merry and bright

Let's talk about "doing Santa".  We do.

Its not confusing to them.  That's a grown-up worry and little kids just don't care.  Confusing to kids are things like:

why do hair and fingernails grow but teeth don't?
why does dad say chicken nuggets aren't real food?
what do you mean Jesus wasn't really born on December 25 when that's his birthday?
why do I have to look at my presents under the tree for a week before we open them?
why is hot chocolate not a vegetable?

Kids say: Is it magical?  Is it believable?  Is it fun?  Does it involve candy?

Then they are IN!

The whole what-is-the-real-meaning-of-christmas-and-santa-makes-it-not-about-Jesus thing....I just don't see it.  As much as we adults would like it to be, Christmas is not about absolutes like stables and dates and incense and myrrh.  Its about God being so in-love with this insane world that he sent Jesus to it to teach us some really important things.  Its about the magic of family and generosity and hope.  Its about kindness and simplicity.  And we celebrate all that with things like sugar cookies, advent candles, presents, Luke 2, and Santa.

Eva figured it out around age 7.  Actually she realized that the Birthday Fairy (who leaves balloons in their room and a tiny gift by their door on their big day) was us.  So we wrote her a letter saying:

its us
its been a treat to play this with her
we are so happy she can believe in things she doesn't see or fully understand
she'll need that skill all her life long
the same thing is true with Santa
and now she'll get to help be the fairy and santa for the littles.

She was all-in as long as she still got a full stocking too!

This is the same Santa we've been going to see since Eva was 2.  He remembers her and gives her a big hug every year.  And with a twinkle in his eye asks what she wants for Christmas, even though they have silently communicated to each other that she's in on this gig.  He takes the time for each kid, looking them in the eye and reminding them that they are special and Christmas is special, and he sees them.  He is not in a hurry.

If we grown-ups want to be real with children about the meaning of Christmas, about who Jesus could be to them, we could begin by stepping down from our heads and taking a lesson from Santa.

Let's look them in the eye.
Hug them.
Ask them what they really want.
Get on their level.
Slow down.
Tell them they are loved.
Let hope crackle in the air between us.

That, my friends, is magical, don't you think?  That is merry and bright.  That is love.  And that is the spirit of Christmas.

elephants, hope, and cheese

I don't do this rambling thing all that often.  But serendipity is our title, after all, and today I was, as Webster says, "tripping over myself in discovery".  So get a drink and your heat pack and make yourself comfortable....

This is the picture I snapped of Sage McCage this morning in the bathroom.  

I'll get back to it...

Today on NPR, there was first a story citing that in the last year, there have been 400 suicides in Kansas.  That 1 of every 10 males who died in Kansas took their own life.

Then there was a story about how the Wichita City Council last night voted 3-2 in favor of giving $5,000,000 of city money to match $4,000,000 in private donations for a new elephant exhibit at the zoo.

I was incensed.

Pissed at humanity.  Or the lack there-of.

I truly hate going to the zoo, but only because I'm selfish and would rather go to say, the pool or grandma's house, or the library.  The zoo is all walk walk walk walk look there's a tiger napping walk walk walk walk oh there's a penguin splashing walk walk walk walk there's a monkey climbing.  All while hot, always hot, and trying not to lose my children.

But cerebrally, I know elephants matter and our zoo rocks.  Our 5 ton friends should have a comfortable life.

But so should our humans!

Working in the mental health profession, part of my 9 hour shift is to do a "suicide risk assessment" for my clients.  We talk about their stressors, recent elevation in mood, impulsivity, plans to hurt themselves, and mostly just converse about life.  They are capital-B-Brave and so raw.  I'm lucky lucky lucky to be let into their life for those few hours.  They share stories of broken relationships, addictions, mental illness, insecurity, poverty, and grief.  On the assessment, no one scores a 0.  All share an element of hopelessness.  Most can verbally "commit to safety".  Some cannot, and are placed on "continuous observation", which only makes life suckier for all involved.

While money doesn't buy happiness, it does buy access to food, counselors, the ability to work a normal 40 hour work-week, shoes (yes, just plain some shoes!!), addiction treatment, medication, doctor visits...

And our national and local funding for mental healthcare is poor.  Piss poor.  9 million dollars would go a long way.

Stay with me.......if I didn't already lose you at NPR.....

I went to see my spiritual director and today had no agenda.  I said that I have been taking care of everyone else 24/7 and today I'm going to pay her to take care of me.  Period.  She served me tea, which I don't drink, but at her house I very much drink because she makes it taste like warm happiness.  While she rubbed my feet (yes she rubs my feet!!), I told her about the elephants and the dying people and our fucked up world (yes she also says fuck!).

Ever so gently, she brought me around to saying things I know to be true:  That death isn't the end.  That although I cannot understand it, God may call some people home by their own hand.  That in taking care, I am taken care of.  That its good to name the care we need.  And to insist on it.  And she said this:

That when we mamas take care of our children, when we wrap them up tight with our voice and our hugs, we are caring for more than just them.  Our arms extend all the way to Syria.  When we hold them tight and exercise great compassion, we are saying enough already.  No more suffering under my watch.  And while I no more can make elephants happy than buy contentment for someone who is hopeless, I can - and do - every single day - stretch myself for my tiny ones, and there is no limit to my reach.  Its my shout-out to humanity.  To the cause of Love.  Because for my insides, their insides, and the insides of the many people they will meet and important decisions they will make, we are saying:

love is free
God is big
peace is real
joy is now.

Facts.

So this morning....

Sage has been doing this thing where she gets her little white comb wet and slicks her hair back.  The wetter and slicker, the fancier.  So this morning in my rush to get my coffee down and my face on, she stood on the counter doing her slick-back routine.  She wanted me to dry her hair, and fighting the urge to say no or rush through it, I took my time, and my insides vibrated with her sweetness...her sweet little head and how pretty she felt.  Her desire for my attention and touch.  We did that over and over.  Wet, slick, dry, wet, slick, dry, wet, slick, dry.

I haven't ever tried to count how many times in a day I rush through the motions.  Or deny my kids a hug or a book or just plain time to look them in the eye.  I don't think the number would make me very proud.  Its chaos here.  Our lives our full.  And my brain, which I swear has limited space, is maxed out.  And for the love of all, I am just plain tired and want some space to breathe or at least finish one thing, just one thing!  But Carole challenged me today to see this caring for people thing in a new light.  To realize that we are doing big, hard, important work.  9 million dollar elephants matter a little.  People matter more, especially the hurting ones.  And so do we.  And we say just that, every time we take the time to exercise compassion with our littles.

So, I suppose I'm challenging you too.  Maybe you don't have sticky hands to clean and noses to wipe.  Or maybe you do, but they belong to your neighbor or your parents.  Consider reframing your view of the care you give.  Think how far you reach.  I'll do it with you.  I'll try at least.

When I first arrived today, Carole gave me some amazing cheese to take home (my beloved cheese...distance does make the heart grow fonder with all things diary!).  I've been whining and needy inside, and within five minutes of being there, she literally opened her fridge and fed me.  Metaphors everywhere.

So tonight....its my communion....and I am again made new.

oh Canada

It was lovely.

I took a geography class in high school, I promise.  But so did some of my favorite note-writing friends and also two hot guys.  So while I am quite smart about quite a few things, I don't know whether Winnepeg is a province or a city or what.  I don't think its a country.  But I'm here to say, whatever it was, it was just lovely.

Canadians say words like lovely to describe things like toast.  I like that a lot.

We dropped off the kids and went to pick up the rental car to drive through a few states before crashing at a hotel for the night.  The girl giving us the car:
A.....was new
B.....liked my jokes
C....knocked our price down to $3.33 for the entire thing, including tax.  Total.
D....all of the above.

Its D!!

Which was good because we sprang $150 for our hotel for the night.  I just wanted one of those thick down comforters and a good breakfast.  And a bed that didn't vibrate when you put in a quarter.  And we got it....the last room in the place (but don't they always tell you that?!).  It had 2 double beds, so I offered to sleep separately because Ryan loves to have the bed to himself, and since I got my comforter, it would be win-win....but what a mighty fine man.....he let me sleep in his bed all night and I was love love loving it because it was smaller than ours and we were extra cozy all night.  (If he was up for it, I would have all 5 in our family sleep together every night.  I so like skin on mine while I sleep!)

We drove to the border, which I thought would be like going through a toll booth.  I almost didn't even wake him up for it.  For the past month, he had been making a thing about our passports arriving on time, crossing into a new country, etc. and I was annoyed and wanted to play it cool.

Turns out, its not such a small deal.  The border agent examined us, cross-examined us, criss-cross examined us, examined us backwards and forwards.  Then calmly told us we needed to pull our car around, step inside, and talk to an officer.

So we did.  Sure.  Ain't no thing.  But I was a little shaky on the inside, which probably meant Ryan was mentally writing his own obituary.

The new officer.....a heavily armed he/she (with a bulletproof vest....what?!!) rapid fired questions.  They were the simplest of things but as soon as you answered one, they asked another one, totally unrelated.  Where did you go to college?  Who is keeping your kids?  Where did you live when you were 8?  What time do you expect to arrive at your friend's house tonight?  Have you ever been arrested?  Have you ever been committed of an offence?

Then we went to sit down while he/she watched us and "looked up a few more things" on the computer.

Then I thought of this one teeeeny tiny, really its minuscule, thing.  I did have an offence - in college.  Not that.  Or that.  Ok fine, in the interest of full disclosure, it was an MIP - minor in posession of alcohol.  I haaave to say that, just for the record, I wasn't even drinking.  I swear.  But I was in possession and got to go to court and plead guilty, allow it on my permanent record, the whole nine yards.  And I happened to forget to tell that the person who would decide whether I would pass into the country or go home.

We got to sit there long enough for me to get hives.

Then they handed us our passports and wished us a nice weekend.  You know, like when you leave the dentist's office after a filling and they wish you a good day, as though you just went shopping together.

Everything....every single thing....after that in Canada was awesome.  Randy and Heidi live in a 3 story walk-up in downtown Winnepeg.  I've known Randy for 15 years when we were college admissions counselors and went on a roadtrip to the Mennonite high schools across the country.  Spend 14 days in a car with someone and you get to know them pretty well. We went to celebrate his 40th birthday - a fun party at a local rented-out cafe.

We met incredibly lovely people.  Liberal, interested in what matters, experts in their field (lots of therapists), spirited, spiritual, people with big laughs and kind hearts, and even a few Mennonites.  And it was a great party besides!

There was also my very first off-roading bike ride, where I couldn't enjoy the scenery because I was far too busy protecting my increasingly aching whoo-whoo.  I think maybe your bike is supposed to have suspension when you off-road?  Wowza.  During one horrible section, Randy circled up behind me and started cheering me on.  I screamed at him to shut up and quit making me feel like a fat third grader.  (Interestingly, the therapist with the long hair in the cake picture above helped us "unpack" that at the party.)  It actually did make me want to go biking more often though.  There have to be some trails around home somewhere?

But we saw the Forks, slept til noon, ate on the deck, stayed up til 3, enjoyed tapas (I tried muscles!  When in Rome...), shopped at Ikea, and solved all the world's problems.

Randy and Heidi....that's her singing in the party picture - an amazing singer and entertainer......are truly awesome hosts.  The good old US of A welcomed us in without cavity searches, and we were home a bit too soon.

Lovely!

communion

Ok, I have some things to say about communion.

I've been reading a ton of memoirs about spirituality for the past few years.  I pay money to see a spiritual director.  God is bigger and better and more within my grasp and beyond my understanding than ever.  And the awesomeness of all that is making me increasingly pissed about all the boxes "Christianity" puts around this God thing.

Yesterday I baked the loaves of bread for our communion service.  Today, when we stood in a circle around the sanctuary - in a service I had planned and executed (its my paying gig) - and passed the bread and the cup, I didn't partake.  I haven't taken it for awhile because I'm miffed about my church's "stance" on communion.  Mostly about who gets to take it.

The Mennonite Confession of Faith says a lot of great stuff - like that Jesus is a rockstar and we should do everything out of love and the Holy Spirit is a real gift and that community matters.  

[It also (to my despair) says that marriage is blessed by God only when it is between a man and a woman.  Don't get me started on that.  Another day.]

It says too that communion is only for people who have been baptized.

I cannot abide.

God is too big for that, people! Way way way way way too big.  

As I type this, my 8 year old is in her bedroom upstairs directly above me, and I can hear her singing from the Mennonite Hymnal.  Yes, singing from the hymnal.  She took that big blue book up to her room after lunch and led her barbie congregation in a hymn sing.  But she couldn't take communion today.

My friend who hasn't been baptized and is volunteering her time to helping immigrants in Arizona stood in the circle.  But she couldn't take communion today.

I just hate rules.  Really hate them.  Because they are mostly made to put things into preciously narrow categories of good and bad, right and wrong.  Neat, tidy boxes.  But life is not neat and tidy, and God specializes in being messy.  Being true to ourselves makes things messy.  Loving without condition is messy.  

To me, the bread and the cup symbolize that God put on skin.  That community is good.  That Love is as real as blood.  And more than anything, that 

if you want to name God, 

share God, 

eat God, 

drink God,

notice God, 

acknowledge God, 

and for today just plain say there is a God, 

then by all means, COME ON IN!  Take this and eat it.  It is FOR YOU!

Communion does not and should not symbolize that you are in a category of baptized or not baptized, sinner or saint, good or bad, right or wrong, broad or narrow, blessed or cursed, saved or damned.  Ever.

The Anabaptist faith (of which Mennonite is a part) stresses the importance of "choosing God."  I own that and I like it.  But the whole choosing thing is another conversation, and just doesn't apply here.  Communion isn't about us choosing to come to the table "worthy".  Its about God choosing us, loving us, wrapping us up in a community of each other - to be real people in a real search.

I find communion often in daily experiences.  See here.  And here.  It doesn't have to be bread and wine.  It doesn't have to be in a church.  The best communion is when God shows up in serendipitous light and I partake of something that symbolizes it and am made new.  All by surprise.  But there's something to be said for breaking and sharing bread with your faith community in a worship service too.

The Mennonite church we attended when Eva was a baby, had an "open table" and we fed her the bread and cup before she could walk.  I can't describe how it warmed me from within every time I gave her this symbol of love and community.  

But today I stood in the sanctuary where I was baptized, married, and dedicated my children, where I lead and plan worship, in a circle with the big community I adore, and rolled around thoughts about how here communion is exclusive.  And it so does not have to be this way.  Let there be change, and let it begin with me.

Reclaim joy

Its almost a full moon, and I swear that affects me and my little universe.  It makes me up in my head and rambly, so lucky you.  Thrown in are some random pictures from the last week to keep us all interested.  Like this one, of the girl who slicked her own hair and picked her own clothes for her very own dance party...

 Ryan just returned from another week in Michigan for work.

I have spent the last 48ish hours in an extremely lavish pity party.  I held all the stitches of this home together for a solid 6 days.  But if we're honest, I have held it together far longer if you count the cooking, coordinating, cleaning, and collaborating that keeps this old house afloat.  Ryan is a rockstar dad who does way more than Average Joe.  But because we are in a season of life where the kitchen sink is my office, I just plain do most of all the rest.  The world owes me a few hours - plus some - of good old fashioned Why Is My Life Such Shit Camp.

All the same rules as last time he was gone applied (see here).  But this time it was just soooooooo much harder.  That said in my very best whine ever.  The two littles and I had a supremely nasty stomach flu early in the week.  Like people were shitting everywhere in this house.  Sorry - but if you have kids, you are part of the privileged group that has crossed over into talking about poop without hesitation or remorse.  You can even do so while eating say, rolos or chocolate pudding without flinching.  If you're not in said group, yay you.  Now go eat your dang pudding.  Back to the shitting - it didn't hit me this way, but boy howdy those poor children.  I think it actually scared them.  Like they didn't know humans were capable of this level of excrement.  So that's how our Minus Daddy week started, and I just never got back to full strength.

Ok, but we were talking about camp...

At WIMLSS Camp, I noticed that one friend met a real princess, another went to Vegas with her husband, another got a new scarf, another's children were well-behaved, another got their christmas baking done, and another has a sweet new baby.  These are not true for me.  These are things I wish were true for me.

At camp, I got the best massage of my entire life.  Facebook me or come over if you want to know who from and I will give you her number.  As long as you promise not to book her when I'm in the middle of camp and need her.

I also went to my favorite bent-and-dent store and stocked up on carbs.  Old cookies in cool packaging?  Get in my cart.  Expired snickers 3 for a dollar?  Done.  Auntie Anne's pretzel mix?  I'll take three and crawl into the shelf looking for more.  I went there for gum.  Because a pack of gum made it into one of the large cardboard boxes of $75 worth of carbs, we'll call that shopping trip a win.  $75 at a bent-and-dent is like $900 at a normal store, by the way.  $2500 at a Dean and Deluca.

Camp also allowed me to pout and wrap Christmas presents while Ryan put the kids to bed.  They cried for me because I had put them to bed the last 17 years, wait 6 nights, and they missed their mama.  I didn't feel even a teeny bit bad.

And last but very much not least, while at WIMLSS Camp, I ate a foot-long subway sandwich.  Might seem like no biggie, but I haven't done that since I stopped looking like a blowfish about a year ago.

Now that its over and I'm again treating myself like a beloved mental patient - which yes, is what usually carries me through - I realize that last week really wasn't awful.  But my frame of mind very much was.  I have gotten myself into the rut of thinking that my children are horribly behaved and that there is no hope at all for them to be functional members of society, or really even elementary school.  You know how everyone thinks their kids fight too much but really they are just being kids?  Mine really do, I promise.  I'm in a mental space right now where I am not finding joy in the truly joyful things because I'm hung up on the way the not joyful things tax me.  I feel broken down by Eva's constant need for attention and her resistance to correction.  Truly exhausted by it.  I feel mad about the way the Buzz copies every word and gesture anyone makes.  E.v.e.r.y.  I resent that Sage McCage suddenly gets up at least twice a night and needs a hug and a kiss and a re-tucking-in.

Its true that my happy self would see these things as:
Yay for my strong, independent daughter.  No one will ever push her around.
Yay for my observant son.  Nothing will get past him.
Yay for my sweet sweet sweet daughter.  She will forever be so easy to love.

Right now, though, grrrrrrrrrrr.

But Anne Lamott told me that the first thing is to name it.  So I'm naming that this life is hard right now,  especially parenting.  But it is not shit.  My kids are miracles.  This life I get to do is in fact, a rockstar life, and I'm insanely lucky to be living it.  My family deserves to have me Show Up.  And so do I.

And then she said that if we want to feel loving, we have to do loving things.  I think she meant for other people, but I loved myself up one side and down the other at WIMLSS Camp.  And sure enough, I'm feeling a teensy bit more affectionate and patient with them than 48 hours ago.  Baby steps.

So here's the goal for tomorrow:  Laugh.  Show affection.  Give myself small treats - like San Pellegrino.  Give the kids small treats - like a little more tv.  Breathe instead of yell.  Play on the floor with them.  Dance.  Say yes.  Be generous

That's a lot of goals, but really it is just to do this:  Reclaim the joy.

I can do it.  We can do it.  Are you tired and at a camp of your own?  Join me.  We've got this.

Have a Holly Barbie Christmas

Know what's disturbing?

I'm reading late at night in my cozy living room by my twinkly Christmas tree.  

I look at the tree, pausing to ponder what I just read.

And see this wackadoo staring back at me.

So wrong.  And sooooooo hilarious.

Seven barbies and their polly pocket children have apparently found a home in the tree.

Its still making me laugh this morning.

And as I post this, I notice too that its a very ripe commentary on the cluster that is Christmas.  

Hmmmm.

the library board and human sexuality

Some days, well, most days, if anyone, anyone, asks me to do one more small thing for them, my "no" is very loud and very clear.  (I've been working on my "no" skills for awhile now and am pleased to say that I've successfully honed my talents.)  There is something about Sage McCage learning to crawl that has made everything seem more taxing.  I'm just plain so strung out by mid-afternoon that I have no trouble whatsoever turning down any extra request or opportunity that comes my way.

I didn't have my game face on though on the day that Carrie called and asked me to join the library board.  Its a 4 year term.  I said yes.  Oops.

So I attended my first board meeting.  The whole thing was troubling and mid-way through, I realized why.  It has the potential to be like the experience of my college Human Sexuality class.  Just go with me here...

In December of 1999, Ryan and I started "going out" (oh don't you love that term?  "Where are you going?  I just don't understand."  "We're not going anywhere, Mom.  We're just going out.").  

In January of 2000, I took Human Sexuality for interterm, which means you're in the class for 6 hours a day for a month.  It involved lectures on the ins and outs (sorry, I'm not mature.  I realize this.) of everything having anything to do with how we humans experience sexuality.  There were videos.  There was lots of required reading.  And there was journaling.  I resented it all.  Absolutely all of it.  I had just started this out-of-this-world amazing relationship with this increeeeeedibly sexy guy, and I was being forced to examine it all as though it was a science.  The journaling assignments were the worst.  I think I lied in half of them - just made up crap - because I didn't want to really have to think about what makes humans sexual.

That class - because of its timing in my life - stole some of the joy of my situation.

I get it now, though, that I really missed out.  Ada and Larry were awesome teachers.  The content was framed in such a great way.  If I were to take it now, I would find it all so fascinating.

Back to the library board...

I looooooove to read.  I consume books.  Consume them.  I keep a pen and journal in my lap when I read them so I can scratch down quotes and just great phrasing that I find. I fold down the pages.  I generally don't return them on time.  The smell of a book that has spent several years in a library is so so so lovely to me.  I have a friend that won't check out anything from the library. She thinks of all the germs.  How the books have sat on the backs of toilet seats and the pages turned by grimy hands and breathed on by stinky strangers.  I cannot identify.  The more loved and read they have been before they come to me, the better.  Just one of many reasons to use a library instead of a bookstore.

But did you know that there are long discussions about all things bookish in order to provide us with those dearly loved books?  There are.

I was in 4H for about 2 months as a kid, and then quit because all this "motioning" and "seconding" and "so carrying" that happened in the meetings got in the way of enjoying life.  But in order to run a library, there is a lot of such action.

I am happy that I had a moment of weakness and signed on to this board member task.  But I'm worried that my joy of consuming books will be tarnished by it.  Can I be grown-up enough this time to appreciate both being a board member and my relationship with these books?  We shall see!