Imperfect but Fixable

Today I saw a bumper sticker, "Keep kids alive, drive 25."  I saw it while I was on a drive to put my toddler to sleep for her nap, because she was refusing to go to sleep otherwise.  When I saw the bumper sticker, I had the glorious thought, "You have to drive slowly when kids are around because mine is not the only kid in the world prone to run into the street!"  I know that sounds silly, but sometimes, when I hear about other kids going to bed for their naps really easily and happily holding mommy's hand in the parking lot and sleeping through the night and putting away each book on the bookshelf before picking out another, it sounds like every other toddler in the world is a perfect angel and I must have done something really wrong with mine.  It was good to be reminded that, actually, my daughter is a perfectly normal toddler. 

I was surprised when, upon the birth of my daughter, I was immediately considered the expert on raising her.  "Would you like to give us permission to immunize her?"  "Would you allow me to hold her this way?"  "What should we do about feeding her - is a bottle okay or are you going to exclusively nurse her?"  The options were endless, and I felt like I didn't know nearly enough to be making some of these decisions.  And I worried.  Not knowing the consequences of almost any of the options, and growing in my awareness that no one else really did, either (although there are a LOT of opinionated people out there who fundamentally disagree with each other), what could I do?  This worry only got worse the more convinced I became that it was inevitable that at some point along the way I was likely to do something less than what was best for her.  

I was involved in a car accident a number of years ago when I was on my way home from college.  A lady was hurt and her car totaled, and she decided to milk this opportunity for some cash.  So she sued me for hundreds of thousands of dollars.  No, her medical and car expenses were nowhere near that, but there were "loss of happiness" issues and such (no kidding - that was the wording on the lawsuit).  My car insurance hired a lawyer and we went to court.  While prepping me on what to say, the lawyer concluded, "Just relax.  There is nothing you can say today that I can't fix."  

While the ethical implications of my lawyer's comment in that setting made me uncomfortable, God has used those words to give me great comfort in many other areas of my life, including that of raising my daughter.  Yes, I may make mistakes.  But there is nothing I can do that Jesus can't fix.  Jesus will call my daughter to himself, Jesus will be stronger for her than any habit, Jesus will bind up her wounds, Jesus will forgive her and me and make us both whole, and we will rejoice with him forever, not because I was perfect, but because Jesus is.  

Created Female

I am a Ph.D. student.  And I am a mom.  Before I was a mom, I never really thought of being female as something all that significant.  Not to say that I was oblivious to traditional gender roles and the biblical debates.  But being female didn't seem to affect my giftedness one way or the other, or my calling, or my friendships, or my worship, or really anything in my life that I thought of as significant.  Yes, I had that annoying monthly issue.  Yes, my breasts developed differently than those of men.  But it didn't seem to really matter.

Years later, I got pregnant.  The plan was for me to take my comprehensive exams, have the baby a few weeks later, take a few weeks to recover, put the baby in childcare, and plunge into the dissertation.  The plan seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

Throughout the pregnancy, I would marvel at the fact that I didn't have to read a book about how to carry the baby in my womb.  Somehow the body just knew how.  Perfectly.  Then the baby was born, and I was surprised at how incessantly this little limp person still needed me, my milk, the warmth of my skin, the sound of my voice familiar from the womb, the presence of my maternal love. I didn't think it would be best for her, or for me, to jump back into work.  Since I didn't have to, I didn't.  And as I've met more and more new moms, I am struck at how many quit their jobs if they are able once they have a child.  

I have learned a lot through this experience of what it means to be created female.  And I've learned a lot about the de-womanization that our society does to its daughters.  Until I had a baby, I thought of the distinctively female parts of myself as either (1) meant to be sexually stimulating (e.g., breasts, etc) or (2) a real annoyance to be medicated (e.g., menstral cycle, mood swings, PMS, pregnancy potential, etc).  But what if, instead of a sex object or disease, my femininity is fearfully and wonderfully made?  What if being in a natural cyclical rhythm like the moon and seasons isn't a problem but is something beautiful, like an ocean wave?  What if my overwhelming desire to be all alone and curl up in bed one or two days a month isn't first a bother to an economy of efficiency but is rather first a potentially fruitful gift out of which God intends to bring something good to all of creation?  What if I am called to the workplace AND I am called to care for my baby, not in the way a man in a suit decides is appropriate (e.g., 6 weeks maternity leave and then hand over the baby and plunge back in like nothing happened...), but in a way that is to this day unimagined by our society (like, bring the baby to work held against her in a sling and nurse throughout the day covered by nursing shirts).  I am amazed at my body's ability to nourish life in those ways in which it is distinctively female.  

O God, thank you for creating us male and female.  Teach us to truly appreciate both in all of the complexities.  Teach society to allow women to be women.  Amen.

Many Times as Much: Reflecting on Itineration

I want the absolute best for my daughter.  I want to give her a nice home with the warmth and security that comes from lots of family and friends surrounding her.  I want her to have good experiences at church and come to know the deep, deep love that God has for her.  And I am learning that, as a United Methodist pastor's wife, I'm kind of limited in my abilities to give her that.  We've already moved once in her short 18 months of life, and within the next few years we are going to move again.  We do not get to choose what church we will go to, whether it will be a "good" experience for her or not.  We do not get to choose the house.  We do not get to choose the community....  

Luke 18:29 says, "Truly I say to you, there is no one who has left house or wife or brothers or parents or children, for the sake of the kingdom of God, who will not receive many times as much in this age and in the age to come, eternal life."  The people of God have always had leaders, some of whom were called to wander.  Like Abraham, who heard the call, "Leave your country, your relatives, your father's house, and go to the land which I will show you" (Gen 12:1).  In the New Testament, the apostles were all over the place.  All of them experienced hardships, but all of them also received blessings beyond what they would have had otherwise, and in their obedience they became blessings that blessed the entire world.

              

I know that, as an itinerating pastor's family, we will probably not experience the same good as we would if we were settled "in the land of our father's."  But the promise is that as we follow God in Christ, we will experience good, a different good, an abundant good that will be many times as much as we would otherwise ever have known.

Dangerous Prayers

Back when I was in college, I use to pray dangerously.  "O God, show me what you want me to do.  You are my Lord.  I'll be single or married, have children or not, have a successful career or rot in a prison starving to death..."  And I meant it.  After all, God made me.  Who knew better than he what this clay pot was formed to do?  

Last year my husband was a part-time Local Pastor at a church with about 30 members.  We lived in a parsonage built in the 1860's, with a foundation that made me nervous.  There was crumbling lead paint on the upstairs walls, there was no counter space in the (orange) kitchen, and no matter how hard I scrubbed the bathroom (with a door that did not close) had a perpetually dirty feel to it.  Then my husband went for his commissioning interviews, passed, and we awaited that glorious day when he would be sent to a full time appointment.  And my prayers went like this:  "O God, please send us to a big church with lots of children for my daughter to pay with.  Let the parsonage have new paint, new carpet, new bathrooms, new furniture, and lots of counter space in the kitchen.  Let us be in the suburbs - I think I'd be more comfortable there and I don't want to live anywhere too dangerous for my daughter's sake."  And what do you know, no kidding, my husband was made an associate at a big church with lots of children, a parsonage with new paint, new carpet, new bathrooms, new furniture, and lots of kitchen counter space.  We are in the suburbs in one of the safest parts of the US.  

Not too long ago I read 2 Corinthians 2:17, "For we are not like many, peddling the word of God..."  I think of myself as "from sincerity" (as the verse continues), not as someone who would ever dare to do such a vile thing as use the gospel for personal gain.  But as I remembered my prayers of last year, as I faced my fear of someday going to a church in a more "dangerous" location, with a less than "nice" parsonage, I wondered if in my heart have I become a peddler of God's word?  Ouch!

On Good Friday, people cast lots for the clothing of Jesus.  They were so concerned about not destroying a nice piece of cloth, but they missed what was happening in the death of that man.  Had I become like one of them?  But I'm a mother, and I'm concerned for my child.  Surely that is good and right!  John's gospel follows this scene with the story of Jesus providing for his mother.   As a woman, she was dependent upon the care of the men in her family.  And here was her firstborn son dying.  That Jesus felt the need to find someone to provide for her suggests to me that maybe she was really dependent upon him beyond what I thought.  But even from the cross, Jesus remembered her, Jesus loved her, and Jesus made sure she was taken care of.  I, too, have cast my lot, and thus the lot of my daughter, with Jesus and am very dependent upon him.  Dare I trust him?  O God, forgive me!

Today is Easter.   The old has gone.  A new day has come.  What will this daunting new world of resurrection be like?  One thing is for sure - the old categories are shattered.  It will not do to worry about the destructive powers in the world.  Such would be silliness.  And so, mustering all the courage I can find in me, I return to my "dangerous" prayers in a world turned upside down.  Thanks be to God.  

   

Were you there?

"Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"  I've always thought that was a strange question.  No, silly, I wasn't born, yet.  Of course I wasn't there.  As I've sung that song countless times through the years, I've always just tried to ignore the question aspect of the song and focus upon the details of the crucifixion of Jesus which the song skillfully recounts.  Then I try to be so focused that I can effectively and appropriately "tremble."   I'm not always successful, though.  Maybe the author of the song wasn't, either - after all, it says "sometimes it causes me to tremble."

It wasn't until today that I finally got it.  I think of myself as a smart person, but it would seem that I've been quite dense when it comes to this.  At noon, my daughter was napping and I was in her playroom reading the Scriptures and praying.  When I heard the church bell chime in the distance, in honor of Good Friday, I put down the Bible in a respectful silence.  I suddenly felt led to sing "Were you there..."  I don't really like that song because, like I said, I think the question part is so annoyingly weird, but not wanting to disobey a prompting from the Holy Spirit, I began to sing.  

The question hit me like never before.  "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"  No, I wasn't.  Like the other disciples, I abandoned him last night.  I was at the Maundy Thursday service with my daughter, but she got a little chatty and we had to leave.  I was so mad.  Not so much at her - she was behaving like a normal 18 month old - but at some of the people in this church who have been so unkind, so unwelcoming, so outright mean to me and my daughter since we arrived.  But even though I wasn't mad at my daughter, she was the only one present once we left, and so it came out at her.  I was short and snappy and unkind, myself.  I knew better - I thought, "Control yourself!"  But I felt like I had such a good reason to be mad that I chose the unfaithful route.  It wasn't until later in the evening when I "heard the rooster crow" and realized that, despite my best desires and intentions, I, too, had abandoned Jesus.  Then all this morning as I continuously would draw my mind back to the cross, my mind would immediately get dragged back away.  I chose thoughts that tickled my vanity, stroked my pride, and filled me with temporary delight.  Sure, I tried, but habits of the mind are no small force.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?  I wanted to be.  I tried to be... sort of.  I was following him to the cross, but I only made it halfway.  Rather than dwell in the glory of the invisible, my mind chose over and over again the visible, temporary images before it.  I didn't choose the cross.  That, in response to the question of the song, causes me to "tremble."  

This is such a good day - we receive such grace today.  Were you there - really, fully there - to receive it?  Thank God that despite the absence of many of his disciples, two thousand years ago and today, he did it for us, anyway.

Thanks be to God!

Home on Maundy Thursday

This is going to be different from what I usually write.  It is the Thursday of Holy Week.  I want to be at church with the family of Christ, celebrating the Last Supper and remembering the events that followed.  But I had to leave the service, because my 18 month old was making noises.  And so I am here at home all alone with my daughter.  I could read the biblical story alone, which is what I will do anyway later tonight, but it really is not the same.  I think that is why I'm blogging this - I just can't bare to be alone with this on this night, but the church community does not want me and my daughter there.  And so here we are.  As we left the church, some of the people even sent me haughty, "It's about time" looks.

I'm reminded of a story - I forget the author and the name of the book, but the plot goes like this.  There once existed a Utopia-like land.  If you lived there, you could have anything you could possibly want.  It was a deliciously beautiful place and everyone was super happy all the time.  But there was one catch.  In order to live there, you had to place one of you children into a dungeon where they could only eat stale bread and drink water once a day for the rest of the child's life.  The question of the book was, would you do it?  Would you sacrifice just one of your children so that the rest of your family could live a perfectly happy existence?  Tonight, I feel like the church answered "yes," and I'm the child in the dungeon.

It's tempting to think, "Hmm, that means I get to identify with Jesus, abandoned by all his friends and left alone on this night."  But there is a certain uncomfortable irony to think that the people who went to church tonight because they love Jesus and want to be close to him and don't want to be interrupted in that very worthy goal - these are the people who are like the disciples who abandoned Jesus on this night?  That doesn't seem quite right.  I wonder, should I be OK with being stuck at home on this night, separated from the church, so that the church can remember in a focused manner?  I think I would be more able to do this if the people there weren't so nasty about wanting me to leave.  But would that even be right if they were nice about it?  

The day before we came to this church, I was praying about what God would have my ministry be here.  As I prayed, I suddenly could hear the cries of young moms all across the area -  moms pouring their lives out for their families day after day after day, with no input, tired, lonely, going on nothing.  They were crying out to God, and I felt God saying to me, "I am sending you here for them."  I had no idea at the time that I would become one of those young moms myself.

Tears of the Savior

Several nights ago, as I began to rock and nurse my baby to sleep, she bit me.  Now, this has happened before, and I can generally handle it.  But that night I went nuts.  I was startled at the violence of my own reaction.  "NO!" I yelled, and I pulled her away.  I called for my husband to come rock her, which really upset her because she wanted me, but for some reason I just had zero patience inside of me.  My husband took her, and I left with her crying uncontrollably in his arms.  Once she was finally asleep, I went in to look at her.  She was huddled against my husband, little choking sobs still coming out of her limp body as she lay there, asleep.  And I felt horrible.  Why couldn't I handle her in that moment?  The fury with which I reacted - it really startled me.  

Before I went to sleep, I had my evening prayer time.  I was so distraught over the way I had treated my daughter.  And I was really worried that maybe I had scarred her for life or something by just abandoning her in her tears.  I know, I know, this may be a "new mom" thing and I'll get over it by the third child, but in that moment the concern, the distress, the shock at how upset I became - these were very real to me.  And I brought them in prayer to God.

As I sat there, praying, I saw the image of Christ, grieving over the sins of the world, agonizing on the cross.  As I imagined this image, his tears and my daughter's tears of distress became one.  My sin caused both.  In their unity, my daughter's grief became less life-threatening.  Not because my sinning against her somehow isn't really all that bad, but because the cross confronts the depth of the badness and goes deeper still.  It embraces her cry along with the cries of every human being who live in a world with broken people who break each other over and over again from the moment of birth, sometimes without even knowing it, and often dismissively.  And insofar as the cross is redemptive, it offers the very real potential for the genuine redemption of all this grief, including the redemption of my daughter's tears that night.

What is more, as I imagined this image of Christ, his tears and my tears became one.  That God would send his Son to die on the cross - so great must be his grief over the sinfulness of the world.  I, too, in that moment, deeply grieved the limitations of my flesh in raising my daughter.  God didn't tell me I was over-reacting.  He grieved with me.  And he offers me the cross as his powerful answer to this grief.  Thanks be to God that there is genuine power in the cross for the redemption of my own heart - a heart that does not yet love perfectly.