I'm finally sitting down, tissue box in hand, hot coffee within reach, and kids out with Daddy for some quality play time. The desire to write is strong and present - the thoughts, clarity of mind and direction, not so much. But the only way to actually write is to begin, so here we go.
It snowed here last night - the first accumulation of the winter. It's slushy now, muddied by the addition of salt and freezing rain, city pollution and foot traffic. But it is beautiful in its advent. And no matter how much we got last winter, or how cold it makes my toes or my bones, it still brings joy to my soul, and reminds me, in its own special way, of God's love and promises to me.
Each little flake, so remarkably unique - so delicate and fragile - and so unimpressive outside of its collaboration with other little flakes. And yet together, they literally form and move mountains. They change the landscape of the city, they grind the hustle and bustle to a halt, and they provide endless hours of delight and entertainment for rosy cheeked babes and adults alike.
I feel like an individual snowflake most days.
An individual snowflake that dreams of avalanches.
I am one of those people who said that their career goal was to change the world - to make it a better place. I long, in the core of my being, to be part of something bigger. I picked a career (and then an alternative career) (and dream of another career) based on what impact it could have, rather than how much money it would make. I get excited by big vision, I love big stories, I am always the hero in my dreams.
And yet, these days, I'm a stay-at-home mom to two littles, and my days are primarily made up of wiping things (noses, faces, bums, floors...), maintaining order (discipline, schedules, flat out wrangling at times...), teaching them how to be the kind of humans that don't cough on others, figuratively or literally, plus lots of snuggles and some cute moments thrown in there too. Also, tempers and poop. But by and large, it feels entirely mundane. Small. Feed, wash, cry, rest, repeat.
Yes, I know. I * know * that it's not small. That it's one of the most important jobs out there, that it matters, yada yada. I know this, you know this, we all know this. But the glory of it is often lost in the goop of it all, and the grandeur is neat to wax poetic about, but often tough to cling to when you're in the trenches full-time - and the bigger picture often feels as hard to grasp as it is for a single snowflake to imagine creating an avalanche.
I wonder if sometimes we make it harder for those in the trenches, when we remind them (us) again of how glorious and sweet, treasured and important it is or should be.
I was lamenting this with my husband the other evening, and he, in his wisdom and irony, quoth, "well, I bet Mother Teresa did a lot of wiping goop too..."
I bet Mother Teresa did a lot of wiping goop too.
Yeah. I bet she did. And come to think of it, so did Jesus.
Yet, we often only focus on the big picture titles of lives - Savior and Saint - rather than seeing the daily details that made Mother Teresa the compassionate servant of the poor that she was, or Jesus the humble healer and teacher (and Messiah) of fishermen and shepherds that he was.
What if, instead of seeking to paint motherhood - or really, ministry of any form - as a grandiose treasury of precious moments - what if instead we began to understand that the bigger picture, that real world change, real change in general, happens in tiny, practical, often repetitive, and entirely mundane steps. Each one melting into the previous and the next, but done in faithful, consistent, obedience, together with one another, they begin to change the landscape.
The stories of change are beautiful and inspiring, and we do need them, especially to remind of us of hope and the bigger picture - that change is possible. That Love and Good wins. That Jesus is on the move. That He is Messiah, and offers real hope. And that we are part of a much bigger story.
But we also need to be reminded that our stories are not made up solely of world-changer bi-lines and testimonies. That faithful, consistent love and obedience, these are the snowflakes that cause the avalanche, that every so often we get to glimpse and witness. These snowflakes, they are not glorious, or precious, or even beautiful at times - a temper held, forgiveness given, a lesson taught again, a hand extended, a child fed food that they throw back on you, more goop compassionately wiped - but they are holy pieces of the larger picture.
Faithful, consistent, obedient, repetitive actions.
Tiny, fleeting, melting snowflakes.
A holy avalanche which covers the land.
May we see it.
Or if we may not.
It is thus.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Saturday, October 31, 2015
When you wake up and discover that you ARE judgy mom
If you have kids, are expecting a kid, or are around people with kids, you are probably familiar with the concept of mom judgment, parent shaming, and the "really? you do X?" trail-offs.
In today's world of hyper-active parenting, we know from point of conception onward - thanks to no shortage of opinions and methods - exactly how we want to do things. We care a lot. And my generation in particular, all discovering our family-issues, we especially want to "do it right" and not "mess them up." And everyone else? Well, they have an always right opinion too. Some assert it loudly. Others passive-aggressively. You know the the looks, the side-eyes, the "helpful advice," the "well, if I were you..." "I always..." "I could/would never..." comments.
Meanwhile, growing in equal number are the blog posts, [and more blog posts], articles and humorous clips entreating us "don't be judgy mom" "remember, we're all on the same team." [Does anyone else find it ironic that often times the tone is, "don't be judgy like she is..."?]
I don't know about you - but I swore that I didn't want to be a judgy mom. (You too?!) That I would be better than that. That I would be flexible, accepting, and a team player - encouraging others, blessing their different parenting styles, and remembering that no one has it all together.
But then, one morning I woke up, and realized: I absolutely, 100% am a judgy mom.
Not always. And I try really hard not to be. Not intentionally. And rarely out-loud. But I am.
It's a dirty littlesecret fact - and one, quite frankly, that I would prefer to blog about how to avoid. How I triumphed over it and am not there anymore. But here's what I need to say instead: despite our best intentions, as people who care very deeply and want to "do it right" and have different interpretations of what that means - I guarantee that we will find ourselves here, especially if we're honest with ourselves.
So what do you do when you find yourself cloaked in the scarlet "J" of "judgy mom"? When your self-awareness kicks in and you realize just how ugly or condescending your attitude towards another mom [dad, parent, person...] is. Or even as you open your mouth to share yet another piece of sage advice.
Can I humbly suggest five self-examinations that I have found helpful? Ask yourself:
1. Am I feeling insecure or guilty right now?
This is not always relevant - sometimes, I'm just judgy and condescending - but 9.7 times out of 10, when my attitude towards another parent is patronizing or corrective, it's a neon flashing warning light that there is another area in my parenting or my life in which I'm feeling insecure. Often times, those judgy days fall when I feel like I'm messing everything up, and I'm desperately searching for standing ground, one thing that I actually know or can do right. Use that word-vomit impulse as a signal to be introspective, and self-aware - deal with your own heart and attitude first. Consider, rather than correcting the other person, whether it would be appropriate to share the places I'm feeling insecure - seek commonality, and understanding, rather than shaming them in the place that I feel secure.
2. What do I need someone to say to me, right now?
I've joked before that I need to make flashcards for my husband, so that he would know what to say when I'm angry, sad, etc. - and there would be very few of them, with one that would be used ALL.the.TIME. That one would read "You're doing a good job, Mama." Ranking close second would be, "I see you." "Thank you." "I'm proud of you." "I love you." "Would you like some alone time?" [freebies for your use and pleasure, btw. You're welcome]. Ninety-five percent of the time, when I'm feeling critical or superior, if I take the time to evaluate what my soul needs in the moment, it reveals the deeper issue in me, and renders me more empathetic and kind. And gives me perspective to realize that advice, unless solicited, is rarely what anyone needs or wants.
3. Do I believe that s/he loves their kids and is trying to do their best for them?
No "buts" allowed. Simply answer it yes or no. If the answer is yes, and the children are not in danger, leave it alone. Obviously, if children are being harmed, speak up. No question. But most of our judgment comes over kids doing something that kids do or over something that we simply happen to have a difference of opinion on. Rather than tell her what you would do differently, tell her that "you can see how much she loves her kids; it shows." Where there is legitimate struggle, and a desire for advice, that simple phrase will open far more doors than simply proffering it unrequested. If not, well, you've simply encouraged her/him.
4. What would I need right now, if I were in her shoes?
No mom wants her kids running naked through Target, pulling everything off the shelf - no parent wants their kid poking you on an airplane while screaming because their diaper is god-awfully stinktastic - and yes, while my sleep strategy is awesome and I really want to help you, unless you ask for it, I'd give you a hundred bucks that no sleep-deprived parent wants that to be your lead. What do they need? "To be told what I need to do better," said no parent ever. A compassionate smile, someone to push her cart, a cup of coffee, an encouraging word, "what can I help you with?" - those all come to mind. Somehow, compassion and empathy, they seem to move us out of judgment zone.
5. Is there a long-term, relationally-built, place for conversation?
Sometimes there are places were feedback can be helpful - deeper conversation, dialogue, suggestions, out of an initial judgment. I am very grateful for conversations people had with me about how to buckle car seats appropriately, dangers of different kinds of carriers, different strategies for better sleep. But the ones that I listened to, the ones that I welcomed, were the ones done in the context of trusting relationship - people who I knew, who knew me, and who asked permission before sharing. Here are my measuring tapes: Will this matter in 30 years? Am I the right person to share this piece of wisdom? Would I welcome something similarly from them? If you answer no to any, then ziplock those lips and seek out ways to focus on #3 and #4.
With love, from one working-on-it judgy-mom to another,
May we find ourselves here less and less.
KD
In today's world of hyper-active parenting, we know from point of conception onward - thanks to no shortage of opinions and methods - exactly how we want to do things. We care a lot. And my generation in particular, all discovering our family-issues, we especially want to "do it right" and not "mess them up." And everyone else? Well, they have an always right opinion too. Some assert it loudly. Others passive-aggressively. You know the the looks, the side-eyes, the "helpful advice," the "well, if I were you..." "I always..." "I could/would never..." comments.
Meanwhile, growing in equal number are the blog posts, [and more blog posts], articles and humorous clips entreating us "don't be judgy mom" "remember, we're all on the same team." [Does anyone else find it ironic that often times the tone is, "don't be judgy like she is..."?]
I don't know about you - but I swore that I didn't want to be a judgy mom. (You too?!) That I would be better than that. That I would be flexible, accepting, and a team player - encouraging others, blessing their different parenting styles, and remembering that no one has it all together.
But then, one morning I woke up, and realized: I absolutely, 100% am a judgy mom.
Not always. And I try really hard not to be. Not intentionally. And rarely out-loud. But I am.
It's a dirty little
So what do you do when you find yourself cloaked in the scarlet "J" of "judgy mom"? When your self-awareness kicks in and you realize just how ugly or condescending your attitude towards another mom [dad, parent, person...] is. Or even as you open your mouth to share yet another piece of sage advice.
Can I humbly suggest five self-examinations that I have found helpful? Ask yourself:
1. Am I feeling insecure or guilty right now?
This is not always relevant - sometimes, I'm just judgy and condescending - but 9.7 times out of 10, when my attitude towards another parent is patronizing or corrective, it's a neon flashing warning light that there is another area in my parenting or my life in which I'm feeling insecure. Often times, those judgy days fall when I feel like I'm messing everything up, and I'm desperately searching for standing ground, one thing that I actually know or can do right. Use that word-vomit impulse as a signal to be introspective, and self-aware - deal with your own heart and attitude first. Consider, rather than correcting the other person, whether it would be appropriate to share the places I'm feeling insecure - seek commonality, and understanding, rather than shaming them in the place that I feel secure.
2. What do I need someone to say to me, right now?
I've joked before that I need to make flashcards for my husband, so that he would know what to say when I'm angry, sad, etc. - and there would be very few of them, with one that would be used ALL.the.TIME. That one would read "You're doing a good job, Mama." Ranking close second would be, "I see you." "Thank you." "I'm proud of you." "I love you." "Would you like some alone time?" [freebies for your use and pleasure, btw. You're welcome]. Ninety-five percent of the time, when I'm feeling critical or superior, if I take the time to evaluate what my soul needs in the moment, it reveals the deeper issue in me, and renders me more empathetic and kind. And gives me perspective to realize that advice, unless solicited, is rarely what anyone needs or wants.
3. Do I believe that s/he loves their kids and is trying to do their best for them?
No "buts" allowed. Simply answer it yes or no. If the answer is yes, and the children are not in danger, leave it alone. Obviously, if children are being harmed, speak up. No question. But most of our judgment comes over kids doing something that kids do or over something that we simply happen to have a difference of opinion on. Rather than tell her what you would do differently, tell her that "you can see how much she loves her kids; it shows." Where there is legitimate struggle, and a desire for advice, that simple phrase will open far more doors than simply proffering it unrequested. If not, well, you've simply encouraged her/him.
4. What would I need right now, if I were in her shoes?
No mom wants her kids running naked through Target, pulling everything off the shelf - no parent wants their kid poking you on an airplane while screaming because their diaper is god-awfully stinktastic - and yes, while my sleep strategy is awesome and I really want to help you, unless you ask for it, I'd give you a hundred bucks that no sleep-deprived parent wants that to be your lead. What do they need? "To be told what I need to do better," said no parent ever. A compassionate smile, someone to push her cart, a cup of coffee, an encouraging word, "what can I help you with?" - those all come to mind. Somehow, compassion and empathy, they seem to move us out of judgment zone.
5. Is there a long-term, relationally-built, place for conversation?
Sometimes there are places were feedback can be helpful - deeper conversation, dialogue, suggestions, out of an initial judgment. I am very grateful for conversations people had with me about how to buckle car seats appropriately, dangers of different kinds of carriers, different strategies for better sleep. But the ones that I listened to, the ones that I welcomed, were the ones done in the context of trusting relationship - people who I knew, who knew me, and who asked permission before sharing. Here are my measuring tapes: Will this matter in 30 years? Am I the right person to share this piece of wisdom? Would I welcome something similarly from them? If you answer no to any, then ziplock those lips and seek out ways to focus on #3 and #4.
With love, from one working-on-it judgy-mom to another,
May we find ourselves here less and less.
KD
Monday, October 26, 2015
Monday Me Too's
Many times, I've thought about my crazy, "I can't be the only one who..." or "I know I'm not alone in..." And so, "ME TOO! Mondays" were born in my head. If this is you too, please stand up and whatever along with me. The camaraderie is encouraging and kind of the point. If it's not you, well, take solace in the fact that you're probably at least marginally more normal than me.
This week, I have...
1. Shamelessly eaten food from my toddler's tray, without even thinking that it was weird in the slightest. And then caught myself, as I turned his melange of mushed up leftovers into a chip-dip, and wondered "When did this become normal to me!?"
2. Known that I needed to go to the gym... had time to go to the gym... planned to go to the gym... and then split a half dozen apple cider donuts with my one year old instead. But hey, it was a bonding experience, right? And we split them 50-50, lest you think I'm too much of a glutton... #healthymom for the win. I'm not sorry in the slightest.
3. Had one of those dreams that was so.real. that it shaped how I dealt with my day in real life once I woke up. So beautiful when dreams are good and inspiring; rough when they're not.
4. Tried to read my books out loud to my toddler, in interesting voices, so that I could do some "me reading," rather than re-read whatever the book of the day was. Did it succeed? It did not. But it did buy me approximately a three minute break from reading the now-memorized books of the week.
5. Used the line, "but will the government really know, if...?" in a sentence that made sense. To which the answer was, "No, Kristen. But I think you still have to do it." Good thing there are responsible people around me.
If you need me, I'll the #healthymom over here, shamelessly stuffing my face, evading the government, and dreaming of days when I get to read books without pictures, all the while loving my normal-crazy life and my normal-crazy-wonderful (adorable) kids.
What about you?
This week, I have...
1. Shamelessly eaten food from my toddler's tray, without even thinking that it was weird in the slightest. And then caught myself, as I turned his melange of mushed up leftovers into a chip-dip, and wondered "When did this become normal to me!?"
2. Known that I needed to go to the gym... had time to go to the gym... planned to go to the gym... and then split a half dozen apple cider donuts with my one year old instead. But hey, it was a bonding experience, right? And we split them 50-50, lest you think I'm too much of a glutton... #healthymom for the win. I'm not sorry in the slightest.
3. Had one of those dreams that was so.real. that it shaped how I dealt with my day in real life once I woke up. So beautiful when dreams are good and inspiring; rough when they're not.
4. Tried to read my books out loud to my toddler, in interesting voices, so that I could do some "me reading," rather than re-read whatever the book of the day was. Did it succeed? It did not. But it did buy me approximately a three minute break from reading the now-memorized books of the week.
5. Used the line, "but will the government really know, if...?" in a sentence that made sense. To which the answer was, "No, Kristen. But I think you still have to do it." Good thing there are responsible people around me.
If you need me, I'll the #healthymom over here, shamelessly stuffing my face, evading the government, and dreaming of days when I get to read books without pictures, all the while loving my normal-crazy life and my normal-crazy-wonderful (adorable) kids.
What about you?
Monday, October 19, 2015
ME TOO! Mondays
This is one of those weeks where I have eighty-eleven things to do, deadlines galore, AND somehow decided that if we were going to potty train our almost three year old before he turned twelve, that it needed to be this week. And fun and puddles were had all around.
Pardon any jiggles and misspelled words. It's like 30 degrees outside and we still have not turned our heat on, so I'm sitting here stubbornly typing and shivering and wondering WHY GOD WHY have I not turning the heat on yet. But then it'll be like 70 tomorrow, so that's why. But WHY!?
Several times this week, I've thought, "I can't be the only one who..." or "I know I'm not alone in..." And so, "ME TOO! Mondays" were born in my head. Hopefully not adding to the crazy - and maybe just giving a little outlet for it. We'll try it for a few weeks, and if it's lousy, then it'll join a bunch of other good intentions on Trash It Tuesdays. If this is you too, please stand up and whatever along with me. The camaraderie is encouraging and kind of the point of the "ME TOO!" part. If it's not, well, take solace in the fact that you're probably at least marginally more normal than me.
This week, I have...
You too?
Pardon any jiggles and misspelled words. It's like 30 degrees outside and we still have not turned our heat on, so I'm sitting here stubbornly typing and shivering and wondering WHY GOD WHY have I not turning the heat on yet. But then it'll be like 70 tomorrow, so that's why. But WHY!?
Several times this week, I've thought, "I can't be the only one who..." or "I know I'm not alone in..." And so, "ME TOO! Mondays" were born in my head. Hopefully not adding to the crazy - and maybe just giving a little outlet for it. We'll try it for a few weeks, and if it's lousy, then it'll join a bunch of other good intentions on Trash It Tuesdays. If this is you too, please stand up and whatever along with me. The camaraderie is encouraging and kind of the point of the "ME TOO!" part. If it's not, well, take solace in the fact that you're probably at least marginally more normal than me.
This week, I have...
1. ... seriously contemplated whether potty training is actually necessary or whether when they're teenagers they'll just figure it out on their own. Even though I know it's time, and I know he's ready, and I know that I am the grown-up and have to act like one, part of me seriously wonders if maybe there's still a shot at finding a really good excuse that will get me out of it. If you come up with one, let me know. I'll be somewhere cleaning up yet another puddle "near" the toilet.
2. ... pruned a ginormous rose bush with kitchen shears, because that's all I had available. Not a wise decision, and one that I'm really hoping I'm alone on. What city dweller has pruning shears, am I right? But pruned it now is. And swearing off rose bushes, I now am. (Left, halfway done; Right, done; not pictured: copiousscratches battle wounds).
3. ... discovered (again) that I am mildly (moderately) lactose intolerant and still haven't done anything about it, just routinely deal with the consequences. I know I should, but I really love ice cream, and cream, and cheese, and inertia is a powerful thing, friends, even against the tiniest of aids.
4. ... totally tried to channel Lorelei Gilmore in my tough parenting moments, and actually found that it helps me be a better parent (she doesn't sweat the little stuff, and a dose of humor goes a long way). Also, as an aside, re-watching Gilmore Girls as an adult, still totally fabulous, and oh my gosh, how are they so quick-witted, funny, and cultural-savvy all at the same time?
5. ... been completely exhausted, literally counting down the moments till bedtime arrived more than once- had my buttons pushed even on the shortest of days - and wondered whether that meant that I shouldn't be a full-time stay-at-home parent, wrestling with guilt, comparison, and just exhaustion, and wondering if I wasn't cut out for it. And yet somehow equally powerfully, and even more often, loving and treasuring the sweet moments that I do get each and every day with my kids, and so incredibly certain that we made the right decision there. And so grateful that we did. It's a paradox that I can't explain, but so.real.
2. ... pruned a ginormous rose bush with kitchen shears, because that's all I had available. Not a wise decision, and one that I'm really hoping I'm alone on. What city dweller has pruning shears, am I right? But pruned it now is. And swearing off rose bushes, I now am. (Left, halfway done; Right, done; not pictured: copious
3. ... discovered (again) that I am mildly (moderately) lactose intolerant and still haven't done anything about it, just routinely deal with the consequences. I know I should, but I really love ice cream, and cream, and cheese, and inertia is a powerful thing, friends, even against the tiniest of aids.
4. ... totally tried to channel Lorelei Gilmore in my tough parenting moments, and actually found that it helps me be a better parent (she doesn't sweat the little stuff, and a dose of humor goes a long way). Also, as an aside, re-watching Gilmore Girls as an adult, still totally fabulous, and oh my gosh, how are they so quick-witted, funny, and cultural-savvy all at the same time?
5. ... been completely exhausted, literally counting down the moments till bedtime arrived more than once- had my buttons pushed even on the shortest of days - and wondered whether that meant that I shouldn't be a full-time stay-at-home parent, wrestling with guilt, comparison, and just exhaustion, and wondering if I wasn't cut out for it. And yet somehow equally powerfully, and even more often, loving and treasuring the sweet moments that I do get each and every day with my kids, and so incredibly certain that we made the right decision there. And so grateful that we did. It's a paradox that I can't explain, but so.real.
You too?
Thursday, September 24, 2015
it's not okay.
Sneakers, bare legs, shorts, a boy, only a boy... blood. Lying in the road. My road. My street. Half a block from my house. I didn't see him above the waist until they put him in the ambulance. Pronounced dead on arrival to the hospital. Fatal stabbing. In the back. Blood everywhere.
I left around 4:55pm, to take my sister to the airport, and arrived home about 5:13pm, and there he was, lying in the street. I had to swerve the car to miss his legs. I walked down the street to see what was wrong, through a trail of blood - his blood - that lead up the street toward our house. The police and ambulance arrived shortly thereafter and the whole street was slathered with police, police tape, and homicide detectives. "Don't step in the blood."
The girl who said she found him, whose mother called the police, was playing tag with her little brother, maybe 2 or 3, when she saw him. She couldn't have been more than 10.
His name was Irvin - his last name means, "of peace." He was 15 years old. They don't know what happened, or who, or why. I recognize him from the neighborhood, even though I did not know him personally. I wonder if I would recognize his mother. I grieve as a mother, knowing only a small piece of what I can only presume is her grief. He was only 15.
"They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. ‘Peace, peace,’ they say, when there is no peace."*
I don't know how to process this. I don't know where to begin. I feel numb. Compartmentalized so that I can continue to manage my household, my family. Not unsafe. But changed. I walk the same street today as I did yesterday, tomorrow, and the day before, although I have yet to walk past that spot again. I did not lose a person that I knew, and I am not fearful for my own or my family's safety, and so my grief does not have the usual outlets to express itself. But I am grieving nonetheless. I feel loss nonetheless.
Peace, peace, they say, but there is no peace. The newspapers have moved on; the heralds of modern decree, our "prophets" of today have declared, "all is well once more." The police tape is gone. But there's a 15 year old boy, named "of peace," who is no longer here. A gap in a family, a community, a neighborhood. I don't care what the reason was. I don't care what he had done, who he had pissed off, who had a grudge against him. I don't care if he was a saint or a sinner, whether he was in with the wrong crowd, or was a straight A student (or both), whether he was beloved by his friend (he was), or hated by all.
He was 15. And it's never okay.
It's never okay.
*Jeremiah 6:14
I left around 4:55pm, to take my sister to the airport, and arrived home about 5:13pm, and there he was, lying in the street. I had to swerve the car to miss his legs. I walked down the street to see what was wrong, through a trail of blood - his blood - that lead up the street toward our house. The police and ambulance arrived shortly thereafter and the whole street was slathered with police, police tape, and homicide detectives. "Don't step in the blood."
The girl who said she found him, whose mother called the police, was playing tag with her little brother, maybe 2 or 3, when she saw him. She couldn't have been more than 10.
His name was Irvin - his last name means, "of peace." He was 15 years old. They don't know what happened, or who, or why. I recognize him from the neighborhood, even though I did not know him personally. I wonder if I would recognize his mother. I grieve as a mother, knowing only a small piece of what I can only presume is her grief. He was only 15.
"They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. ‘Peace, peace,’ they say, when there is no peace."*
I don't know how to process this. I don't know where to begin. I feel numb. Compartmentalized so that I can continue to manage my household, my family. Not unsafe. But changed. I walk the same street today as I did yesterday, tomorrow, and the day before, although I have yet to walk past that spot again. I did not lose a person that I knew, and I am not fearful for my own or my family's safety, and so my grief does not have the usual outlets to express itself. But I am grieving nonetheless. I feel loss nonetheless.
Peace, peace, they say, but there is no peace. The newspapers have moved on; the heralds of modern decree, our "prophets" of today have declared, "all is well once more." The police tape is gone. But there's a 15 year old boy, named "of peace," who is no longer here. A gap in a family, a community, a neighborhood. I don't care what the reason was. I don't care what he had done, who he had pissed off, who had a grudge against him. I don't care if he was a saint or a sinner, whether he was in with the wrong crowd, or was a straight A student (or both), whether he was beloved by his friend (he was), or hated by all.
He was 15. And it's never okay.
It's never okay.
*Jeremiah 6:14
Friday, September 18, 2015
floury chaos and temper tantrums and diffusing anger
Monday mornings, y'all. They're totally a thing.
It had been an incredibly long morning already, and it was barely past 10 o'clock. It was rainy, and we were stuck inside, which is always fun with two uber-active kiddos. We were on temper tantrum number I don't even remember what, all forms of nourishment, grace, and love had been outright rejected with tears, angst and the incredible particularity for detail that few other than toddlers can muster, and time-outs had been had all around. We were on a hair's trigger for everything, and tempers made a millimeter look long.
In a last ditch attempt to salvage the morning, and live into the "fun mom" "making the most of the situation" image, I declared that we would be baking cookies. Because, that totally makes sense. Take chaos and add flour. Totally wise.
Enter complete and total chaos. One child stuck his entire hand into the butter and then smeared it across the table; the other attempted to rip the flour container out of my hands in order to "I do it myself." In the midst of gracefully Julia Childs-ing the ingredients into the bowl, I was performing circus aerobatics trying to keep the eggs from being thrown through the air and the sugar from being eaten by the handful. "No, S" "No, E" "NOOO, not that" were my loving, nurturing, desperate, increasingly frustrated chorus, with a full ensemble backing me up with non-melodious howls. Tantrums and grabby hands multiplied ten-fold.
And then a child grabbed the flour container again, and prepared to hurl it across the floor, and then chastised me, "Mommy, you are making a BIG mess" as I sloshed oats out of the bowl, trying to manically extend my reach to save the inevitable floury catastrophe. The other child was screaming, angrily attached to my leg, because I had put him down for 0.3 seconds to handle the first.
And I lost it. As I grabbed the floury child, I was so angry, it terrified me. I wanted to throw something: the flour, and the cookies, whatever. I wanted to scream. I wanted to quit parenting, and be done. And most of all, I just wanted just five minutes of quiet, away from screaming children.
I didn't do any of those things (nor have I, nor will I, God help me). I put both children in time out in a safe space, left the room, called my husband, in my own tears, and told him I needed a grown-up to talk me down. That I was scared by my own anger, and I was so frustrated that I needed help. And he did. Five minutes on the phone, kids still screaming in the background, getting my own tears and frustration out, I was able to calm down enough that I could rationally, responsibly, and calmly deal with my children.
Why am I sharing this?
I am not proud of this story. I handled my anger when it arose, asked for help, and no children were harmed in the process, and that is worth holding on to. All things that are a mark of maturity and wisdom and, dare I say, necessary components of good parenting. But it was ugly anger, a loss of perspective, and a parent on the verge of temper tantruming herself. And this is not the type of parent that I want to be (because I'm sure it's the type of parent that you want to be, right?).
I'm sharing this story because when this all was said and done, kids were a-snooze for a much needed nap, and I finally found my five minutes of quiet - I found myself wrecked with guilt and shame, as the voices in my head accused no holds barred: "You're the worst mom in history." "You have failed miserably at parenting." "Your kids will be scarred for life." "You suck. What kind of mom gets that angry and loses her temper at her two year old and one year old?" "No other mom would do this." "You should let someone else raise your kids."
You must be the only one.
Anger is one of those aspects of parenting that we don't talk about much. I'm pretty sure I've read a total of two blog posts about it, and had a very small number of honest conversations about it. It's not sweet, ideal, or kosher, or pretty. But it happens, nonetheless. And I'm fairly confident that it happens fairly often. Now, several days of perspective later, I am confident that I am not the only mom who has lost her temper with her kids, or been frightened by her own anger and frustration. Am I wrong? They are adorable little humans, precious, treasured, with worth beyond measure. But they also know how to push every single little button that we have. And make more chaos and mess than your average whirling dervish. Some of you have been here as well, no?
But because we don't talk about anger - when it does rear its ugly head, it feels incredibly isolating, shameful, and scary. And because of that, we struggle to ask for help. To learn from those alongside us, and who have gone ahead of us. To gain the perspective that we need in order to press into those places, to defuse our shame, to ask for forgiveness from our kids, to gain tools in our tool-belts to handle our frustration better in the future so that we actually can be better parents.
Anger is normal - nearly everyone gets angry at some point in time - what we do or say in our anger, or with our anger, or to others in our anger is where problems ensue. And when those problems aren't repented of, rectified, or help sought, well that's where the deep wounds are formed. Please believe me when I say that I don't want to minimize those - I know intimately the depth to which unrepentant, repeated, and internalized angry words or actions can wound us for a lifetime, especially from someone in authority. But I also firmly believe that many of those words can lose their power when true repentance happens, perspective is regained, parents grow, and anger is held accountable by truthful community.
Because here's the reality - anger and frustration bottled under shame and isolation is a tinderbox ready to explode and those explosions rarely avoid casualties. Anger unacknowledged causes an immeasurable amount of harm. But a parent who knows that they are not alone - who knows that without shame, they can acknowledge hard places, ask for help/wisdom/perspective - that parent can take a step back, gain perspective, and move forward in a healthy manner.
Talking about it - acknowledging it - takes the wind out of shame's sails. And true community, the village that it takes to raise our kids, can speak truth, correction, healing and help over us, in ways that we can't to ourselves.
Even if that acknowledging it is actually confessing out-loud something that is hard, like anger and frustration. And asking your friend to encourage you to ask for your children's forgiveness too.
Even if that acknowledging it is a friend listening to you cry and saying, "Just breathe. I've been there too and it sounds like today has been really hard. Give yourself some grace. You're doing a good job."
Even if that acknowledging it means a good friend saying, "that actually does sound like something you need to work on, so that it doesn't wound your children, and I'm here to walk with you in finding that help."**
So I'm sharing this story in the hope that it will be freeing to you, if you happen to be like me, and occasionally lose your temper with your children. You are not alone. Oh sister, brother, you are not alone.
It matters what we do with that anger. It matters immensely, for the sake of our children, our souls, our families, and our selves. But do not let shame intensify or isolate those emotions and actions.
You are not alone.
Say it out loud. Be the safe place where others can say it out loud. And let's walk out of shame, towards growth and healing together.
By acknowledging it together, sharing it out loud, walking alongside one another in truth without condemnation, repenting together, encouraging one another, we can actually enable one another to be better parents. To bless one another with freedom from guilt and shame, and the encouragement and tools that we need to grow.
** While most instances of parental anger and frustration are not matters that require intervention, or CPS/DCF aid, I am fully aware that there are places where a friend does need to, in truth and true friendship, enable a parent to seek professional help in order to protect their children and families. My prayer is that as we talk more about anger, in both big and small instances, that the diffusion of anger will increase, and those instances will become fewer and farther between.
It had been an incredibly long morning already, and it was barely past 10 o'clock. It was rainy, and we were stuck inside, which is always fun with two uber-active kiddos. We were on temper tantrum number I don't even remember what, all forms of nourishment, grace, and love had been outright rejected with tears, angst and the incredible particularity for detail that few other than toddlers can muster, and time-outs had been had all around. We were on a hair's trigger for everything, and tempers made a millimeter look long.
In a last ditch attempt to salvage the morning, and live into the "fun mom" "making the most of the situation" image, I declared that we would be baking cookies. Because, that totally makes sense. Take chaos and add flour. Totally wise.
Enter complete and total chaos. One child stuck his entire hand into the butter and then smeared it across the table; the other attempted to rip the flour container out of my hands in order to "I do it myself." In the midst of gracefully Julia Childs-ing the ingredients into the bowl, I was performing circus aerobatics trying to keep the eggs from being thrown through the air and the sugar from being eaten by the handful. "No, S" "No, E" "NOOO, not that" were my loving, nurturing, desperate, increasingly frustrated chorus, with a full ensemble backing me up with non-melodious howls. Tantrums and grabby hands multiplied ten-fold.
And then a child grabbed the flour container again, and prepared to hurl it across the floor, and then chastised me, "Mommy, you are making a BIG mess" as I sloshed oats out of the bowl, trying to manically extend my reach to save the inevitable floury catastrophe. The other child was screaming, angrily attached to my leg, because I had put him down for 0.3 seconds to handle the first.
And I lost it. As I grabbed the floury child, I was so angry, it terrified me. I wanted to throw something: the flour, and the cookies, whatever. I wanted to scream. I wanted to quit parenting, and be done. And most of all, I just wanted just five minutes of quiet, away from screaming children.
I didn't do any of those things (nor have I, nor will I, God help me). I put both children in time out in a safe space, left the room, called my husband, in my own tears, and told him I needed a grown-up to talk me down. That I was scared by my own anger, and I was so frustrated that I needed help. And he did. Five minutes on the phone, kids still screaming in the background, getting my own tears and frustration out, I was able to calm down enough that I could rationally, responsibly, and calmly deal with my children.
Why am I sharing this?
I am not proud of this story. I handled my anger when it arose, asked for help, and no children were harmed in the process, and that is worth holding on to. All things that are a mark of maturity and wisdom and, dare I say, necessary components of good parenting. But it was ugly anger, a loss of perspective, and a parent on the verge of temper tantruming herself. And this is not the type of parent that I want to be (because I'm sure it's the type of parent that you want to be, right?).
I'm sharing this story because when this all was said and done, kids were a-snooze for a much needed nap, and I finally found my five minutes of quiet - I found myself wrecked with guilt and shame, as the voices in my head accused no holds barred: "You're the worst mom in history." "You have failed miserably at parenting." "Your kids will be scarred for life." "You suck. What kind of mom gets that angry and loses her temper at her two year old and one year old?" "No other mom would do this." "You should let someone else raise your kids."
You must be the only one.
Anger is one of those aspects of parenting that we don't talk about much. I'm pretty sure I've read a total of two blog posts about it, and had a very small number of honest conversations about it. It's not sweet, ideal, or kosher, or pretty. But it happens, nonetheless. And I'm fairly confident that it happens fairly often. Now, several days of perspective later, I am confident that I am not the only mom who has lost her temper with her kids, or been frightened by her own anger and frustration. Am I wrong? They are adorable little humans, precious, treasured, with worth beyond measure. But they also know how to push every single little button that we have. And make more chaos and mess than your average whirling dervish. Some of you have been here as well, no?
But because we don't talk about anger - when it does rear its ugly head, it feels incredibly isolating, shameful, and scary. And because of that, we struggle to ask for help. To learn from those alongside us, and who have gone ahead of us. To gain the perspective that we need in order to press into those places, to defuse our shame, to ask for forgiveness from our kids, to gain tools in our tool-belts to handle our frustration better in the future so that we actually can be better parents.
Anger is normal - nearly everyone gets angry at some point in time - what we do or say in our anger, or with our anger, or to others in our anger is where problems ensue. And when those problems aren't repented of, rectified, or help sought, well that's where the deep wounds are formed. Please believe me when I say that I don't want to minimize those - I know intimately the depth to which unrepentant, repeated, and internalized angry words or actions can wound us for a lifetime, especially from someone in authority. But I also firmly believe that many of those words can lose their power when true repentance happens, perspective is regained, parents grow, and anger is held accountable by truthful community.
Because here's the reality - anger and frustration bottled under shame and isolation is a tinderbox ready to explode and those explosions rarely avoid casualties. Anger unacknowledged causes an immeasurable amount of harm. But a parent who knows that they are not alone - who knows that without shame, they can acknowledge hard places, ask for help/wisdom/perspective - that parent can take a step back, gain perspective, and move forward in a healthy manner.
Talking about it - acknowledging it - takes the wind out of shame's sails. And true community, the village that it takes to raise our kids, can speak truth, correction, healing and help over us, in ways that we can't to ourselves.
Even if that acknowledging it is actually confessing out-loud something that is hard, like anger and frustration. And asking your friend to encourage you to ask for your children's forgiveness too.
Even if that acknowledging it is a friend listening to you cry and saying, "Just breathe. I've been there too and it sounds like today has been really hard. Give yourself some grace. You're doing a good job."
Even if that acknowledging it means a good friend saying, "that actually does sound like something you need to work on, so that it doesn't wound your children, and I'm here to walk with you in finding that help."**
So I'm sharing this story in the hope that it will be freeing to you, if you happen to be like me, and occasionally lose your temper with your children. You are not alone. Oh sister, brother, you are not alone.
It matters what we do with that anger. It matters immensely, for the sake of our children, our souls, our families, and our selves. But do not let shame intensify or isolate those emotions and actions.
You are not alone.
Say it out loud. Be the safe place where others can say it out loud. And let's walk out of shame, towards growth and healing together.
By acknowledging it together, sharing it out loud, walking alongside one another in truth without condemnation, repenting together, encouraging one another, we can actually enable one another to be better parents. To bless one another with freedom from guilt and shame, and the encouragement and tools that we need to grow.
** While most instances of parental anger and frustration are not matters that require intervention, or CPS/DCF aid, I am fully aware that there are places where a friend does need to, in truth and true friendship, enable a parent to seek professional help in order to protect their children and families. My prayer is that as we talk more about anger, in both big and small instances, that the diffusion of anger will increase, and those instances will become fewer and farther between.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
come alive: the you stuff
I was hanging out with a mom friend this morning and, amidst trying to get our (my) kids to play well with one another and attempting to speak over the dull roar of construction vehicles that our children were animatedly watching, we were catching up on life. Among other things, I was sharing with her about my new venture - starting an Etsy store - and her whole face lit up, she became animated, and her excitement was tangible. What she said was really powerful to me, and that's what I want to share with you. She said (paraphrased):
"I am so so excited for you! You can tell you're excited. Because, this... this is YOU stuff. This is you living out of who you are, not just as a mommy, but in what gives you life and energy. This is we moms need, and struggle to do. I am so proud of you! This is the good stuff!"
This post has nothing to do with my Etsy store, spoiler alert. It's in the menu bar if you're interested. It's not about promoting it, or part of my grand marketing strategy. That's still piecemealed together on napkins that my toddler may or may not have attempted to eat. Slobber is not underrated in this enterprise, apparently.
Rather, this post is about finding what gives you life and doing that. Developing and fostering parts of you that your kids might appreciate, but that aren't solely for them. Teaching them how to be men and women who follow their dreams, follow through on their goals, and pursue joy - by doing it.
Have I written this post before? Yup, pretty sure I have. Pretty sure it's been part of any post that I've written giving advice to my future self, to moms of littles, to future parents, and probably just about anyone else.
It's so easy to give yourself away daily - even while it is infinitely difficult - so much so that we lose all of who we are, and all our toddler can answer when asked "what does mommy enjoy?" is "dishes" "laundry" and "me." All important things, and not to be minimized. Hence, why I will continue washing dishes and folding laundry, ad infinitum.
I want my sons to know that I adore them. That I would do anything for them. That nothing can diminish, alter, or interfere with my love for them. That I love their Daddy with an equally strong, fierce and passionate love. This is first and foremost, if they learn nothing else from me. That they three, husband, and sons, are my priority.
But I also want them to see me follow my dreams, to chase after my goals, and to live a full and joyful life. I want them to see me have the courage to be all of who I am, so that maybe just maybe when I encourage them to be all of who they are, and to chase after their dreams and do the hard work of fulfilling their goals, that they will have examples of what that looks like.
I was reminded this morning, by my friend's kind words of affirmation - this sister has the gift of celebrating with others with her whole being - that it is not a small thing to pursue who we are and to strive to live into the whole of who we are. That it's not just for us - although it is a good and beautiful thing for us as well. That it matters for our kids.
That life perpetuates life.
And that pursuit of life is a good and holy thing.
Will you join me, friend? Will you carve out seconds, minutes, hours - that are costly - to foster life? Even if it's just five minutes a day, will you be intentional to make it happen?
Maybe it's writing - maybe it's reading - maybe you love gardening, cooking, playing games, creating things with your hands - maybe you love singing or making music - maybe your soul comes to life when you climb a mountain or swim with the fish or soar above the clouds.
Whatever it - however long you can whittle out - will you do it? Put your strategy down on those slobbery napkins. Write it down. Speak it out. Make it happen.
Because here's the beautiful secret - life perpetuates life. And when your soul is alive, it spreads. It flows out, it radiates from your being, and it energizes those who come in contact with you.
Come alive.
"I am so so excited for you! You can tell you're excited. Because, this... this is YOU stuff. This is you living out of who you are, not just as a mommy, but in what gives you life and energy. This is we moms need, and struggle to do. I am so proud of you! This is the good stuff!"
This post has nothing to do with my Etsy store, spoiler alert. It's in the menu bar if you're interested. It's not about promoting it, or part of my grand marketing strategy. That's still piecemealed together on napkins that my toddler may or may not have attempted to eat. Slobber is not underrated in this enterprise, apparently.
Rather, this post is about finding what gives you life and doing that. Developing and fostering parts of you that your kids might appreciate, but that aren't solely for them. Teaching them how to be men and women who follow their dreams, follow through on their goals, and pursue joy - by doing it.
Have I written this post before? Yup, pretty sure I have. Pretty sure it's been part of any post that I've written giving advice to my future self, to moms of littles, to future parents, and probably just about anyone else.
It's so easy to give yourself away daily - even while it is infinitely difficult - so much so that we lose all of who we are, and all our toddler can answer when asked "what does mommy enjoy?" is "dishes" "laundry" and "me." All important things, and not to be minimized. Hence, why I will continue washing dishes and folding laundry, ad infinitum.
I want my sons to know that I adore them. That I would do anything for them. That nothing can diminish, alter, or interfere with my love for them. That I love their Daddy with an equally strong, fierce and passionate love. This is first and foremost, if they learn nothing else from me. That they three, husband, and sons, are my priority.
But I also want them to see me follow my dreams, to chase after my goals, and to live a full and joyful life. I want them to see me have the courage to be all of who I am, so that maybe just maybe when I encourage them to be all of who they are, and to chase after their dreams and do the hard work of fulfilling their goals, that they will have examples of what that looks like.
I was reminded this morning, by my friend's kind words of affirmation - this sister has the gift of celebrating with others with her whole being - that it is not a small thing to pursue who we are and to strive to live into the whole of who we are. That it's not just for us - although it is a good and beautiful thing for us as well. That it matters for our kids.
That life perpetuates life.
And that pursuit of life is a good and holy thing.
Will you join me, friend? Will you carve out seconds, minutes, hours - that are costly - to foster life? Even if it's just five minutes a day, will you be intentional to make it happen?
Maybe it's writing - maybe it's reading - maybe you love gardening, cooking, playing games, creating things with your hands - maybe you love singing or making music - maybe your soul comes to life when you climb a mountain or swim with the fish or soar above the clouds.
Whatever it - however long you can whittle out - will you do it? Put your strategy down on those slobbery napkins. Write it down. Speak it out. Make it happen.
Because here's the beautiful secret - life perpetuates life. And when your soul is alive, it spreads. It flows out, it radiates from your being, and it energizes those who come in contact with you.
Come alive.
Friday, August 21, 2015
cleaning curtains, hiding clutter, and called Beloved
We're having company over for dinner tonight - new friends that have a son about S's age. My children are finally napping, I have a few minutes of down time, and you know what I'm doing? Of course you do. You've been there too.
I'm cleaning. Preparing. Striving. Sweeping, cooking, hiding clutter.
I even washed the darned kitchen curtains, which have never before been washed. To my credit - or shame, you pick - they did have huge avocado stains on them from one youngest son who has decided to use them as his daily napkin, and did desperately need to be washed. But still.
Now two hours into nap, our house looks like no toddlers live here. Aside from the copious numbers of toys that are haphazardly hanging out of the toy box. And you know, the two toddlers that my friend knows I have, and is bringing hers over to play with.
"Accept me. Love me! Think that I have my act together!"
What am I doing?
Ironically, the last conversation I had with this friend? Mom guilt. Comparison. Feeling like we need to measure up, and how we all feel like we don't. How we all feel judged, even if we're not.
Obviously there's a balance - hospitality is a good thing. Creating a (beautiful, clean, comfortable) space where others can relax and feel welcomed without stepping on week old pre-chewed cheerios, is totally valid. Good, even. But meticulously cleaning so that others will approve of me?
We all know the lesson - we preach it to others all the time. No one worries about you or your kids as much as you do. Just be yourself - that's who we love and want to hang out with. We've all been there with the hot mess melting down toddler. Our houses aren't clean either. Please don't worry about it. Honestly, it's not a big deal.
But then, we go home, and we worry. We clean. We prepare. We work hard to make sure that our kids aren't those kids. That our house isn't that house. That we aren't that mom.
Or we don't. And then we apologize profusely. "I'm so sorry my toddlers are being loud" (never met a toddler that wasn't). "I'm sorry that I didn't clean up" (Please. Drs Hoover and Bissell could live here and the carpet wouldn't be cleaner). "I feel like I should have at least put on makeup; I look like a hot mess!" (You're wearing deodorant and look like you showered in the last day - so ahead of me).
("I'm so sorry there's no dinner tonight; I was too busy blogging my feelings..." jk jk. kind of.)
Somehow we all know the lesson, but somewhere it gets lost in translation and not applied.
At a root and core, I think we're all just scared that we'll mess up. That we'll be judged. Not loved. Not appreciated. Found wanting. Not thought to be [you fill in the blank].
That's true for me with friends, with company, and in so many other areas, blogosphere among them.
Ever post that I push publish on - I get antsy and scared that it won't be read. That no will care. That I won't matter. Because I do that, even though I know the falseness of it and the dangers therein, my identity becomes wrapped up in what I do, where I am, and how I'm received/perceived. And I desperately want to be accepted, loved, and respected.
Even though this whole blog is about how I'm called Beloved. Given an identity that is unshakable. Named. Known. Loved. Not defined by our successes or failures. Somehow I always keep circling back into that pernicious cycle of looking for external acceptance and worth and value.
I don't have the first clue how to handle the urgent sense that I need to clean up, prepare, and make myself and our house presentable. I don't know whether I should leave the clutter or find a hospitable balance or hand our guests a vacuum cleaner, or keep maniacally cleaning. I'm going to hazard a wild guess that balance is the way to go.
But what I do know is this: we're all right, in that lesson that we all know. We are so much more than our houses, our children, or our ability to (appear to) have our sh$& together.
Our identity is not found nor secure in others' opinions of us.
I am (you are) called Beloved. Known. Loved. Accepted. Belonging. Free. Free. Free. And that is unconditional, not based on what we do, who we know, or how clean our curtains are.
But it doesn't do much good unless we actually live it.
I need to tape it to my doors, mirrors, and toilet handles. To my broom, my makeup kit, my toddler's back, to my wallet. I need it tattooed on my hand, and written on my pillow. Whatever it takes to translate it from my minds to my hearts to my lives. Because when we actually live that out, we are finally able to actually love and welcome and know and accept others, and finally become that safe space, that comfortable person, and that shelter in the storm of longing that we desire to be, every time we preach that same old lesson. Because we've learned that lesson ourselves.
One day at a time. I'll keep writing the same story, over, and over and over again.
I'm cleaning. Preparing. Striving. Sweeping, cooking, hiding clutter.
I even washed the darned kitchen curtains, which have never before been washed. To my credit - or shame, you pick - they did have huge avocado stains on them from one youngest son who has decided to use them as his daily napkin, and did desperately need to be washed. But still.
Now two hours into nap, our house looks like no toddlers live here. Aside from the copious numbers of toys that are haphazardly hanging out of the toy box. And you know, the two toddlers that my friend knows I have, and is bringing hers over to play with.
"Accept me. Love me! Think that I have my act together!"
What am I doing?
Ironically, the last conversation I had with this friend? Mom guilt. Comparison. Feeling like we need to measure up, and how we all feel like we don't. How we all feel judged, even if we're not.
Obviously there's a balance - hospitality is a good thing. Creating a (beautiful, clean, comfortable) space where others can relax and feel welcomed without stepping on week old pre-chewed cheerios, is totally valid. Good, even. But meticulously cleaning so that others will approve of me?
We all know the lesson - we preach it to others all the time. No one worries about you or your kids as much as you do. Just be yourself - that's who we love and want to hang out with. We've all been there with the hot mess melting down toddler. Our houses aren't clean either. Please don't worry about it. Honestly, it's not a big deal.
But then, we go home, and we worry. We clean. We prepare. We work hard to make sure that our kids aren't those kids. That our house isn't that house. That we aren't that mom.
Or we don't. And then we apologize profusely. "I'm so sorry my toddlers are being loud" (never met a toddler that wasn't). "I'm sorry that I didn't clean up" (Please. Drs Hoover and Bissell could live here and the carpet wouldn't be cleaner). "I feel like I should have at least put on makeup; I look like a hot mess!" (You're wearing deodorant and look like you showered in the last day - so ahead of me).
("I'm so sorry there's no dinner tonight; I was too busy blogging my feelings..." jk jk. kind of.)
Somehow we all know the lesson, but somewhere it gets lost in translation and not applied.
At a root and core, I think we're all just scared that we'll mess up. That we'll be judged. Not loved. Not appreciated. Found wanting. Not thought to be [you fill in the blank].
That's true for me with friends, with company, and in so many other areas, blogosphere among them.
Ever post that I push publish on - I get antsy and scared that it won't be read. That no will care. That I won't matter. Because I do that, even though I know the falseness of it and the dangers therein, my identity becomes wrapped up in what I do, where I am, and how I'm received/perceived. And I desperately want to be accepted, loved, and respected.
Even though this whole blog is about how I'm called Beloved. Given an identity that is unshakable. Named. Known. Loved. Not defined by our successes or failures. Somehow I always keep circling back into that pernicious cycle of looking for external acceptance and worth and value.
I don't have the first clue how to handle the urgent sense that I need to clean up, prepare, and make myself and our house presentable. I don't know whether I should leave the clutter or find a hospitable balance or hand our guests a vacuum cleaner, or keep maniacally cleaning. I'm going to hazard a wild guess that balance is the way to go.
But what I do know is this: we're all right, in that lesson that we all know. We are so much more than our houses, our children, or our ability to (appear to) have our sh$& together.
Our identity is not found nor secure in others' opinions of us.
I am (you are) called Beloved. Known. Loved. Accepted. Belonging. Free. Free. Free. And that is unconditional, not based on what we do, who we know, or how clean our curtains are.
But it doesn't do much good unless we actually live it.
I need to tape it to my doors, mirrors, and toilet handles. To my broom, my makeup kit, my toddler's back, to my wallet. I need it tattooed on my hand, and written on my pillow. Whatever it takes to translate it from my minds to my hearts to my lives. Because when we actually live that out, we are finally able to actually love and welcome and know and accept others, and finally become that safe space, that comfortable person, and that shelter in the storm of longing that we desire to be, every time we preach that same old lesson. Because we've learned that lesson ourselves.
One day at a time. I'll keep writing the same story, over, and over and over again.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Epilogue: Simplicity
Guys, I feel like simplicity (having less stuff, buying less stuff, hanging on to less stuff, and in general, valuing stuff less) is the next step for me, and for our family. A friend mentioned it after I wrote the first blog post in this series on money, and my soul was like... YES. Yes, please. Yes, I think simplicity sounds incredibly freeing. Even as I have boxes and boxes of "stuff" cluttering my house to be sold or given away or... [we're in full declutter mode over here at Casa del Douthit]. But this is going to be an incredibly short post, because the honest truth is that I have no idea how to do simplicity well.
One of the things that I've noticed, is that when we look to money for security, identity, status - and also feel like money is "never enough"- we somehow seem to accumulate stuff (LOTS AND LOTS OF STUFF) at the same time. Not stuff that we "need" but stuff that we "might need" or "that has memories" or "is still in great condition" or that "we can't bear to get rid of." There are (good?) reasons for this parallel of accumulations and feeling of financial lacking - if you don't have "enough" money, you can't easily replace things if you get rid of them now, so you hold on, hoard, store, accumulate for the hypothetical future need.
But as with all things clinging to money, things, people - it rarely leads to the freedom that we hope that it will. Rather, at least in our case, and I suspect potentially yours, it means that we are often overflowing with, and bogged down by, things that we might someday need, but don't actually need right now. And dread moving ever for exactly that reason. Our space for life, and real living, is literally made smaller by all the "stuff" that we hold on to. Anyone with me? Can you resonate?
Ask me about the full-size (awesome!) bed that we stored in our dining room for over a year, because I couldn't bear to get rid of it - and the huge freedom that came from actually selling it to someone who could use it. I occasionally think about it. But haven't missed it yet.
So simplicity. Decluttering. But with wisdom. I don't know how to do this, friends, and so all I'm going to do is show you pictures of my hoarding clutter. Because, I can. This is by no means comprehensive, just a lil sampling. You're welcome. Someone please tell me that I'm not alone...
Also, this. I think this is a great picture of living well, but with simplicity and not excess. It feels non sequitur but I don't know where else to put it.
Right now, we're (1) decluttering - getting rid of excess - (2) trying to have a "spend free" month, where we don't buy anything that is not needed or in budget, (3) trying to stick very strictly to budget to reset our priorities this month, and (4) trying to invest more in experiences and activities together than things. And I feel like we're still swimming in STUFF. But maybe making small dents...
But I'd love to hear from you - how do you do this?
How do you keep from accumulating stuff, while not becoming miserly, and still being wise?
What have you learned about simplicity along the way?
How do you teach your kids this?
Someone please teach me - how do you think about simplicity wisely?
One of the things that I've noticed, is that when we look to money for security, identity, status - and also feel like money is "never enough"- we somehow seem to accumulate stuff (LOTS AND LOTS OF STUFF) at the same time. Not stuff that we "need" but stuff that we "might need" or "that has memories" or "is still in great condition" or that "we can't bear to get rid of." There are (good?) reasons for this parallel of accumulations and feeling of financial lacking - if you don't have "enough" money, you can't easily replace things if you get rid of them now, so you hold on, hoard, store, accumulate for the hypothetical future need.
But as with all things clinging to money, things, people - it rarely leads to the freedom that we hope that it will. Rather, at least in our case, and I suspect potentially yours, it means that we are often overflowing with, and bogged down by, things that we might someday need, but don't actually need right now. And dread moving ever for exactly that reason. Our space for life, and real living, is literally made smaller by all the "stuff" that we hold on to. Anyone with me? Can you resonate?
Ask me about the full-size (awesome!) bed that we stored in our dining room for over a year, because I couldn't bear to get rid of it - and the huge freedom that came from actually selling it to someone who could use it. I occasionally think about it. But haven't missed it yet.
So simplicity. Decluttering. But with wisdom. I don't know how to do this, friends, and so all I'm going to do is show you pictures of my hoarding clutter. Because, I can. This is by no means comprehensive, just a lil sampling. You're welcome. Someone please tell me that I'm not alone...
 |
| Toddler not included in clutter, but certainly contributes to it! |
 |
| Closet door is not open all the way, because, well, it can't. Or the chaos will overflow. Suitcases, and beach chairs, galore. Also, Christmas decorations and a pair of never used skis. |
Right now, we're (1) decluttering - getting rid of excess - (2) trying to have a "spend free" month, where we don't buy anything that is not needed or in budget, (3) trying to stick very strictly to budget to reset our priorities this month, and (4) trying to invest more in experiences and activities together than things. And I feel like we're still swimming in STUFF. But maybe making small dents...
But I'd love to hear from you - how do you do this?
How do you keep from accumulating stuff, while not becoming miserly, and still being wise?
What have you learned about simplicity along the way?
How do you teach your kids this?
Someone please teach me - how do you think about simplicity wisely?
Monday, August 17, 2015
Money, Part III: Wisdom and Generosity
I have to tell you - writing a lot about money has made me think a lot about it, and even made me realize some of the new and different ways that my relationship with money leads to shame and pride. And last night, even found myself overwhelmed with shame over money and some of the ways that I manage it, or failed to manage it well.
I am realizing (as I write these posts) that in the past few months, I have swung the opposite direction from my previous stingy-self, and have taken the new-found freedom of living out of a mentality of abundance, and given myself a bit more license than is healthy to spend on things that we may or may not need. And there were ways that Jon and I needed to talk through that, recalibrate, and reassess how we (I, since I handle most of our day-to-day finances) handle money. Always a fine line, friends, needing checks and balances. And no one is perfect at it.
Grace, grace, and more grace. We're in this together. I'm learning, as I go. And grateful for the opportunity to learn and grow alongside you. Thank you.
So final installment. You can find the first two parts here and here if you missed them!
A few years ago, before I got married, but as I was beginning to realize the ways that money had a stranglehold over me, I made a unique commitment as part of my annual "rule of life." I made a commitment, that no matter who it was, or what they asked for - that I would give to anyone who asked. I would give from within my means, not above it - which is important - but I would intentionally practice generosity by taking the choice out of it. My answer was yes, regardless, even if the amount was still in my control. Moreover, I would seek out opportunities to give generously, without being asked, both financially and otherwise. Sometimes a Grinchy heart requires dramatic action to help it grow the desired amount.
I have not had this as part of my rule of life for several years now - but the lessons that I learned have stuck with me since then, and have been fundamental in helping me to understand joy and money well together.
- I learned that there is always something that I can give, no matter how tight money is. It might not be glamorous - it might just be a dollar - it might be a meaningful smile or volunteering of my time - but there is always something. And often times, there was more than I thought there would be.
- I learned that it's actually fun to surprise people, to give good gifts, or care for their tangible needs. That whether they knew it was from me or not, whether they said thank you or not, I felt the value of that investment personally, simply because of the increase in joy and delight that I felt. And I actually found this to be more true with anonymous generosity than with known, where unfortunately pride and "deservedness" often muddle the water.
- I also learned that generosity does not have to be a lot in order to be well-received or meaningful, to giver and receiver. Sometimes the most meaningful generosity is a couple dollars without strings attached, free babysitting, a cup of hot coffee, or arms to hold a wiggly baby.
- And finally, I learned that giving from what I had - not what I didn't have - important! - did not make me feel want or lacking more. Rather, it made me feel richer, more aware of what I had. And more delighted in its stewardship. Joy increased. Wealth seemed to grow as well, even though the spreadsheets indicated no change. I felt abundance, even as I gave it away in very little pieces. And my needs, and as our family grew, the needs of our family, were still able to be met.
Give it a try. I think you might be surprised by how much richer and fuller life is, when you practice, live, and value generosity in tangible, daily ways.
So how do we do this - hold on to perspective, manage money with wisdom, and give generously? Right? That's what we all want to know. (me! me!)
Ultimately, I'm not going to give you financial advice - I'm far from qualified to do that, and there are a ton of excellent resources out there that can give you far more sound advice than I can (Dave Ramsey, et al). Here's what I do want to tell you though - foundational principles that I think are helpful regardless of what your financial situation is:
1. Cut the ties between identity and finances, however you have to do that. You will get nowhere fruitful until you are able to honestly say, from a heart level, "I am not what I make." "Those who make more than me, are not more than me, those who make less than me (or nothing) are not less than me." Friends, at a core level, I firmly believe this is an identity issue. We have to begin there.
2. Know yourself and your natural tendencies - are you a hoarder, or a spender? Are you naturally generous or naturally thrifty? Do you wrestle more with pride or with shame, when it comes to money? What might a good first step towards balance look like for you? Who might be able to help you grow in that regard? Reassess regularly.
3. Ask for help in managing your money well. Financial planning is important, whether we have much or little. And when shame and pride are not in the mix, this is much easier to do. And as a result, it is easier to be wise AND generous with our money. Make a plan, and stick with it - thinking about both long term and short term goals.
4. Give out of what you have - not what you don't - give regularly in some capacity, and give generously. I'm not talking about a tithe or a monthly line-item, although both are good ways to instill in our minds that money is not simply to be possessed. It's a good start - but for me, didn't necessarily correlate to a heart of generosity. Look for opportunities to be generous - and rather than ask yourself, "Can I give?" ask "What can I wisely give?" *Wisely is key here, as some of us are tempted to give what is not healthy for our families, the recipient, or ourselves. If the truthful, honest answer is "nothing," then the best thing that you can give in that moment is a truthful and a direct "No, I really can't at this point in time" - which shockingly is actually a gift in and of itself, releasing both the giver and the receiver. But more often than not, there is something that we can wisely give, whether monetarily or otherwise.
5. Look for, and focus on abundance, rather than lacking. When we complain less about money, and sometimes even focus less on it, and notice the things that we do have, somehow our joy increases even if our finances don't. Make a list if you need help seeing those things. Ask a friend if you need outside perspective. Cultivate thankfulness. I love (the idea of) Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts - still haven't actually read it (I know!). But it's a discipline of actually chronicling the gifts which we daily receive, in order to cultivate thankfulness. And emphasizes again, abundance is a perspective, not a destination.
6. Give yourself grace. Again and again and again. And continually seek to invest in things that bring joy, not just (or as well as) enjoyment and security.
With love, and with you on this journey towards perspective, abundance and wise generosity,
KD
I am realizing (as I write these posts) that in the past few months, I have swung the opposite direction from my previous stingy-self, and have taken the new-found freedom of living out of a mentality of abundance, and given myself a bit more license than is healthy to spend on things that we may or may not need. And there were ways that Jon and I needed to talk through that, recalibrate, and reassess how we (I, since I handle most of our day-to-day finances) handle money. Always a fine line, friends, needing checks and balances. And no one is perfect at it.
Grace, grace, and more grace. We're in this together. I'm learning, as I go. And grateful for the opportunity to learn and grow alongside you. Thank you.
So final installment. You can find the first two parts here and here if you missed them!
A few years ago, before I got married, but as I was beginning to realize the ways that money had a stranglehold over me, I made a unique commitment as part of my annual "rule of life." I made a commitment, that no matter who it was, or what they asked for - that I would give to anyone who asked. I would give from within my means, not above it - which is important - but I would intentionally practice generosity by taking the choice out of it. My answer was yes, regardless, even if the amount was still in my control. Moreover, I would seek out opportunities to give generously, without being asked, both financially and otherwise. Sometimes a Grinchy heart requires dramatic action to help it grow the desired amount.
I have not had this as part of my rule of life for several years now - but the lessons that I learned have stuck with me since then, and have been fundamental in helping me to understand joy and money well together.
- I learned that there is always something that I can give, no matter how tight money is. It might not be glamorous - it might just be a dollar - it might be a meaningful smile or volunteering of my time - but there is always something. And often times, there was more than I thought there would be.
- I learned that it's actually fun to surprise people, to give good gifts, or care for their tangible needs. That whether they knew it was from me or not, whether they said thank you or not, I felt the value of that investment personally, simply because of the increase in joy and delight that I felt. And I actually found this to be more true with anonymous generosity than with known, where unfortunately pride and "deservedness" often muddle the water.
- I also learned that generosity does not have to be a lot in order to be well-received or meaningful, to giver and receiver. Sometimes the most meaningful generosity is a couple dollars without strings attached, free babysitting, a cup of hot coffee, or arms to hold a wiggly baby.
- And finally, I learned that giving from what I had - not what I didn't have - important! - did not make me feel want or lacking more. Rather, it made me feel richer, more aware of what I had. And more delighted in its stewardship. Joy increased. Wealth seemed to grow as well, even though the spreadsheets indicated no change. I felt abundance, even as I gave it away in very little pieces. And my needs, and as our family grew, the needs of our family, were still able to be met.
Give it a try. I think you might be surprised by how much richer and fuller life is, when you practice, live, and value generosity in tangible, daily ways.
So how do we do this - hold on to perspective, manage money with wisdom, and give generously? Right? That's what we all want to know. (me! me!)
Ultimately, I'm not going to give you financial advice - I'm far from qualified to do that, and there are a ton of excellent resources out there that can give you far more sound advice than I can (Dave Ramsey, et al). Here's what I do want to tell you though - foundational principles that I think are helpful regardless of what your financial situation is:
1. Cut the ties between identity and finances, however you have to do that. You will get nowhere fruitful until you are able to honestly say, from a heart level, "I am not what I make." "Those who make more than me, are not more than me, those who make less than me (or nothing) are not less than me." Friends, at a core level, I firmly believe this is an identity issue. We have to begin there.
2. Know yourself and your natural tendencies - are you a hoarder, or a spender? Are you naturally generous or naturally thrifty? Do you wrestle more with pride or with shame, when it comes to money? What might a good first step towards balance look like for you? Who might be able to help you grow in that regard? Reassess regularly.
3. Ask for help in managing your money well. Financial planning is important, whether we have much or little. And when shame and pride are not in the mix, this is much easier to do. And as a result, it is easier to be wise AND generous with our money. Make a plan, and stick with it - thinking about both long term and short term goals.
4. Give out of what you have - not what you don't - give regularly in some capacity, and give generously. I'm not talking about a tithe or a monthly line-item, although both are good ways to instill in our minds that money is not simply to be possessed. It's a good start - but for me, didn't necessarily correlate to a heart of generosity. Look for opportunities to be generous - and rather than ask yourself, "Can I give?" ask "What can I wisely give?" *Wisely is key here, as some of us are tempted to give what is not healthy for our families, the recipient, or ourselves. If the truthful, honest answer is "nothing," then the best thing that you can give in that moment is a truthful and a direct "No, I really can't at this point in time" - which shockingly is actually a gift in and of itself, releasing both the giver and the receiver. But more often than not, there is something that we can wisely give, whether monetarily or otherwise.
5. Look for, and focus on abundance, rather than lacking. When we complain less about money, and sometimes even focus less on it, and notice the things that we do have, somehow our joy increases even if our finances don't. Make a list if you need help seeing those things. Ask a friend if you need outside perspective. Cultivate thankfulness. I love (the idea of) Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts - still haven't actually read it (I know!). But it's a discipline of actually chronicling the gifts which we daily receive, in order to cultivate thankfulness. And emphasizes again, abundance is a perspective, not a destination.
6. Give yourself grace. Again and again and again. And continually seek to invest in things that bring joy, not just (or as well as) enjoyment and security.
With love, and with you on this journey towards perspective, abundance and wise generosity,
KD
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Money, Part II: Identity and Abundance
(you can catch part 1 here if you missed it)
In my family, growing up, we talked about money all the time, simply because it was often a determining factor in what we could and couldn't do. I never knew real want - my parents did a good job taking care of us - but I never knew a time when we hadn't been "tight" either. Over the years, if I wanted spending money, I babysat, worked odd jobs, or worked full-time. My "allowance" until I was 15 was 10c a week per year old that I was - if my chores were done - and half of that was required to be saved, and a tenth given away. Do the math, and I received a whopping 60c every week (acknowledged: I still received an allowance, which is more than many).
At the time that I entered college, I was, for all purposes except taxes, entirely financially independent. I went to a really preppy and fairly (very) affluent university, on a half scholastic merit scholarship, and half need-based financial assistance. My scholarship covered everything for school, and everything else came from what I earned in various jobs at the university. UR was one of the first places that I found myself where I was considered "poorer" than others and where my comparative financial lacking was tangibly obvious (at least to me). It became both a place of shame for me (as I saw my own lacking comparatively) and a place of pride (oh yeah, well I have things so much harder than everyone else, and still look at me...) and a definition of what I was striving for (money and financial security will allow me to live happily and comfortably). I was certainly not alone in those thoughts. And yet, in the context of UR, we did not talk about money - perhaps because one of the (false) underlying assumptions was that everyone had it, or perhaps because it was, as it still is, considered not kosher and too personal.
I learned, over the years, that there were far more students like me, who relied heavily on scholarship, than I had initially thought. UR does a good job with financial assistance, even to this day. And even beyond that, there were many for whom money was considered "tight." But I also learned that "money being tight" meant vastly different things to different people. We had different cultural expectations, different safety nets, and different visions of what financial security would look like - one of many reasons that money is often difficult to talk about well.
In all honesty, however, I think that the real reason we didn't (often) talk about money was the underlying assumption that no one ever stated - and few would even agree was true if it was stated out-loud - that money - how much we had, or how rough we had it - played a huge role in our identities. It influenced our plans, shaped our abilities, affected our "street cred," defined how free from our parents we were, and largely marked what we considered "success" upon graduation. And while it doesn't have to be comparative, it always felt that way.
Not much has changed over the years.
We still base a lot of our identities - and our judgments of others - on affluence, money, and status.
"Oh, he/she has finally made something of himself/herself..."
"Haven't really amounted to much, have they?"
Friends, this is a crippling definition of success. And an awful measure of identity.
It does not yield happiness, security, or a deep sense of worth, value or identity. Rather what I thought - that having money would finally set me free, and enable me to live joyfully - this tie between money and identity instead yields a pride and shame that stymie any real delight. And that shame and pride - you know what I'm talking about - are toxic, hindering our ability actually steward our finances well; to talk candidly about money without becoming defensive (when is the last time you did that?); to seek wise counsel when we need it, or give counsel to others; and to receive money and give it well, with no strings attached.
I need to tell you, candidly, that I am no where near as good at saving money as I used to be. I am still (relatively) good at spreading a dollar and managing money. That I tend towards pride and miserliness more than shame and free-spending enjoyment, although I do go there too at times. And that at times, I still feel deep comparative shame, based on money, when I look at all that my peers from college, or here in the city, have achieved and feel like I have achieved so little. Or that at times, I privately harbor pride at my ability to manage money well and stay out of debt, and feel superior to others for whom the struggle is different. I promised candor, so there you go.
But I am gradually learning that I am more than what I make or do not make.
That I am more than what my savings account or debt level reflects.
That I am not more or less than you, based on our abilities to handle finances.
And I have to tell you, that has been an incredibly freeing lesson to learn.
A year and a half after I graduated from college, I moved to Boston and lived with two wonderful and sweet roommates. We were all just starting out, all single, and all making enough to be comfortable, but not enough to keep us from feeling the pull. Halfway through the year, one had to unexpectedly move out, and we were joined by a new roommate - our age, Ivy League educated, making comparable salary to us - who had lived several years of her teenage life, along with her family, homeless. Her experience with money gave me yet another perspective on what "money being tight" meant, what were basic securities that I just took for granted - food, shelter, extended family, among them.
The factors which shaped her attitudes and situational responses were significant and meaningful and I do not want to minimize the validity of her experience. It is not one that I can fully comprehend, and I want to honor that by not going into too much detail. But in living with her, and seeing the way that she handled money and resources - I began to see reflected, for the first time, the ways in which my own "tightfistedness" "financial wisdom" was actually stifling and killing joy. I began to see the ways in which a money-defined identity - having it or not having it, handling it well, or handling it poorly - was unhealthy at best, and at worst, destructive to life and joy.
You and I, we are more than the money that we make or do not make. Our ability to handle finances does not determine our worth as human beings. Our savings accounts or debt levels do not validate or invalidate our intrinsic value. We know this intellectually - but friends, we rarely live like it. And until we learn this on a heart level, it is hard for us to engage with the topic of money in any real way without feeling defensive. It matters, friends. Our society does not do a good job modeling this. We are far too comfortable correlating value and importance to financial net worth.
Moreover, I began to see that abundance is actually a perspective - and that we can live our entire lives perceiving only our lacking, all the while actually having abundance right in front of us. Meanwhile, those with little can have an inexplicable, inexhaustible joy, because rather than seeing what they do not have, they see instead what they do possess, which is often both tangible and intangible.
When I got married, my husband modeled this for me. We could look at the same budget, same bank account, same expenses, and he would see "enough" and I would see "lack." His perspective - with the same desire for wise financial management, future planning, and prudent spending and savings - was one of optimism and trust, rather than fear and doubt. And unlike me, he was far less stressed about money (until he had to try and figure out my spreadsheets... sorry honey).
As I have left the workforce to become a stay-at-home mom for this season, and my ability to contribute to our financial security went to very very little, these lessons have been anchors for me. And also places of deep struggle, if I'm honest. Places of intense freedom, when I live them well. We make less now than we ever have - we manage money (fairly) wisely - and yet I notice lack far less than I ever have before. Instead, more often (not always), I notice the gifts of abundance and choice that we have - to choose for me to be at home, the time with our boys rather than commuting, the gift of the few hours of work that I do have, the blessing of a decent hourly rate, the freedom to buy things that aren't absolute needs, the delight of being able to do things I love and bring in a little additional income... and I could go on.
So can I invite us to consider a few things, as I continue to blather on about money? You said yes, ye olde silent blogosphere? So delighted. Here we go:
1. Can we consider, regardless of dollar amount that we make, losing the association between income and personal worth, value, identity. Cut the puppet strings between finance and identity. Damned if I know how to tell you to do that quickly and easily, but absolutely certain that it matters. This will free us immensely to actually steward our money well under wise counsel, to talk candidly about it without becoming defensive, to seek wise counsel, to receive it well and to give it well. You are more than what you make or don't make. And until we can know that on a heart level, further conversation won't go very far.
2. Can we consider, looking for our abundance, living in our abundance, more than living in our lacking, always seeing what we do not have? Plain English, let's stop complaining about money. And notice, on a daily basis, what we do have. It will make us happier people, I guarantee.
3. Can I suggest, that I think the simple answer to both of those propositions above, is to live a life of generosity (and simplicity?) with wisdom, regardless of income. Let's hold on to that as we continue to chat. Give generously, unexpectedly, and joyfully, from what you have, and you will always feel like you have more.
More on this in our final installment, Part III. Stay tuned.
In my family, growing up, we talked about money all the time, simply because it was often a determining factor in what we could and couldn't do. I never knew real want - my parents did a good job taking care of us - but I never knew a time when we hadn't been "tight" either. Over the years, if I wanted spending money, I babysat, worked odd jobs, or worked full-time. My "allowance" until I was 15 was 10c a week per year old that I was - if my chores were done - and half of that was required to be saved, and a tenth given away. Do the math, and I received a whopping 60c every week (acknowledged: I still received an allowance, which is more than many).
At the time that I entered college, I was, for all purposes except taxes, entirely financially independent. I went to a really preppy and fairly (very) affluent university, on a half scholastic merit scholarship, and half need-based financial assistance. My scholarship covered everything for school, and everything else came from what I earned in various jobs at the university. UR was one of the first places that I found myself where I was considered "poorer" than others and where my comparative financial lacking was tangibly obvious (at least to me). It became both a place of shame for me (as I saw my own lacking comparatively) and a place of pride (oh yeah, well I have things so much harder than everyone else, and still look at me...) and a definition of what I was striving for (money and financial security will allow me to live happily and comfortably). I was certainly not alone in those thoughts. And yet, in the context of UR, we did not talk about money - perhaps because one of the (false) underlying assumptions was that everyone had it, or perhaps because it was, as it still is, considered not kosher and too personal.
I learned, over the years, that there were far more students like me, who relied heavily on scholarship, than I had initially thought. UR does a good job with financial assistance, even to this day. And even beyond that, there were many for whom money was considered "tight." But I also learned that "money being tight" meant vastly different things to different people. We had different cultural expectations, different safety nets, and different visions of what financial security would look like - one of many reasons that money is often difficult to talk about well.
In all honesty, however, I think that the real reason we didn't (often) talk about money was the underlying assumption that no one ever stated - and few would even agree was true if it was stated out-loud - that money - how much we had, or how rough we had it - played a huge role in our identities. It influenced our plans, shaped our abilities, affected our "street cred," defined how free from our parents we were, and largely marked what we considered "success" upon graduation. And while it doesn't have to be comparative, it always felt that way.
Not much has changed over the years.
We still base a lot of our identities - and our judgments of others - on affluence, money, and status.
"Oh, he/she has finally made something of himself/herself..."
"Haven't really amounted to much, have they?"
Friends, this is a crippling definition of success. And an awful measure of identity.
It does not yield happiness, security, or a deep sense of worth, value or identity. Rather what I thought - that having money would finally set me free, and enable me to live joyfully - this tie between money and identity instead yields a pride and shame that stymie any real delight. And that shame and pride - you know what I'm talking about - are toxic, hindering our ability actually steward our finances well; to talk candidly about money without becoming defensive (when is the last time you did that?); to seek wise counsel when we need it, or give counsel to others; and to receive money and give it well, with no strings attached.
I need to tell you, candidly, that I am no where near as good at saving money as I used to be. I am still (relatively) good at spreading a dollar and managing money. That I tend towards pride and miserliness more than shame and free-spending enjoyment, although I do go there too at times. And that at times, I still feel deep comparative shame, based on money, when I look at all that my peers from college, or here in the city, have achieved and feel like I have achieved so little. Or that at times, I privately harbor pride at my ability to manage money well and stay out of debt, and feel superior to others for whom the struggle is different. I promised candor, so there you go.
But I am gradually learning that I am more than what I make or do not make.
That I am more than what my savings account or debt level reflects.
That I am not more or less than you, based on our abilities to handle finances.
And I have to tell you, that has been an incredibly freeing lesson to learn.
A year and a half after I graduated from college, I moved to Boston and lived with two wonderful and sweet roommates. We were all just starting out, all single, and all making enough to be comfortable, but not enough to keep us from feeling the pull. Halfway through the year, one had to unexpectedly move out, and we were joined by a new roommate - our age, Ivy League educated, making comparable salary to us - who had lived several years of her teenage life, along with her family, homeless. Her experience with money gave me yet another perspective on what "money being tight" meant, what were basic securities that I just took for granted - food, shelter, extended family, among them.
The factors which shaped her attitudes and situational responses were significant and meaningful and I do not want to minimize the validity of her experience. It is not one that I can fully comprehend, and I want to honor that by not going into too much detail. But in living with her, and seeing the way that she handled money and resources - I began to see reflected, for the first time, the ways in which my own "tightfistedness" "financial wisdom" was actually stifling and killing joy. I began to see the ways in which a money-defined identity - having it or not having it, handling it well, or handling it poorly - was unhealthy at best, and at worst, destructive to life and joy.
You and I, we are more than the money that we make or do not make. Our ability to handle finances does not determine our worth as human beings. Our savings accounts or debt levels do not validate or invalidate our intrinsic value. We know this intellectually - but friends, we rarely live like it. And until we learn this on a heart level, it is hard for us to engage with the topic of money in any real way without feeling defensive. It matters, friends. Our society does not do a good job modeling this. We are far too comfortable correlating value and importance to financial net worth.
Moreover, I began to see that abundance is actually a perspective - and that we can live our entire lives perceiving only our lacking, all the while actually having abundance right in front of us. Meanwhile, those with little can have an inexplicable, inexhaustible joy, because rather than seeing what they do not have, they see instead what they do possess, which is often both tangible and intangible.
When I got married, my husband modeled this for me. We could look at the same budget, same bank account, same expenses, and he would see "enough" and I would see "lack." His perspective - with the same desire for wise financial management, future planning, and prudent spending and savings - was one of optimism and trust, rather than fear and doubt. And unlike me, he was far less stressed about money (until he had to try and figure out my spreadsheets... sorry honey).
As I have left the workforce to become a stay-at-home mom for this season, and my ability to contribute to our financial security went to very very little, these lessons have been anchors for me. And also places of deep struggle, if I'm honest. Places of intense freedom, when I live them well. We make less now than we ever have - we manage money (fairly) wisely - and yet I notice lack far less than I ever have before. Instead, more often (not always), I notice the gifts of abundance and choice that we have - to choose for me to be at home, the time with our boys rather than commuting, the gift of the few hours of work that I do have, the blessing of a decent hourly rate, the freedom to buy things that aren't absolute needs, the delight of being able to do things I love and bring in a little additional income... and I could go on.
So can I invite us to consider a few things, as I continue to blather on about money? You said yes, ye olde silent blogosphere? So delighted. Here we go:
1. Can we consider, regardless of dollar amount that we make, losing the association between income and personal worth, value, identity. Cut the puppet strings between finance and identity. Damned if I know how to tell you to do that quickly and easily, but absolutely certain that it matters. This will free us immensely to actually steward our money well under wise counsel, to talk candidly about it without becoming defensive, to seek wise counsel, to receive it well and to give it well. You are more than what you make or don't make. And until we can know that on a heart level, further conversation won't go very far.
2. Can we consider, looking for our abundance, living in our abundance, more than living in our lacking, always seeing what we do not have? Plain English, let's stop complaining about money. And notice, on a daily basis, what we do have. It will make us happier people, I guarantee.
3. Can I suggest, that I think the simple answer to both of those propositions above, is to live a life of generosity (and simplicity?) with wisdom, regardless of income. Let's hold on to that as we continue to chat. Give generously, unexpectedly, and joyfully, from what you have, and you will always feel like you have more.
More on this in our final installment, Part III. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Money, Part I: Perspective, Miserliness, and Joy
Let's talk about money, shall we?
NYTimes say about half of us are delaying major life decisions because of money worries. We think about it all the time, make decisions based on it, define ourselves and others by it, utilize it daily, are (many of us) buried under debt by it, and yet, rarely talk candidly about it.
This is roughly the third post on money that I've started and (not yet) finished. It's an odd subject, no? Hard to decide a wise direction to take the post, hard to write with hope and encouragement, not self-focus or self-pity. And hard to talk about unless you're really transparent, and well, that's often seen as awkward, or socially inappropriate, etc.
When have I ever been phased by awkward? Sorry awkward-phased people.
We'll see if I finish this one. Here we go.
I was raised under the penumbra of "money is tight" - and it was legitimately. And while we always had food, shelter, and clothing, and in hindsight, really never had want, it was still scary at times because of this ominous sense that there was no safety net. And, at least to my adolescent mind, it always felt like we were teetering on the brink, never secure financially. Money was always a "what we want but do not yet have."
I am certain I am not alone in this, and equally certain that many had it far worse than we did, even as many had it far better. In this blog, I am intentionally trying to share only stories that are mine to share, and as a result, am not sharing much about our financial situation growing up. But at the same time, I need to tell you transparently that it is often hard for me, when I do share in "honoring generality," that what I mean by "money was tight" is minimized, misunderstood, and mis-empathized with, in ways that are frustrating. Suffice to say, when I say "tight," I mean budgeted down to the cents, not dollars, and with the realities of debt and few safety nets.
As result, I learned to save perniciously - for many of my single years, saving well over a quarter of my paycheck (or more), counting pennies at the grocery store (I used to carry a calculator through the store), and always living in preparation for worst case scenario. Whatever my financial situation, I defined it as "not enough" - exacerbated by the fact that I went into ministry, and my paycheck was always well below what my peers made - even though truthfully, had I had the eyes to see it, I was able to live quite comfortably, even while still being financially responsible. I was miserly even as I focused on what I did not have, devoid of joy when it came to finances.
Thank the Lord, that is not the end of the story, even though in honesty, it is the impoverished counter-narrative that oft attempts to run subversively to the richer one.
Financially, not much has changed for us: we live in a rented apartment, two bedrooms for four of us, and in this housing market, our odds of buying a house in the next few years are relatively low, if we stay in the Boston area. We are on one salary plus my odds and ends, because childcare would actually cost more than I would be able to bring in if I were working part-time, and we have made the choice for me not to work full-time at this point in our kids lives. Values decision, and a choice certainly, but we stand by it.
We make just over $40K a year, for a family of four, living in Boston, which according to Kiplinger is the 7th most expensive city to live in in the US, with housing expenses third highest in the country. These details are shared with Jon's knowledge and blessing, and do not in any way reflect negatively on his ability to provide for our family. He does a great job, and we are able to live well for all effective purposes, even though finances are tight. If you want to know what your income would need to be in different places, to translate to the same standard of living as you presently have, check out the cost of living calculator. It's kind of fun if you live elsewhere, kind of disheartening if you live in DC, San Francisco, Honolulu, San Jose, Boston, Stamford, or New York. I am transparent with these details not to elicit a particular response from you, but so that I am clear where I am coming from, not playing off of generalities.
Money is relatively tight for us. That is a reality. But the truth is, I am learning there is far more to being rich than the amount of money that you have, or the amount of safety nets that are in place. The dollar amount that we make does not have to determine our wealth level. Or more specifically, our joy level, when it comes to finances.
I am learning that miserliness is not the only way to be wise with money.
That joy is a perspective.
That generosity is not diametrically opposed to wisdom even when money is tight.
And that generosity yields gratitude within me, and in gratitude, I find the joy that I seek the most.
So can I share a little bit of what I've been learning?
- We are not poor, even as we are not wealthy. According to this fun tool, 30% of people living in our area are poorer than we are (family size not taken into account). There are many who have far less than we do, even as there are many who have far more than we do. And I'm not even speaking globally, although that contrast is certainly far sharper. Perspective does not make our own financial needs less, but it does help to sharpen our gratitude - which is key, I have found in loosening the hold of miserliness
- Regardless of what we make, it will never fully feel like "enough." And that is the case whether we make $20K, $40K or $100K or $whatever. Even though some suggest that $75K is the perfect amount for happiness. Regardless of what we make, there are always places that feel "tight" or "hard" - and struggles that are different for each person, and misunderstood by those not in our "situations." This understanding enables us to listen with empathy and grace to the financial struggles with others, regardless of how they relate to our own, and consider how we can encourage them, rather than give way to bitterness or begrudging.
- We can still idolize or misuse money, whether we have much or little. And even though saving is important, and safety nets are helpful (and we are happy to have them now), the hoarding of money in order to gain safety (often motivated by fear)never rarely yields its intended security. On the other hand, reckless enjoyment in the here and now without thought to the future also has its pitfalls and dangers (talked about much more often, so I won't blather on about them here). There is a fine balance between a healthy investment in savings and security nets, and not being afraid to enjoy what we have and live a non-Scroogelike life. Most of us err on one side or the other, or swing between the two (me); very few find that delicate balance.
- We are still called to steward money well, manage it well, and regardless of overall dollar amount, we are invited to generosity in the ways that we are able. And surprisingly, giving tends to bring greater joy than hoarding ever does.
- And lastly, we have a choice as to whether we live as though we are lacking, or live in the abundance of what we do have. It doesn't change the dollar amount, but it certainly requires a change of heart.
Track with me, we'll talk more about this next time in Part II.
NYTimes say about half of us are delaying major life decisions because of money worries. We think about it all the time, make decisions based on it, define ourselves and others by it, utilize it daily, are (many of us) buried under debt by it, and yet, rarely talk candidly about it.
This is roughly the third post on money that I've started and (not yet) finished. It's an odd subject, no? Hard to decide a wise direction to take the post, hard to write with hope and encouragement, not self-focus or self-pity. And hard to talk about unless you're really transparent, and well, that's often seen as awkward, or socially inappropriate, etc.
When have I ever been phased by awkward? Sorry awkward-phased people.
We'll see if I finish this one. Here we go.
I was raised under the penumbra of "money is tight" - and it was legitimately. And while we always had food, shelter, and clothing, and in hindsight, really never had want, it was still scary at times because of this ominous sense that there was no safety net. And, at least to my adolescent mind, it always felt like we were teetering on the brink, never secure financially. Money was always a "what we want but do not yet have."
I am certain I am not alone in this, and equally certain that many had it far worse than we did, even as many had it far better. In this blog, I am intentionally trying to share only stories that are mine to share, and as a result, am not sharing much about our financial situation growing up. But at the same time, I need to tell you transparently that it is often hard for me, when I do share in "honoring generality," that what I mean by "money was tight" is minimized, misunderstood, and mis-empathized with, in ways that are frustrating. Suffice to say, when I say "tight," I mean budgeted down to the cents, not dollars, and with the realities of debt and few safety nets.
As result, I learned to save perniciously - for many of my single years, saving well over a quarter of my paycheck (or more), counting pennies at the grocery store (I used to carry a calculator through the store), and always living in preparation for worst case scenario. Whatever my financial situation, I defined it as "not enough" - exacerbated by the fact that I went into ministry, and my paycheck was always well below what my peers made - even though truthfully, had I had the eyes to see it, I was able to live quite comfortably, even while still being financially responsible. I was miserly even as I focused on what I did not have, devoid of joy when it came to finances.
Thank the Lord, that is not the end of the story, even though in honesty, it is the impoverished counter-narrative that oft attempts to run subversively to the richer one.
Financially, not much has changed for us: we live in a rented apartment, two bedrooms for four of us, and in this housing market, our odds of buying a house in the next few years are relatively low, if we stay in the Boston area. We are on one salary plus my odds and ends, because childcare would actually cost more than I would be able to bring in if I were working part-time, and we have made the choice for me not to work full-time at this point in our kids lives. Values decision, and a choice certainly, but we stand by it.
We make just over $40K a year, for a family of four, living in Boston, which according to Kiplinger is the 7th most expensive city to live in in the US, with housing expenses third highest in the country. These details are shared with Jon's knowledge and blessing, and do not in any way reflect negatively on his ability to provide for our family. He does a great job, and we are able to live well for all effective purposes, even though finances are tight. If you want to know what your income would need to be in different places, to translate to the same standard of living as you presently have, check out the cost of living calculator. It's kind of fun if you live elsewhere, kind of disheartening if you live in DC, San Francisco, Honolulu, San Jose, Boston, Stamford, or New York. I am transparent with these details not to elicit a particular response from you, but so that I am clear where I am coming from, not playing off of generalities.
Money is relatively tight for us. That is a reality. But the truth is, I am learning there is far more to being rich than the amount of money that you have, or the amount of safety nets that are in place. The dollar amount that we make does not have to determine our wealth level. Or more specifically, our joy level, when it comes to finances.
I am learning that miserliness is not the only way to be wise with money.
That joy is a perspective.
That generosity is not diametrically opposed to wisdom even when money is tight.
And that generosity yields gratitude within me, and in gratitude, I find the joy that I seek the most.
So can I share a little bit of what I've been learning?
- We are not poor, even as we are not wealthy. According to this fun tool, 30% of people living in our area are poorer than we are (family size not taken into account). There are many who have far less than we do, even as there are many who have far more than we do. And I'm not even speaking globally, although that contrast is certainly far sharper. Perspective does not make our own financial needs less, but it does help to sharpen our gratitude - which is key, I have found in loosening the hold of miserliness
- Regardless of what we make, it will never fully feel like "enough." And that is the case whether we make $20K, $40K or $100K or $whatever. Even though some suggest that $75K is the perfect amount for happiness. Regardless of what we make, there are always places that feel "tight" or "hard" - and struggles that are different for each person, and misunderstood by those not in our "situations." This understanding enables us to listen with empathy and grace to the financial struggles with others, regardless of how they relate to our own, and consider how we can encourage them, rather than give way to bitterness or begrudging.
- We can still idolize or misuse money, whether we have much or little. And even though saving is important, and safety nets are helpful (and we are happy to have them now), the hoarding of money in order to gain safety (often motivated by fear)
- We are still called to steward money well, manage it well, and regardless of overall dollar amount, we are invited to generosity in the ways that we are able. And surprisingly, giving tends to bring greater joy than hoarding ever does.
- And lastly, we have a choice as to whether we live as though we are lacking, or live in the abundance of what we do have. It doesn't change the dollar amount, but it certainly requires a change of heart.
Track with me, we'll talk more about this next time in Part II.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Letters to My Sons: I don't ever want to tame you
Dear sons,
This morning while we were out on a walk with some friends, you both contentedly riding in the stroller -pacified by one of those devilish-to-the-earth-mama-in-me sweeter-than-sweet-tea donuts - when a random stranger stopped by to oo and ahh at you and tell me how precious you were, how much like twins you looked, and how full my hands must be. So close together! And TWO BOYS too! First times for all of those [were not today]. "You know, I never had to spank until I had my son... girls are so well-behaved and social and sweet, and boys... well boys never stop moving and are into everything. You'll be in my prayers tonight." she said.
She's never met any sister that you might have - but you come legitimately from a mama who is rarely well-behaved, and while, sweet, never stops moving and is into everything. And I'd reckon any daughter that I might have might inherit some of those genes. Mild eye roll here.
Regardless, I thanked her for her prayers, and we moved on.
But as you both [finally] fell asleep for nap today, and I breathed a little sigh of relief, this is what I wanted to tell you:
I don't ever want to tame you.
I love that you are into everything and never stop moving. I love your curiosity and your chatter and your enthusiasm and energy. I love that you don't care if you get dirty, that you see puddles and your first thought is not staying dry but making the biggest splash that you can. I love that you have so many thoughts and so much joy that you sometimes quite literally keep yourself awake retelling your day and singing every song that you know. Loudly. I joke that you only have two volumes - loud and extra loud - but I love your unbridled, unhindered enthusiasm that needs to shout "DAAAADDDDY, MOMMY MADE BEANS FOR DINNER!" The whole neighborhood is invited in to your delight. Also for dinner. [Slightly better than "DAAAADDDDDY, MOMMY POOPED ON THE POTTY!"]
I love that you, S, see me cooking and want to pull every single pan and pot out of the cupboard so that you can cook too, and that you loudly proclaim your menu to me as you "cook" it. I love your enthusiasm about everything - your curiosity to explore your world and figure out how things work -and how deeply you delight to do it and then retell it to anyone who will listen. You are all in, 100% in whatever you do, and I love that about you.
I love that you, E, see the world as your oyster - that you fearlessly launch yourself off of slides, shelves, chairs, and beds, without worry that you will be caught, even though my heart stops almost every time. You will be the child who takes us to the emergency room first. But I love how safe you feel, that you are not afraid to launch yourself into anything new.
I love that you both explore the world in your own ways, on all four cylinders. Neither one of you holds back - and it is exhausting, nerve-wracking and delightful to see. Full-steam ahead, bloody occasionally, running-never-walking, all-hands-on-deck, exhausted by bedtime, from dawn until dusk.
This is certainly not just a boy thing, although stereotypes do render it the conversation more often than not. Lord willing, if you have a sister, I hope she's fully herself, whatever that looks like, with reckless abandon too. Somehow my eardrums, nerves, and heart will survive, I am certain.
Baby boys, your Daddy and I will do our best to teach you manners, kindness, gentleness, and compassion - to raise you to be good men who recognize and appreciate context and balance. We will endeavor to raise you with good discipline and respect. That's why we do discipline you, with consistency and firmness. Hitting your brother is still not okay - wrestling is fine as long as you're both game. We've been over this. But it is not our goal to "tame you," quiet you, or curb your enthusiasm, even as we do ask you to be obedient and respectful.
See, your enthusiasm, your energy, your curiosity - the way that you are both hardwired - it is a good gift. And channeled appropriately, with respect and compassion, that enthusiasm and energy will be your greatest asset. That fearlessness and confidence, E, will propel you forward into places that others dare not go - boldly and bravely - your empathy, which I also see in you, will drive you there for the sake of others. Your curiosity and intellect, S, will motivate you and drive you learn and understand how and why things work - and your enthusiasm and delight in proclamation will invite others to have the same delight in discovery that you do.
So while I appreciate the well-meaning prayers and encouragement of strangers - please do not mistake my politeness to them as agreement with their sympathy for me in your energy. Please hear me, loud and clear -
I love your into-everything-ness. Your energy. Your enthusiasm. And even your wildness. I would not change it. I am grateful for it. And I want to bless it - I do bless it - to thrive and grow in appropriate context and application. And when my natural tendencies and desire for order might influence me otherwise, remind me that I said this earlier, because I do mean it, from the heart.
I love you so deeply, little ones. And I am so so proud to be the mommy to two such wonderful boys.
Love,
Your crazy mama
KD
This morning while we were out on a walk with some friends, you both contentedly riding in the stroller -pacified by one of those devilish-to-the-earth-mama-in-me sweeter-than-sweet-tea donuts - when a random stranger stopped by to oo and ahh at you and tell me how precious you were, how much like twins you looked, and how full my hands must be. So close together! And TWO BOYS too! First times for all of those [were not today]. "You know, I never had to spank until I had my son... girls are so well-behaved and social and sweet, and boys... well boys never stop moving and are into everything. You'll be in my prayers tonight." she said.
She's never met any sister that you might have - but you come legitimately from a mama who is rarely well-behaved, and while, sweet, never stops moving and is into everything. And I'd reckon any daughter that I might have might inherit some of those genes. Mild eye roll here.
Regardless, I thanked her for her prayers, and we moved on.
But as you both [finally] fell asleep for nap today, and I breathed a little sigh of relief, this is what I wanted to tell you:
I don't ever want to tame you.
I love that you are into everything and never stop moving. I love your curiosity and your chatter and your enthusiasm and energy. I love that you don't care if you get dirty, that you see puddles and your first thought is not staying dry but making the biggest splash that you can. I love that you have so many thoughts and so much joy that you sometimes quite literally keep yourself awake retelling your day and singing every song that you know. Loudly. I joke that you only have two volumes - loud and extra loud - but I love your unbridled, unhindered enthusiasm that needs to shout "DAAAADDDDY, MOMMY MADE BEANS FOR DINNER!" The whole neighborhood is invited in to your delight. Also for dinner. [Slightly better than "DAAAADDDDDY, MOMMY POOPED ON THE POTTY!"]
I love that you, S, see me cooking and want to pull every single pan and pot out of the cupboard so that you can cook too, and that you loudly proclaim your menu to me as you "cook" it. I love your enthusiasm about everything - your curiosity to explore your world and figure out how things work -and how deeply you delight to do it and then retell it to anyone who will listen. You are all in, 100% in whatever you do, and I love that about you.
I love that you, E, see the world as your oyster - that you fearlessly launch yourself off of slides, shelves, chairs, and beds, without worry that you will be caught, even though my heart stops almost every time. You will be the child who takes us to the emergency room first. But I love how safe you feel, that you are not afraid to launch yourself into anything new.
I love that you both explore the world in your own ways, on all four cylinders. Neither one of you holds back - and it is exhausting, nerve-wracking and delightful to see. Full-steam ahead, bloody occasionally, running-never-walking, all-hands-on-deck, exhausted by bedtime, from dawn until dusk.
This is certainly not just a boy thing, although stereotypes do render it the conversation more often than not. Lord willing, if you have a sister, I hope she's fully herself, whatever that looks like, with reckless abandon too. Somehow my eardrums, nerves, and heart will survive, I am certain.
Baby boys, your Daddy and I will do our best to teach you manners, kindness, gentleness, and compassion - to raise you to be good men who recognize and appreciate context and balance. We will endeavor to raise you with good discipline and respect. That's why we do discipline you, with consistency and firmness. Hitting your brother is still not okay - wrestling is fine as long as you're both game. We've been over this. But it is not our goal to "tame you," quiet you, or curb your enthusiasm, even as we do ask you to be obedient and respectful.
See, your enthusiasm, your energy, your curiosity - the way that you are both hardwired - it is a good gift. And channeled appropriately, with respect and compassion, that enthusiasm and energy will be your greatest asset. That fearlessness and confidence, E, will propel you forward into places that others dare not go - boldly and bravely - your empathy, which I also see in you, will drive you there for the sake of others. Your curiosity and intellect, S, will motivate you and drive you learn and understand how and why things work - and your enthusiasm and delight in proclamation will invite others to have the same delight in discovery that you do.
So while I appreciate the well-meaning prayers and encouragement of strangers - please do not mistake my politeness to them as agreement with their sympathy for me in your energy. Please hear me, loud and clear -
I love your into-everything-ness. Your energy. Your enthusiasm. And even your wildness. I would not change it. I am grateful for it. And I want to bless it - I do bless it - to thrive and grow in appropriate context and application. And when my natural tendencies and desire for order might influence me otherwise, remind me that I said this earlier, because I do mean it, from the heart.
I love you so deeply, little ones. And I am so so proud to be the mommy to two such wonderful boys.
Love,
Your crazy mama
KD
Sunday, July 5, 2015
On Juxtaposition and Difficult Balance
As a parent of young children, I personally hate the fourth of July. I am fairly confident that most dog owners and fellow parents of young children can resonate with me on that one.
But that aside, yesterday, I found myself incredibly torn - between my own cynicism and jadedness and my genuine gratitude for my country and the freedoms that I am privy to - between my thankfulness for the men and women, including many of my family members, who have served faithfully in our armed forces to protect liberty and justice for all, and my deep heart conviction that we are not all there yet, that liberty and justice and equality are not secured for all, and even presently we are seeing more clearly the schisms in our justice system broadly, down to our own neighborhoods and attitudes more specifically. This lyric/poem/rambling was born out of that wrestling.
On Juxtaposition and Difficult Balance
Marines with PTSD
Being honored for their bravery amidst fireworks, reminiscent of grenades and bombs;
Country that I love,
Brokenness that I see.
My fathers and grandfathers, friends and family, yours too -
Fought and fight for her safety, liberty, justice, equality.
Lives on the line, knowing the split-second, gut-level, life-or-death calls made day after day.
Bravery, dignity, honor, integrity, sacrifice.
I honor you.
My brothers and my sisters
Cry, peace without justice is empty, equality is rhetoric when its not sustained by action.
We're not even safe in our churches. You think this is surprising - uncover your eyes, don't be blind.
This is our inheritance, generation following generation. My brothers and sisters,
I honor you.
Country that I call home,
Liberties that are mine, with pride, thankfulness, and knowledge of their cost
I love what you stand for - I love the values that you espouse (and long to).
Contrary to what my critiques often portray,
I am proud to be an American,
Proud of my Southern heritage, bless her heart,
Proud of my Northern home, strong one that she is,
Land that I call my home, full of pride, culture, heritage, inheritance, freedom, blessing.
I honor you.
But culture that allows us to mask and ignore, as "that's just the way it is" "has always been"-
Inheritance that is both beautiful and covered in the blood of our brothers and sisters.
Pride that gives us a false sense of superiority.
Pride that minimizes and ignores the cries of our tired, our poor, our huddled masses.
Freedom misapplied; blessing denied -
Lady liberty is not blind, though we might prefer her thus.
Justice is not blind, though we still claim that she is.
America, I love you too much to bless your blindness.
I cannot excuse you simply because I love you.
I cannot ignore the cries of our tired, our poor, those longing to be free - you also,
I honor you.
Church that I love,
Body, I belong to you. And you belong to me.
Together we serve the same God, claim the same grace, break the same bread.
I vow again and again, I belong with you.
This God we serve, He is real. Unmistakably, irreplaceable.
And though I've tried mightily, I cannot run from Him.
In Him is life, hope, and a worldview that I can get behind. There is no other.
And married to Him, you and I, bound together.
I honor you.
But sometimes your words are spoken hastily, without compassion.
Sometimes you don't speak, when you should.
Condemning, rather than freeing.
Silencing, rather than speaking.
Inconsistently applying.
Grace misunderstood.
Self-imaging, self-identifying, self-serving more than mirroring.
You, we, I, do not reflect Him.
Too busy with who is out, rather than who is welcomed in.
You who have been abandoned, broken, cast out, unheard, by this body -
I honor you.
This Body, broken. For you (singular).
Rather that His body, broken for you (inclusive).
Yet married to Him, you and I, together bound.
I honor you. I fight for you. I fight against you.
A balance unable to be struck evenly,
A scale unable to be weighted.
And yet both must be carried in awkward accord.
I honor you. I fight against you. I fight for you.
Land that I love.
This is nothing new.
But that aside, yesterday, I found myself incredibly torn - between my own cynicism and jadedness and my genuine gratitude for my country and the freedoms that I am privy to - between my thankfulness for the men and women, including many of my family members, who have served faithfully in our armed forces to protect liberty and justice for all, and my deep heart conviction that we are not all there yet, that liberty and justice and equality are not secured for all, and even presently we are seeing more clearly the schisms in our justice system broadly, down to our own neighborhoods and attitudes more specifically. This lyric/poem/rambling was born out of that wrestling.
On Juxtaposition and Difficult Balance
Marines with PTSD
Being honored for their bravery amidst fireworks, reminiscent of grenades and bombs;
Country that I love,
Brokenness that I see.
My fathers and grandfathers, friends and family, yours too -
Fought and fight for her safety, liberty, justice, equality.
Lives on the line, knowing the split-second, gut-level, life-or-death calls made day after day.
Bravery, dignity, honor, integrity, sacrifice.
I honor you.
My brothers and my sisters
Cry, peace without justice is empty, equality is rhetoric when its not sustained by action.
We're not even safe in our churches. You think this is surprising - uncover your eyes, don't be blind.
This is our inheritance, generation following generation. My brothers and sisters,
I honor you.
Country that I call home,
Liberties that are mine, with pride, thankfulness, and knowledge of their cost
I love what you stand for - I love the values that you espouse (and long to).
Contrary to what my critiques often portray,
I am proud to be an American,
Proud of my Southern heritage, bless her heart,
Proud of my Northern home, strong one that she is,
Land that I call my home, full of pride, culture, heritage, inheritance, freedom, blessing.
I honor you.
But culture that allows us to mask and ignore, as "that's just the way it is" "has always been"-
Inheritance that is both beautiful and covered in the blood of our brothers and sisters.
Pride that gives us a false sense of superiority.
Pride that minimizes and ignores the cries of our tired, our poor, our huddled masses.
Freedom misapplied; blessing denied -
Lady liberty is not blind, though we might prefer her thus.
Justice is not blind, though we still claim that she is.
America, I love you too much to bless your blindness.
I cannot excuse you simply because I love you.
I cannot ignore the cries of our tired, our poor, those longing to be free - you also,
I honor you.
Church that I love,
Body, I belong to you. And you belong to me.
Together we serve the same God, claim the same grace, break the same bread.
I vow again and again, I belong with you.
This God we serve, He is real. Unmistakably, irreplaceable.
And though I've tried mightily, I cannot run from Him.
In Him is life, hope, and a worldview that I can get behind. There is no other.
And married to Him, you and I, bound together.
I honor you.
But sometimes your words are spoken hastily, without compassion.
Sometimes you don't speak, when you should.
Condemning, rather than freeing.
Silencing, rather than speaking.
Inconsistently applying.
Grace misunderstood.
Self-imaging, self-identifying, self-serving more than mirroring.
You, we, I, do not reflect Him.
Too busy with who is out, rather than who is welcomed in.
You who have been abandoned, broken, cast out, unheard, by this body -
I honor you.
This Body, broken. For you (singular).
Rather that His body, broken for you (inclusive).
Yet married to Him, you and I, together bound.
I honor you. I fight for you. I fight against you.
A balance unable to be struck evenly,
A scale unable to be weighted.
And yet both must be carried in awkward accord.
I honor you. I fight against you. I fight for you.
Land that I love.
This is nothing new.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
on ministry, 5 years in, 3 years out...
So here's the skinny: I worked in a campus ministry for 5 years, and have now been out of ministry for 3 years. I've made it past my year of post-ministry almost burn-out and recovery therein - and several faith "transitions" (really I mean mini-crises, deep valleys and a few mountain tops, but we'll call them transitions and growth moments). I'm no longer in a place where I think the para-church that I worked with is the greatest - or the worst - ever, my moments of anger and frustration have faded, and I feel like I finally have a little bit of perspective, a deeper sense of faith and theology that isn't reliant on the organization that I belong to, and a healthy bit of appreciation for that season in my life, all inclusive.
I'm not planning on critiquing any particular para-church, ministry or organization. Perspective and time have taught me that they're all flawed in some way, shape, or form. That most genuinely strive to honor God and love others. Each has blind spots. And they each offer tremendous gifts to the Church, capital C, especially if they can figure out how to honor and bless one another well, and avoid territorial battles. While certainly there are things I could critique, that is not my intention here.
What I do want to do, however, is ponder for a few minutes, what I've learned in these past 8 years - what wisdom I would pass on to 22 year-old me, doe-eyed and hopeful, or anyone entering into a ministry capacity - or what I wish my friends, donors and supporters had known or said to me - and even, what I wish I had known before 27, on a burned-out trajectory and wisely making the decision to leave ministry before I lost my faith or burned out entirely.
I think these are the things I would share:
1) Take rest and do it often. Please put that as a budget line item. Put it on the calendar at the beginning of the year, and prepare in advance for it, and when you do take it, leave all work behind. Yes, your work is relational, but a burned-out, boundary-less minister is of no benefit to those under your care. Donors and constituents, please support staff/pastors in doing this. Bless us in doing this. A well-rested minster is actually far more effective than one that is burning the candle on both ends. Vacation - a real vacation - is every bit as needed for us as it is for you. Please know that campus ministers rarely take it - and because of #3 and #2, often feel guilty in taking it. We need you to tell us that we need to rest. And we need your help making it happen.
2) Please know that for every joyful, delighted story that we share, there are also hard ones that we can't or don't share, but that we carry deeply and heavily in our hearts. We are in this role because we care deeply about others - and most of the time are good listeners and empathetic - but that makes our failures feel very different than a sloppy presentation or a missed deadline. They are relational by nature, and wounds to our hearts, the marks of people hurt that we genuinely care about. Burnout often times stems from too many years of too many wounds unhealed, and too much guilt or bitterness or cynicism of what we coulda shoulda woulda. Ministers - we need to find healthy ways of healing and releasing those burdens - #1 helps - good mutual friends are also a necessity. Supporters - please know that while we are really good at listening and caring, we also need people to care for us - we desperately need mutual friendships. Help be those people for us.
3) Staff*, you are worth the income that you make. We need to get rid of the myth that you must be impoverished and barely making ends meet in order to be "faithful" to the calling that you have received. This is a lie. Flat out. Be wise with your finances, absolutely - to the degree that transparency is not a problem, certainly. But you carry enough weight and guilt over everything else - this should not be one additional burden. You do not make enough to feel guilty about it, and your supervisors are wise in discerning healthy, manageable salaries for you. Trust them. Even in places in Scripture where it talks about "taking nothing" - "no sandals, no bag" - it talks about ministers receiving from the generosity of those they minister to. Their ability to go forth without spoke more to their trust in the generosity of those they would serve than to their own lack of needs. They were able to be unencumbered by possessions because they trusted highly in the care of others. Donors, blow our minds with your generosity (the vast most of you do!), not your stinginess or comparisons of how much you think we should make. And staff, let go of the myth. Do your work well, but don't feel guilty for then (wisely) spending your paycheck.
4) Leaving ministry is actually really hard - especially if you felt a strong calling to enter into it, and are not moving into another ministry capacity. It can (not always, but often) feel like failure, like walking away from something that really matters to you, that you were "called to." Or, if it's delayed until a burnout point, or ones own faith is too intrinsically tied to how one ministers to others, it can quickly spiral into not only a loss of faith but also a loss of identity. Or a form of nihilism. After-care matters. If you have supported us in ministry, please care well for us as we leave it. Remind us of God, his care for the people we care for, of self-care and who we actually are, and give us space to be in process. Bless us to follow God in the same ways you do. And sometimes, teach us how to do that, not as our occupation. Forgive us when we are disenchanted, critical, nostalgic, or bitter. Please continue to walk with us into what God calls us to next. And this is yet another reason that #5 is of utmost importance.
5) Being in ministry is often times more about what God is doing in you than what He is doing in others. Allow yourself to be in process, to be mentored, and to grow and change. Celebrate God's work in you. Be attentive to your own soul in the process. And please, oh please, have a mentor or two who does not work in the same organization as you do, who can wisely shepherd you and help you walk through the transitions of life, without it relating to your work whatsoever. Make space for that. It's so very easy to begin to process your own faith, your own journey, your own story, in light of what you can pass on to others. But your process, as it relates to you alone, matters. The practice of intimate, sacred silences - lessons from God that are just for you, not to teach from - matters. It matters for you and me, and it matters for those under our care, that we don't just assume that what we are learning is also God's lesson for them. Practice discernment and the wisdom of "treasuring things in your heart" as well as teaching from what you have experienced and know true.
6) No matter what ministry you are involved in, there are blind spots, weaknesses, and interpretations that are taken as fact when they're not. When you find yourself towing the party-line too heavily, or getting defensive, or feeling like you are constantly against whatever, look for perspective again. Return to Scripture. Ask for perspectives from people who think differently. Engage. Be willing to say a gentle (or strong) no. Or to fight the same battle over again over again. And be willing to repent or admit that you were wrong. In ministry as well as in any other part of life, diversity of opinion and thought is important. Pay attention to the ways that God made you - and bring the strengths that you have, whether or not they always fit the modus operandi.
7) People are always unique, beautiful, divinely made, delighted in individuals, not projects, numbers, or goals. Keep that in perspective. It's not a bad thing to have hope for them, but it's far too easy to put them into boxes, plans, and 3-5-7-10 step programs. Listen with a prayerful heart, not your plans. Students, I am so deeply sorry for the times in which I did not do this well. This has been the longest place of grief for me, and also the deepest place of celebration.
8) Pray more. Talk less. Actually do that, don't just verbally affirm it.
9) Staff do way more than they say - and are vastly more experienced in a lot more fields than their job titles reflect. And it's far more than just (even though it is always all) spiritual work. Honor that. Know that. Believe that. Help us to translate that, especially as (or if) we move into a secular space. And in that vein - perhaps as an aside - in small talk at parties, could we lose the question "Ohhh campus minister, that's interesting. So what do you do?" I get it - really I do. But the truth is - we do everything from event planning and marketing to counseling to website design, to financial services and scholarships, to suicide prevention and crisis counseling and back again, and answering that question is like pulling teeth at times. Far better, at least for me, was "What's your favorite part of what you do?" Or "What are you working on this week?"
10) Sometimes there is an invitation for you to press in - and even though there is resistance, you are failing or succeeding, the fruit is or is not there, the faithful action is to press in. Sometimes the invitation is to step aside - and even though there is resistance, you are failing or succeeding, the fruit is or is not there, the faithful action is to step aside. Neither fruit...nor it's lacking... nor success, or it's lack are automatically signals one way or the other. Practice discernment as a way of life, for yourself, as well as the ministry in which you serve. Without fear or constant second guessing. Pay Do not be afraid of resistance, weariness, failure, dreams or desires - but also pay attention to them. The God who made you made all of you. Ask Him (not daily - that makes it hard to be fully present) but regularly, "what are you doing here in me?" "is this where you want me?" Be willing to let God direct your paths, first and foremost, not your own need to succeed, your pride, your "calling," your peers, your gifting, or public opinion. Pay attention if you find yourself saying too often "I can't" or "I have to" or "That [part of me] doesn't matter." Those are dangerous words to believe carte-blanche as truth.
In all things, seek wisdom, with discernment, in the company of trustworthy friends.
xo,
KD
* "staff" here and after is used interchangeably with "minister" or "campus minister" etc. In the organization I worked for, we used the term "staff" for the job title.
I'm not planning on critiquing any particular para-church, ministry or organization. Perspective and time have taught me that they're all flawed in some way, shape, or form. That most genuinely strive to honor God and love others. Each has blind spots. And they each offer tremendous gifts to the Church, capital C, especially if they can figure out how to honor and bless one another well, and avoid territorial battles. While certainly there are things I could critique, that is not my intention here.
What I do want to do, however, is ponder for a few minutes, what I've learned in these past 8 years - what wisdom I would pass on to 22 year-old me, doe-eyed and hopeful, or anyone entering into a ministry capacity - or what I wish my friends, donors and supporters had known or said to me - and even, what I wish I had known before 27, on a burned-out trajectory and wisely making the decision to leave ministry before I lost my faith or burned out entirely.
I think these are the things I would share:
1) Take rest and do it often. Please put that as a budget line item. Put it on the calendar at the beginning of the year, and prepare in advance for it, and when you do take it, leave all work behind. Yes, your work is relational, but a burned-out, boundary-less minister is of no benefit to those under your care. Donors and constituents, please support staff/pastors in doing this. Bless us in doing this. A well-rested minster is actually far more effective than one that is burning the candle on both ends. Vacation - a real vacation - is every bit as needed for us as it is for you. Please know that campus ministers rarely take it - and because of #3 and #2, often feel guilty in taking it. We need you to tell us that we need to rest. And we need your help making it happen.
2) Please know that for every joyful, delighted story that we share, there are also hard ones that we can't or don't share, but that we carry deeply and heavily in our hearts. We are in this role because we care deeply about others - and most of the time are good listeners and empathetic - but that makes our failures feel very different than a sloppy presentation or a missed deadline. They are relational by nature, and wounds to our hearts, the marks of people hurt that we genuinely care about. Burnout often times stems from too many years of too many wounds unhealed, and too much guilt or bitterness or cynicism of what we coulda shoulda woulda. Ministers - we need to find healthy ways of healing and releasing those burdens - #1 helps - good mutual friends are also a necessity. Supporters - please know that while we are really good at listening and caring, we also need people to care for us - we desperately need mutual friendships. Help be those people for us.
3) Staff*, you are worth the income that you make. We need to get rid of the myth that you must be impoverished and barely making ends meet in order to be "faithful" to the calling that you have received. This is a lie. Flat out. Be wise with your finances, absolutely - to the degree that transparency is not a problem, certainly. But you carry enough weight and guilt over everything else - this should not be one additional burden. You do not make enough to feel guilty about it, and your supervisors are wise in discerning healthy, manageable salaries for you. Trust them. Even in places in Scripture where it talks about "taking nothing" - "no sandals, no bag" - it talks about ministers receiving from the generosity of those they minister to. Their ability to go forth without spoke more to their trust in the generosity of those they would serve than to their own lack of needs. They were able to be unencumbered by possessions because they trusted highly in the care of others. Donors, blow our minds with your generosity (the vast most of you do!), not your stinginess or comparisons of how much you think we should make. And staff, let go of the myth. Do your work well, but don't feel guilty for then (wisely) spending your paycheck.
4) Leaving ministry is actually really hard - especially if you felt a strong calling to enter into it, and are not moving into another ministry capacity. It can (not always, but often) feel like failure, like walking away from something that really matters to you, that you were "called to." Or, if it's delayed until a burnout point, or ones own faith is too intrinsically tied to how one ministers to others, it can quickly spiral into not only a loss of faith but also a loss of identity. Or a form of nihilism. After-care matters. If you have supported us in ministry, please care well for us as we leave it. Remind us of God, his care for the people we care for, of self-care and who we actually are, and give us space to be in process. Bless us to follow God in the same ways you do. And sometimes, teach us how to do that, not as our occupation. Forgive us when we are disenchanted, critical, nostalgic, or bitter. Please continue to walk with us into what God calls us to next. And this is yet another reason that #5 is of utmost importance.
5) Being in ministry is often times more about what God is doing in you than what He is doing in others. Allow yourself to be in process, to be mentored, and to grow and change. Celebrate God's work in you. Be attentive to your own soul in the process. And please, oh please, have a mentor or two who does not work in the same organization as you do, who can wisely shepherd you and help you walk through the transitions of life, without it relating to your work whatsoever. Make space for that. It's so very easy to begin to process your own faith, your own journey, your own story, in light of what you can pass on to others. But your process, as it relates to you alone, matters. The practice of intimate, sacred silences - lessons from God that are just for you, not to teach from - matters. It matters for you and me, and it matters for those under our care, that we don't just assume that what we are learning is also God's lesson for them. Practice discernment and the wisdom of "treasuring things in your heart" as well as teaching from what you have experienced and know true.
6) No matter what ministry you are involved in, there are blind spots, weaknesses, and interpretations that are taken as fact when they're not. When you find yourself towing the party-line too heavily, or getting defensive, or feeling like you are constantly against whatever, look for perspective again. Return to Scripture. Ask for perspectives from people who think differently. Engage. Be willing to say a gentle (or strong) no. Or to fight the same battle over again over again. And be willing to repent or admit that you were wrong. In ministry as well as in any other part of life, diversity of opinion and thought is important. Pay attention to the ways that God made you - and bring the strengths that you have, whether or not they always fit the modus operandi.
7) People are always unique, beautiful, divinely made, delighted in individuals, not projects, numbers, or goals. Keep that in perspective. It's not a bad thing to have hope for them, but it's far too easy to put them into boxes, plans, and 3-5-7-10 step programs. Listen with a prayerful heart, not your plans. Students, I am so deeply sorry for the times in which I did not do this well. This has been the longest place of grief for me, and also the deepest place of celebration.
8) Pray more. Talk less. Actually do that, don't just verbally affirm it.
9) Staff do way more than they say - and are vastly more experienced in a lot more fields than their job titles reflect. And it's far more than just (even though it is always all) spiritual work. Honor that. Know that. Believe that. Help us to translate that, especially as (or if) we move into a secular space. And in that vein - perhaps as an aside - in small talk at parties, could we lose the question "Ohhh campus minister, that's interesting. So what do you do?" I get it - really I do. But the truth is - we do everything from event planning and marketing to counseling to website design, to financial services and scholarships, to suicide prevention and crisis counseling and back again, and answering that question is like pulling teeth at times. Far better, at least for me, was "What's your favorite part of what you do?" Or "What are you working on this week?"
10) Sometimes there is an invitation for you to press in - and even though there is resistance, you are failing or succeeding, the fruit is or is not there, the faithful action is to press in. Sometimes the invitation is to step aside - and even though there is resistance, you are failing or succeeding, the fruit is or is not there, the faithful action is to step aside. Neither fruit...nor it's lacking... nor success, or it's lack are automatically signals one way or the other. Practice discernment as a way of life, for yourself, as well as the ministry in which you serve. Without fear or constant second guessing. Pay Do not be afraid of resistance, weariness, failure, dreams or desires - but also pay attention to them. The God who made you made all of you. Ask Him (not daily - that makes it hard to be fully present) but regularly, "what are you doing here in me?" "is this where you want me?" Be willing to let God direct your paths, first and foremost, not your own need to succeed, your pride, your "calling," your peers, your gifting, or public opinion. Pay attention if you find yourself saying too often "I can't" or "I have to" or "That [part of me] doesn't matter." Those are dangerous words to believe carte-blanche as truth.
In all things, seek wisdom, with discernment, in the company of trustworthy friends.
xo,
KD
* "staff" here and after is used interchangeably with "minister" or "campus minister" etc. In the organization I worked for, we used the term "staff" for the job title.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Dear White Brothers and Sisters
Dear white brothers and sisters,
Today is Monday - I don't know how your day began, but mine started with feeding a sick baby. Making breakfast. Changing diapers. Running errands. With sunshine and blue skies, and warm weather, and an ease about it that seemed to forget the events of last Wednesday. Facebook affirms me in my short-term memory, with a few exceptions from white friends that I could tell you ahead of time would continue to respond because I know their hearts for justice and reconciliation, and a larger number of black friends, spanning the gamete of grief, anger, pleas for engagement, and broader historical perspective in their continued response.
And I have to confess, this is my luxury - twitter-length attention span. I am able to have a very short attention span regarding any issue pertaining to race - because unless it's in my face, or tragically in the headlines, I am able to avoid it most days, simply by the color of my skin.
But for me - maybe it was the fact that it was in a church, maybe it was just the sheer volume of times that I have seen violence and inequality perpetuated against black men and black women simply because of their skin color - or maybe I caught a glimpse of myself, my own sin, and my own excuses in a more raw and depraved way - or maybe the fact that he was barely a man, but already hated so deeply and I'm trying to raise two of my own little men - but this time has taken a chunk out of my apathy and made me want to commit to speaking and acting in a different way. Hold me accountable on this: I want things to be different this time. I want to actually be an ally, a real friend, and an advocate - rather than just wanting to be one, or patting myself on the back for not being worse than I am. I am committed to continuing to engage, continuing to repent, and continuing to seek change in myself and in my spheres of influence. And you, lucky you, get to come along with me.
I intentionally did not write yesterday or Saturday, because I was convicted by a friend who urged us not to speak before we had taken the time to lament, to mourn, to grieve. To not be too fast to move into the distance of words, theories, and discussion, without allowing ourselves to feel the intimacy of loss. Another friend's 4-year old daughter asked, "what were their names, mommy?" and reading her question, I realized that I too did not know them. And so I stopped talking. And I read their stories. Clementa. Sharonda. Tywanza. Myra. Ethel. Cynthia. Daniel. DePayne. Susie. And I gave space for tears. For their humanity. The tremendous strength, loss, and character of their families in proffering forgiveness to the man who had robbed them of their loved ones. Jesus, have mercy. This is your church. These saints are modeling for us what it means to be your followers. In their last acts, welcoming in the stranger. Blessing him, even as he sought their blood. And then their families, again, and again, and again. Forgiving. Entreating. Forgiving. This is Imago Dei.
But Monday, as grief continues, I am convinced of this: my white brothers and sisters, we must - we must - be intentional about ways that we can stay engaged. That we can #prayforcharleston, yes. But that we can also #actforcharleston too. If not, apathy will take over once again, and the banner of oppression and racism will both figuratively (and literally, in SC) continue to fly.
May I humbly give you four tangible suggestions of how I am attempting to do this this week? I don't know how to do this - but I'm trying to live out-loud, so I'm sharing with you the in-process:
1. Be aware of your own heart and actions - confess out-loud to yourself the thoughts, the fears, and the delineations that you often keep hidden in your heart or pretend aren't there. Name them. The ways that you look at people differently. The assumptions you make about what makes a neighborhood "bad" or "good." The things I say about my neighbors' party. When you want to lock your doors, clutch a pocketbook closer, or cross to the other side of the street. Which parents you talk to on the playground. Why or why not. Jesus, have mercy. Even our desire to disengage or the things that distract us - name them. It's painful, but convicting. We have to begin here - to confront our own racism, first and foremost.
2. Read or have a conversation. Learn more so that we can be better informed to act - I feel woefully under-educated on what, how, and where I should act or speak - deeply unaware of what is actually helpful versus not in the slightest. Take the time to learn more in relational, historical, and tangible ways. Ask someone - a friend, preferably - what can I do? If you have kids, consider how you talk to them about race and ethnicity - my oldest is two, but we are trying to talk about it and are intentional to read books that help him understand the beauty of all cultures. If you need resources, I am on a hunt for them as well, so maybe we can learn together. If you have them, I'd love to learn and receive from you.
3. Commit to not being thin-skinned - to be willing to hear critiques of yourself or your own cultures' sins, without becoming defensive. Give a friend permission to teach you. To speak honestly, without fear of you removing yourself from the conversation. Commit again and again - it's hard. Friends, I write this with trepidation, but that means that I want to hear from you. I want to know how I can grow. I need your help, because I don't know how to start this journey. I am good at writing with authority - but on this one I need instruction and your wisdom instead.
4. Christians - write a letter to your pastors. Ask to have a longer conversation. Did your church engage with this? Did they engage for just one Sunday? Not at all? Take the onus upon yourself to begin the conversation, don't wait for someone else to do it. Then follow up. Need ideas? Below is the letter I sent my pastors late last week - that now I need to follow up on.
Will you join me? Will you remind me? Will you help me? We will be messy. We will not get it right all the time - or sometimes at all. We will have to constantly - daily - be men and women of repentance. But two steps forward, one step back, we will go forward together.
KD
--
Dear Pastors,
((personal introduction of my contexts within the church))
I wanted to write to you today - a little out of my comfort zone, honestly - but with a sincere heart and a request to you. I'd love for this to be the beginning of a conversation - not something comprehensive in and of itself. Lord knows, I have no idea how to have this conversation. Please forgive me if it's long - brevity in emails has never been my strong suit.
I, as I am sure you are, have been deeply troubled by the news about the Charleston church shooting - as I have been each of the times that race issues have been in the news this year alone (and they are many). I am grieving the racism that is still so prevalent in our nation. I am not naive enough to think that this is a new issue, nor one that is easily solved or addressed, but I am confident that it points back to a deep racial wound, long history of division, and ultimately a heart-level issue of separating ourselves from, distrusting, and thinking ourselves better than others who are different than us. And while I am confident that it will be discussed in nearly every Black church in America this Sunday, in even just the few days since it happened, I have found majority White churches/Christians to be strangely silent, and unwilling to denounce this as the racist act that it was - horrible, sinful, racially motivated, and broken. Unwilling, or apathetic, or too busy, to validate the grief of our brothers and sisters. Unwilling to acknowledge that racism, while legally addressed in many ways, is still very much alive in our midst, and in our hearts. And uninterested in acting in tangible ways. I recognize that our church is not a "White church" per se but strives to be a church of the nations - and is in many ways. But in that sense, I think it is even more important that we not be silent.
I think our silence is powerful - and not in a good way. Rather, it says to the Black church, "you are right. The White/majority culture church does not see racism, and your pain as its problem." And that is not a reflection of the Body of Christ that I love, where "If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it." (1 Cor. 12:26)
Here's what I'd love to see happen - and my request to you:
At very least, can we acknowledge the pain of our brothers and sisters, without trying to explain it? Maybe that even is just a moment of silence, or a moment of prayer.
This is a spoken word piece that was particularly moving to me on grieving with the black church or the One Church Liturgy call to worship.
Can we acknowledge that racism is not a "those racists over there" thing - but that all of us have to examine our hearts and souls, and ask God to change us from the inside out. That racism is not an identifying characteristic like "blue eyes" or "blond hair" but a heart attitude of superiority, indifference, or judgment. Lead us, in a prayer of repentance.
If you haven't seen Jon Stewart's monologue, I'd highly recommend it.
And can we ask, what do we do? How do we partner in meaningful ways with our black brothers and sisters, to bring meaningful, repentant, change. Not as a white fixer or savior, but in humble partnership. Not one time, just this Sunday, but in a long-term, committed partnership. Are there actions that we can take together, in partnership, to see this tide shift. Offer a tangible suggestion of actions we can take.
Here're a friend's tangible suggestions that I found helpful places to start, individually.
Or another writer's thoughts on what one can say.
Or a friend's thoughts on the need of the white church to be silent no longer.
I have high confidence in our church, in longing to be a church that loves every nation, every people, and lives out the Gospel in our day-to-day lives - and is willing to step into places that are uncomfortable . That is why I am writing to you today. Please, please, do not be silent on this. Please do not minimize it as the act of one insane white supremacist who acted on isolated feelings. Please be willing to step into the gap and say to the church, to us, brothers and sisters, this has happened too many times for us not to consider what we can do. To examine ourselves and our hearts, first and foremost, and to repent of our own biases, ignorance, and apathy. And then to consider as a church, and individuals, how can we move forward. To partner together with black churches to grieve, to heal, and to bless the city. I have no idea what that looks like - but I do know that I want to be a part of it. And maybe that's part of the further conversations...
I'm sorry for the length of this email - pastor, I think I might have given you a run for your money in loquaciousness! But I am a recovering apathy-ist and I don't want this to be just another thing that I think "oh, that's terrible" and then move on from. I would love to talk more about this, even as I am not sure what I would say. I don't know what to say, aside from knowing that it's time for me to say something.
Thanks for being willing to engage. Grateful for you, your ministry and fellowship of our church.
As part of the Body,
Kristen
--
Today is Monday - I don't know how your day began, but mine started with feeding a sick baby. Making breakfast. Changing diapers. Running errands. With sunshine and blue skies, and warm weather, and an ease about it that seemed to forget the events of last Wednesday. Facebook affirms me in my short-term memory, with a few exceptions from white friends that I could tell you ahead of time would continue to respond because I know their hearts for justice and reconciliation, and a larger number of black friends, spanning the gamete of grief, anger, pleas for engagement, and broader historical perspective in their continued response.
And I have to confess, this is my luxury - twitter-length attention span. I am able to have a very short attention span regarding any issue pertaining to race - because unless it's in my face, or tragically in the headlines, I am able to avoid it most days, simply by the color of my skin.
But for me - maybe it was the fact that it was in a church, maybe it was just the sheer volume of times that I have seen violence and inequality perpetuated against black men and black women simply because of their skin color - or maybe I caught a glimpse of myself, my own sin, and my own excuses in a more raw and depraved way - or maybe the fact that he was barely a man, but already hated so deeply and I'm trying to raise two of my own little men - but this time has taken a chunk out of my apathy and made me want to commit to speaking and acting in a different way. Hold me accountable on this: I want things to be different this time. I want to actually be an ally, a real friend, and an advocate - rather than just wanting to be one, or patting myself on the back for not being worse than I am. I am committed to continuing to engage, continuing to repent, and continuing to seek change in myself and in my spheres of influence. And you, lucky you, get to come along with me.
I intentionally did not write yesterday or Saturday, because I was convicted by a friend who urged us not to speak before we had taken the time to lament, to mourn, to grieve. To not be too fast to move into the distance of words, theories, and discussion, without allowing ourselves to feel the intimacy of loss. Another friend's 4-year old daughter asked, "what were their names, mommy?" and reading her question, I realized that I too did not know them. And so I stopped talking. And I read their stories. Clementa. Sharonda. Tywanza. Myra. Ethel. Cynthia. Daniel. DePayne. Susie. And I gave space for tears. For their humanity. The tremendous strength, loss, and character of their families in proffering forgiveness to the man who had robbed them of their loved ones. Jesus, have mercy. This is your church. These saints are modeling for us what it means to be your followers. In their last acts, welcoming in the stranger. Blessing him, even as he sought their blood. And then their families, again, and again, and again. Forgiving. Entreating. Forgiving. This is Imago Dei.
But Monday, as grief continues, I am convinced of this: my white brothers and sisters, we must - we must - be intentional about ways that we can stay engaged. That we can #prayforcharleston, yes. But that we can also #actforcharleston too. If not, apathy will take over once again, and the banner of oppression and racism will both figuratively (and literally, in SC) continue to fly.
May I humbly give you four tangible suggestions of how I am attempting to do this this week? I don't know how to do this - but I'm trying to live out-loud, so I'm sharing with you the in-process:
1. Be aware of your own heart and actions - confess out-loud to yourself the thoughts, the fears, and the delineations that you often keep hidden in your heart or pretend aren't there. Name them. The ways that you look at people differently. The assumptions you make about what makes a neighborhood "bad" or "good." The things I say about my neighbors' party. When you want to lock your doors, clutch a pocketbook closer, or cross to the other side of the street. Which parents you talk to on the playground. Why or why not. Jesus, have mercy. Even our desire to disengage or the things that distract us - name them. It's painful, but convicting. We have to begin here - to confront our own racism, first and foremost.
2. Read or have a conversation. Learn more so that we can be better informed to act - I feel woefully under-educated on what, how, and where I should act or speak - deeply unaware of what is actually helpful versus not in the slightest. Take the time to learn more in relational, historical, and tangible ways. Ask someone - a friend, preferably - what can I do? If you have kids, consider how you talk to them about race and ethnicity - my oldest is two, but we are trying to talk about it and are intentional to read books that help him understand the beauty of all cultures. If you need resources, I am on a hunt for them as well, so maybe we can learn together. If you have them, I'd love to learn and receive from you.
3. Commit to not being thin-skinned - to be willing to hear critiques of yourself or your own cultures' sins, without becoming defensive. Give a friend permission to teach you. To speak honestly, without fear of you removing yourself from the conversation. Commit again and again - it's hard. Friends, I write this with trepidation, but that means that I want to hear from you. I want to know how I can grow. I need your help, because I don't know how to start this journey. I am good at writing with authority - but on this one I need instruction and your wisdom instead.
4. Christians - write a letter to your pastors. Ask to have a longer conversation. Did your church engage with this? Did they engage for just one Sunday? Not at all? Take the onus upon yourself to begin the conversation, don't wait for someone else to do it. Then follow up. Need ideas? Below is the letter I sent my pastors late last week - that now I need to follow up on.
Will you join me? Will you remind me? Will you help me? We will be messy. We will not get it right all the time - or sometimes at all. We will have to constantly - daily - be men and women of repentance. But two steps forward, one step back, we will go forward together.
KD
--
Dear Pastors,
((personal introduction of my contexts within the church))
I wanted to write to you today - a little out of my comfort zone, honestly - but with a sincere heart and a request to you. I'd love for this to be the beginning of a conversation - not something comprehensive in and of itself. Lord knows, I have no idea how to have this conversation. Please forgive me if it's long - brevity in emails has never been my strong suit.
I, as I am sure you are, have been deeply troubled by the news about the Charleston church shooting - as I have been each of the times that race issues have been in the news this year alone (and they are many). I am grieving the racism that is still so prevalent in our nation. I am not naive enough to think that this is a new issue, nor one that is easily solved or addressed, but I am confident that it points back to a deep racial wound, long history of division, and ultimately a heart-level issue of separating ourselves from, distrusting, and thinking ourselves better than others who are different than us. And while I am confident that it will be discussed in nearly every Black church in America this Sunday, in even just the few days since it happened, I have found majority White churches/Christians to be strangely silent, and unwilling to denounce this as the racist act that it was - horrible, sinful, racially motivated, and broken. Unwilling, or apathetic, or too busy, to validate the grief of our brothers and sisters. Unwilling to acknowledge that racism, while legally addressed in many ways, is still very much alive in our midst, and in our hearts. And uninterested in acting in tangible ways. I recognize that our church is not a "White church" per se but strives to be a church of the nations - and is in many ways. But in that sense, I think it is even more important that we not be silent.
I think our silence is powerful - and not in a good way. Rather, it says to the Black church, "you are right. The White/majority culture church does not see racism, and your pain as its problem." And that is not a reflection of the Body of Christ that I love, where "If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it." (1 Cor. 12:26)
Here's what I'd love to see happen - and my request to you:
At very least, can we acknowledge the pain of our brothers and sisters, without trying to explain it? Maybe that even is just a moment of silence, or a moment of prayer.
This is a spoken word piece that was particularly moving to me on grieving with the black church or the One Church Liturgy call to worship.
Can we acknowledge that racism is not a "those racists over there" thing - but that all of us have to examine our hearts and souls, and ask God to change us from the inside out. That racism is not an identifying characteristic like "blue eyes" or "blond hair" but a heart attitude of superiority, indifference, or judgment. Lead us, in a prayer of repentance.
If you haven't seen Jon Stewart's monologue, I'd highly recommend it.
And can we ask, what do we do? How do we partner in meaningful ways with our black brothers and sisters, to bring meaningful, repentant, change. Not as a white fixer or savior, but in humble partnership. Not one time, just this Sunday, but in a long-term, committed partnership. Are there actions that we can take together, in partnership, to see this tide shift. Offer a tangible suggestion of actions we can take.
Here're a friend's tangible suggestions that I found helpful places to start, individually.
Or another writer's thoughts on what one can say.
Or a friend's thoughts on the need of the white church to be silent no longer.
I have high confidence in our church, in longing to be a church that loves every nation, every people, and lives out the Gospel in our day-to-day lives - and is willing to step into places that are uncomfortable . That is why I am writing to you today. Please, please, do not be silent on this. Please do not minimize it as the act of one insane white supremacist who acted on isolated feelings. Please be willing to step into the gap and say to the church, to us, brothers and sisters, this has happened too many times for us not to consider what we can do. To examine ourselves and our hearts, first and foremost, and to repent of our own biases, ignorance, and apathy. And then to consider as a church, and individuals, how can we move forward. To partner together with black churches to grieve, to heal, and to bless the city. I have no idea what that looks like - but I do know that I want to be a part of it. And maybe that's part of the further conversations...
I'm sorry for the length of this email - pastor, I think I might have given you a run for your money in loquaciousness! But I am a recovering apathy-ist and I don't want this to be just another thing that I think "oh, that's terrible" and then move on from. I would love to talk more about this, even as I am not sure what I would say. I don't know what to say, aside from knowing that it's time for me to say something.
Thanks for being willing to engage. Grateful for you, your ministry and fellowship of our church.
As part of the Body,
Kristen
--
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