I Never Thought I'd Own a Minivan...

Several months ago I wrote an essay and entered it into Real Simple to try to win a trip to New York. Since they haven't called to tell me I've won, and the magazine is hitting stands soon, I am guessing I can now share my entry.

The topic: I never thought I'd....

...Own a Minivan, and technically I still don't.

I am a thirty four year old married woman. My husband is a thirty nine year old married man. Obviously, he’s married to me. We have two point one children. The point one is for the occasional pets that come to visit our home. They never stay for very long. It also stands for the baby girl we talk about one day adopting - if we don’t have to pay for her - and some kind of needy soul rings our doorbell and says, “Please take this perfectly healthy, beautiful, baby girl and make her your own. No paperwork involved.”

On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday we all get up and go to school or to work. I suppose technically I go to both, since I work at my youngest son’s preschool. My husband goes to just work. He’s a lawyer. On Saturdays we go to the soccer fields and yell at our kids to run faster. The kids – Well, they’re boys. On Sundays we get in our Ford Explorer (with a third row seat) and go to church.

As you can tell, I am living the American dream.

Except that in My Childhood American Dream I lived in a big city and rode on a subway. I had a husband that worked for a non-profit and we ate at little, local, tucked away restaurants just like in the movies. We were poor. In theory. I still got to wear J Crew and he always looked like a slightly unshaven underwear model. Children of my own were a vague hope floating somewhere in the future. My job was to save inner city kids just like that teacher did in Dangerous Minds. I was really, really great, but still humble.

Truth be told, I had no idea what I was wishing for when I imagined my future. I created a story I thought sounded interesting, then aimed for it. Yet somewhere along the way, I got distracted. And then I got distracted again. And before long I ended up in the place I am now. Now is what I fondly refer to as My Grown Up American Dream – revised edition.

It’s messy, this real world in which I live. Being married is grueling. My husband and I drive each other crazy, and I swear he does stuff like leave cabinet doors open, just to irritate the living daylights out of me. But I get him back. I subconsciously spread my shoes all over the house just so he can trip over them. Our children are actual live little people with sticky hands and tricycles in my house on rainy days and one even still has trouble with the bathroom paperwork. They go to school where these teachers give homework and they ask questions, like, “Do Mommies and Daddies grow babies? I thought God grew babies.” And I have to answer with, “God gives Mommies and Daddies babies, and Mommies grow them in their bellies. Daddies don’t grow babies.” At which point, having boys, I hear, “Yesss!!!” coming from the back seat of that Ford Explorer.

Then there are the relatives that accompany the marriage of a spouse. Crazy Irish Catholic relatives with thick Southern accents and boundless energy. On paper, they would look so normal, so like my family. In this real live, bounce off the paper version, however, they are much louder, much more opinionated, and love to celebrate birthdays. Even all the adults get birthday parties. Even those of us that marry into the family get birthday parties. My own family stopped giving me birthday parties when I went off to college, so I have to admit, it’s almost always fun and rarely boring.

Unlike the in laws, the family I bring to the marriage is normal. Normal to the point of being weird. My father reads in the evenings while my mother sits or sleeps on the couch, and my siblings live in big cities, but love visiting their roots. They have distinguished academic jobs, and nobody has been through a nasty, not playing nice in the sandbox, divorce. They’re all mainly Episcopalians, except one that jumped over to the Presbyterian Church. Combining one of us with the crazy Irish Catholics has taken some work, but somehow we have endured.

The key to all this wonderfulness is love, grace, and a mastery of sarcasm. Because in my explanation, what I’ve really left out are the messy parts. I’ve skipped right over my husband’s constant vigil over his diabetes, or my mom’s dementia and how it hurts that she can’t remember when I was born. I haven’t mentioned how two women in our families have battled and survived breast cancer, or all the adoptions our siblings went through to get those magazine worthy cute kids. I purposely left out an explanation of what debilitating anxiety looks like, or how grief over losing a brother to a drunk driver feels. I have yet to explain our heart wrenching circumstances that, over the years, have tugged at my faith in myself and have left me at times seriously questioning God. Explaining all those things, well, that would just be yucky.

And yet, it is all these messy parts of My Grown Up American Dream – revised edition - that help me to see my real life just as it is.

So, on Sundays, we get up, and we put on clothes, and we go to the local Episcopal, Catholic, Anglican, Presbyterian, Holiness Please forgive me Church. We go because we were raised to go. We also go to feel that love and that grace. To some people, religion isn’t necessary. For me, my faith is what helps me stand up, look outside of myself, and see that I really do have it pretty nice. It’s what sees me through when life gets so messy and tear streaked that snot comes out of my nose. Grace. Love. They feel good. They are what help me recognize that I never would have planned my life along the path I am traveling, and in my planning I would have missed out on everything. I would have missed the opportunity to hear my husband’s snoring and my kids arguing over the Star Wars legos and the phone ringing during dinner and my mom showing us her belly button and my dad explaining the futility of worry and crazy uncles sending treasure hunt instructions in the mail and my in laws giving me advice over gin and tonics. Seriously, Thank God for Sundays. It’s when we ride downtown, wearing clothes from Target, in our Ford Explorer (with a third row seat) and I finally see that despite my best intentions, I sure enough am living out my real life, messy, American dream - two point one kids, ranch house in the suburbs, and all.

Kelly: Is God bigger than a tree?

Me: Yes.

Kelly: If you water it and give it sunlight and care for it...will it grow bigger?

Me: Yes.

Truth. I have had myself a horrible no good very bad last several days. Nobody has pinched me. Nobody has picked on me. But I have been in a slump I am finding hard to beat. Friday I sent three kids to "the little red chair" by the director at preschool. Then I held one of my precious babies til her mom came to pick her up because she slipped off the edge of a chair that had a hook on the side and split her head open. One minute beautiful girl sitting in chair holding baby doll not wanting to ride a tricycle with the other (precious) crazies. Next minute Marilyn and me rushing her to the front so that we can try to stop the huge amount of bleeding. Head wounds bleed. She bled so much it was matted in most of her hair and she smelled like iron. Turns out she didn't even need a stitch. I, however, wanted a stiff drink. Did I mention head wounds bleed? Then Saturday came, and my family wanted lunch and it was just too much for me to bear. I cried off and on the rest of the day. Sunday got better, but Monday I had to go back to work after The Incident, and I cried after I had survived that day. Then, Monday night, I had promised the kids we could go to a church dinner and I tried to get out of it. Key (my oldest) told me it would be fine if we didn't go. And yet, he had those red rimmed eyes that meant he didn't really mean it, he was just trying to be nice to his mom who had been in that horrible no good very bad mood. I gave in, but not before demanding that I have five minutes to play solitaire on my phone before getting back up off the couch again. And then we went to dinner.

And I needed that dinner more than anything. I saw friends. I sang songs. I ate fried chicken. I met some instant new friends. (More on them later.)

Tuesday I spent the day listening to Christian music, resting, and reading devotional blogs. Tuesday was the day I had that conversation with Kelly. Tuesday was the day I finally watered my faith, played my viola, and stood in the sunlight talking to my wonderful friend, Cindy.

Point is, when I take care of my faith, my soul, my relationship with God and with Jesus, it grows abundantly. And it feels so, so good. It feels even better after time neglected, just like food tastes better when you're hungry. And all that prompting to nourish my soul, to stop with the horrible no good very bad attitude came from the Spirit through my children.

Now, I'm still not perfect, but I am in a better mood today, that's for sure. And I can't wait to tell you about my new friends....

Holy Ground

The three pictures are: Key, Kelly, and a Rwandan soccer ball.



Someone once talked about walking through a cemetery barefoot so as not to trample upon holy ground. It was a unique spiritual experience, and the person felt a closeness with God, an intimate bond. So one summer while visiting my parents, I took my daily walk through the Maryville College woods. And there at the edge of the trees next to the practice fields is a small cemetery. I took my shoes off, and I walked on the silky, moist grass in silence. And it was spiritual.

My oldest son, Key, suffers from a heightened amount of anxiety on a regular basis. We have learned lots of coping techniques. But what works better than anything is the great outdoors and good old fashioned prayer. Imagine. My eight year old has already figured out that life is easier with Jesus and a healthy dose of fresh air. So now I am a soccer mom carting two little boys all over the state to play in games and tournaments. Key is more relaxed during soccer season, for the most part. The one part that bothers him is the intense competition during tournaments. It is too much for eight year olds. As a parent I struggle between ripping him off the field or telling him to toughen up just a bit. Then, a couple of nights ago out at the soccer fields, I thought about my barefoot walk through the cemetery. I thought about holy ground. If it hadn't been freezing, I would have taken off my shoes. The realization I had is that holy ground is any ground. It is any ground we choose to recognize as part of God's creation. It is any ground that reminds us of Him. For Key, most of the time, these fields of green are holy ground. They are where he gets to run - lots. He runs in the outdoor air for 90 minutes several times a week. He sees his friends and he jumps and laughs and plays as an eight year old boy should. For that little while anxiety goes away. He is the boy God created him to be. So now that I have had this realization, now that I see newly holy in the ordinary, when he goes to tournaments (the one hard part of soccer), I can remind him not to stress, not to try to be perfect, not to worry about what others may think, not to try to be better than others - let all that melt away. I can remind him that he is on holy ground. His holy ground. He is not going out onto that field alone. Shoes on or shoes off, he has the Spirit in him, around him, standing next to him. Shoes on or shoes off, for this little while, fear isn't allowed out there - out on that field. Cause holy ground is holy. It is where for Key, he's free.

Obsessing

Lately we have been trying to figure out what would be best for our kids as far as their education is concerned. We want the best for them in every aspect, but I can only hyper focus and stress irrationally about one subject at a time. My focus used to be housing and therefore incessant watching of HGTV, but I found my dream home, so now I have moved on. And, no, we haven't bought it; we don't have the money. But never to worry, I am still decorating it beautifully and making precious Norman Rockwell memories with my family in that dream home as we speak. Anyway, back to the important concern for today - schooling. I have been obsessing about where my children may go to school. Note that we have not sold our home, not even shown it, so my obsessions are a bit premature. However, I keep imagining someone walking in to buy our house at the not perfect time, which would leave me transferring my children to a new learning environment during a school year. What's more, the learning environments are all getting rezoned in York (where that dream house is located) for the upcoming school year. AND elementary school only goes through 4th grade. My oldest kiddo is currently in 3rd. They instead have two middle schools (5th and 6th, then 7th and 8th) for students to endure before those high school years. I know the big wigs at the local school district have their reasons for all of this, and I know they just built the most awesome HS in the state in York, and I also know they are building a fabulous new elementary school as we speak. But it's just too much change for my little overworked brain to comprehend.

So I have decided to seriously consider homeschooling for our transition to take the pressure off me and the kids. Michael and I have differing opinions about what would be the correct path for our family, but we both agree it could be really good for our older child to have a year of nurturing transition. The initial plan was to move and have me start substitute teaching in their new school. Michael wants to stick to that plan. I prefer to throw all caution to the wind and keep my sweet boys at home with me. Luckily, we are willing to give the decision some time and we are both keeping our minds open. Really. I promise.

The point of all this rambling is this. I am exhausted. I have thought about this issue an unhealthy amount of time. I have become self absorbed - again. I talk to people about me and forget to ask how they are doing. I can't let it go, and it is getting to be too much. And so I have put it up for prayer. I am handing it all over to God. Which is what we are to do always; I just prefer to keep trying my way first.

Philippians 4:4-7 Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Jesus Christ.

Sealed

My good friend, Janet, drove down from Pennsylvania to visit her peeps. Janet, along with her husband, George, and their three boys, moved to Lititz, PA from Columbia this past July. Their youngest was about ten days old when they moved, and so they brought him back to get baptized. I was thrilled, being that I love baptisms AND I love the Scoutens.

I have to take quiet, deep breaths when they put the holy water on the head, so that I don't cry. I feel silly crying at every baptism, especially if I don't even know the people, but so be it. I can't help getting a bit teary.

When Key was born, we were torn whether to get him baptized in the Episcopal or the Catholic church. I am Episcopal. Michael's Catholic. We went with Catholic for the first kid, and so since I am not Catholic I needed to go meet with the priest. I also decided to take the conversion classes - not to convert - just so I would know what I was agreeing to. Anyway, after meeting with the priest, we filled out some paperwork on our background and who would be the godparents and their background, and so on. A few days later, I stopped by the church's office to leave a donation, being that I am much better at running errands than I am at mailing paper. When the secretary saw the name on my check, she asked me to wait. The priest wanted to talk with me. Turns out, my family's background was questionable. Michael being Catholic and all, was just fine. However, I had named my sister as the godmother, and she was Unitarian at the time. He was concerned, and so he asked if she could honestly state the Nicene Creed, particularly the part about the Trinity. I said I'd be happy to ask her, but what did he suggest I do if she said no? Well, since I had mentioned other siblings, another one might could stand in. How about my closest brother? I explained that he was currently attending a Quaker Church. That didn't work either. What about my oldest brother? Though he lived in Hawaii, he could fill in by proxy. When I mentioned he was Mormon, but he really did love Jesus, there was silence. Then, he very gently informed me that if my sister didn't feel comfortable saying the Nicene Creed, he knew of plenty of parishioners that would gladly step in as godparent for my baby. He had such a kind heart, and he was so sincere, I was touched rather than offended.

I think my mother laughed so hard she cried when I called her up to tell her she had raised unacceptable godparents for my first born.

My father still laughs every time he remembers back to sitting in the pew - not being allowed to take communion - and singing with the choir, "Let us all break bread together on our knees..."

When it was time to get the next kiddo baptized, we had just moved. So we went to the closest Episcopal church this time. Turns out they had just gotten a brand new priest with grand ideas on taking the sacrament of baptism back to the time of the apostles. We loved him, though he was a bit controversial. On the big day, he brought in fresh cut herbs from his own garden and the church's garden, along with his very best clear glass pyrex bowl. The baptismal font was not large enough for what he had planned. I tease, but it was actually incredibly endearing. When it came time to baptize my little Kelly, he covered him in water and then dunked the branches of herbs in the water. At this point he reminded the congregation of their own baptism and confirmation and flung holy water on the congregants using the herbs. My father felt it was too much, being that his prayer book got so drenched he had to lay it out to dry. Any woman wearing silk and caught by surprise was a bit upset. I felt it was quite refreshing.

Anyway, I love that every member of my family, Catholic, Episcopalian, Unitarian, Presbyterian, Mormon, Quaker, or what not, has been sealed. Sealed by the Holy Spirit. I love that the people I stand next to every Sunday, and my friends in PA, have been sealed. Sealed by the Holy Spirit. I love that every time another one is baptized, I think back to my babies, and that my family keeps getting exponentially bigger. I just love it all. And I almost get teary eyed all over again.

Christmas is for stopping. It's the time when all around the world, people get quiet in that late hour. Some are at church singing by candlelight. Some are at home with decaf coffee. Some are at home with wine:) Some may still be traveling. But Christmas Eve seems quieter to me than any other night of the year. It's one of my favorite times. After all the rushing (which I personally do not mind. You know Mary was feeling rushed 9 months preggo on a d*mn donkey looking for a place to get down and start birthing the SAVIOR! Hello!), the wrapping, the frantically finishing work early for family time, the partying, the cooking, after all that, comes the quiet. I welcome this quiet. If I don't get to adequately experience it, Christmas doesn't feel fulfilled. It's the time when I look at all the material gifts under the tree and I think about how I don't need them. I like them; I just don't need them. I think about how I am so incredibly blessed already, and how I have every day what I particularly cherish on Christmas Eve. And I think of those that are alone, or cold, or hungry, or both. And I wonder how they feel. Those without Christ and those with Christ. How do they feel? Those of us with battle scars already experience a bit of the melancholy on holidays. It is what it is. But do those with no one, with nothing, realize they also get an invitation to the gift? The biggest gift? Do they feel it could make a difference? Really make a difference? And do I, as one who feels blessed, who feels that He does make a difference, do my part to make those without feel that difference too? Do those that are hurting in a physical way that I cannot understand feel the quiet the way I feel the quiet? How do I give someone that gift? That gift of quiet on Christmas Eve that feels, yes, heavy in some ways, but hopeful? Quiet hope. How do I give that? Because if we are to give and be an example for Christ, wouldn't that be a good start? Quiet hope. Quiet. Hope.

Moving

When we moved to Columbia five years ago, we had lived in Aiken for five years and had made friends and found a church and a house we loved and and and... We had our babies in Aiken- well, technically at the Augusta hospital because that was where my doctor was waiting for me. Anyway, we were attached for many sentimental firsts in life to a beautiful place called Aiken. But we left for the hope of moving forward with Michael's career. We ended up in a five year detour for his career, and a five year lesson in patience for our future. However, again we made friends and found a church and the kids grew and started school and they made friends and like their teachers and and and...

Now we are moving to Rock Hill. And I feel sad, and excited for our future. I feel more wisely confident in this move. I felt confident in the move to Columbia because I had lived in Columbia before and I was naive enough to think I had it all under control. This time I don't know anything about Rock Hill, though I've heard lots of good things. This time I am cautious in my statements, though I am positive as well. This time, because Michael and I are both nervous about the upheaval a move can put on a family and because we are nervous about making the wrong gamble career wise all over again, God let us know we are in his hands. He showed us our decision is the right decision. He calmed my worry. He didn't make moving easier, but He did make my confidence in moving and in Him stronger.

Michael and I had to decide whether for him to take this new job opportunity or wait for something else. We prayed about it and talked about it for months leading up to an offer. My emotions had already been on a roller coaster ride, and by the time the offer finally came I felt at peace with the decision to move forward to Rock Hill in faith. Sometimes God just wants you to make a decision. He'll work with you no matter, just darn decide! Other times there is a clear path He is leading you towards, but again, if you get it wrong, He's still there for you. Rock Hill felt right. But ultimately, we were moving on in faith. So, Michael gave notice at his job here in Columbia. And guess what? They were relieved. Not upset. They were getting ready to announce another round of lay offs. That would be the third round in a year. Rock Hill suddenly sounded a whole lot prettier.

Here's the thing. I am grateful for the clarity that our decision was right. We needed encouragement after so many unclear decisions and detours. I am thankful Michael and I were saved from a painful job loss. And I sat down and wept in relief and in great sadness for those we know both at his current job and friends in the community who are having to take that road. Who have lost their jobs. And in that weeping, it made me wonder, why did we get saved? Because we'd already been there and done that? What are God's plans? I don't understand. Not in the least. But I am grateful to Him. He's been there for us when we did walk that road, and He's with us now on our new adventure. I do at least know that.