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.