring my gut on this subject erupted in a "discussion" with Beth. In moment of passionate debate she said "Go to seminary like we both know you want to!" I responded with my well-rehearsed litany of excuses. Then this person, whom I have now loved for 22 years said "You will not be happy and you will not know peace until you respond to this craving. Your family cannot be happy unless you are too. We will find a way."

I do not believe that pastors are any more "called" than electricians or teachers or stay at home parents. I believe that when we find a vocation that allows us moments of deep-felt peace and joy, we have found our calling. I am stepping into this journey without knowing the destination. I'm not clear on what this will mean. I do know that I feel a peace that I haven't felt in a very long time.

It is time for me to stop staring at my root-beer. I need to trust that this feeling in my gut is the nudging of the Holy Spirit. Some things that don't necessarily make sense on paper are the best decisions of all.

Tethered

This summer, for the first time since I've been a gainfully employed adult, I took two weeks off from work. Describing it as a two-week vacation may understate the full impact of what it was. I was with my family nonstop for 16 straight days without a break. A friend of mine sent me a note asking if it were breaking my heart to go back to work after all that time with my kids. In a word: NO! I love my children. I love them more than life. But, being bound together 24 hours a day for 16 days is a lot of togetherness.

Prior to vacation I was aware of my children's flaws much the same way I am aware of a single mosquito in my backyard. Vacation made me aware of their irritating traits in the same way that I would be aware of a swarm of mosquitos sharing a small tent with me. My children, like most other children who are 7, 5 and 2-years-old, have a lot of needs and are incapable of meeting most of those needs by themselves. Without exception each of my friends who have older children tell me that I will long for the days when my kids really truly needed my assistance. I don't doubt that for a minute. There were many occasions when I saw older mothers wistfully observing my family. Their teen-aged children were occupied by texting and iPods and rotten attitudes. Those mothers would watch me running around and correcting and fetching and then they would go back to their books and naps and uninterrupted dinners.

To the best of my recollection, there was not one meal in 16 days that was not interrupted by at least two of the three children who needed to go to the bathroom--never at the same time. While Peyton and Bennett can handle this alone at home, they must be accompanied in a restaurant. Emerson always needs to be accompanied and it is still chaotic. The sound of spoons and forks dropping on restaurant floors was our constant background music. We developed an uncanny ability to select restaurants that provided super-sized cups of milk without lids and napkins the size of a square of toilet paper.

The vacation beach house was a mere 75 yards away from the ocean. However, when carrying the necessary accouterment for three children, it may as well be a three-day hike in the Mojave Dessert. On our first day, we had just set up the umbrella and chairs. We had laid out the sand toys for Emerson; we attached the straps on the boogie boards for Peyton and Bennett and secured the inflatable raft so that it wouldn't blow away. We faithfully applied sunblock to each child. Bennett then proclaimed that he needed to back to the house to use the restroom. I told my young boy to just pee in the ocean. At that, my very literal boy walked to the edge of the surf, dropped his swim suit down to his ankles and aimed toward the water. Peyton cried that it wasn't fair that I wouldn't let her do the same.

One afternoon right before a storm was to descend on the beach, Peyton and Bennett decided that they wanted to try boogie-boarding in the 4-foot waves. The only thing that stood in the way of their surfing competence was their inability to mount their boards and line up with the waves in the midst of these massive swells. I dutifully stood amidst the waves and held Peyton and Bennett's boards steady for them. They would climb aboard, ride the waves into the shore and then wade out to meet me again and again and again. One time, just as I was launching Peyton, two giant waves crossed together and knocked me to the ocean's floor. I stood up and did my best to evacuate the salt water that had invaded my mouth and nose. Peyton, in a tone that indicated a sincere attempt to coach me, explained that I needed to hold her board a little more steady if she were going to be successful. She found it hysterical when I sputtered: "I AM TRYING!!"

The pools on Kiawah Island are filled with saline water. Without chlorine to kill and maim all germs and contaminants, there are strict rules about potty-trained children. Unless a child is 100% potty trained, they are relegated to the small, very warm--as in body temperature warm--baby pool. In April of this year Beth and I set about potty-training Emerson with one goal in mind: we would not spend one moment in the baby pool of pee. By the time vacation rolled around, Emerson was 90% successful. Beth proclaimed it 95% and told me to round up. Emerson was ready for the big pool with the rest of the family. The pool's manager observed our wisp of a two-year-old for a few moments and then came to us to confirm that she was indeed potty-trained. With all the certitude of a germ-a-phobe trying to avoid the pee-pee baby pool I proclaimed her potty proficient!

As we played in the water we noticed Emerson's little baby belly getting larger and larger from all the water she was ingesting. Each time she jumped off the side of the pool she started with her mouth closed. As she hit the water she would scream with glee and swallow a mouthful. We took her to the bathroom and unfortunately we broke the proverbial dam. From that point on she peed every five minutes. We had a nanosecond of warning from the moment when she said "I go potty" to when she unleashed the flood. It didn't matter if she were preparing to jump into the pool or walking to the playground or playing with her pool toys. Ever helpful and always loud Bennett took it upon himself to provide an update each time this happened. Our relaxing day in the pool turned into a nonstop race to the restroom.

Spending this much time with my children allowed me to see behavior patterns that I would have otherwise missed in the chaos the of day-to-day. During this vacation I was reminded that Peyton is completely incapable of watching her younger sister suffer in any way. When Emerson chucked a shrimp across the table at dinner, she was swiftly relocated to the time out chair. Peyton tried to explain that Emerson was just passing the shrimp to Bennett and truly meant no harm. When Emerson pulled all the clothes from the drawers and suitcases and scattered them around their room, Peyton defended her and tried to convince me that she was just looking for her favorite shirt and shouldn't be punished for that. When Emerson took a swing at Beth, Peyton explained that Emerson was only lashing out because she didn't have enough words to explain her frustration.

Sixteen days of irregular nap schedules, weird food and strange routines did nothing to enhance Emerson's pleasing personality. As her naughty toddlerdom reached a crescendo, Peyton's intercessory skills did the same. In almost all cases, Peyton begged us to let her serve the punishment for her sister. Peyton cannot stand to see her sister cry. This was not a vacation phenomenon but all the vacation time they spent together certainly intensified it. From Emerson's first days, it has been Peyton who swoops in to retrieve a dropped pacifier or apply a ice pack to a bumped knee. It is Peyton who can get Emerson to eat a meal when Beth and I are ready to tear out our hair in frustration. Peyton can get Emerson to put on her shoes when she stands in protest at my request. She can convince Emerson to get into a bath instead of doing naked laps around the house. Peyton will patiently read her a book with nary a shredded page unlike when Emerson is left on her own. Not only does Peyton plead Emerson's case, she inserts herself into the situation in an attempt to make things better.

My girls are tethered together by an invisible bond. It seems that the more difficult the situation, the shorter the tether becomes. Once again, watching my children has helped me to understand a previously elusive concept. Experiencing this connection between Peyton and Emerson has helped me begin to understand prayers of intercession.

There are a couple of things of which I am certain: God is all-knowing and God is all powerful. I'm not exactly sure where I stand on prayers of intercession. I belong to our church's prayer chain. When someone is facing a difficult situation or surgery or death, a group of us receive an email asking that we pray. I'm just not certain that my prayers have the potential to change an outcome. It is incongruent with my picture of God that he would not grant wisdom and skill to the medical professionals involved with a surgery just because I didn't open up the prayer chain email beforehand. I know that God provides comfort to those who are grieving a death whether or not I ask him to. I do not believe that God requires a certain number of requests from his faithful servants in order for him to act. I think He is God and that is enough.

There have been many times in my life when my prayers were not answered in the way that I had initially hoped. This was the best thing that could have happened. Something else that I know for sure is that I don't always know best. What if I pray for an outcome that is in direct opposition to God's plan for someone's life? Will I cancel out what God knows to be the best? I hope I don't have that kind of power.

What I have noticed is that when we intercede on someone's behalf, we create a tether with them. When I commit to praying for someone, what I commit to is that I will think of them often. As I am waiting to cross the street on my way to work, I think of them. As I wait for the microwave to heat my Lean Cuisine at lunch time, I think of them. I think of them while I'm brushing my teeth and before I fall asleep.

When I commit this much head space to this connection, I find myself more likely to check in with the person via email or a phone call. I seek them out in person and figure out a way to offer assistance. Since the person is at the forefront of my conscientiousness, I am mindful about reducing their stress or suffering. I find that like Peyton and her sister, I can't stand the thought of the person suffering alone. So I step up my involvement. The more difficult the situation, the shorter the tether.

Not all prayer requests are for people I know or to whom I can easily reach out. The more I prayed for the victims of Hurricane Katrina, the stronger the pull I had to go to New Orleans and help make a difference. I find that when I ask God to help ease the suffering of the Haitian people, I feel a nagging question about what I have done to help ease it.

I don't know if prayers of intercession are necessary to change God's heart. I do know that when I pray for someone, I create a tether to that person and my heart is changed.

The Same River Twice

There is a saying that you cannot step into the same river twice. The best I can tell from the limited internet research that I am willing to do while on vacation, is that the Greek philosopher Heraclitus said this sometime around 475 BC. Since none of my children are yet reading Greek philosophers they don't necessarily embrace the central theme in his writing that change is constant.

This philosopher lived longed before the days when Disney videos were affordable enough to purchase. One of my hidden talents is that I can quote, from memory, the entire movie "Finding Nemo." Peyton went through a period when that was the only movie that she wanted to watch. For Bennett the movie was "The Incredibles." Emerson hasn't settled on her favorite yet--probably because her older siblings have convinced her that she doesn't deserve a favorite movie of her own. Most parents I know have a similar experience. Kids like watching the same movie over and over again. Their parents find themselves embarrassed when they quote lines from these movies during adult conversations.

When Beth and I were college seniors we once drove from Washington D.C. back home to Chicago with Beth's 2-year-old nephew, Drew. This was before the days of portable movies but the same phenomenon happens with music. The only song we were allowed to listen to was "I've Just Seen Jesus" by Sandi Patty. To make matters worse it wasn't the real Sandi Patty version. It was a cassette tape made from music director at his church. Drew screamed and nagged anytime we tried to listen to anything else. To this day I break out into a cold sweat and start to twitch when I hear that song. For kids there is something soothing about the familiar and predictable. Change may be constant but a predictable outcome is what they crave. When you watch Finding Nemo for the four hundredth time, you know that Nemo will always be reunited with his dad. Mr. Incredible will always defeat the bad guy with the help of his entire family. When you know the outcome, you can let down your guard and relax.

As we were planning for vacation this year we told the kids that they could choose the same trip we did last year--visiting family in North Carolina and South Carolina or we could go to Disney World. They chose the same trip as last year. We loaded up the mini-van's DVD player with Disney movies and headed South. Throughout the car trip the kids planned the way the vacation would unfold. As soon as we reached Aunt Pam's house they would jump into the pool, just like they did last year. The minute we arrived on Kiawah Island they would give some love to their aunt and uncle's black labradors and then head to the beach to check out the waves, just like last year.

When the rental bikes arrived, Peyton was disappointed that she didn't have the same green one that she had last year. Bennett was convinced that he would have the same bike but the training wheels would have been removed. The kids wanted last year's vacation replicated exactly.

Our time on Kiawah has once again been split between the ocean and the pool. After a couple of days of getting tossed around by the waves and finding sand in places where sand shouldn't be, we were ready for the calm waters of the pool. We headed to the same pool where last year an ignorant man made a horrible comment about our adoption choices. (See my blog from July, 2009 titled: Ignorance Plus Anger.)

Beth says that my posture changes when I'm in the South. As if I am traipsing through a jungle ready to fend off wild animals, I am on constant watch to protect my babies from any overt signs of racist behavior. It isn't rational. There are plenty of warm, wonderful people who hail from the South. But, there is a history here. There are people who still describe the Civil War as the "War of Northern Aggression." Last year's incident when the man asked why we would "choose to adopt that color" did nothing to assuage my irrational edge.

Once again this year, I was playing in the pool with the big kids. They asked me to toss them in the air just like we did last year. Peyton has grown just enough to make this a slightly more arduous task. A couple of young men approached me. They were tan with very blonde short cropped hair. One of them was wearing camouflage swim shorts. They could have easily been the poster boys for Aryan nation. Earlier in the day I had overheard them talking in their thick southern drawl. On reflex I stood a little straighter and held onto Bennett a little tighter.

The older of the high school boys said: "Excuse me M'am. If you're getting tired throwing them around, we'd love to play with your kids for a bit." I'm sure I cocked my head like a dog confused by a command. Peyton and Bennett immediately leapt at the opportunity. The boys politely introduced themselves to the kids. Then they proceeded to lock arm arms and launch my kids into the air. They were kind and patient. They asked the kids if they were tossing them too high or if they wanted to go higher. My kids squealed with delight. The boys chatted and played and laughed with my kids for a good thirty minutes.

You can't step into the same river twice because you aren't meant to. Predicting an ending or a behavior isn't always comfortable. Sometimes it is damaging to the people you encounter and to yourself. Things change. Sometimes for the better; sometimes not. I walked into that situation convinced that all Southern boys were represented by the redneck we encountered last year. I was wrong. Some Southerners are just like the ones who played with my kids this afternoon. Sure some are still racist--just like some Northerners are. What my kids saw were some older kids who enriched their time at the pool. What I saw was that I need to allow the river bed to change when it comes to my attitude about the South.

Who Is Qualified?

I just recently finished up my second season of coaching 1st and 2nd grade girls' softball. For the second season I was painfully reminded that prior experience playing a sport in no way renders one qualified for coaching. Again this year I had the usual mix of sporty girls and girls searching for a niche. I had girls who had played baseball with older siblings and girls who showed up for the first practice with absolutely no idea how to use a glove. And by use a glove I mean put it on the correct hand in the correct direction.

During my first season I had no idea what to do with a player who wet her pants while playing left field. This season I knew the importance of sending the girls on a mass potty break right before the first pitch. During my first season I had no idea what to do with the girl who would only wear ballet slippers to games. The year I didn't draft any girls who appeared to have that potential. One girl showed up for talent evaluation/try outs in a dress and sandals. I knew to say away from her in the draft. I realize the the limitations of my coaching skill!

One lesson that I learned during my inaugural season was that I needed to have individualized development goals for each player. That may seem intuitive to most but it wasn't to me as I started out. Initially I expected each girl to have a baseline level of skill. I spent most my first season frustrated. Early on I thought if I taught a skill then had the girls practice a skill, they would then own the skill from that point on. It doesn't really work like that.

This year I coached a little girl who I describe as unencumbered by long term memory. Right up until the last bat of the last game she would trot out to home plate and stand square in the middle of it. She would face the pitching machine head-on with her bat positioned straight in front of her as if she were about to practice sword fighting. Just like I had done all season, I would jog to home plate and re-position her. I would use the bat to draw a line alongside home plate and help her align her feet. I would remind her how to hold the bat and help her get it into position. Then I would remind her to smile because this was a game and should be fun. Fourteen games, four turns at bat each game, I would remind her of the steps.

I often wondered why her parents didn't pull me aside and let me know of her issues. Eventually I decided my job wasn't to make allowances because of her disability. I am not qualified to teach special education. Knowing of her cognitive delays wouldn't have helped me determine a plan. I do know that the first time and the tenth time and the thirty-second time I showed her how to position her feet and hold her bat, I tried to do so with the same gentleness and kindness. Sometimes she hit the ball. Most of the time she didn't. No matter what the outcome, she kept smiling. Maybe that was enough of a plan for her parents.

Our church recently contracted with an outside group to travel to Flossmoor and conduct a camp for our first through fifth grade kids. The program was intended to teach the kids about Jesus while teaching them to play sports. Our church was required to provide one adult volunteer for every six kids. Since I strongly advocated that we give this camp a chance, I felt compelled to support it by volunteering. Kids were given the choice to participate in soccer or basketball or field hockey or frisbee. There was a section of art for those kids who wanted to participate but had no interest in sports. In yet another example of the absurdly humorous, I was assigned to volunteer in art. I don't do mess. I don't do sticky. I don't do glitter or glue or chaos. Art is not competitive. It probably isn't art teacher protocol to give a high five when a kid masters blending secondary colors. It wasn't exactly a perfect match for me. The worst part was that the art "coach" didn't find my humor to be funny at all. It was long week.

What I found was that even I, the most unartistic of all possible volunteers had a capacity for cheering on good effort. I could be crazily enthusiastic each time they would mix yellow paint with blue paint to create green paint. I could show amazement as the kids described the stories behind their creations. I could pour more paint and wash brushes and listen. I can barely draw a circle and am uniquely unqualified to teach anyone art. But, I could ask questions and give hugs and high fives.

I don't think this necessarily applies to neurosurgeons or architects but I think a lot of the time we shortchange ourselves because we don't think we are qualified. We have bought into the idea that in order to provide value we must be experts or at least proficient. I think about the experiences in my life that have provided the greatest enjoyment: parenting, stretching into a job that I wasn't quite ready for, teaching 8th grade youth group to name a few. In each situation, I struggled mightily as I started out. I learned that there is a certain exhilaration that comes from being outside my comfort zone.

My kids are no worse off because it took me awhile to figure out how to calm a fussy baby. My first class of 8th graders were graciously patient as I figured out how to teach the important stuff while making it fun. My boss challenged me to find new ways of analyzing our finances and was grateful when I succeeded. Whether it was intentional or not, in each situation I was able to grow because people were kind and patient and understanding. If I were to fully disclose, I would say my kids were the least patient of the process but that sped up my learning!

Every couple of weeks I have a coffee date with a relatively new friend of mine. Our chats weave in and around our kids and jobs and vacations. Invariably we get to a conversation about God and faith. A few weeks ago I thanked her for being willing to have "God talk" with me. She replied that she hoped that I also had someone more qualified than her. That struck me as humorous. Who is qualified to talk about God? I happen to think we all are. I think as we develop our faith there isn't a set of qualifications. I think we jump in, flail around sometimes and discover that some of our greatest blessings comes from just taking that first step and saying yes. We count on unfailing grace of a God who patiently reminds us how to do it for the first time and the tenth time and the thirty-second time.

This Or That?

Democrat or Republican? Liberal or Conservative? Cubs or White Sox? Music or sports? There have been a few times in my life when I was Republican. It was when my parents were paying for everything and I thought everyone had the exact same opportunities as I did. I proclaim myself to be left of liberal but in honesty, there are at least a few areas where I might be considered conservative. I spent some time as a Cubs fan. That was before the Cubs organization started selling all of their good tickets to brokers and I had to pay an obscene amount of money to watch a mediocre team in a ramshackle stadium. If I were to check boxes today, most likely I'd say I'm a liberal Democrat Sox fan. The one area where I have not waffled has been in the argument between sports and music.

Two of my most humiliating life experiences are directly related to music. In my elementary school, fourth grade was the first time we could sign up for band. I attended a very small school in a very small town. The music room was part of the high school which was located across the parking lot from the elementary school. Therefore band students were escorted to the high school for class. That was all I needed to hear to become fired up for music education.

Before committing to an instrument we were allowed to try out the various offerings. The flute was too delicate and too much of a draw for the girly girls who were not at all like me. The clarinet and saxophone tickled my lips too much. The trumpet and trombone made my lips look ridiculous. It was obvious. I was to become a drummer.

The first year band teacher was patently overwhelmed by our enthusiasm and lack of talent. I'm sure he must have explained the relationship between the notes on the paper and the strike of the drumstick but it didn't sink in with me. Music simply didn't make logical sense. I am convinced that band teacher's manuals must have a standard directive for those times when students are abject failures. I envision a bullet point, in bold capital letters that says: when your students are horrible, you should say "You just need to practice more." It was fourth grade band that taught me it doesn't matter how much you practice if you practice something the wrong way.

About mid-year we were told that we would compete to see who would hold the title of first chair. There were two of us drummers. My fellow 4th grade drummer had a badly broken hand and was still awarded first chair. I knew my days as a drummer were limited.

In college I had delusions of being a teacher. I was a great education major right up until I had to do a practicum with actual children. Before that practicum-induced epiphany I had to take the class Music for Morons. I'm sure there must have been a different title in the catalog but mine is more descriptive. The class was for those few people who hadn't participated in a high school band or choir. When designing the education curriculum someone must have thought that to be an effective teacher, we would need to lead songs or perhaps play a harpsichord or a recorder.

The professor assigned to the class must have been on punishment for some major transgression. She was an opera diva masquerading as a full professor in the music department. There was no need to infer that she didn't want to teach the class. She was direct and told us so. She was dismayed that we had lived 18 plus years without being able to read music or clap in some semblance of a beat. In Music for Morons we were to learn to play a song on a plastic recorder and play a song on the harpsichord while singing along. Those two performances would determine our grade.

Following the directions in her teacher's manual, she would be the second person to tell me that I just needed to practice more. The final exam song for the recorder was the evangelical altar call hymn: Just As I Am. My dorm room neighbors made a pilgrimage to my room on their knees and promised immediate conversion if only I'd stop practicing.

That semester I had spent a disproportionate amount of time preparing for that class. I did practice more. I did try harder. At my final exam I announced the title of the song and set about plucking out the tune on the harpsichord while singing along. At the end of my performance, the professor declared that had I not told her the name of the song, she would have never figured it out. And then she failed me.

My roommate at the time was a music major and a favorite of this professor. She went to her and pleaded my case. She explained how hard I had practiced. She begged her for mercy. The professor relinquished and gave me a "C" on the condition that I would never take the class again in an effort to improve my grade. This was the lowest grade I had ever received. The humiliation reinforced the message that I was not a music person, I was a sports person.

I had never been humiliated playing sports. I had made mistakes. I had made mistakes at crucial times when my success could have turned around the game. But each time I made the mistake I was able to learn. Hitting a ball and shooting a hoop made sense to me. A coach could show me the proper way to catch a fly ball and I could do it. I could practice it perfectly and be ready for a game situation. It was as easy for me as music was hard.

In school it didn't take long for us to separate into the music kids and the sports kids. The music kids described PE as absolute torture. They didn't understand the appeal of hitting a small white ball or running endlessly up and down a wooden court. I didn't understand the appeal of playing an instrument while marching around a football field wearing wool pants and vinyl boots in 90 degree heat.

I've noticed that as a parent, I am somewhat unintentionally pushing my kids in one direction. My kids have been to just about every type of professional sporting event in Chicago and several in different cities. One time we stopped by Millenium Park during an orchestra concert. It was by mistake and Peyton asked when the exciting music would start. At age seven Peyton has played several seasons of soccer and softball and basketball. She has yet to take a music class.

When Peyton was three we did sign her up for the park district ballet and tap dance class. During each class she looked as if she were having a seizure. At the final performance of the class the teacher went from family to family handing out the business card of her private dance studio and encouraging them to sign up their daughters for more instruction. There was no card handed to us just a polite pat on my arm and the assurance the Peyton really had improved since the first class.

Last Fall I asked Peyton if she wanted to participate in our church's children's choir again. She declared that "music really wasn't her thing." I explained that she was six and didn't really have a "thing" yet. I want her to be more balanced. I want her to appreciate both sports and fine arts.

A couple of weeks ago Peyton tried out for the travel soccer team. At the parent meeting we were told this would be a year long commitment. Each week there would be two 90-minute practices. There would be multiple games each weekend. We listened as the coaches explained how our children must begin this early in order to develop the skills necessary to compete at the high school level. Functionally this would mean that Peyton would be involved in one activity. Not only would it narrow her to a sports kid but within the sports category she would become a soccer player. There would be no time for the other sports she has come to love. There would be no opportunity for choir or piano lessons.

We asked her opinion but in the end we had to make the "mommy decision" that we felt was right for our kid. We turned down the travel team for now. Seven-years-old is just too young to declare a passion. Seven is too young to decide this OR that. We want our kids to decide this AND that.

Most likely I am being hyper-sensitive to the "AND" thing because of where I'm at spiritually right now. I'm becoming more and more frustrated at exclusion. I am frustrated by the idea that in order for us to live in community with one another, we must agree completely.

This week I participated in a round table discussion about where we felt God was calling our church. I declared that I thought God was calling us to be more inclusive of diverse worship styles and music and people. I said that I wanted us to become even more open. I explained that it was my dream for our congregation to appreciate the elements that were not their favorites because they realized that it was feeding the person sitting next to them. A woman at my table declared that she was tired of us trying to be all things for all people and felt like God wanted us to decide who we were and let people figure out if this was the right place for them or not. And if they decided that they didn't want to worship like us, then they should find another place. This "or" that with no room for "and."

I do love theater but have no interest in acting. In all honesty I believe that God's big joke is that I love music and have absolutely no musical aptitude. I can appreciate art but have zero interest in creating it. My life would be decidedly less if I excluded those things. My life would be decidedly less if I excluded people who are not like me. Now I just have to figure out how to get more "and" in my life.

Saaawwww-rrreeeee (Sorry)

Last week I received a voice mail from Peyton's teacher. Just typing that sentence made my stomach leap into twisty knots. My goal as a student was to fly under the radar so that a teacher's call home to my parents was never ever necessary. I've tried to instill that same healthy fear with my children but since their other mother is a teacher, I don't know that I will succeed. The majority of my adult life has been spent partnered with a teacher. We've had teachers at our house for meals and picnics. We've hosted baby showers and holiday parties and year-end celebrations for teachers. Some of my closest friends are teachers and principals. Yet, as soon as I heard the words, "Miss Denney, this is Mrs. Seidel, Peyton's teacher" my knees felt weak.

Maybe I feel this way because I have yet to get to a first name basis with Peyton's teachers. I call Peyton's principal, her kindergarten teacher and her current teacher all by their surnames. Two of them are younger than me and the other is most likely my contemporary. There is no other situation in my life where this occurs. The last time I called someone Mr. or Mrs. was as a child addressing my elders. I'm convinced this is a power play by educators to keep us parents from questioning too much. Most likely Beth would prefer it if I addressed her with a little more respect.

If the mere mention of Mrs. Seidel's name was enough to activate my sweat glands, her next sentence sent me into a fit. "There was an incident with Peyton at school today." This is not the first time we've had a call from the school. But each of the other calls have come from the nurse. They all start with "This is the school nurse. Peyton is fine but she fell on the playground and scraped her knees/elbows/shins/chin/etc."

The point of Mrs. Seidel's call was to inform me that Peyton had been a part of a food fight during lunch. Mrs. Seidel asked if I could please reinforce the message that this was inappropriate school behavior. I'm usually not sensitive to indirect messages but the teacher dynamic freaks me out. I'm quite sure the implication was that Peyton had never heard this message before because she was raised by wolves in a barn with absolutely no manner instruction.

Even though I had packed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in Peyton's lunch, I had visions of her flinging plates of spaghetti through the lunch room. Doesn't every food fight include spaghetti with red sauce? It is the quintessential food fight item. Since I had only the information left on a voicemail, I had to fill in the details with my imagination. I envisioned Peyton commandeering the hot lunch line and flipping plates "frisbee style" into the mass of first grade humanity. I was convinced that teachers were slipping and sliding on patches of chocolate pudding and possibly even breaking hips. I conjured up lunch room anarchy.

Once I processed the words of the voicemail, I picked up the phone and called Beth. She was unavailable. She was probably calling some scared-out-her-mind mother to inform her about a food fight in the lunch room. In my heart I knew this would be a one of those parental growing opportunities that I often try to avoid. I would have to summon my inner torturer and design a punishment to match this horrific crime. Eventually I connected with Beth and we decided that we should engage in a Rice Krispy food fight and dance party and then force Peyton to clean up every crunched krispy.

After significant grilling, Beth was able to force a confession. Really, all Beth had to do was ask. Beth started by asking about Peyton's day. When Peyton chirped "fine," Beth unleashed crazy and inquired as to how a day could be considered fine if the teacher had to make a call home. Peyton crumbled. Her story, collaborated by several of her classmates, was that the entire table was tossing around a balled up napkin. Back and forth it sailed across the table. The classroom aide saw the whole thing and each kid who had thrown the napkin was banished to the naughty table in the lunch room.

I'm not one of those parents who minimizes the transgressions of their children but..... Really? A balled up napkin described as a food fight? Nonetheless my daughter had raised a ruckus, was punished at school and an apology was necessary.

Peyton's weak defense was that she didn't start it. Thankfully I had connected my filter that morning and refrained from commenting about how I would have preferred that she instigated rather than follow a crowd into that rather lame excuse for naughtiness.

At seven, Peyton has been apologizing for years now. Before our children could scream an intelligible "NO!" we had them trying to form the words "I'm sorry." Each time they succumbed to the toddler temptation of hitting or biting or throwing food, we taught them to apologize. It started as a sing-song-y "sawww--rrrreeee." Eventually we demanded they name their offense and ask for forgiveness.

When Bennett was three he walked up to his big sister, whacked her in the head with a plastic truck then put himself into timeout. I witnessed the entire crime and stood mouth agape as he sat in the time out chair and calmly told his sister he was sorry. He clearly knew what he had done was wrong but apparently calculated that the punishment paled in comparison to the sweet feeling of revenge.

I think apologies are basically the same from the time we are two and are making amends for throwing tantrums or food until the time we are adults and apologizing for seriously wounding a friend. There is a standard formula: admit wrong-doing, acknowledge the injury of the other party and ask for forgiveness.

Apologies don't change much when we deliver them as adults. But unlike when we were kids waiting out the duration of a 5-minute time out, as adults we let time go by and the injury and resulting infection to grow bigger. Most of my apologies are a result of some smart aleck comment I've made. Unfortunately the filter that would monitor my inappropriate and sometimes humorous comments isn't always connected. In those situations it's pretty easy for me to apologize immediately and do my best to repair.

It isn't quite as easy when the stakes are higher. When I make a big decision, I mostly consider all the sides and possible ramifications. Sometimes, despite my absolute certainty that I am correct, I injure a friend or colleague. These situations are the hardest for me. I am confident in my diligent research process. I'm pretty attuned to checking my moral compass. Occasionally I feel I did the right thing but my right thing has taken me out of relationship with a friend. Apologies don't come as quickly or easily in those situations.

I don't abide weaselly apologies like "I'm sorry if the situation has upset you." The translation for that apology is "I screwed you over and shouted hip, hip hooray as I was doing it!" If that is the best apology possible, then it is possible the apology should be skipped entirely.

What I've come to realize is that sometimes I decide between Option A and Option B as if they are my only choices. Sometimes they are. But far too often I've jumped into a decision without searching and working and creatively developing an Option C. And it is this elusive Option C that would have allowed us both to remain intact. The third option doesn't come easily; it's not always readily apparent. But, it is that decision which allows us both to walk away healthy rather than hurting.

There are a couple of people with whom my relationship is fractured. I need to apologize. I made what I felt like was the best decision possible. Perhaps that underestimates my creativity. I need to follow the formula: I screwed up and my small-minded thinking hurt you. I am sorry. Will you please forgive me?

The next part is out of my control. I can hope and wish and pray for forgiveness but I can't force someone or guilt them into it. The step after apology is not mine. And sometimes I think it is easier to apologize than to forgive. That doesn't absolve my responsibility. I have to start the process by apologizing.

The day after the food fight, Peyton walked up to Mrs Seidel and apologized just like we had rehearsed the night before. She told her teacher that she didn't throw food but she threw a napkin and that was wrong. While she hadn't started the fight, she should have been a leader and stopped it. She assured her teacher that she would be a leader the next time. Because Mrs. Seidel is a mom and a teacher and hides her angel wings underneath her teacher garb, she hugged Peyton and said: "You know what Peyton? I forgive you and I like you, a lot." And so my oldest daughter continues her education in apologies, forgiveness and reconciliation. Many years from now, if she is anything like me, she will still be learning.

Ditto

By around Tuesday of each week I typically have decided the topic of my blog entry. I spend the next couple of days working on the language, phrases and transitions. Sometimes I do that in my head while I'm walking the dog or riding the train downtown. Sometimes the words flow and I bang them out on the keyboard immediately. By most Thursday nights I often have a pretty reasonable draft. Early Friday morning is for revisions. Once I let it marinate in my head for awhile, I post it. The pattern was the same this week. I had my topic, my examples and anecdotes. But as I started to write my blog in my head, I kept wandering back to a couple of pages in a book that I read this week. I've dog-eared the pages and read and re-read them. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about them. I'm taking that as a sign.

I'm about to break all sorts of copyright and reprint rules. Surely I'll miss the correct way to give credit. I'm many years past bibliography style guides. Hopefully someone will read my blog and buy this book and all will be forgiven.

The pages that I cannot get out of my head are from the book titled "Take This Bread" by Sara Miles. Both sets of Miles' grandparents were missionaries and yet she was raised as an atheist. She was completely ignorant of Bible stories and church customs. Her upbringing taught her that Sunday mornings were for the New York Times and brunch. As an adult she spent time working in restaurants and then as a journalist covering wars in Third World countries. When she became pregnant she moved back to the U.S., specifically San Francisco. With a journalist's curiosity, one day she wandered into an Episcopal church.

For the first time in her life she participated in communion and it was life-changing. The tagline for her book is "The spiritual memoir of a twenty-first-century Christian." About a third of the way through the book she was able to sum up in two pages what I've been unable to describe in about a year of blogging and hours and hours of conversations. Our backgrounds are completely different. However, our experience with serving communion, with growing in faith and with figuring out what to do next eerily mirrors mine. Her description so clearly explains my thoughts, I would be tempted to claim plagiarism--if only I were the type of gifted writer who could have written something like this:

Page 96------

What happened once I started distributing communion was the truly disturbing, dreadful realization about Christianity: you can't be a Christian by yourself.

While I'd been lucky to discover a church where I liked the liturgy, and while I was beginning to feel comfortable among some of St. Gregory's less reverent members, I couldn't count on it. Sooner or later, if I kept participating in communion, I'd have to swallow the fact of my connection with all other people, without exception.

Just like the strangers who'd fed me in El Salvador or South Africa, I was going to have to see and understand the hunger of other, different men and women, and make a gesture of welcome, and eat with them. And just as I hadn't "deserved" any of what had been given to me--the fish, the biscuits, the tea so abundantly poured out back in those years--I didn't deserve communion myself now. I wasn't getting it because I was good. I wasn't getting because I was special. I certainly didn't get pick who else was good enough, holy enough, deserving enough, to receive it. It wasn't a private meal. The bread on the Table had to be shared with everyone in order for me to really taste it.

And sharing it meant I was going to be touching Christ's body at St. Gregory's, through Donald and Rick and the angry older deacon with the clenched jaw. Looking into Christ's eyes outside of church, through the cheery atheist yuppie with the sports car and the veiled Muslim clerk at Walgreen's. Listening to Christ's voice in other churches, through the middle-aged woman with the annoying nasal whine, and the self-righteous homophobic radio evangelist, and the conservative African bishop. I was not going to get to sit by myself and think loftily about how much Jesus loved me in particular. I was not going to get to have dinner, eternally, with people just like me. I was going to get communion, whether I wanted it or not, with people I didn't necessarily like. People I didn't choose. People such as my parents or the strangers who fed me; the people God chose for me.

I ate the bread.

Conversion isn't, after all, a moment: It's a process, and it keeps happening, with cycles of acceptance and resistance, epiphany and doubt. As I struggled with bread and wine and belief over the following year at St. Gregory's, it stayed hard. I began to understand why so many people chose to be "born-again" and follow strict rules that would tell them what to do, once and for all. It was tempting to rely on a formula--"accepting Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior," for example--that became itself a form of idolatry and kept you from experiencing God in your flesh, in the complicated flesh of others. It was tempting to proclaim yourself "saved" and go back to sleep.

The faith I was finding was jagged and more difficult. It wasn't about abstract theological debates: Does God exist? Are sin and salvation predestined? Or even about political/ideological ones: Is capital punishment a sin? Is there a scriptural foundation for accepting homosexuality?

It was about action. Taste and see, the Bible said, and I did. I was tasting a connection between communion and food--between my burgeoning religion and my real life. My first, questioning year at church ended with a question whose urgency would propel me into work I'd never imagined: Now that you've taken the bread, what are you going to do?

_______

There isn't much I can add. My words would surely subtract from Sara Miles message. The most profound thing I can utter is: Ditto.

Whose Child?

I grew up harboring the same complaints that most small town kids have: there was nothing to do on weekends. Maybe the cool kids had stuff to do. Most of the time I didn't. There was one mall in town and on Friday nights, some of us would hang out there. In order to ascertain the value of spending our precious evening at the mall, we would have to cruise by the front of it to determine who was already there. It didn't happen very often but occasionally I would be the cruise by driver. Most of the time I didn't want to be. My mother had a huge Cadillac and I was barely allowed to ride in it when she was driving--me driving it was out of the question. My dad drove an even larger diesel-powered pick up truck. Every once in awhile, I was allowed to drive that. It was large and loud and bounced the riders around like tiny popcorn kernels in a pan of oil.

One Saturday morning after I had borrowed my dad's truck the night before, I was met at breakfast with a series of accusations posing as questions: "So, you went to the mall last night? Did you have trouble finding a parking place? Because apparently you drove in front of the mall quite a few times." I lived in a town that was small enough that many people knew my dad's truck. Before I was awake on Saturday morning he had spoken with one or perhaps several of his friends and had received a full account of my previous evening's activities. It was a powerful message that someone was always watching.

At seventeen it felt like a horrible invasion of privacy. Whether or not people knew me, they knew my dad. They knew his truck. They knew I was his daughter. Now that I'm a mom, I hope I have similar network. While I didn't understand it at the time, I now know that being his daughter meant I also had quite a few guardian angels. I now know that had I been in trouble, that same network of people would have come to my rescue. While I hadn't done anything to forge relationships with my dad's friends, they were my protectors because of my relationship to him.

Perhaps because I am a step-kid and also an adoptive mother, I don't have the typical hang ups about blood and genetics. I didn't have the same last name as my parents. My children don't have the same last name as me. I don't look like my stepfather. My kids don't look like me. I know firsthand that you can be someone's child without common genetics.

This week some friends of ours adopted their baby girl. They had been waiting a very long time. Finally they were selected by a birth mother and were able to participle in the last few weeks of the pregnancy. The birth mother was young and knew that it would be almost insurmountable to attend college and parent a baby. She knew in her heart that placing for adoption was the best plan. It doesn't make it the easiest plan. Birth parents must wait 72 hours before they can sign the surrenders necessary to place for adoption. During the initial 72 hours of a baby's life, the birth parents must decide whether there is a stronger pull to parent the child or to entrust that child to a different set of forever parents. They must decide if the common blood and the common genetics creates a more powerful case to step into the full-time, all consuming role of parent. Or if that same connection creates the need to provide a different life than they could provide.

I don't know what it feels like to place a child for adoption. I do know that the great paradox of adoption is that my happiest days, the days I adopted my children, are the saddest days for another woman. It is the most schizophrenic I've every felt.

What I know for sure and what I've tried to communicate to my friends is that there will be a moment when your child's skin feels like your skin even if it is of a different hue. You will stroke their hair and it will be as familiar as your own. Even if theirs is curly and yours is straight. There will be a connection so strong that at your cellular level you will know that your hearts beat together. Their pain will be yours and their joy will send your endorphins into orbit. They will be your child and that will mean something you never could have envisioned.

As an Elder and member of our church's governing board, I attend endless mind-numbingly boring meetings. As a board we wrestle with difficult decisions that sometimes disappoints and angers people. Sometimes it feels like the cost is too much. But occasionally we are honored to participate in the spiritual life of our congregation in a way that is powerful enough to erase the worst parts of our responsibilities. Last Sunday was one of those days.

Our church celebrates Consecration Sunday by having the congregation come forward, kneel at an altar and have the sign of the cross applied to our foreheads with oil. This year I was one of the Elders applying the oil crosses. There have been only a handful of other experiences that I would describe as more humbling and more exhilarating.

People, many of whom I know at some level and several who I've never met, knelt down at the altar in front of me. As I made the sign of the cross on their forehead, I said what I believe to be the most powerful words I've ever spoken: You are a child of God.

There is something intimate about touching another person's face. I wipe away the tears of my children when they cry. I stroke their cheeks as they sleep. When they run to me for a hug, I cup the side of their face in my hand and gently kiss their forehead. It is an act of mothering, of nurturing, of care. I would guess that I've never touched the faces of 99% of the people I know. I'm not a hugger; I barely shake hands with people and I certainly don't go around touching people's faces.

I was taken aback at how powerful it was to share an intimate touch with my friends, with acquaintances and with strangers. Certainly I wasn't the first to tell them that they were a child of God. Hopefully they've heard it many times before I uttered those words. More so, I would hope it is a message they know and understand. I would guess for them, there wasn't anything special about me being the person to deliver that message on that day. The experience for me was life-changing.

To be someone's child through circumstance or divine providence or sacrifice is simply miraculous.

Missing The Point

A few months ago I questioned a bunch of my friends about whether it was possible to be spiritual without attending church. I was struggling with church attendance--specifically mine. Whether out of habit or a deeply held belief, I need to be in church on Sunday morning. The struggle was that I stopped finding it worthwhile. I developed a whole litany of reasons to skip church.

I don't like handbell choirs. There are no words to this music so I have no anchors. There is nothing for me to think about. I'm never quite certain if the song is over or if I need to see a doctor about the ringing in my ears. I certainly don't hum the tune the rest of the day. Plus when our church's handbell choir performs, they do so from the balcony. Since I don't sit in the balcony I have no idea where I'm supposed to be looking during the song. Sometimes I stare at the chancel choir because they are sitting at the front of the sanctuary. I fear that my stares may feel a little bit like I'm begging them to break into song. I don't want to pressure them or anything. One time I closed my eyes and tried to enter a meditative trance. Beth poked me and explained that my trance seemed an awful lot like napping and my snoring was keeping those around me from enjoying the music. I still don't think my snoring was the only thing standing in their way.

Speaking of the chancel choir, I don't like it when they sing in a different language. Despite three years of high school Latin, I haven't a clue what the choir is singing about. How can I possibly worship when I can't agree or disagree with the premise of the song? Also, even though it is supposed to be in English, I really don't like the song "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming." Our chancel choir sings it during every Advent season and I really don't understand that song at all. We're in Illinois and roses bloom in summer not during Christmastime. What could this possibly have to do with Jesus?

Sometimes at my church we serve communion by intinction. This means we all leave our pews in a semblance of order and file up the center aisle to stations across the front of the sanctuary. When it is our turn, we rip off a piece of bread from a loaf of what suspiciously seems like Hawaiian bread and dip it into a shared cup of grape juice. First of all, if I dip Hawaiian bread I want it to be in a dip made of spinach. Even more problematic for me is that people often rip off the tiniest bit of bread and then proceed to lose it as they dip it into the cup of juice. Then they reach their grubby paws entirely into the cup to retrieve the bread. Trust me I occasionally serve communion and it happens. This puts a little too much community in communion if you ask me.

I'm not a big fan of the Old Testament. There are a lot of names that are tough to pronounce. I feel embarrassed for liturgist when they stumble through the entire reading. There seems to be recurring theme in the Old Testament. God loves his people. His people think they can do better on their own. The wander away. Another tribe conquers and enslaves them. Some naked prophet wanders around warning that they must give up their evil ways. Eventually, out of desperation, they do. And we're back to the beginning. The people once again think they can do better on their own. Seriously. Read the Old Testament. There is definitely a pattern.

I don't like sermons that don't teach me something new. If I am capable of writing the sermon, then I probably won't like it. If I already know the stuff that is being said, then I probably would have been better off just staying home. I could have avoided the weekly Sunday battle of getting the kids fed and dressed and out the door on time. Sunday mornings, right before we leave for church, is my least "holy" time of the week. I don't find yelling to be an effective motivational technique. Except on Sunday. Sunday mornings at 8:55 am I scream, I yell, I prod, I cajole. I live on the verge of stroking out. It's not just me. Every church-going parent that I've checked with has confirmed this phenomenon. While we can all get out of the house by 7:45 am each day of the school and work week, the 9 am church start time somehow catches us all by surprise. So if I am going to go through the stress of getting to church on time, then I want the sermon to inspire and teach and challenge me.

But what I really, really don't like is how when I read something, when I really pay attention and try to internalize the message, then I don't forget. A couple of years ago I was taking a Bible study class and our teacher had the bright idea to have us memorize Psalm 100. This means that I will know it forever. This means that I cannot ignore it. This means that when I want any excuse to grumble about worship, I have to pass it through this test:

Psalm 100

Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth.

Worship the Lord with gladness;

Come into his presence with singing.

Know that the Lord is God.

It is he that made us and we are his;

we are his people and the sheep of his pasture.

Enter his gates with thanksgiving,

and his courts with praise.

Give thanks to him, bless his name.

For the Lord is good;

his steadfast love endures forever,

and his faithfulness to all generations.

There are no loopholes--I've read the entire Bible--several times. There is no absolution because I don't like the music or communion or sermon. I am to enter the gates with thankgiving. I must enter his courts with praise. Worship isn't about me being entertained. Any time I think it is, I've missed the point.

Tempting The Gods

I honestly believe that judgment is just a way of thumbing our noses at karma. I think back to the times in my life when I have been judgmental about people or situations. More times than I can count, eventually I am faced with similar problems and circumstances. Despite my earlier proclamations about how I would handle things differently, most of the time I don't. To pass judgment is to tempt the gods.

In one of my first jobs I was the junior project director to a hot mess of a senior project director named Lisa. Lisa was a 30-something mother of two small children who worked because her husband had developed a habit of getting fired. She had planned to stay home and raise her children but things didn't work out. I was in my early twenties and eager to prove that I was worthy of my newly printed, first business cards.

I came to work early and I stayed late into the evening. I knew Lisa had arrived for work each morning when I heard her tires squeal to a stop in front of the building. She blew into the office with papers spilling out of her over-stuffed briefcase and another excuse for being late spilling out of her mouth. She never had what she needed for the meeting she just had delayed. It was always in her "other" bag. On one of her more harried days I noticed her sweater was on inside out and there was a glob of peanut butter on her shoulder. I shook my head in wonder at how something like that could happen.

Right after Peyton had made me a new mom, I was running my daily errand to Babies 'R Us. It had been a week since I had slept more than two hours in a row. As I walked into the store I looked down and realized that I had on two different colors of socks--one white and one black and had forgotten to change out of my slippers. I had showered earlier in the day but didn't put on make up or dry my hair. I had grabbed the wrong purse--the one from which I had just removed everything so that I could begin carrying a larger "mom bag." I was out in public with mismatched socks and nothing more than an old tube of lipstick that had been hiding in the small, "not a mom" purse. I didn't have a cellphone or wallet or a diaper or baby wipes. Thankfully Peyton was too young for peanut butter.

Right now I have a two-year-old who doesn't do well with the transition of me leaving the house each morning. Most mornings her long eye lashes are wet from tears. There are plaintive wails requesting one last hug and then another last hug. Sometimes she grabs my leg and presses her face to my "right out of the dry cleaning bag" pants. And sometimes she still has a bit of breakfast on her face. When I finally get to my commuter train into the city, never the early one that I had planned to catch, I find myself trying to remove lip prints made of oatmeal or milk or occasionally peanut butter.

Beth and I both like to cook. I like "big production" cooking--obscure ingredients, advanced knife skills, recipes where the minutia matters and prep can take all day. I'm not so good at the regular Tuesday night and the whole crew needs to be fed type of dinners. Mostly that falls to Beth. Before there were kids Beth and I considered chips, salsa and margaritas to contain enough of the food groups to be a decent dinner. Since we are trying to teach our kids better nutrition than we observe ourselves, week night dinners are considerably more involved.

Beth is charged with planning dinners that please all the participants while not always succumbing to the requests for chicken nuggets or mac and cheese. Peyton prefers a dinner of all fruits and vegetables. Emerson wants a dinner entirely made of meat. Ben will eat pretty much anything if it doesn't have a sauce. It makes sense therefore that Beth is more likely than I am to declare "cooks night off." It's that and I absolutely hate going out to dinner with a two-year-old. My two-year-old offers her own unique set of challenges but really I hate dinner out with almost every two-year-old that I've ever met.

Beth and I don't fight much. Sure we bicker like most couples. Hot topics for us are the usual things like money, cleaning the house and whose turn it is to get up in the middle of the night when Emerson falls out of bed. But nothing can get us going like a discussion about whether or not to go out for dinner or bring it home. Despite my many attempts, I cannot convince her that takeout Chinese actually tastes better when luke warm. She doesn't buy my theory that I am actually protecting her mouth from the inevitable cheese burns that come with hot pizza eaten at the restaurant.

Since my child-rearing induced dementia hasn't fully kicked in, I still remember being childless, sitting in a restaurant and making comments about how "those" parents needed to learn to control their animals. I remember making all sorts of declarations about how miniature humans shouldn't be allowed in public until they had grown a set of manners. I may have also made some loud comments about how if I wanted to hear unintelligible screaming I would bought tickets to an AC/DC concert instead of having dinner out. Judgment. It'll get you every time.

Not long ago we went to a casual dining restaurant. It wasn't fine dining but we didn't have to stand in a line and order at a counter. That meant it was a big night for us. We were seated in a lovely outdoor courtyard. Just as the waitress delivered our drinks, Emerson reached for her milk and knocked the pepper shaker to the ground and it shattered everywhere. In Peyton's attempt to help her sister, she upended the table and sent the drinks flying. I read the lips of the people seated near us. I'm almost certain they said we should learn to control our animals.

This year, for the first time in quite awhile, we decided to go out for Mother's Day brunch. Since the kids aren't yet old enough to take the reigns for a day of celebrating all things maternal, the planning, shopping, cooking and cleaning typically falls to both Beth and me. A friend of mine correctly described the situation when she said that Mother's Day is only relaxing if you're the oldest mother alive. I think she may have meant oldest alive in the world. This year we decided to brave the crowds and over-priced, mediocre brunch food and treat ourselves to a day off from cooking.

The restaurant was well staffed in the food preparation department and woefully understaffed with waiters. At one point I found a manager and asked if we were supposed to bus our own table and if so, could she kindly point me in the direction of the kitchen. Brunch buffet plates began to pile up in the center of the table. We had been served a thimble full of coffee when we were seated but it was long gone. Peyton was pouting because we were making her eat turkey or ham or roast beef and not just grapes and cantaloupe. It was as if Emerson had sprouted even more arms overnight and sitting next to her felt like taming an octopus. Bennett was complaining about a tickle in his throat that was making him cough. He didn't really need to bring it to my attention. It was a non-stop, nagging, hacky cough that made me want to puncture my ear drums for some relief.

I looked around at the other tables and wistfully admired their calm conversations. I wondered how many years it would be until that could be us. The table next to us was filled with a family of tweens and teens. Some were listening to iPods, others were playing handheld video games. One of the older girls attempted secret texting by holding her phone under the table. I was just about to declare that when our kids were older, we would demand an electronics-free brunch. Just then Emerson threw a cube of cheese across the table and it bounced into my coffee cup. Bennett broke the "don't you dare get out of your seat at a restaurant" rule to stand by my side and explain how he had just puked all over his plate. I swallowed my judgment about the table next to us and went about solving the problems of our table.

With absolutely certainty I can proclaim that I no longer look harshly at toddlers tantruming in a grocery store. I no longer look around for the kid making all the racket in church. I refuse to roll my eyes when a kid is wearing two different shoes. When I see a new mom or dad struggling with a shopping cart or diaper bag or door I am much more likely to help rather than to sigh about how they are inconveniencing my task.

Hopefully at some point I will figure out how to look forward with this lack of judgment. My goal is to be a little more patient with the older people in my life who tell the same story over and over and over. I will listen for new details in hopes that the story will be interesting this time in a way that it wasn't the past 19 times. I want to be interested when they tell me the details of all their medical procedures especially those below the waist that involves smells and sounds that are better left private. I can't make any promises but I will try not to explode when they drive by Braille and run into my car in parking lots. I want my heart to soften so that I can hear their stories about the good old days--you know the ones when people smoked and drank while pregnant and when most women were relegated to life of servanthood. And most importantly I want to never, ever laugh at their need for Depends because that is one area where I don't want to tempt the gods!

Wonder

I've never been one for sappy Mother's Day cards. As long as I can remember buying cards for my mother, I remember pouring over every card in the store looking for one that didn't over reach or completely run counter to my growing up experience. Card after card spoke lovingly of moms who offered unconditional support for all manner of dreams. There were flowery verses of praise that extolled the protective, nurturing and self-sacrificing characteristics of moms who didn't seem to be at all like mine.

My mother divorced my biological father when I was seven. For the most part he dropped out of my life after that. After the divorce my mother, brother and I moved from a small town in central Illinois to a tiny town in southern Illinois in order to be close to my grandparents. A couple of years later my mother had reconnected with her high school sweetheart. The day we finished up school and were to begin summer vacation, my mother informed me that she and the sweetheart were getting married and we were moving away from my grandparents and back to the small town. I begged her not to. I cried. I pleaded to stay with my grandparents. I locked myself in the bathroom and vowed to stay forever. I will not easily forget her words. She let me know that it wasn't my decision. She laid groundwork for our future family by saying that I didn't have to like him. I didn't have to love him. But I would treat him with respect. She told me that eventually I would grow up and create a life of my own. It would be my choice then. I wonder if I could withstand the pleading of my children. I fear I couldn't. But her words gave me the freedom to eventually choose my partner without the need for my mother's approval. I have always known that in my life, I can make the choices, free from my mother's guilt.

My mother and stepfather owned and managed five different businesses. They farmed for fun. From a very early age the children knew we had a role in maintaining the daily operations of the family. Summer breaks were spent working in one of the businesses. The businesses utilized large equipment garages all over town. I was in 4th grade when I was dropped off at a garage with a bag lunch, a jug of water and all the supplies necessary to paint the exterior of the two-story garage. My instructions were to climb the scaffolding and paint as much as I could reach. My stepdad would send one of his maintenance men to move the scaffolding while I took a lunch break. This was before the days of cells phones and there was no one else at the garage. We didn't have a discussion about what to do if I fell. The assumption was that I would be smart enough not to. I don't wonder much if I would put my kids in that situation. I wouldn't. I wonder if my ability to think through possible ramifications of stupid and risky decisions comes from experiences like this. And I love my capacity for hard manual labor. I know that if I don't do it, no one else will.

When it was time for me to attend college orientation my mother and I drove separate cars. I arrived a day early to take proficiency and placement exams. She arrived the next day to attend the welcome seminar. Once we were released from the auditorium to begin picking classes and roommates and dorms, she looked at the scope of the activity and proclaimed that if I were not smart enough to do this on my own, then perhaps we should have a discussion about the appropriateness of a college education for me. And she left. I wonder if I would be able to say that or do that to one of my children. But I cherish my ability to be independent and figure things out on my own and I wonder if the whole of my childhood had prepared me for that moment.

Now that I'm a mom I spend time wondering if I am loving enough. I wonder if I am too sarcastic. I wonder if I will be able to foster a cultural pride in my children. I wonder if I'm teaching them the things that will make them people of substance. I wonder if they have fun days and exciting weekends. I wonder if we have planned perfect vacations. I wonder if they have enough but not too much. I wonder if my love for them will overcome my mistakes. I wonder if I am worthy of the flowery Mother's Day cards.

I can't help but wonder if I would be the person that I am without the experiences of my childhood. The experiences were not flowery but they taught me independence, responsibility, freedom and self-reliance. I wonder if I can teach my children these things in some other way.

Scar Tissue

When I was 15-years-old I had the opportunity to redefine myself. Prior to Labor Day weekend in 1983 I was an athlete. I played a sport every season and had a fair amount of success at it. I spent every available moment conditioning or practicing or participating. My teammates were my friends. My goals centered around sports. I was an athlete.

Starting in about third grade I had spent a portion of most summer weekends on water skis. Each year we knew that after Labor Day our weekends at the lake would become less frequent and so we always tried to squeeze in as much skiing as possible during that 3-day period. By the time I was 15, I had been slaloming for quite a long time. I loved the quick cuts across the water and jumping across waves. To ski on two skis was barely worth the effort of getting into the water. It was one ski or nothing for me. Our family had one ski that could enhance this experience like no other. It was an old, heavy wooden ski of my dad's. The weight of the ski made it unstable during the process of lifting out of the water but if that could be overcome, it was as if you were gliding across ice unfettered by the friction of ski against water.

In order to stabilize this ski during take off, I would put the front tip of the ski in the yoke of the rope. As the boat blasted off, I would simultaneously emerge from a wall of water and lift the rope off the ski. On this last Saturday of summer something went terribly wrong with my timing.

As my dad engaged the full force of the boat's engine, the handle of the rope slipped out of my hands. The handle first lodged against my bent knee and eventually slid down to my foot. When that happened the ski kicked backwards and bent my knee to a 90-degree angle the wrong way. The ski dove downward into the water and I was dragged behind the boat by my mangled leg. My dad was driving the boat. My mom was the spotter. They didn't realize that any of this was happening until my brother, who was skiing next to me, motioned for them to cut the motor. I had destroyed the inner workings of my knee. Ligaments and tendons were ripped in half. Skin held the top half of my leg to the lower half.

A two-hour ambulance ride delivered me to a hospital affiliated with the University of Illinois. My dad's network of connections delivered the athletic department's orthopedic surgeon to my bedside.

After a four-hour surgery the doctor explained to my parents that most likely I would never walk again without a cane or crutch. Mine was the worst knee injury he had ever seen. I was too young to be a candidate for knee replacement so he did his best to repair with synthetic materials, steel rods and portions of my hamstring.

During my doctor's first visit to me after surgery, I asked if I worked really hard, could I be ready for basketball season in the late fall? He said no. I was crestfallen but asked if I would be ready for softball in the spring? The doctor with the amazing surgical skills and horrible bedside manner said: "Your goal should be to walk. You'll never play any sport ever again. If you clumsily fall off a curb, you could undo all my work and there is nothing else I can do for you." With that he turned and walked out of my room.

I spent the next nine months in a cast that stretched from hip to toe and a full year on crutches. I spent the rest of high school trying to figure out where I fit. I was suddenly the girl who had the accident. The girl on crutches. The girl who wore sweatpants every day for a year because they were the only thing that fit over the cast.

Once all the casts and braces were removed I was left with a leg emaciated from a year of inactivity. My knee was swollen and misshapen. I had a hideous 8-inch scar on one side and a 5-inch scar on the other. When it was so hot that the only reasonable option was to wear shorts, invariably a complete stranger would approach me with "OH MY GAWD! What happened to your leg?" It wasn't exactly the kind of attention that a high school girl craves. Eventually my irreverence kicked in full time and I would explain that I cut it shaving.

Any time I sat down I began to instinctively cover my knee with my hands. It was a futile attempt to have people notice something, anything else about me. When my team stopped inviting me to parties, I touched my knee. When we would drive by a softball field or I saw a basketball game on tv, I ran my fingers along the scar. It was the ever-present, hideous reminder of what I lost.

Prior to the accident I was involved in church. I participated in youth group activities. I paid attention during Sunday School and learned Bible stories. I had a faith based on gratitude. I was thankful for all my blessings and in some crazy one-sided deal I made with God, I thought if I were good, the blessings would continue. Church was something I did but my faith didn't define who I was.

My accident was the true beginning of my faith journey. I learned I could scream at the God who had allowed this. I could rail at the God who didn't live up to my self-made bargain of "blessings in exchange for being good." I could unleash my fury at my loss. And, there was comfort. In the quiet of the night I could replay the events of that day. Had I not washed the sun tan lotion off my hands? Did the handle slip because of greasy hands? Had I pushed myself too far? Was I too tired to ski that last time? Was there a problem with the ski? With the rope? With the boat? I could question why the most important thing in my life had been taken away. And, there was comfort.

I learned I could scream. I could sob. I could question. And I learned that all would be well.

I also learned the names and the stories of all sorts of people--the people I wouldn't have had time for if I were still playing. I had time to read. I had time to listen. I had time to work through my loss of identity. I spent time on my burgeoning faith.

Over the past year I have been through a refinement process. Redefine seems much too drastic. I would now argue, looking through my almost 43-year-old lenses, I really hadn't been able to define much at all by age 15 so I'm not sure I had to re-define anything. So maybe my water skiing accident was about refining me also. Maybe that is what all the periods of loss, of hurt, of questioning are designed to do. They continue to refine us.

The events of this year didn't leave me with a physical scar to touch but nonetheless has left me with just as many lessons.

I have learned about the loss of friendship and that has allowed me to hear the stories of a different circle of people. I spent time questioning whether I could continue to belong to "that church" and now I am able to call it my church. I have learned about my need for worship. I have learned that worship isn't a performance to please me as much as it is a conduit for my connection to the Holy.

I learned that I could scream. I could sob. I could question. And I learned that all would be well.