Leaner

A few years ago in a moment of suffocation I asked God to help me have a leaner life. Just writing the word "lean" makes me think of those frozen dinners in the grocery store, the ones that promise weight loss. And that's not what I was going after.


I think I meant a life observed and gratefully accepted.


And then my prayer was answered and I was miserable. But happy. You'll see:


Earlier this year after a series of stressful circumstances which I was pretending weren't stressful, my body and soul formed a pact and refused to digest anything. One hundred percent of everything I ate went right through me. I spent two months just eating and eating, not gaining weight, not losing weight. Always ravenous. Desperate. Searching online for answers (well, duh) and having multiple doctor visits which offered mostly prescription medications, but nothing which reached the root of things.


I went on a weekend spiritual retreat to cry and pray and watch movies and eat and I became sicker than ever. I left early and managed to tell my husband that I very much needed help. I was willing to try a very, very strict diet which offered roughly fifteen pages of food I could and could not eat. There was more weeping, I assure you.


But desperation will make any coward find courage. I made the food with Dan. I bought the weird ingredients. And then I waited.


To my surprise, the diet was extremely effective. Probably because of science. And I began to heal. Which made me want to test the strictness of the diet and rendered me ill once again. So back to the beginning.


What I don't want to admit is that food is, first and foremost, fuel. Sometimes it is delightful and sometimes it's just not. But fuel is necessary to run cars and so also with humans.


And not to paint too cheery a tone on this whole adventure, but I am donning my apron a lot more these days and looking a little more like Betty Crocker. Except I don't make those weird savory gelatin salads or put mayonnaise in things like cocoa.


I guess what I'm saying is that I'm getting back to basics. I'm chopping vegetables and cutting out tons of sugar and making vats of food. I'm buying ingredients for which I used to snub my nose thinking that people were going "overboard" in their health choices, but now it's one of the only things I can eat.


I'm humbled, I'll tell you that. It's a little tricky when people invite me out for dinner because I question how much of my gastrointestinal tale they need to know. Or to put it more bluntly, "How much do I like this person?"


On the plus side, all the keto and paleo and organic people are probably right. Yes, you heard me. You're right. With your microscopic appreciation of food sources and fanny pack filled with homemade tree bark protein bars. Forgive the sarcasm font. I'm probably hungry again.


But on the plus side, I have lost weight which most women love to do. It was hard won, not intentional and not pretty. And honestly if I ever get to eat even coconut milk ice cream ever again, I will eat a pint at a time out of spite (and happiness) and probably gain it all back.


But for now, I am a leaner person (and hopefully by now you see that I'm not referring to physical appearance.) I'm more intentional with food, which makes me more grateful. I interact with making my food more because I don't have the luxury of just pouring a bowl of cereal. I eat even when I'm not hungry because I know that 37 minutes later when I'm driving the kids to some far away field trip, I will want to saw my arm off as a food source. That just won't do because I need my arms to drive.


I won't slam either side of the health fence, however, because in all honesty as I health nut I feel like a poser. When I watch my children scoop their vanilla bean ice cream, I can assure you that the sugar lust is real.

A Leaner Tale

A few years ago in a moment of suffocation I asked God to help me have a leaner life. Just writing the word "lean" makes me think of those frozen dinners in the grocery store, the ones that promise weight loss. And that's not what I was going after.

I think I meant a life observed and gratefully accepted.

But in a bizarre turn of events, my life became much leaner and more focused.

Earlier this year after a series of stressful circumstances which I was pretending weren't stressful, my body and soul formed a pact and refused to digest anything. One hundred percent of everything I ate went right through me. I spent two months just eating and eating, not gaining weight, not losing weight. Always ravenous. Desperate. Searching online for answers (well, duh) and having multiple doctor visits which offered mostly prescription medications, but nothing which reached the root of things.

I went on a weekend spiritual retreat to cry and pray and watch movies and eat and I became sicker than ever. I left early and managed to tell my husband that I very much needed help. I was willing to try a very, very strict diet which offered roughly fifteen pages of food I could and could not eat. There was more weeping, I assure you.

But desperation will make any coward find courage. I made the food with Dan. I bought the weird ingredients. And then I waited.

To my surprise, the diet was extremely effective. Probably because of science. And I began to heal. Which made me want to test the strictness of the diet and rendered me ill once again. So back to the beginning.

What I don't want to admit is that food is, first and foremost, fuel. Sometimes it is delightful and sometimes it's just not. But fuel is necessary to run cars and so also with humans.

And not to paint too cheery a tone on this whole adventure, but I am donning my apron a lot more these days and looking a little more like Betty Crocker. Except I don't make those weird savory gelatin salads or put mayonnaise in things like cocoa.

I guess what I'm saying is that I'm getting back to basics. I'm chopping vegetables and cutting out tons of sugar and making vats of food. I'm buying ingredients for which I used to snub my nose thinking that people were going "overboard" in their health choices, but now it's one of the only things I can eat.

I'm humbled, I'll tell you that. It's a little tricky when people invite me out for dinner because I question how much of my gastrointestinal tale they need to know. Or to put it more bluntly, "How much do I like this person?"

On the plus side, all the keto and paleo and organic people are probably right. Yes, you heard me. You're right. With your microscopic appreciation of food sources and fanny pack filled with homemade tree bark protein bars. Forgive the sarcasm font. I'm probably hungry again.

But on the plus side, I have lost weight which most women love to do. It was hard won, not intentional and not pretty. And honestly if I ever get to eat even coconut milk ice cream ever again, I will eat a pint at a time out of spite (and happiness) and probably gain it all back.

But for now, I am a leaner person (and hopefully by now you see that I'm not referring to physical appearance.) I'm more intentional with food, with makes me more grateful. I interact with making my food more because I don't have the luxury of just pouring a bowl of cereal. I eat even when I'm not hungry because I know that 37 minutes later when I'm driving the kids to some far away field trip, I will want to saw my arm off as a food source. That just won't do because I need my arms to drive.

I won't slam either side of the health fence, however, because in all honesty as I health nut I feel like a poser. When I watch my children scoop their vanilla bean ice cream, I can assure you that the sugar lust is real.

The Estate Sale

There is a lady who has pulled up to the house in an old Mercedes Benz, the kind that runs on diesel and sighs a little when the ignition is turned off. She makes halting steps to the front door, slightly stooping, and offers to preview the estate sale. I tell her that the sale is tomorrow and she tells me she might not come tomorrow and I might lose her sales. There is a glint in her eyes which turns to fire when I tell her I'm sorry, no, you must come tomorrow. 

The next morning a mass of people has congregated on the driveway forming a rough line, anxious to see what's inside. Presumably they have all found the large, bold signs my mother posted with arrows on the electric poles in the general vicinity of the house. I go out to greet the crowd and tell them the sale is about to begin. They ask pointed questions about things like books for sale and I answer them.

Inside the house are hundreds of decorations and housewares and pieces of furniture affixed with little price tags. Furniture which does not convey wears a bright little sign or Post-It note saying so. 

I have flown in to Maryland from Chicago to help with the sale.

My sister has flown in from Charlotte to help. She leaves four children at home in the care of others. This may even feel like a vacation to her.

My youngest brother has also journeyed north to assist. He is accompanied by his pit bull terrier, Taj. 

I have mentally prepared for long days and negotiations but not the spectrum of humanity I would encounter these two days of this sale.

The older lady with the Mercedes does, in fact, return and buys a glass bowl or plate. She places the item on the cash table and fingers her change purse, looking sad and offering a pitiable sum. Feeling feisty, I counter that I would accept her number if she could produce some sort of happiness. Maybe a smile. I'm not sure what came over me to ask another person to change her countenance, but I did and she did and in the end we both laugh. 

A middle-aged woman arrives with her son, only it wasn't her son it was her grandson. She is such a young grandmother. I tell her so and she smiles. The boy wants toy dinosaurs and we have so many. I almost force the prehistoric figures in their arms and watch with joy as they walk away.

One woman clearly confuses the boundaries of which rooms were for purchasers and begins to find the kitchen and eat our sandwiches.

I descend to the basement to help my sister and a man stops me. He takes my hand and thrusts some change in it. He is smiling brightly, charmingly and I am taken aback by his boldness. "I am buying this," he says, looking at the item, then me and then his family. I look into my hands and see a range of coins which, at first glance, definitely don't add up anywhere near to what this man is buying. I tell him I'm sorry and try to return his money, but he refuses and then I tell him no and return his money. He decides to not be charming anymore and says words. His family is hiding behind him. I don't have time to address "Mr. Ego" and return to organizing things which have been pawed through.

I walk to the back yard and see a woman who is unlike the other buyers. She is walking quietly and contemplating the things strewn in the yard. She is in no hurry. I say hello and she says hello and she tells me she has breast cancer. I have heard a lot of stories today; people like to tell sad stories in order to score great deals at the sale, but I can tell that this woman has no such motive. She is serene and intentional. I can't really remember much else of what she said because when someone says the word "cancer" my senses stop. I can't get over that word. The woman has the face of a warrior, kind but set, and buys something small before leaving.

I make my way to the front yard to help people load furniture when "Mr. Ego" reappears. He drives past our house in a pickup truck and yells numbers, then turns his vehicle around and yells more numbers, back and forth, multiple times. I have never seen this type of negotiation before. I don't think he even needs anything we are selling, I think that maybe this is a game to him, to get something for an abysmally small price. But this is the second day of the sale and I am tired and I simply stop interacting with him. Eventually he drives away for good.

I return to help at the cash box table and see people walking out with things I grew up with. Without any notice, the little girl who I have been trying to suppress inside me springs forth and begins weeping. My mother comes to me and tries to comfort me, but now her eyes are wells and we are both crying and holding each other for a minute, releasing the weight of the day. Some estate sales are happy but this one feels heavy. There will be a fresh start and our family will adjust. 

We are tired of gossip and advice and prying people. Though I live in Illinois people have called me from Maryland and in their fear said very unhelpful things.  One man liked to give me updates about my parents. Another person called and simply ranted. A well meaning older couple sent me books to give my parents on how to stay married, as if they had not considered that option. Others start to say things that at first sound gentle and maybe hopeful but end up soliciting information. The people who choose to speak to us, all of them, have never entered these waters but somehow believe they are fit to captain our ship. Being an adult offspring in this situation feels like standing onboard a sinking boat whose deck is aflame while others look on, eye us with curiosity and douse us with buckets of water. They think they are extinguishing the fire, but their actions only serve to sink our vessel more quickly. Finally, one bold soul suggested that if I don't keep my parents together, the same will fall upon my marriage, citing statistics. Hearing this, I push back. "You know what? No. No. This is their choice and I have my own choices. This has nothing to do with me."

Now my mother and I are finished crying. We wipe the wet off our faces and smile at each other and help the next purchaser.

Things are quieting down and I take a moment to survey the house. My mother tells me I can take whatever I want and my first thought is that I want all of it right now to come back to me but I know that can't be. There are three acrylic shoeboxes full with multiple colors of bias tape, every color you can imagine. They smell of old fabric but are not dryrotted. They are clearly the collection of someone who was frugal and careful, my great grandmother. Dear woman. I scoop up all three boxes and place them in a corner. No one will buy them, but the sentimental value is enough for me.

At the end of the sale we all go upstairs to sit on whatever furniture remains. We fall in a heap and laugh at how exhausted we are.

Later that evening I walk through the halls of my former house. It's so empty that it echoes. I see only a shell; the spirit is gone. I expect to cry, but I don't. Not one tear. I am grateful.

Magic + Ocean

I am standing in front of the Atlantic Ocean, mesmerized by the push and pull of the waves. How do all of the molecules of water know their place? They gather in groups and increase and increase still more until they erupt in a blanket of bubbles and murmurs, teasing the toes of people walking by. It's the same pattern every five seconds. Push and pull, gather and erupt, mound and level. 

While the ocean is happily dancing, there is a greater force at work which is causing the ocean to be fuller, to rise higher for hours and hours until it needs to deflate. What an odd force. It's such magic, those great waters.

I miss the ocean. I miss the sound of the waves. They deafen me to my troubles. 

When I was twenty years old and navigating some greater questions of direction in life, I went to the ocean and sat for hours in her presence, watching her tides pull. I let her strength wash away all the unnecessary in my mind until I was left with the essence of why I was there. I didn't leave until she made me a child again: small, innocent, playful, simple. 

I brought so many questions to the ocean. Why am I so sensitive? Why do I love this man? Why am I so awkward? Why do I overthink things? It was here at the ocean where I shed my girlhood and accepted my adult self. I didn't pray to the ocean. I just left my worries there. The ocean is great and simple, cleansing and terrible. I wasn't the same person after meeting it. 

Today I am in an ocean of laundry, with equally rhythmic tides. Mondays the tide is high with four or five loads of clothing and towels and little girl socks strewn on the living room floor. The washing machine whirs all morning long, pulsing with soap and life and dirt. 

The dishes are the same, mounting high in the sink, then increasing more exactly when my children are home from school. The counters are layered with schoolwork and sticky peanut butter. 

I don't despise the constant chores, but I can't say they soothe me or make me childlike. They require a certain amount of effort. 

A responsible person goes grocery shopping and chops vegetables and minds the tides of running a household. 

A person who wants to be made new spends time being small, unnecessary, plain. She heeds the vastness of the ocean. 

Advent-ure

It is Advent season in the church and I am walking into a room filled with my friends. We are all smiling. It is Christmas and there are pretty lights and rich decorations. Everyone loves Christmas. I love Christmas. And this year I love Christmas even more because I am wide with child. I can feel her kicking inside me. I'm large and I'm proud. I'm grateful. 

When people are uttering "Come, Lord Jesus," I am thinking, "Come, little baby." I am not thinking about anything except my baby. I don't even care what they're teaching today about God. I am too busy with happiness. I can't concentrate. Occasionally a tear rolls down my face, but it's the kind that is hot and fierce joy. A hymn suggests that baby Jesus "be born in us today" but all I can think about is how excited I am to give birth to this wild child inside me. Come, my baby.

I am a large, joyful pregnant woman and I will own it all.

My previous declarations of baby were more fragile due to an uncooperative womb. I would say the good news and watch my body swell, then deflate, swell and deflate. It was very confusing. Sometimes I felt like I was lying to people, which is an odd thing to think in retrospect. 

People became weary of my news and gave me some suggestions. 

It's hard to know which people are tender and strong enough to walk with you in hope knowing that there's a possibility of... you know. The thing we don't like to talk about.

December is tricky, too. There is a central figure being talked about and that figure is a baby. So if you have a baby crib on your mind, the feelings tend to be polar in nature, either very bad or very good.

Prior to this year, Advent songs were less delightful. All that baby talk. In church there was a felt banner which held an image of a baby and rendered me temporarily asthmatic. My lungs decided that there wasn't enough oxygen in the room. I was dizzy with grief and teasing.

I wonder if people who lost a loved one at Easter dislike the Easter story. All that talk about someone coming back from the dead. I imagine that to be very hard.

But now I am expecting at Christmastime and I will do anything to give birth to this child. Now I am in the hospital being induced, a week before Christmas. There is a full moon and an ice storm. And there is no room in the hospital. It's beginning to sound a little too familiar. At least I didn't have to ride there on a donkey.

The baby comes, a girl,  and I scoop her into my arms. The nurse asks to take her from me, gesturing that she wants to wash her and without breaking gaze of my new gift I say, "No. You can't have her." I'm fierce with protection now. I will fight this lady if necessary. Nothing can take this warm bundle from me. Come again, tomorrow, nurse. Maybe.

Now it is Christmas day and I have a six day old baby on my chest, sleeping, breathing. I am sitting on the couch, watching my 5 year old open her presents. It has been a long journey for us all. We are wrecked with joy. Hope seen. Arms full. Heart fuller.

Let

I was reading the creation story this week, rewriting the story for a younger audience, marveling at the orderliness of it all. I realized in my efforts of doing this that a singular word kept popping off the page.
Let. 

Let there be light.
Let there be land.
Let there be vegetation.

The command is so frugal, curt, forthright, and productive that all I can say in reply is: DANG. More like this, actually: DAAAANNNNNGGGGG.

I sat with the word for some time and marveled at the simplicity and power of it. How can someone talk into nothing and say "Let this happen" and their ideas perfectly mold into the shape made in their head? 

The clearest communication I have in my house is with my dog. When I say "Crate," she obediently walks to her crate every time. Seriously. That is the only power I have. It's pitiful how little power I have over my words.

I'm a little jealous at the ease of God's ability to create. In my design work, I noodle over a shape or color for long periods of time, often with mediocre results. It's just mesmerizing to think of creation with such ease. 

The word "Let" suggests that these things were already created somehow, that they were being held back until the one syllable was uttered. Can you imagine being the great Creator, holding back the hot, eager, pulsing sun, like a horse snorting and stomping at the starting gate of the Derby, smiling at its enthusiasm, telling it to wait until day four? 

That's the power of God. A single syllable and entire universes emerge, erupting and twirling, perfect and swirling, pulsing with life and planets and movement. 

My dance with words is far more complicated. I stutter over how many words to say, what volume, what choice. I question if I needed to say something with more softness or more cold, hard truth. Or maybe nothing at all. I never communicate perfectly. And to make matters more difficult, the receiver has their own set of problems in hearing what I say. 

It's such hard work, being a human on this side of Eden, the side where words are twisted or crescendoed or hardened more than they're supposed to be. 

Our hearts tell us that it was mean to be easier. We were meant for such ease. We long for it. 

For now I take my conversations, hard and soft, and I offer them back to the Genesis story, to the God who made goodness out of darkness. I say, "Let there be light again." 

And because he loves creating still, he says, "Yes. Let."

Colliding with Jupiter

Eve is waking up and promptly hands me a paper. It describes the stars and the sky. She desperately wants people to know that the sky is not plain. It's not a big, dark abyss. She loves the sky and outer space. Thumbtacked to her ceiling are individual model planets, each in their proper place with a proper, scientific distance between them. Sometimes when I tuck her in bed at night, I flick her covers up in the air to straighten them and they hit the orbs above her, planets colliding playfully. She shouts, "Oh, no! Jupiter!" as if it was a person who she tenderly loved.

Eve tells me about the stars. She keeps talking in swirls and sentences that have no end. I hear bits of her story, aware that she will not be stopped until all the information has been released from her brain, the way a person feels when they recover from influenza.

She tells me that the North Star doesn't move but that all the other constellations do. While she is talking I realize that I am her North Star and she is a constellation, trying to avoid colliding as she navigates the dark, stories trailing behind her.

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We are in a hotel and Eve is drawing a map of the room. We cannot leave the hotel room until she is done drawing the map. There is an earnest look on her face. We pack the car while she draws, until all her anxieties subside. It's a very accurate drawing.

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We are in an airport. The place is thick with people. But Eve must touch the mosaic floor, so playful and bumpy and colorful. She lays on the floor and touches it and I stand over to protect her from the herd. 

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The doctor smiles at me and tells me that Eve has autism. She tells me that a few years ago it would be considered Asperger's but now we're not allowed to say that anymore. It's an old term. She says this confidently. I trust her. But in my heart I want to call it Asperger's. It doesn't carry the weight of the word autism. It sounds lighter, almost fun.
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Now I am wondering if a man I knew 20 years ago had autism and I'm thinking yes, yes he did. History is being rewritten in my mind. I don't see him as a man who is trying to be obnoxious. I see him as an autistic.

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There is no perfect way to tell a story. No one has the perfect volume, the perfect words and pitch and tone. Some people will think that you don't have enough adjectives and others will find any emotion as being sensational. 

That's how I feel with telling our story of autism.

I'm not sure how loud to be or how soft to be. All I know is that autism has changed my life in the same way that divorce has changed my life. First, there are the broken waters, the tears, the wrestling with the way life should have been. It's loud and chaotic and expensive and life draining. And then, over time, things change. I walk differently. My brain fires neurons in a new way. I can't explain it. It's chemical. I wouldn't want it, I didn't choose it, but I've been changed, I think for the better. It's an awful kind of grace. 

Some days I feel strong and mighty. I read the books and I know the words about autism in order to feel strong.
But earlier this week my husband came home to a woman who uttered such desperation that I wondered if he might not want to come home again. I told him I would rather wash a hundred bathrooms than deal with this. Autism is hard. 

Sometimes I shake my fist, vainly.

At the chaos of it all.
At all the insurance hoops.

At the perky way teachers describe the way they'll work with Eve. Wink, wink.

And in my gentler moments, I see that I am an actress in the play of life, doing my part, saying my lines and that the story wouldn't be the same without all of us.

Yes, all of us.

One of my daughters is poetry. She feels first, always. She is calligraphy. She is theater. She is emotions. She can take the simplest of ingredients and make it into something special. She can make the ordinary not ordinary. She is organic and kind and plays guitar. She bakes. She likes to give people gifts, especially when people are hurting.

One of my daughters is geometry. She loves math and angles and formulae. Give her dates. Give her numbers. Recently we went to a doctor's appointment where a key code was required for the bathroom. She remembered the code weeks later, all five digits. She knows movies verbatim. She sees the world as one big combination. She sees people the same.

One of my daughters is mercy, one is truth. 
One is adventure novels, one is maps.
One is the sun, one is the moon. 

These two creatures pull me into two different directions of love, enlarging me, making me a better version of myself. I wasn't as organized until I became a mother and saw the importance of health and schedules. I wasn't as fluid until I saw the flow necessary for my children to create, to know experience without time boundaries. To play with LEGO bricks for hours. To take pieces of cardboard and bring life to them. 

They need a mother who is an ocean, with kind boundaries and strong tides, respectable depths and playful shallows. Before they came into my life I was a pool, exactly five feet deep in all corners, clear, predictable. More perfect, maybe? But then I entered the world of motherhood. 

For years I was lost. I couldn't see the shore. Life was murky. 
Until I accepted the gift.

I let their laughter and curiosity and intelligence and grace enter my life. I laid down the mantle of "I am parent and I know best" and became, simply, their servant and their student. The only way I know to grow servants and students it to model it. 

Before then, I yelled at them and they returned the favor.
I barked. They barked.
I was turning them into very loud people.
And then there was a day when I reached deep inside and treated my children with respect and learned that they mirror what they see. I'm not perfect. They're not perfect. We try. Love is work. But love works. It's worth it.

My children are not my friends, not yet. They're not my enemies. They're in my care. I am their mother; not their equal, not their better and not lesser either. I have more say in their life than a friendship would warrant. It's unique work, motherhood. Any other relationship like this would be labeled as "inappropriate" or "codependent." One day I hope to be more of a friend to them. But I will always be their mother.

I worry a lot. I think that comes with the territory of motherhood. I'm working on not worrying so much. Many years ago my husband and I were marveling that we accidentally named our children versions of "Morning" and "Evening." And then we laughed because they were born in the morning and evening, respectively. For a moment it felt serendipitous and romantic. We were anchored in the thought that there was a bigger picture at hand, a larger story, something beyond our grasp. 

One of my daughters is poetry and one is geometry. Both are needed to build a home.

The Shape of Now

I'm sitting in a medical office, reading a book of poetry. Maybe I'm not reading it. I've been on the same page for 15 minutes, rereading the same words until they take root. There is a television with hockey on it playing in the background. In the time that I am sitting, a woman is struggling to breathe. She is having a panic attack about the MRI she is about to undergo. The nurse calms her and they talk options.

A teen girl is weeping loudly, taking great gasps of breath and her mother is saying, "You have to do this. You have to do this. You have to get an MRI or else they won't know why you have the migraines."

I desperately want to encourage her, but I hold my tongue and incline towards prayer. Perhaps that is my purpose in this moment.

My husband comes out of his MRI and we leave.

______________________________

Dan is struggling to sit up. He is laughing the kind of laugh which I associate with the midwest. It's the kind of half-laugh which says, "I'm hurting, but I'm not interested in talking about it." So we don't. I'm helping him putting his tshirt on over his head. He holds his head against me to steady himself. He hasn't showered or shaved in a while, which I know bothers him. He doesn't mention it. Instead he says, "This wasn't in our marriage vows, was it?" We both smile.

______________________________

I go outside and realize suddenly that it is spring. It's an unsteady definition in Chicago. The first day of spring here it was hailing. But now there is a robin squatting on her nest, the sun is warm and everything is very green. My eyes are happy and so it my skin. It feels warm and hopeful outside.

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My daughter was diagnosed with autism a month ago. I was grateful for the diagnosis. I rolled up my sleeves and began learning the terminology. The words felt important, some with as many as five syllables. Sometimes words with many syllables feel like they can take care of us. I felt strong and knowledgable which made me want to do things more quickly to "get it over with." But then I let the information wash over me in a more accepting way, seeing that some things I will not change and some things I will. I felt less powerful but more anchored.

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A stranger with a dog outside hears me tell a neighbor that my husband has a herniated disc and asks if I have a doctor. Her eyes suggest that she has a lot of information. A lot of people have a lot of information. Even the doctors have information that doesn't agree. So I tell her, quite plainly, "We're good in the advice department." In my mind I tell myself that I will never offer advice to anyone else ever in my entire life. But I know that isn't true.

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I am tucking Eve in bed at night. She tells me that Montana is the fourth biggest state. She has been studying a map on the floor. I smile at her mind.

She tells me that a boy in school farted and said "Excuse me." She thinks he is very brave for owning up to it. She thinks other people wouldn't do that. She admires him. Her thoughts are so special to me.

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My thirteen year old is going to an orthodontics appointment today. It feels nice to go to a non emergency doctor appointment. 

My husband remarked this week that she is looking more like a woman than a girl. He's right. She's lovely. Perhaps most parents look at their children and think, "I didn't know this beauty could come from me." Which a form of grace that all parents need, that their work in not in vain.

______________________________

I have two medical conditions in two members of my family which will require a lot of care on my part. I must be their advocate. That is the word you use if you are speaking up for someone else: Advocate. It's trendy and sounds better than the word "naggy."

I'm struck with how tired I am. It's more a fact than asking for pity. How curious, I think, that I am so tired. I must be practical: How can I care for myself so I don't burn out? I remember that my modus operandi isn't working:
Typically I buy a lot of office supplies to help me feel organized.
I lay out some half-hearted prayers.
And then I become overly responsible and think condescending thoughts on anyone who is not responsible. 

I decide that something needs to change. I want to ask Jesus how useful he is. He is telling me that he is very useful. I ask him to provide a plumber and he does. And now I am asking for an electrician to show up. I am saying that I'm not interested in being shiny or rested or skinny or organized or anything that gets good grades. I want my eyes to stop stinging. I want a shower. And I just want to rest in the knowing that I don't have to play God. I can just be Emily. 

I sit in the unknown and wait.

New York in Little Tiny Stories

I made a few friends this week in New York. In truth, I'll probably never see them again, but we connected a little and exchanged stories about our lives and to me that constitutes the beginning of a friendship. So, friends.

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I met a taxi driver who was from Morocco. He asked me if I knew where Morocco was and I said I wasn't sure. This was very interesting timing because I bought a map of the world to learn all the countries. I was a little fuzzy brained from my plane ride and kept thinking he was saying "Monoco" but his accent was throwing me off. He was instantly not happy with my ignorance and I began to think that maybe I'd like to get out of the taxi, particularly when he told me about his country. The only information I know about Morocco is from a taxi driver and this driver said, "We have a king. Technically we're a democracy but we don't act like a democracy. The king has a say. When the king saw everything going on with Egypt and Syria and Iraq he said, 'You can say whatever you want, but you can't talk bad about me.' So we don't talk bad about him."
That's a democracy? He laughed. Technically, yes.

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I sat next to a middle aged man at dinner. Dan was on my left and this man was on my right. He was very enthusiastic and engaging. I was trying to not think about the fact that if I were home I would be getting in my jammies getting ready for bed and not sitting here. Dinner at eight. As the night went on we shared more and more stories. And then he shared that he loved living in the city, that living in the country sounds so romantic and pastoral but who would really want to live there? I could see his point. He was a world traveler and very versed in culture. In my mind I thought this: You don't live in the country with anything to prove. There's no one to impress. You live in the country because you love nature and land and don't mind silence. You live there because you already have a strong core. I know this because I have Dan and because I have Dan I have Iowa which has introduced me to some of the most humble, smart and down-to-earth humans I have ever met. It's like they actually shun fame.

So what I said was this: "I think that if you live in the country, you have to know why you're there."

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I was standing in the Guggenheim feeling very giddy. Here was a place I had only seen in pictures. The best way I can describe the overall feeling of walking through the Guggenheim is this: Draw a spring. The end.

Walking the Guggenheim was a very fluid experience. There aren't really "levels," it's more like one big ramp, though they do have a few offshoots which provide a level surface on which to see their collections. I'm pretty traditional, so I prefer the Cezannes and Kandinskys. I think everyone has their snobby side when it comes to art. If it doesn't interest me on any level, I'm not going to stand in front of a piece and try to glean something from it. I'm not there to impress anyone by my attention span. I choose about ten pieces to really enjoy and I let them speak to me. I ask questions like, "What do the colors reveal? Why is this important to the time period in which it was created?" And mostly I come away with this about the great artists: They told a good story, listened to their gut and worked very, very hard.

There was a couple walking in the Guggenheim who immediately caught my attention. They were art students, they had to be. She was wearing overalls and a red knit cap. He was wearing loose clothes and dreads tied into a bun. They were the models for the label "New York Art Student." Every few feet they would stand in front of an Agnes Martin and start making out or showing some sort of public display of affection. I began to think that maybe they were part of the exhibit. You never know with New York. They looked happy.

Later I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art which looked like it ate other museums for breakfast. It was the largest art museum I have ever seen. After buying my ticket, I asked where the restroom was and they told me to head to Egypt. This sounds kind of comical until I entered the broad entryway for Egyptian art and saw a portion of a pyramid. A real, honest-to-goodness pyramid. Inside a museum. This is definitely not something I see every day.



Painting by Esteban Vicente, "Number One," 1951

I realized very quickly that the two hours I allotted for The Met were going to need to be time budgeted. I had two goals: See the Cezannes/Kandinskys and check out the Japanese art. I didn't know how much of an art snob I was until I found the Post-Impressionist hall which is always near the Monets. As a whole I avoid the Monets because (don't hate me) I really don't like to hear all the people around me pontificating and worshipping his work. He's fantastic, I know. I just have issues. Probably because people got mesmerized by his use of color and slapped it on every surface imaginable to man until all his hard work became something ordinary. I know, I have issues. I said that. Forgive me. I should just bring noise canceling headphones to art galleries.

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Eventually I saw Rockefeller Center. It was just as beautiful and Christmasy as I imagined. And it was also twice as crowded. So I saw it, marveled, and left.

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Dan and I sat in a thai restaurant with very good reviews. The hostess sat us at a table that was so tight she had to slide the table out first so I could be seated. I was twelve inches away from people on my left and on my right. Both parties appeared to be in full swing. I don't think I could have even ordered dinner, it was that loud. But then, to my delight, I remembered I was in New York where they're known for speaking their mind. I pushed the table away from me. I told the hostess, "Hi! I have a hearing problem. I can't sit there. What do you have that's quieter?" And with that, she took me to the back room where Dan and I could hear each other.

We were ready to order Pad Thai but it was not on the menu. Our server came. She was young and had a nose ring. I told her, "We're kind of traditional when it comes to thai food." I might have mentioned the Pad Thai. I noticed that she was ready for my response. Something about "authentic thai food" or "fusion." I'm not sure. All I heard was, "We don't have that."

I looked at Dan. "Well, we're in a new place. Let's try something new." We scanned the menu and realized we didn't want to eat crispy pork brains. We found the most conservative thing we could. Crab with rice. It wasn't the best thing I ever ate, but the cocktail I ordered told me it was okay, that I was with good company and that mattered more. And that was entirely true.

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I think some people go to New York with the idea that they will find a part of themselves that was previously lost. I didn't go there for that. As a rule, I try not to go places and expect more than what is humanly possible. Things there were beautiful, big and loud. They do a good job of welcoming many people from many places. They also do a good job of preserving culture. I'd love to go back again.

On our trip home I told Dan this: "Well, I think I'm from Chicago. That feels like home to me." And he laughed, saying, "I don't think you've ever accepted Chicago as your home." Which is true. I often make fun of how midwesterners are known for kindness but sweep a lot of things under the rug. But if that's all I can come up with to ridicule, that's a pretty small insult. I've lived in the 'burbs of DC, Baltimore and Jersey and there's much more fodder for insults. I'm accepting Chicago as my home now.

But I digress. Thank you, New York. For your many sights. For your broad doors and warm welcome mats. You were delightful. Until we meet again,
Emily

New Life

There's nothing left in me today.

In the past, this statement used to frighten me, cause me to do the opposite of retreating. I would rage against the fear and start buying ... do I dare share? Office supplies. Shaking head... Office supplies. As if Post-it notes and pens will erase my ache.

My husband is launching a huge website. He wakes even earlier than his usual 4am time. He is working so very hard.

While he is working he hears that a coworker has died, one of the people on his team. It's so devastating, her desk still sitting there, without her. He works on the website throughout the day, managing vendors and groups and expectations while comforting those who are mourning. It's a stretch day.

There are some new hurdles on the horizon with regard to parenting. I don't understand them all, but I can sense that I need to gear up. I have some friends who have walked this road and I'm writing them all, asking for direction. Today was so exhausting that my family napped most of the afternoon away from all the emotional output. We all collided into one another.

When I awoke, I was still weary. There is such bigness to parenting.

I had a little sliver of time which I was holding to too tightly, hoping to do a little creative work. But parenting comes first and it came hard today, so I let it go very, very reluctantly.

I'm empty. Emily is all gone. There's just a shell of me and that shell remembers that the story that directs my life is this: Death ushers in resurrection. That's what the Jesus story is all about. You reach the last drop of hope and strength and shininess. You don't have the strength to even wear the mask. You come with all your stink and say, "What a charade. I have no life in me, save for you, God."

But I'm not in despair. You know how you read a story that's very sad up until the end where the bad guy gets what's coming to him? Even during the sad parts you have a glimmer of hope because you've read this before. You even have your fingers holding the page where things turn out for good. That's what it's like to walk in the yuck.

And then you wait. You wait for the resurrection.

Sometimes it comes in the form of rest. Or a piece of encouragement. Sometimes it's a line in a book or just a realization that the trees outside are still green.

But I know this: It's not wishful thinking. It's not a positive outlook. It's not a cheery disposition. It's real, honest-to-goodness resurrection. It involves me staying right here, right in the midst of all the death and sadness, feeling the weight of it all. Feeling the "wait" of it all. And then, with no effort of my own, God shows up. No fancy prayers. No high cathedrals. Just me, no makeup, summer frizzy-haired, grumpy, exhausted, calling out to God imperfectly.

When I've been working so hard that I don't have time to get my hair done, I pray that my busy stylist has time to cut my hair... and she does. That's God.

When a sticky situation means that a gathering will be really awkward unless God shows up, I definitely offer him an invitation. And he comes.

When my husband and I are serving and being ultra responsible and have no time for sex, I pray about that, too. Ain't no shame. And since this is rated G, I'll just say that God answers prayer.

Design projects.
Block parties.
Hurt feelings.
Financial questions.
Boredom.
Loneliness.
Websites.

I have a list a mile long of all the places I've invited God's resurrection. And today is no different. He makes everything beautiful in its time.

Yes & No

Yes to the first boyfriend, the narcissistic one, who taught me that I need to stand on my own two feet.

Yes to the big family I grew up in. The loud one. You taught me to love deeply and speak quickly before I was interrupted. You taught me to share.

Yes to the healing that came after my parents' divorce.
No to divorce.
Yes to moving on.

Yes to eighth grade, to too much makeup, to Bon Jovi singing "Livin' on a Prayer." Sorry to my parents for the eye rolling. No to the bullies.

Yes to traveling to Russia and Jamaica and Italy.

Yes to learning how to budget.
Yes to being frugal. No to being cheap.

No to saying, "We can't do that because it has never been done that way."

Yes to embracing your age and wearing it well.

No to only talking about one's self and never asking others about their life.

Yes to older people who are inspiring and haven't checked out of life.

Yes to people who are inclusive.
No to people who are only inclusive because they want to change you into versions of themselves.

Yes to Dan when he asked me out for pizza in college. Sorry I said no the first time. I was scared.

Yes to reading tremendous authors in art and thought and literature. Yes to Elizabeth Gilbert and Anne Morrow Lindbergh and Dallas Willard. Yes to Calvin & Hobbes and Bloom County. More yeses.

Yes to accepting one's self. The mind, the body, the emotions.

Yes to trying new things. Always try new things.

No to telling one's self that you can't do something because of age.
No to telling one's self that you're not... artistic, athletic, intelligent.
Yes to trying.

Yes to deciding who gets a voice in your life.

Yes to friends of all ages and walks of life.

Yes to true grace, the only source of which is God.

No to people pleasing. A thousand nos.

Yes to forgiveness. True forgiveness. It ushers in new respect for self and others.

Yes to learning new words and cultures and people and phrases and foods.

Yes to parties.
No to waiting to have parties until your house is perfect. Or your body. Or your bank account.

No to victim talk. But yes to grieving and wrestling through and receiving healing.

Yes to accepting the gray in life. Compromise is necessary in all relationships.

Yes to boundaries, but only ones done in grace.
No to raw pride. It has no room for others.

Yes to cake made with 2 sticks of butter.
Yes to arugula salad.

No to gossip. It destroys one's trust and reputation.

Yes to speaking the truth in love, even when it hurts.
No to not speaking up. No to ignoring someone in hospice because you are afraid of death. No to "waiting for the funeral" to say something nice.
Yes to speaking life.

Yes to listening to your emotions.
No to letting your emotions go unbridled.

Yes to big picture thinking. No to slapping on blinders.

Yes to planting trees.

Yes to spending money on vacations.

No to "not mentioning" lost pregnancies.

Yes to purging things out of your home which you don't need.

Yes to marriage. Yes to speaking kindness to the ones under your own roof.

Yes to admitting when you're wrong. Yes to having grace on yourself when you feel awful.

Yes to traditions. No to rigid ones which don't let others have any voice.

No to constant negativity. Yes to using disgust to springboard you into redemptive action.

No to blaming management all the time. Yes to rolling up your sleeves and asking how you can help.

Yes to servant leadership.

Sixteen

It was December 1998. We were 23 years old, both of us. We attended each other's work Christmas parties as friends. That's why we were at the Baltimore Harbor in December. It was really warm, unseasonably so. We walked a long time. We came to the Maryland Science Center there at the Harbor and stood gawking at a ridiculously life-sized looking dinosaur. It had qualities of the Brontosaurus. It was enormous. Somewhere between the minutes of looking at that dinosaur, making small talk about something prehistoric, we realized that we didn't want to leave.
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I was trying to figure out my budget and having a hard time understanding why all the dollars didn't add up. We were only dating. You asked me my salary and I hesitated. I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to know how little I made. But I trusted you and I told you. You didn't hesitate. You scratched out a budget for me on paper, never being cruel or condescending, always hopeful. From that moment, I trusted you.
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You told me about how you lost your toe. The lawn mower, the scary hospital visit, the whole story. I still couldn't bring myself to look at it, afraid it might still look raw. We were talking in my parents' kitchen and the family labrador sauntered in and began licking your toe. The one toe. That stupid toe that I didn't want to look at. But I did. It wasn't that bad. Just the toenail was gone, really. You laughed.
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We were going to visit your family in Iowa. You told me about your sister and your mom and your dad. We flew out before the Fourth of July. Before we landed you showed me your family picture and I laughed. "You never told me your sister was adopted," I said, looking at a woman who was clearly asian. "I didn't? Hmmm. Well, she's my sister so I didn't think of it." I loved you even more.
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The winter we were unemployed was the roughest one ever. The winter seemed twice as long and twice as cold. There was no relief. We were tired. But I watched you with such grace and strength and perseverance. I have never respected you more. Such a man.
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I told you we were expecting and you froze. We didn't plan for this. You looked sheet white. You were installing new light switch covers in our 75 year old house. You looked up at me and said, "Well I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing." At least you knew what you were doing with those lightswitches.

I gave birth in the wee hours of an October morning. I had written you off as being an involved father. You were not involved in the pregnancy at all. You seemed scared and appalled. When Morgan was born, something clicked in you. You were instantly protective. Your voice cracked. You were elated. I was relieved. We would be a family.
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We were on our way to the fertility clinic, so weary. My heart was too heavy to pray so my prayer was this: "Spoil me, God." The procedure worked and we were expecting. I was barfing all over the place, in neighbors' lawns and in our house. Everywhere. So sick from the pregnancy. Happy, but sick. 

We had two children. One conceived in unplanning and one conceived in a petri dish. What a story. But it doesn't matter now because they are here.

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You are silvering and I am graying. Every year that passes sprouts more hairs that are light and springy. You are silvering. I am graying.

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It was December 1999. You were nervous. I was cold. We were at the Baltimore Harbor again, walking in the frigid wind. You were scanning the Harbor, looking for the dinosaur. It was bigger than a semi-truck. How could it move? The dinosaur was not there. The place where we fell in love. You looked around frantically with the ring in your pocket and seeing how cold I was, you just went with the moment. You said "Will you?" and I wept. The dinosaur was a no-show, but we found love anyway. Two friends, starting a life together.

An Umbrella and A Girl

We have an umbrella shortage in our house. Umbrellas come for a while and then succumb to the Chicago wind or a hole in the ozone and disappear. The ones that stay seem to have lost their life, tilting on one side or refusing to open at all.

The doorbell rang this morning. It was my daughter Eve letting me know that the umbrella with which I sent her to school wouldn't open. It was hardly raining, but Eve is seven and if an umbrella is in hand, it must be opened and twirled, if only for effect.

Sadly for Eve, I had already crossed "Get Eve to School" off my list. Her return was not welcome because I was tired. "You don't even NEED an umbrella," I said loudly. Okay, I lied. I actually yelled. I took it in my hand, and pulled the handle firmly, releasing the entire telescoping arm into my hand in two pieces. It was broken. Now I was mad. "Just go to school, Eve." I threw the hood on her coat and shuffled her out, both of us crying on the either side of the door.

I think the hardest part about parenting is that children reveal our impoverished places.

When Eve needed an umbrella, I was angry with her not because of her need. I was angry because I saw my poverty.
I saw that I wasn't prepared. (I hate being disorganized.)
I saw that I had to go shopping. (Don't like shopping.)
She already has an umbrella which she broke. (Gosh, I hate waste.)
My husband usually wakes at 4am and Eve goes to school at almost 9am. My morning has already been 5 hours long by the time she goes to school. I was tired and the day had barely begun. (Come to me, coffee.)

My daughter needed something I couldn't give her and that registered to me as inadequacy and weakness.

I tossed out the idea that I could be a perfect parent long ago. My goal in parenting is not perfection. My goal is not that I will be everything to my daughters. I don't have the capacity for that. In fact, I don't necessarily want my daughters to utter, "She was always there for me." A few years back I called my mother on the phone and she said, "Honey, I'd love to talk but I have to go on a hike with some friends." I was thrilled. "Mom, go. Enjoy your hike."

My game plan is this: To show my children that life is beautiful and worth observing. That life is also hard and worth fighting for. I want them to know that they will make mistakes but that they don't have to be defined by them. In fact, the one day on the calendar which we circle as their birthday is not entirely true. They will be reborn many times. Statistically, that would be every seven years, but some life events cause those changes to come more quickly. I want my children to know that the purpose of life is not to find all the answers and be an expert in something. The purpose in life is discovery and joy. And if that joy is rightly placed, they'll find God right there in their midst, satisfying their hunger and cheering them on.

So here's how the umbrella story ended. First, I cried big donkey tears. Then I wiped my face and went on amazon.com to order Eve a new umbrella. When she got home from school, she instantly remembered my angry state before she left and so it was no trouble to launch into an apology. Then we had cookies and laughter and moved on.

I mentally re-offered God all my poverty, all my regrets and re-aligned my day with the reality before me. Life is beautiful and worth observing. Life is hard but worth the fight.