Sharing the power cord and observing the sabbath, mom-style

We have one working computer power cord in our house right now; the others have fallen victim to the teething piranhas that we refer to as our beloved sons.  And so these days we trade off whose computer gets a hit, and whose takes a hit, metaphorically speaking.  Unless the younger toddler is awake, in which case, we'd be speaking very literally.  It's not ideal, but it works for now... [Relevant? We'll see - but I'm charging right now, so it's where we're starting...]

This morning at church, the sermon was about keeping the Sabbath, about resting not because we're done with all the work but because of what God has accomplished and because we follow his lead.  That we are called to set a Sabbath aside as "holy" - not common or ordinary - and to the Lord, laying aside our work, remembering that He is Lord, not our work.   That rest is a command, not a suggestion, and that it actually is a foretaste of the fullness and goodness of God that we will experience in full in heaven - so take a Sabbath, rest, relax, play - stat, okay?  It's a gift.  And, aside from about 14 different rabbit trails that I or the pastor took, not really sure which, I was all "amen," "hallelujah" and "praise the Lord" [in my head, of course; it's New England congregational, y'all].

And then I had a realization:

I'm a full-time stay-at-home mommy (and part-time, work-from-home gal, but that's the easy part).

And mommies don't get Sabbaths.

Maybe you don't struggle with this - but if I can be totally blunt, I think for most of us moms, our Sundays look pretty much like the rest of our days, except that we might add in the stress of getting our kids clean enough to go to church and rush out the door to arrive 10 minutes late and only mildly more frustrated that an ordinary day.  Not that this is solely a mom problem - our culture isn't great with Sabbath taking, period.  But at least for the working world, we at least usually have the distinction of not having to go into the office.

But for moms, our work doesn't end - and it's not really a matter of willingness to set it aside, or even about faith enough to set it aside.  My children do not operate on 9-5 schedules - and at 27 months and 10 months, their needs are still fairly intensely mom/dad-centric:

Sorry kids, mom is not going to be changing your diapers today - potty is in the bathroom if you need it, ten-month-old.  Discipline?  We're going to be having "BYOD" day on Sundays.  Please try not to gouge each others eyes out.  And S, if you could cook dinner for your brother, that would be great.  Sorry that the toddler-proof locks keep you from accessing the real stove, but I've heard that the toy stove you made in the VCR works great. 

And yet.

And yet, keeping the Sabbath is still a command - and by the reading of Deuteronomy 5:12-15, not a specific command to specific sub-set of God's people.  More than that, it's given as a gift - as a reminder of God's goodness, and a foretaste of his eternal rest.  So there must be something there for me too, right?

So how do I do that?  And still, you know, feed and change my kids - my job for the time being.

[I'm processing as I'm writing, so forgive me if this is jumbled]

Maybe part of it is partnership - acts of mercy from Jon, in shouldering some more of the parenting/cooking/diapering responsibility on weekends, as it's different from his work - as a way of loving me and our kids well, and giving me space to rest.  Sharing the power cable, if you will. [Told you it'd be relevant!]

Maybe part of it is just not doing laundry [like oh say the two loads currently running] or going grocery shopping [where Jon is presently] or keeping Sundays from turning into "catch-up" time for all the tasks which inevitably pile up [what I'm multitasking on, while writing this].

All of those are good ideas, and I think valid parts of healthy mom-Sabbath time.  But I think it's got to be more than that.  Because while power-cord sharing and limiting certain tasks to weekdays and Saturdays help create a space that is separate and set-apart from the ordinary, ultimately, rest and trust are postures, attitudes and not simply actions.  And as such, they transcend circumstances.

They are decisions to say, Jesus, this time is yours, not mine.  Regardless of the work at hand - the diapers that need to be changed, the meals that need to be prepared, the mess that needs to be cleaned up - I will choose to rest in you, and remember what you have accomplished already.  I will choose to play, to rejoice, to rest, with you, and remember that you are Lord, not my work [or my children].

So moms, what if Sabbath time for us looked more like opening our hands, and letting Jesus fill our day, rather than holding tightly to what needs to be done.  What if for one day, we leave the to-do lists in the other room, let go of the guilt, the pressure, and the urgency of the now, and live in the moment with our kids and our spouses.

[You live every day like this? No sarcasm intended, I'd love to learn from you - and I'd love to hear what "setting apart" a day as holy looks like for you instead.  Please teach me.]

What if Sabbath keeping looked like intentionally doing one thing that was soul-filling, apart from our kiddos? [like writing, drawing, running, or creating for me]  And, if the kids want to, inviting them to join us in that - there is nothing more powerful to a child, than seeing his/her mother full of life and joy, participating in something that it is truly fulfilling and delightful.  Please moms, let's take those moments of refueling intentionally.

What if Sabbath time for us looked like letting ourselves play - not for our kids, but with our kids, with our spouse, and for ourselves?  What if it looked like laughing more and letting the details go for the day?  What if it meant choosing to let the stress and busyness go - caring for the essentials, but opening our hands a bit more around the non-essentials.  Reading one more book, engaging in one more tickle-fest, cuddling for one more moment, running through the sprinkler even though its only 50 degrees, and laughing at the absurdity of it all. [or whatever feels lighthearted and "irresponsible" to you].

What if it meant inviting dear friends and their kids into our messy house, without the pressure of cleaning it, letting the kids run wild with one another, and unapologetically ordering take-out so that we can enjoy the depths of friendship and true laughter without worrying about burning the roast or keeping up appearances.

And then out of this posture of "resting," "trusting Jesus" with this one day - what if we lived the other six out of that mold? With a better perspective of what actually matters, a deeper sense of joy in the mundane, and souls that are fuller.

Maybe this is something that you do every day - in which case, I applaud you.  We all struggle with different things.  But this is my invitation for now.  And if it is yours, I invite you to join me in this journey as well.

Now if you'll excuse me, my husband needs the power cord and my children have just woken up and are demanding the essentials of food, diapers, and snuggles.

the power of the pause

Thursday night, man...  I was frustrated.  Tired.  Worn out. Upset.

It had been an incredibly long day, chock-full of being literally shat upon by the child with diarrhea, being bitten on the calf (!??) by the other hungry munchkin for whom cheerios were apparently not cutting it, obscenely short naps, and all-in-all, grouchy, needy, sad children who [are wonderful, sweet, and delighted in, but today...] needed tons of attention and obligatory donuts to enable them to make it through the remainder of the afternoon somewhat still in one piece.  And on top of that, I had felt missed by my husband.  Not affirmed in the ways I wanted to be affirmed - hurt by that - and frustrated that he got to be outside the house (working long hours, but still...) and not covered in poop.

And there was a very clear moment of decision for me,  about 5:15pm - a pause, if you will - after a very clear text message to Mi Esposo that tonight was not the night to work late - a moment where I had to decide how I was going to respond to him when he did get home.  And in a rare moment of clarity, even in the midst of my frustration,  I knew that I actually did have a choice in how I interacted:

Was it going to be with an explosion of all the emotions and frustrations that I was feeling?  Or worse, the bitter cold shoulder, jam-packed full of said emotions, left unspoken, but still full of demands?  Would it be convincing myself that everything was alright, swallowing and minimizing my own emotions and tiredness, letting the seeds of bitterness take root? Or would it be with undemanding vulnerability with my own needs, emotions, exhaustion, and places I had felt missed, understanding of his own long day, and partnership in moving forward?

We settled somewhere on the healthier side, with non-angry vulnerability with my needs, exhaustion and frustration, a little bit of mutual non-blaming ranting, and a very determined request demand statement that under no circumstances would I be cooking that night, please pass the takeout menu, thank you very much.  And all in all, had a night of good and hard conversation, real rest, and deeper partnership, rather than the anticipated fight.

So here we are, nearly four years into marriage - by no means expert - but moving out of the baby phase.  We've been together for almost six years now - we have two adorable children, and we've uprooted and rerooted and made our home together in this crazy little apartment-house that still shakes when anyone anywhere in the building gets frisky.   We know each other pretty well, but even yet, we are still learning new things about each other.  We're not newlyweds, but neither are we old-hat-ly-weds yet either.

We're not, and yet we are, the same people we were when we got married on that warm June day.

I wrote a year and a half ago, about love after marriage, and man, there's some real wisdom there.  So I'm not going to repeat it - you can just read it yourself if you want.  I think most, if not all, of it is still relevant.

But here's what I would add, now a year and a half older, and only a tiny bit wiser:

There is a beauty in the pause.

I don't mean a Lily and Marshall pause (for non-HIMYM people) - which simply puts off the issues at hand - nor is it the devastation of a Ross and Rachel "break" - giving up and walking away because of issue fatigue - but rather it's a few minutes of intentionally stepping back and looking for the other person.  Trying to see through their eyes, yes.  But even if you can't do that, to simply see them, as someone who, as messy as they are, and as messily as they do, actually does want to love us well.  Actually does want to be the best spouse to us that they can be, even if they don't always know how to do that.

Not for the sake of ignoring the problem - not for the sake of minimizing your own feelings, emotions, or frustrations.  Honest communication is - and has always been - paramount to a healthy relationship and for us has been a bedrock.  And talking about those things and being heard - feelings and frustrations especially - actually is important for healthy partnership.

But in a pause - holding our own "stuff" for just a brief moment - we give space to hold the other as well.  To take a step back and to acknowledge that there is more than one party involved.  More than one side.  And more than one way forward.  And whether that happens before a fight, after a fight, in the middle of the fight, or just as you're making dinner or planning the day - that breath - that pause - that moment of silence - gives us just enough room above the chaos that blinds us to the other, to actually see our partner before we plow ahead full-steam with our own stuff.

And then, if we are able, to return to the situation at hand holding on to that grain of truth and trust:

Whether or not I agree with him,

Whether or not he's wrong or I'm wrong, or neither one of us is wrong,

Whether or not I am, he is, hurt, justifiably or without cause,

Whether or not we reach resolution quickly, or it takes time,

I see you, as my partner and friend, a real person with your own needs, distractions, desires.

I choose to be for you, as well as for me.

I trust you.

Regardless of the situation at hand (assuming we are in a committed and non-abusive relationship - a vital foundation for trust), I choose to trust that you are/want to be for me, and to gently, with humility, show you ways that you can live into that.   And when necessary, as a part of being for you, to remind you of who you actually are and want to be, when you have deviated from that.

I choose to see you.  Not to excuse you.  Not to bury the issues at hand.  Not to ignore my own needs, wants, desires.  But to see you in the midst of those, as human, as having your own needs, wants and desires which are worthy also of attention.  But to relate to you - and to allow you to engage with me - rather than to accuse or berate you or block you out, all of which keep their distance.

I choose to move towards you, rather than away, even in conflict or need or disagreement.

And I choose to fight cleanly, directly, completely, without manipulation, and without holding on to the privilege of bitterness, because I'm fighting for me, yes, but also for you, and for us.

And so I pause - ask a friend to pray if you're a praying person, or if not, tell someone or even just say out-loud to yourself, that you need to have those eyes to see the other - and take those few minutes to breathe.  To open your eyes.  To take advantage of the space and look for your partner, as a partner.

... and then proceed at will, perhaps with a little bit more wisdom, temperance, and perspective.

Atrophying brain cells, being smart and all that...

I'm sitting in my living room right now, as my two little munchkins nap, staring at my bowl of leftover chicken-pot-pie sitting forgotten, now hours later, above toddler range on the bookshelf, and I feel a little bit like I'm losing my mind - not figuratively speaking, I'm actually quite calm right now - but quite literally, I feel like I am not as smart as I used to be.

Surely it's not just me?!  Someone tell me it's not just me? Please?

And this totally got way worse once boy numero dos arrived, for the record.

Maybe it's the hours and hours on end of speaking in third person, and rehashing every teeny tiny detail of what we have done thus far today, minus many useful prepositions ("mommy eat table?" "Why-ya in table" "mommy run gym?" "missing nudie!") - or maybe it's one too many readings of "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" - or maybe it's just that my toddlers are not quite advanced enough to have an informed conversation about Iranian nuclear agreement (although I am fairly certain, could still pronounce it more accurately than ye olde George W).

Whatever it is, when the time comes to engage with adults (actual grown ups!) - I often feel completely lacking in conversation topics, current knowledge, and even sometimes words necessary for communication. Surprisingly, prepositions are actually necessary for adult conversation (who knew?).  My punchlines are delayed, my jokes only hilarious to two year olds, and my breadth and depth of knowledge sincerely lacking.  And no one else wants to hear about how well Oxiclean worked on cleaning the stains out of my laundry (it's a miracle worker, truly!), or how long the kiddos napped, or my latest disciplinary challenge (it's either "missing nudie" where he tries to run away while naked or shouting "no" instead of saying "yes mommy," but you probably don't need or want to know that...)

Just being real.  And I'm really hoping sure it's not just me.

And I'm wrestling with this - and doing my best to combat it, and find meaningful ways to exercise my brain.  I'm working part-time again, putting effort into getting me time each week, spending quality time with adult (parent and non-parent) friends, and even trying to read the news (HA) daily (haha).  Because the reality is - I am actually quite smart, and educated, and capable, and I miss being able to have real, solid adult conversations that don't involve poop or sleep schedules or laundry.  And I'm convinced that one day, some day, I will be able to fully rejoin grown-up world.

But the other half of that reality is - right now, I'm in toddler-land.  I have a serious case of mommy brain.  And I do feel like I have lost half of my mind.  And Jen Hatmaker says mommy brain is a real thing (and also that it ends eventually) so there ya go... solidarity, y'all.  Solidarity.  Maybe (hopefully?) not permanently, but at least for now.  This is my life and my world right now - and while there is wisdom in finding ways to exercise my brain (aforementioned, I am working on) - I think there also has to be a place of grace for where I (we?) are right now.

This seems to be a repeating theme for me.

Grace.

Breathe.

To my crazy mentally-absent-self, and anyone else to whom it feels relevant -

It's okay that you left your pasta on the top of the bookshelf and forgot it - that you can't remember when your birthday is or how old you are - or that you found your coffee cup from yesterday still in the microwave this morning.

It's okay that it takes transition time (and maybe a glass of wine) for you to fully make the transition from "mommy world" to "grown-up world."

It's okay that you miss your brain - and that sometimes it feels a little atrophied or lethargic.  Don't worry that you had to look those words up to remember how to spell them.  I've been told that full brain power will eventually return (TBD).  Keep working those muscles as you can (that is important) but don't stress about the ways that life is different now, or even that you're different right now.

Grace.  Grace.  More grace.

Because I'll tell you what I realized this morning, as I was oscillating between trying (HA) to read the NYTimes to learn (failed, just fyi, but trying nonetheless) about the Iranian nuclear deal and singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" for the 80th time this morning -

I realized that in place of active brain cells right now - I have a million moments of laughter - laughing at myself, and laughing with my children at all the minutia of life that they find hilarious.

In place of current events knowledge or physics formulas, I have countless memories of my children's firsts, routines, and special moments.  And about 80 gazillion children's books, memorized cover to cover.

I can't tell you succinctly why a hot air balloon levitates (it has something to do with hot air being lighter than cold), but I can translate most of my sons toddler-speak for you and figure out how to explain seed germination to a two year old.

And I might not feel like my old self anymore, at least at the moment, but I know parts of myself that I never knew before - and my understanding of who I am, and how deeply I am loved, is deeper and richer than it ever has been before, with or without aforementioned brain cells.

And that in itself is grace not to be missed.

So to my mommy (and daddy) friends - solidarity.  I'm right there with you. And I have been told that our brain cells will return eventually.  But for now, grace and memories and moments not to be missed.  And if you find good ways to exercise the brain muscles, let me know.  I'm all ears and lethargic brain muscles.

To my non-parent friends - please continue to invite me/us to hang out with you.  And please give me grace when I seem incoherent, or struggle to be relevant, or leave out prepositions when speaking.  Maybe throw me a bone and ask me something easy - to help me warm up and have something to talk about.  Or just laugh with me about it all.  I love you, and time with you makes a world of difference in my ability to be present, as a healthy happy person, in my mommy memory making moments.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go find the last cup of coffee that I abandoned somewhere, hopefully not confusing it for one from a previous decade...

How did he know?

Luke 23:39-43

One of the criminals who were hanged railed at him,[d] saying, “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed justly, for we are receiving the due reward of our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong.” And he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” And he said to him, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

And I wonder - how did he know?  How did he know that Jesus had done nothing wrong?

I wonder whether he recognizes me.

No, no, there's no way that he would.

While he was preaching, I had always done my best to remain hidden - perfectly obvious, yet blending in to the woodwork of the crowd.  Nodding and clapping, mhmming at the appropriate moments.  Bowing my head and bending my knee seemingly out of reverence, all the while slipping my knife under the hem of my brother's robe, releasing his coins from his possession.

I had no god, I had no country, I had no loyalty - just me.  No one had ever done me any good, so why should I owe them anything?  I was not a malicious man - just one, like everyone else, who made sure that he got his due.  I saw no point in the religious traditions of the day - the priests, the leaders, they were just as corrupt as I was, only they were blessed and lauded by the people.  Their theft - I saw how they skimmed the coffers and kept the choicest portions for themselves - their theft was condoned by the people as their due, commanded by their god who seemed to turn a blind eye.  And the government?  Well the government, even when it wasn't in cahoots with the religious leaders - it was even worse.  Thirty, forty, fifty percent of my hard-earned wages, back when I was an honest man, plus the tax collector's skimming off their portion on top of that.  And with that, the force of an occupying army to shackle and chain us to their mandates.

No, I had no god, I had no country, and my days as an honest man were long past.  I had made my peace with my ways.  I was simply taking care of myself.

But I always loved it when Jesus taught.  For starters, because he drew huge crowds, and well, huge crowds that were fixated on something other than their possessions.  Talk about making my job easy.

 I would laugh and scoff, as he taught about giving your possessions to the poor, even as I pilfered my portion from the same sorry soul who dared to listen to him seriously.  I walked off with many a donkey, many a dowry, many a treasure, as a result of the fixation of others on this man.

I "heard" many of his sermons; I had attended many of his gatherings.  Heard, translated loosely, because I more listened for contextual appropriateness so that I could blend into the crowd, and work my trade.  But there were bits and pieces that I had heard - bits and pieces that had stuck out to me - and moments where I thought maybe he might be on to something.

Was he seditious?  Maybe?  And yet, while his authority seemed to fly in the face of the Roman mandate, as he claimed to be Messiah, yet still he spoke of submission, of paying taxes, and going even a second mile when conscripted to labor.  And yet, while many of my number listened to him, his message often made us uncomfortable as well.  He had not claimed sides clearly enough for us to number him among our own insurrectionists.  And, aside from a few tables turned over, there certainly was no violence in his actions.

Was he sacrilegious?  Maybe?  He certainly made the religious leaders heated, as he tore down their money-making schemes (big payday for me), and called them robbers (a proud day for me) - and even as he dared to break their god-given ordinances and heal people on their sacred days.  And yet, if I ever were to believe in a god, I struggle to believe that it would be theirs that I would want to believe in.  Was their version of god actually accurate?  From what little I do remember of Hebrew school, it resonated far more with the god that Jesus described, in the little bits that I caught from his messages.

He was a fascinating character, at very least.  Different from other men.  And there was a little bit of me that was grieved that he was here now too on this dark day, on the top of this hill, nailed to this tree, our blood running down together.

Either way, here we were now, once again in the same place.  Now naked and exposed before the world.  The same sentences on us both - sedition, sacrilege, insurrection.  In some ways, it was freeing to have it so out in the open - all illusions gone.

I don't know what made me speak up that day.  Was it faith? Was it hedging my bets?  Was it nothing left to lose?  I'm not sure.  But suddenly, from my cross, I heard my own voice shouting, rebuking the other criminal: “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed justly, for we are receiving the due reward of our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong.”

It surprised me more than anyone else.  I didn't speak up for anyone, ever.  I only spoke against.  And I wasn't even sure I believed in God, at least as I had always known of him.

But I knew, perhaps even proudly, that my punishment was just.  That I had tried one too many times, and my number had finally been called.  And yet, there was something different about this Jesus.  Because whatever he was - and I wasn't sure - whatever he was, he was different from me.  Of that much, I was certain.  I knew, as I had known nothing else, that he had done nothing wrong.  And that if there was a god - this man stood innocent before him, while I did not.  And suddenly, I felt fear, like I hadn't in years.

I don't know what it was.  But I spoke nonetheless.  And then, perhaps sarcastically, perhaps intentionally, perhaps in final desperation, I audaciously said to him, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."

But while I don't know much, I do know this - in the silence that followed, I lifted my eyes to his face, looking at him truly, for the first time.  Not from afar as before, but from 4 feet away, in the intimacy of the moment, as my deepest desires - indeed even unknown desires - pooled and ran out.  And in his eyes, I saw myself reflected, understood, and seen.  Truly seen.  It was a feeling unlike any that I had ever felt before, of being held, carried, and cared for, even as I was truly seen in all my nakedness and shame.  

And as He looked at me, I knew, whatever my motivation for speaking initially, that my words had been true.  And that this man - this man whom Pilate called King of the Jews, and the people called Messiah, even as they spat on him and crucified him - this man was the one to whom I owed my allegiance.  This man was the one I wanted to follow, be for, and be with.

And when he spoke, I believed him.

“Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”