I've moved my blog and hope you will follow me there. Here is the link to my new spot, frommountaintops.com
I hope you will follow me there. . .
-- Godspeed, Elizabeth
Posts
New Website!
2 years ago
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Joy!
You are the light of the world - like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden.
~ Matthew 5:14,
When my kids were little, I always knew when they were content and happy. They exuded joy naturally. My son would gallop instead of walk--everywhere. He would suddenly break into this little trot that sang out "I am the happiest kid in the world." My daughter would sit quietly, playing, and suddenly just start humming--even before she could talk.
Through these natural reactions to their life, they outwardly exuded joy. I know they never thought about showing their joy--they just did. Like the verse from Matthew, like the city on the hilltop, their lights could not be hidden.
And, in outwardly reflecting their joy, I found peace and joy along with them. I knew that all was well. I knew that they felt safe and happy and loved. I was grateful I could see it in them. Their joy, in turn gave me joy.
Joy is infectious. But, we need to enter into relationship with others to share it. We need to look beyond our own four walls and our comfort zones and be the city on the hilltop--beaming with joy. We need to become beacons of light.
When work gets really busy, like it is now, I tend to turn inward. I say "hello" to fewer people on the sidewalk. I don't stop to chat with a colleague like most days. I close my office door--sending the message not to stop by. I stop being the beacon, and my light dims. I feel it. I stop showing the joy for life that I generally exude.
And so, today, the message from Matthew reminds me. I need to "hum" or "gallop" a bit so that my light will shine --at least a little, even during the busiest of days.
How will you let your light shine today?
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Food for Thought.
I have an incredibly busy few days ahead, but wanted to share a quote from a talk by Shane Claiborne, who spoke at our church this week. Some food for thought.
"How good we have become at making people feel like outsiders--of excluding the very people that Jesus magnetized . . . The walls that we build and the way we exclude should break our hearts."
Monday, March 8, 2010
Jesus Rocked Their World
In the season of Lent, we journey toward the cross. Today, we know the significance of that journey and where it leads: to Christ's death on the cross and the resurrection. In this journey we understand that God gave His son for us so that we might live fully in relationship with God--be restored us in our relationship with Him. I feel overwhelmed by that thought during this season.
But the disciples didn't know this. As Christ moved toward the cross, his disciples only saw hints of what was to come. They did not fully understand what was about to happen would rock their world. Shake it fully.
They knew Jesus, saw the miracles, heard his message. Certainly they believed, if not by faith, then by sight. But, for them, the full meaning of the journey towards the cross could only be understood in hindsight.
I wonder how they felt once they fully understood. When Jesus prayed at the Mount of Olives, His disciples followed Him and He asked them to pray. Instead, they fell asleep. And, later, Peter disowned Jesus. They let Jesus down--because they felt tired or feared persecution. They were human.
But, imagine how they felt once Jesus revealed Himself to them after His death and resurrection. If I place myself in their shoes, I imagine that once the initial joy subsided, I would feel incredible regret. Regret that I failed Christ in what he asked of me, in His darkest moment during His time among us.
But the beauty of the story is that, despite the disciples' failures --disciples who knew Him and followed Him during his time on Earth--Christ went to the cross for them, too. The disciples knew not only a direct relationship with Christ while he walked among them, but they were the first to be restored fully to God. They received forgiveness and grace that must have felt incredibly tangible in the moment.
When I put myself in their shoes, I think of those moments when I have wronged someone I love deeply--my husband or children or parents or sibling. I replay those moments, and I think of the depth of my regret, but also how intimate those conversations of restoration and forgiveness are -- the opening of hearts and the pouring out of forgiveness. Heartfelt moments--often difficult moments--like no others. The embracing of each other when the valley that separated us closes and we have that intimate moment when grace comes rushing down.
I imagine that is how the disciples must have felt. Tangible love, grace, and forgiveness from God.
That is the same love, grace, and forgiveness that Christ offers to all. I don't know if it feels as tangible to me as it must have to the disciples, but it is the same. He is present always with that love, grace, and forgiveness. We just need to turn towards him.
So this season of Lent, as I journey to the cross, I think of how intimately the disciples knew Jesus and how He rocked their world. It reminds me just how tangible God is --if I will just enter into relationship with Him and let His grace pour down on me.
But the disciples didn't know this. As Christ moved toward the cross, his disciples only saw hints of what was to come. They did not fully understand what was about to happen would rock their world. Shake it fully.
They knew Jesus, saw the miracles, heard his message. Certainly they believed, if not by faith, then by sight. But, for them, the full meaning of the journey towards the cross could only be understood in hindsight.
I wonder how they felt once they fully understood. When Jesus prayed at the Mount of Olives, His disciples followed Him and He asked them to pray. Instead, they fell asleep. And, later, Peter disowned Jesus. They let Jesus down--because they felt tired or feared persecution. They were human.
But, imagine how they felt once Jesus revealed Himself to them after His death and resurrection. If I place myself in their shoes, I imagine that once the initial joy subsided, I would feel incredible regret. Regret that I failed Christ in what he asked of me, in His darkest moment during His time among us.
But the beauty of the story is that, despite the disciples' failures --disciples who knew Him and followed Him during his time on Earth--Christ went to the cross for them, too. The disciples knew not only a direct relationship with Christ while he walked among them, but they were the first to be restored fully to God. They received forgiveness and grace that must have felt incredibly tangible in the moment.
When I put myself in their shoes, I think of those moments when I have wronged someone I love deeply--my husband or children or parents or sibling. I replay those moments, and I think of the depth of my regret, but also how intimate those conversations of restoration and forgiveness are -- the opening of hearts and the pouring out of forgiveness. Heartfelt moments--often difficult moments--like no others. The embracing of each other when the valley that separated us closes and we have that intimate moment when grace comes rushing down.
I imagine that is how the disciples must have felt. Tangible love, grace, and forgiveness from God.
That is the same love, grace, and forgiveness that Christ offers to all. I don't know if it feels as tangible to me as it must have to the disciples, but it is the same. He is present always with that love, grace, and forgiveness. We just need to turn towards him.
So this season of Lent, as I journey to the cross, I think of how intimately the disciples knew Jesus and how He rocked their world. It reminds me just how tangible God is --if I will just enter into relationship with Him and let His grace pour down on me.
Friday, March 5, 2010
A Day of Rest? I Barely Give Myself Five Minutes.
When I look around at my life and everyone around me I just want to hold my arms out and say “Be still.” I over commit. At work, I teach an extra class because it provides more income. At home, I take on tasks Larry-John no longer can do. I see friends hauling kids to soccer, working full-time, and giving time to their favorite causes. Individually, the activities make sense. We benefit from them. We fulfill a need to serve others. We contribute financially to our families. We go until the dizzying effect of the carousel becomes too much. Until we realize we need the rest. Until we feel the longing to stop. To be still.
As a child, stopping –seeking time apart for quiet—came naturally. I think about my favorite moments and activities as a young girl. All of them center around quiet and reflection. I loved to climb trees. I climbed to the highest branch of the tree in our back yard and leaned against the trunk. As still as possible, I sat and observed. Rarely did others know I sat perched 50 feet above. The time was mine.
As I grew older, the need for quiet continued, and remained a natural response to life. A natural desire. I ran. Miles at a time. I found it on the road or the trail. As I set my pace and found my rhythm, I found the stillness. In my teens, my mom knew this about me. I remember the first time I realized it. I stomped in from school, probably slammed the door and grunted something about school or the boy I had fallen for. She stopped whatever she had busied herself with and said, “Go put on your running clothes and run.” I flashed a look at her, but the one she returned said it all. “You need it. You always do. You’ll feel better when you get back.”
Mom did know. In those places growing up, she knew God found me there. She never explicitly told me what she knew or why she understood. But then, that was Mom.
Perhaps she needed to give herself permission. But, she never did. Not until she faced a debilitating illness that eventually consumed her. I should have asked her in her last years, when she had so much quiet—when the quiet found her—whether she gave herself permission to enjoy it. Or, whether she resented it. I hope she gave herself permission to enjoy it.
After all, even God gave himself permission to rest in the Sabbath. A day of rest. Leading by example. Or, perhaps, just like seeking the quiet comes naturally to us as children, it comes naturally to God.
A day of rest, every week. I like the idea.
A few years ago our pastor suggested we really do that. I loved the suggestion—as though it were a novel idea. If I’m made in God’s image and God needs a day of rest, then maybe I do too. We’ve never done it. I dream about the possibility. Even the possibility of a day of rest and silence.
Being still should come naturally to us our entire lives. I think it does. I think, perhaps, we just need to listen better. I think I just need to turn off the cell phone, and the email, and block off the hours in the week and say, “Enough. Be still.”
As a child, stopping –seeking time apart for quiet—came naturally. I think about my favorite moments and activities as a young girl. All of them center around quiet and reflection. I loved to climb trees. I climbed to the highest branch of the tree in our back yard and leaned against the trunk. As still as possible, I sat and observed. Rarely did others know I sat perched 50 feet above. The time was mine.
As I grew older, the need for quiet continued, and remained a natural response to life. A natural desire. I ran. Miles at a time. I found it on the road or the trail. As I set my pace and found my rhythm, I found the stillness. In my teens, my mom knew this about me. I remember the first time I realized it. I stomped in from school, probably slammed the door and grunted something about school or the boy I had fallen for. She stopped whatever she had busied herself with and said, “Go put on your running clothes and run.” I flashed a look at her, but the one she returned said it all. “You need it. You always do. You’ll feel better when you get back.”
Mom did know. In those places growing up, she knew God found me there. She never explicitly told me what she knew or why she understood. But then, that was Mom.
Perhaps she needed to give herself permission. But, she never did. Not until she faced a debilitating illness that eventually consumed her. I should have asked her in her last years, when she had so much quiet—when the quiet found her—whether she gave herself permission to enjoy it. Or, whether she resented it. I hope she gave herself permission to enjoy it.
After all, even God gave himself permission to rest in the Sabbath. A day of rest. Leading by example. Or, perhaps, just like seeking the quiet comes naturally to us as children, it comes naturally to God.
A day of rest, every week. I like the idea.
A few years ago our pastor suggested we really do that. I loved the suggestion—as though it were a novel idea. If I’m made in God’s image and God needs a day of rest, then maybe I do too. We’ve never done it. I dream about the possibility. Even the possibility of a day of rest and silence.
Being still should come naturally to us our entire lives. I think it does. I think, perhaps, we just need to listen better. I think I just need to turn off the cell phone, and the email, and block off the hours in the week and say, “Enough. Be still.”
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
From Mountain Tops
A friend asked me the other day about my blog title. So, if you are wondering . . .
My son loves to climb -- rock climb and mountain climb. But, as a small child, he was so afraid of heights. I don't know what transformed him from fearful to exhilarated, but it changed his life. Climbing has brought some amazing people into his life, too. One of those people was a young man named Anthony Vietti.
Anthony was a mentor, friend, brother in Christ, and climbing buddy. I know that he had a profound effect on my son's life and helped to shape who my son is as a person. I don't know the full impact Anthony had on my son's life, but I know it was significant. And, I am grateful.
He was a friend that I trusted my son to spend time with and a friend I trusted my son's life with--literally, when they climbed. He was a friend who, from my perspective, helped my son learn to love life and to serve and love others unconditionally.
Anthony and my son shared time in God's creation, loving it together.
Few friends in life come along who have such an impact on who we are. Anthony was one of those people in my son's life. I have no doubt that my son had a profound impact on Anthony's life, too. Their friendship was cut short this past December. Anthony and two other young people--including another young man my son knew, Luke Gullberg--died in a climbing accident on Mt. Hood. Anthony was barely 25 years old.
I don't climb, but I look in awe at God's creation--and particularly the mountains. Mt. Hood will always remind me of God's power and God's plan. And when I look at her incredible beauty, I will always be reminded of Anthony and the beautiful friendship my son had.
And so, as I grieved for my son's loss of his dear friend, I began to think about and read about what people experience when they summit mountains. What compels them to climb?
Those who climb usually seek the summit. I'm sure their reasons are as diverse as the people who climb. But I do know that, while they can summit, they can't stay on the tops of those majestic peaks. The summit is temporary. But a place that is worth the journey. A place they can't live or survive. But a place they are willing to risk their lives to experience.
And so, from the mountain top, they look down to the places from which they came and to which they will return. From the mountain top they stand closer to God--in the thin space between heaven and earth. In sacred isolation in communion with God. And, from mountain tops they know they must descend--to the base camp and the valleys beyond to spend time and to live and to prepare--for the next mountain top where they might find that sacred space again.
And so, From Mountain Tops is a place I hope to find and share sacred moments. But it is also a place I visit to reflect on the places in which I live and spend time--in the messiness of community and family. It is in those places that I prepare for those journeys to the summit. I hope you will join me.
My son loves to climb -- rock climb and mountain climb. But, as a small child, he was so afraid of heights. I don't know what transformed him from fearful to exhilarated, but it changed his life. Climbing has brought some amazing people into his life, too. One of those people was a young man named Anthony Vietti.
Anthony was a mentor, friend, brother in Christ, and climbing buddy. I know that he had a profound effect on my son's life and helped to shape who my son is as a person. I don't know the full impact Anthony had on my son's life, but I know it was significant. And, I am grateful.
He was a friend that I trusted my son to spend time with and a friend I trusted my son's life with--literally, when they climbed. He was a friend who, from my perspective, helped my son learn to love life and to serve and love others unconditionally.
Anthony and my son shared time in God's creation, loving it together.
Few friends in life come along who have such an impact on who we are. Anthony was one of those people in my son's life. I have no doubt that my son had a profound impact on Anthony's life, too. Their friendship was cut short this past December. Anthony and two other young people--including another young man my son knew, Luke Gullberg--died in a climbing accident on Mt. Hood. Anthony was barely 25 years old.
I don't climb, but I look in awe at God's creation--and particularly the mountains. Mt. Hood will always remind me of God's power and God's plan. And when I look at her incredible beauty, I will always be reminded of Anthony and the beautiful friendship my son had.
And so, as I grieved for my son's loss of his dear friend, I began to think about and read about what people experience when they summit mountains. What compels them to climb?
Those who climb usually seek the summit. I'm sure their reasons are as diverse as the people who climb. But I do know that, while they can summit, they can't stay on the tops of those majestic peaks. The summit is temporary. But a place that is worth the journey. A place they can't live or survive. But a place they are willing to risk their lives to experience.
And so, from the mountain top, they look down to the places from which they came and to which they will return. From the mountain top they stand closer to God--in the thin space between heaven and earth. In sacred isolation in communion with God. And, from mountain tops they know they must descend--to the base camp and the valleys beyond to spend time and to live and to prepare--for the next mountain top where they might find that sacred space again.
And so, From Mountain Tops is a place I hope to find and share sacred moments. But it is also a place I visit to reflect on the places in which I live and spend time--in the messiness of community and family. It is in those places that I prepare for those journeys to the summit. I hope you will join me.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Teaching: It's not about the teacher
As a teacher, I sometimes get caught up in "teaching." Trying to figure out my lesson plans and crafting assignments that will help students learn -- learn the materials, learn to think, learn to write, revise, and edit. As part of this planning, I often think about the "professionalism" aspect of their learning, too. Are they aware of how to communicate professionally? Do they know the importance of being punctual? Do they understand that their integrity--their character and reputation--are far more important than what a supervisor may want them to do, or a client they may represent?
Sometimes I get so caught up that I forget that the students need me to remember that they are not just students -- but thinking, feeling, spiritual human beings.
Maybe it isn't so much that I forget. It's just that I push that aspect of the students off to the side, rather than keep it front and center. I need to love them, not just teach them.
Today, God reminded me.
The students had a first draft of a paper due, for peer review. Two students wrote me in the early morning hours, both in a bit of distress--expressing their frustrations. But between the lines, I could hear not just frustration, but the slipping away of their self-worth and self-confidence.
I added my students to my prayers this morning, but went along my way as usual. But God knew that it was me who needed His grace more than the students.
One of those students stopped by my office to talk later in the day. His face was long and he looked tired. We talked through his paper and his concerns about its structure and content.
Towards the end of the conversation, I saw a sudden flash of life in his face--his eyes lit up and a brief smile crossed his mouth. In that moment, the holy spirit stepped in and flooded the room with compassion. Before I knew it, words were flowing. I paused and something like the following came spilling out of me, "You know [Jason], you need to give yourself more credit than you do. You are really bright. Really capable. You have grown so much as a student and writer this year. This paper will come together and you will be so thrilled with it when you are done. "
It was a flood of grace. The air in the room lifted and [Jason's] demeanor changed completely. I felt his spirit change. I saw it in his eyes and in his face and in his movement.
As for me? I felt God's presence and his grace. Grateful that He knew that this young man needed more than help with his paper. Grateful that He gave me the opportunity and the words. Grateful for the reminder that I need to keep the whole person (not just the student) and God front and center--not me . . . Even though I might be the one standing in the front of the classroom.
Sometimes I get so caught up that I forget that the students need me to remember that they are not just students -- but thinking, feeling, spiritual human beings.
Maybe it isn't so much that I forget. It's just that I push that aspect of the students off to the side, rather than keep it front and center. I need to love them, not just teach them.
Today, God reminded me.
The students had a first draft of a paper due, for peer review. Two students wrote me in the early morning hours, both in a bit of distress--expressing their frustrations. But between the lines, I could hear not just frustration, but the slipping away of their self-worth and self-confidence.
I added my students to my prayers this morning, but went along my way as usual. But God knew that it was me who needed His grace more than the students.
One of those students stopped by my office to talk later in the day. His face was long and he looked tired. We talked through his paper and his concerns about its structure and content.
Towards the end of the conversation, I saw a sudden flash of life in his face--his eyes lit up and a brief smile crossed his mouth. In that moment, the holy spirit stepped in and flooded the room with compassion. Before I knew it, words were flowing. I paused and something like the following came spilling out of me, "You know [Jason], you need to give yourself more credit than you do. You are really bright. Really capable. You have grown so much as a student and writer this year. This paper will come together and you will be so thrilled with it when you are done. "
It was a flood of grace. The air in the room lifted and [Jason's] demeanor changed completely. I felt his spirit change. I saw it in his eyes and in his face and in his movement.
As for me? I felt God's presence and his grace. Grateful that He knew that this young man needed more than help with his paper. Grateful that He gave me the opportunity and the words. Grateful for the reminder that I need to keep the whole person (not just the student) and God front and center--not me . . . Even though I might be the one standing in the front of the classroom.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
When Love Unfolds, Christ Shows Up
I have often felt inadequate about sharing my faith.
At some periods in my life I felt unsure of what I believed. Or at least not sure enough to express it verbally--without feeling like I was stumbling around stepping on my shoelaces.
Always, I feared sharing my faith. I feared pushing people away. People who may be put off by my faith. People who may have been hurt by other Christ-followers who were brash. People who look at the long history of Christian and religious violence and wonder how we can possibly say that our theology is one of love and forgiveness and grace. People who have been marginalized by society.
Who can blame them? I feel equally put off by how we as humans and we as Christians, historically, have failed to love and have compassion for each other.
But, I find that I am both awed and put off by the bold: Those who openly and passionately share their faith. Those who are candid about the singularity of Christ with people they hardly know. I am awed by those who are comfortable being in that place and who are comfortable having those conversations. Because of the bold, certainly, some non-believers have come to know Christ. And so, I cannot say that bold is wrong.
But, honestly, I am equally, and almost always, put off by the bold. I feel the air thicken and I go into panic mode, looking for the closest exit.
If I, as a believer, feel that way, then I imagine how many non-believers feel. A lack of compassion, or respect, or just a tinge of discomfort.
So, perhaps I shouldn't feel inadequate about sharing my faith. But, scripture--Christ--says that we are to "go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything [Christ has] commanded [us]." Matthew 28:18-20
How do I--how do we as Christians--square the fear of being off-putting with the command to "make disciples of all nations"?
Over the years, and especially over the last 23 years of being married to a non-believer, I have come to this conclusion: Telling all about the singularity of Christ needs to be squared with Christ's command to "love everyone."
And so, for me, loving others, unconditionally, has to come first. That means listening. Listening to what others believe or fear or hope. It is about showing my humanity and reflecting my faith through my love and compassion towards the people who I am fortunate to meet.
For me, it is also about finding common ground and loving others for who they are, what they believe, and where they are. When I listen well and seek common ground, I affirm for me--and hopefully for them--that we are all very much alike.
For me, it is when I focus on the differences that things fall apart rather than unfold.
I like the unfolding. I learn so much by listening to the hearts of others and watching the unfolding of the human experience of love and compassion and acceptance. And, in that unfolding, Christ shows up.
At some periods in my life I felt unsure of what I believed. Or at least not sure enough to express it verbally--without feeling like I was stumbling around stepping on my shoelaces.
Always, I feared sharing my faith. I feared pushing people away. People who may be put off by my faith. People who may have been hurt by other Christ-followers who were brash. People who look at the long history of Christian and religious violence and wonder how we can possibly say that our theology is one of love and forgiveness and grace. People who have been marginalized by society.
Who can blame them? I feel equally put off by how we as humans and we as Christians, historically, have failed to love and have compassion for each other.
But, I find that I am both awed and put off by the bold: Those who openly and passionately share their faith. Those who are candid about the singularity of Christ with people they hardly know. I am awed by those who are comfortable being in that place and who are comfortable having those conversations. Because of the bold, certainly, some non-believers have come to know Christ. And so, I cannot say that bold is wrong.
But, honestly, I am equally, and almost always, put off by the bold. I feel the air thicken and I go into panic mode, looking for the closest exit.
If I, as a believer, feel that way, then I imagine how many non-believers feel. A lack of compassion, or respect, or just a tinge of discomfort.
So, perhaps I shouldn't feel inadequate about sharing my faith. But, scripture--Christ--says that we are to "go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything [Christ has] commanded [us]." Matthew 28:18-20
How do I--how do we as Christians--square the fear of being off-putting with the command to "make disciples of all nations"?
Over the years, and especially over the last 23 years of being married to a non-believer, I have come to this conclusion: Telling all about the singularity of Christ needs to be squared with Christ's command to "love everyone."
And so, for me, loving others, unconditionally, has to come first. That means listening. Listening to what others believe or fear or hope. It is about showing my humanity and reflecting my faith through my love and compassion towards the people who I am fortunate to meet.
For me, it is also about finding common ground and loving others for who they are, what they believe, and where they are. When I listen well and seek common ground, I affirm for me--and hopefully for them--that we are all very much alike.
For me, it is when I focus on the differences that things fall apart rather than unfold.
I like the unfolding. I learn so much by listening to the hearts of others and watching the unfolding of the human experience of love and compassion and acceptance. And, in that unfolding, Christ shows up.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
My Heart Turns Cartwheels
Sometimes my kids surprise me -- in a good way.
When they were little, they shared everything with us -- the little accomplishments, the disappointments, the boo boos, their fears, their joys. I knew their hearts. I saw their creativity and their dreams and hopes, daily. They didn't hold back.
As they have grown into young adults, I find comfort in seeing little glimpses of their hearts and dreams and hopes. It makes my heart do cartwheels to know them -- even a little -- as they become independent and share their lives with their dearest friends and now, long term significant others. Those moments that I am privileged to grasp, make me smile.
And so, here is a poem my daughter wrote. It made my heart turn cartwheels -- because it gave me a little peek into her heart. And, it affirmed many things that I already knew about her.
I hope it makes you smile, too.
Just a little.
Apologies
I apologize
That I can’t sit still
That I have no interest
In the Digestive Fate of A Sandwich.
I must confess
I am slightly distracted
By the giraffes
Playing jump-rope in my mind.
And though no one seems to notice
There is a very awkward man
In a garbage-bag poncho
Yelling for Moses
Across the street.
And the perfect leaf,
Once a parking ticket,
Once a trapeze artist,
Is laying trampled and soggy
Next to an abandoned shoe.
So please forgive me
If I seem a bit preoccupied:
There is music playing in my head
And I would much rather
Be befriending dragons.
[Or helping the awkward poncho-man
Look for Moses.]
When they were little, they shared everything with us -- the little accomplishments, the disappointments, the boo boos, their fears, their joys. I knew their hearts. I saw their creativity and their dreams and hopes, daily. They didn't hold back.
As they have grown into young adults, I find comfort in seeing little glimpses of their hearts and dreams and hopes. It makes my heart do cartwheels to know them -- even a little -- as they become independent and share their lives with their dearest friends and now, long term significant others. Those moments that I am privileged to grasp, make me smile.
And so, here is a poem my daughter wrote. It made my heart turn cartwheels -- because it gave me a little peek into her heart. And, it affirmed many things that I already knew about her.
I hope it makes you smile, too.
Just a little.
Apologies
I apologize
That I can’t sit still
That I have no interest
In the Digestive Fate of A Sandwich.
I must confess
I am slightly distracted
By the giraffes
Playing jump-rope in my mind.
And though no one seems to notice
There is a very awkward man
In a garbage-bag poncho
Yelling for Moses
Across the street.
And the perfect leaf,
Once a parking ticket,
Once a trapeze artist,
Is laying trampled and soggy
Next to an abandoned shoe.
So please forgive me
If I seem a bit preoccupied:
There is music playing in my head
And I would much rather
Be befriending dragons.
[Or helping the awkward poncho-man
Look for Moses.]
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happy Valentine's Day: Giving and Receiving
I read a facebook post of a young married woman this morning. She was going to a movie by herself, because her husband didn't make all their plans for Valentine's Day--he just asked her, "what should we do?"--essentially leaving it up to both of them, or just him, to make the plans.
She went on about how he needed to do it. If he couldn't, then they just weren't going to celebrate. She would take time for herself.
It made me sad. Really. Our culture has these commercial-based holidays that set us up to have certain expectations. What we should expect others to do for us. How those in our life should demonstrate their love to us on that one specific day.
But, culture-based expectations that we thrust on others more often than not just lead to disappointment and other dysfunctional outcomes. If having a romantic Valentine's Day really matters to me, then I make the plan or prepare a romantic dinner for two at home. If it matters to my husband, then he does what he wants to demonstrate his love for me. I can't thrust Valentine's Day on him as an obligation. Who wants love based on obligation anyway? That isn't love; it is action made to look like love. It is like one of those lovely chocolate candies that you bite into and find a gooey filling that you just have to spit out.
Culture-based expectations emerge at Christmas, too. Santa, shopping, spending. The expectation at Christmas has grown to this massive frenzy of shopping and buying and giving just because it is expected. Millions spent on gifts that will be forgotten or tossed in the Goodwill box in a matter of months.
Our church, Imago Dei Community, started a movement called Advent Conspiracy to help re-focus Christmas on the expectation of the birth of Christ and making Christmas about relationships. It has been beautifully transforming for our family. It has made Christmas about spending time with each other, rather than spending time in the mall in search of the "perfect" gift for each other.
So, for Valentine's Day, I suggest: have no expectations. Rather, if you feel like showing someone you love him or her, find a special way to do that. But don't sit, waiting expectantly, for the chocolates or the flowers or the perfect night out. Love may not show up in that culturally-defined way.
But the bottom line is, we need to show our love for others, not expect others to show their love for us in a certain way. Christ reminds us, "Love your neighbor as yourself." I don't recall him reminding us to expect "small tasty or Hallmark-branded tokens of love from others."--unless there is some chapter I missed.
So for the young woman on Facebook: I send prayers for you and your husband today. That you will find a way to talk about what is on your heart. If it is something more than culturally-imposed expectations, then I pray that you will share your feelings with each other and listen, really listen to each other. That will show true love. If it is just culturally imposed expectations, I pray that you will instead just express your love in a way that is meaningful to you. . . and just maybe, you will find you receive more in return than what you gave or ever could have expected.
What will my day look like? Well, it will mostly include work -- grading papers.
And who knows, I may just have a little something up my sleeve for the man I have loved for the past 29 years.
Does he have something up his sleeve? If he does, I'll be surprised. I know--I am certain--he loves me unequivocally. He shows me that daily, in little ways--he makes dinner almost every night and has it ready when I walk in the door. He greets me and helps me put my bundle of work-related stuff away. He goes to the grocery store when I'm just too tired to even think about it -- even though he dislikes shopping more than I do. He tells me he loves me too often to count, warms up my coffee when I let it sit a little too long, and sends me random text messages when I least expect them.
She went on about how he needed to do it. If he couldn't, then they just weren't going to celebrate. She would take time for herself.
It made me sad. Really. Our culture has these commercial-based holidays that set us up to have certain expectations. What we should expect others to do for us. How those in our life should demonstrate their love to us on that one specific day.
But, culture-based expectations that we thrust on others more often than not just lead to disappointment and other dysfunctional outcomes. If having a romantic Valentine's Day really matters to me, then I make the plan or prepare a romantic dinner for two at home. If it matters to my husband, then he does what he wants to demonstrate his love for me. I can't thrust Valentine's Day on him as an obligation. Who wants love based on obligation anyway? That isn't love; it is action made to look like love. It is like one of those lovely chocolate candies that you bite into and find a gooey filling that you just have to spit out.
Culture-based expectations emerge at Christmas, too. Santa, shopping, spending. The expectation at Christmas has grown to this massive frenzy of shopping and buying and giving just because it is expected. Millions spent on gifts that will be forgotten or tossed in the Goodwill box in a matter of months.
Our church, Imago Dei Community, started a movement called Advent Conspiracy to help re-focus Christmas on the expectation of the birth of Christ and making Christmas about relationships. It has been beautifully transforming for our family. It has made Christmas about spending time with each other, rather than spending time in the mall in search of the "perfect" gift for each other.
So, for Valentine's Day, I suggest: have no expectations. Rather, if you feel like showing someone you love him or her, find a special way to do that. But don't sit, waiting expectantly, for the chocolates or the flowers or the perfect night out. Love may not show up in that culturally-defined way.
But the bottom line is, we need to show our love for others, not expect others to show their love for us in a certain way. Christ reminds us, "Love your neighbor as yourself." I don't recall him reminding us to expect "small tasty or Hallmark-branded tokens of love from others."--unless there is some chapter I missed.
So for the young woman on Facebook: I send prayers for you and your husband today. That you will find a way to talk about what is on your heart. If it is something more than culturally-imposed expectations, then I pray that you will share your feelings with each other and listen, really listen to each other. That will show true love. If it is just culturally imposed expectations, I pray that you will instead just express your love in a way that is meaningful to you. . . and just maybe, you will find you receive more in return than what you gave or ever could have expected.
What will my day look like? Well, it will mostly include work -- grading papers.
And who knows, I may just have a little something up my sleeve for the man I have loved for the past 29 years.
Does he have something up his sleeve? If he does, I'll be surprised. I know--I am certain--he loves me unequivocally. He shows me that daily, in little ways--he makes dinner almost every night and has it ready when I walk in the door. He greets me and helps me put my bundle of work-related stuff away. He goes to the grocery store when I'm just too tired to even think about it -- even though he dislikes shopping more than I do. He tells me he loves me too often to count, warms up my coffee when I let it sit a little too long, and sends me random text messages when I least expect them.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Letting Go, Keeping Faith, and Loving Unconditionally
I sat on the blue leather sofa, gas fireplace burning, as the first light of day broke through the darkness. The house was mine at this hour. Even the dog left me alone. Time with God. Quiet. Calm. Uninterrupted.
And so, I prayed, as I did so often recently, "Please God, cover him. Keep him safe. Help me to trust you." God knew that prayer was coming every day while my son was overseas last year, in a remote village, in a country that was giving him the experience of a lifetime.
For me, it was the first time that he had been that far away, without a group of friends or people we knew and trusted to look out for him. I trusted our son enough to let him go, but once he was gone, I had to learn to have faith that he would be okay.
There was nothing that I could do 7,500 miles away.
Despite one stint in the local "hospital," our son arrived home unharmed -- a little thinner, older, and wiser, but safe. God kept him safe and healthy. And, brought him home.
Today, my prayers in these early morning hours have shifted. Our son is across the country, no longer in a poverty stricken country. Instead, he is in the throes of urban-American-big-city life, grappling with his faith.
It is a familiar place. I grappled with my faith at his age, too. Questioning, doubting, not finding God relevant or consistent with the life I thought I wanted. Turning away as I lived a life that was less than what I knew was desirable. And, so, I have hope and faith that my son will grapple and fall back into the arms of a loving God.
As a mom, I have few details about my son's internal struggles. But the details don't matter. He needs to grapple with his faith, more so than he needed to go to Africa to grow into a young man.
I cannot tell him what faith is or should look like. He has known what faith is and who God is, but he needs it to be real and authentic for it to remain that way.
Rather, I need my son to know that it is okay--even good--that he is grappling with his faith. I need to let him know that I love him unconditionally. No matter what.
So, he seeks.
And so, I sit on the blue leather sofa, gas fireplace burning, as the first light of day breaks through the darkness.
God is faithful. I need to trust Him completely. Instead of asking God to bring our son home safely to us, I ask God to bring him home safely to Him.
And so, I prayed, as I did so often recently, "Please God, cover him. Keep him safe. Help me to trust you." God knew that prayer was coming every day while my son was overseas last year, in a remote village, in a country that was giving him the experience of a lifetime.
For me, it was the first time that he had been that far away, without a group of friends or people we knew and trusted to look out for him. I trusted our son enough to let him go, but once he was gone, I had to learn to have faith that he would be okay.
There was nothing that I could do 7,500 miles away.
Despite one stint in the local "hospital," our son arrived home unharmed -- a little thinner, older, and wiser, but safe. God kept him safe and healthy. And, brought him home.
Today, my prayers in these early morning hours have shifted. Our son is across the country, no longer in a poverty stricken country. Instead, he is in the throes of urban-American-big-city life, grappling with his faith.
It is a familiar place. I grappled with my faith at his age, too. Questioning, doubting, not finding God relevant or consistent with the life I thought I wanted. Turning away as I lived a life that was less than what I knew was desirable. And, so, I have hope and faith that my son will grapple and fall back into the arms of a loving God.
As a mom, I have few details about my son's internal struggles. But the details don't matter. He needs to grapple with his faith, more so than he needed to go to Africa to grow into a young man.
I cannot tell him what faith is or should look like. He has known what faith is and who God is, but he needs it to be real and authentic for it to remain that way.
Rather, I need my son to know that it is okay--even good--that he is grappling with his faith. I need to let him know that I love him unconditionally. No matter what.
So, he seeks.
And so, I sit on the blue leather sofa, gas fireplace burning, as the first light of day breaks through the darkness.
God is faithful. I need to trust Him completely. Instead of asking God to bring our son home safely to us, I ask God to bring him home safely to Him.
Friday, February 12, 2010
God's hand. A man named Evan.
Two days ago, friends pulled a young man out of the rubble of a fallen marketplace building in Haiti. Given the recent earthquake that devastated the country, it was not unexpected, except, that it occurred 28 days after the quake.
28 days. No food. No human contact.
But hope. And, faith.
That young man's name was Evan Muncie.
I don't go around saying out loud things like "God is present," "God has his hand in things." Or other such statements. I think them and I feel them. But, I rarely share them.
I just can't resist it here. This young man's survival is a miracle. A wonder. God had to have his hand in things. I am certain.
Of course, the other side of things--the cynical side--is that God had his hand in all the devastation and suffering in Haiti, too. The poverty, the destruction, the death, the disease.
I know that God is present in all things. And, I wouldn't try to explain why there is pain, and poverty, and disease in the world. Why God just doesn't get rid of it all if he is all powerful. That is beyond knowing and beyond fully understanding.
But, despite those human sufferings, we have faith, hope, and love. And, I know, just from my own life experiences, that those three truly are powerful. And, that they spring forth with force during times of suffering.
While we could not prevent the earthquake, men and women -- of all faiths and backgrounds -- have stepped in to help the people of Haiti. We feel drawn to the people of Haiti. We have hope for her people. We have faith that perhaps, through this tragedy, we, as a world, can help Haiti rebuild and climb out of poverty and all that comes with that extreme poverty.
God reminds us--through the life of Evan Muncie--28 days later, that we need to keep our faith and hope and love for Haiti. God reminds us that his hand is in this all and that through Him all things are possible.
28 days. No food. No human contact.
But hope. And, faith.
That young man's name was Evan Muncie.
I don't go around saying out loud things like "God is present," "God has his hand in things." Or other such statements. I think them and I feel them. But, I rarely share them.
I just can't resist it here. This young man's survival is a miracle. A wonder. God had to have his hand in things. I am certain.
Of course, the other side of things--the cynical side--is that God had his hand in all the devastation and suffering in Haiti, too. The poverty, the destruction, the death, the disease.
I know that God is present in all things. And, I wouldn't try to explain why there is pain, and poverty, and disease in the world. Why God just doesn't get rid of it all if he is all powerful. That is beyond knowing and beyond fully understanding.
But, despite those human sufferings, we have faith, hope, and love. And, I know, just from my own life experiences, that those three truly are powerful. And, that they spring forth with force during times of suffering.
While we could not prevent the earthquake, men and women -- of all faiths and backgrounds -- have stepped in to help the people of Haiti. We feel drawn to the people of Haiti. We have hope for her people. We have faith that perhaps, through this tragedy, we, as a world, can help Haiti rebuild and climb out of poverty and all that comes with that extreme poverty.
God reminds us--through the life of Evan Muncie--28 days later, that we need to keep our faith and hope and love for Haiti. God reminds us that his hand is in this all and that through Him all things are possible.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Living Intentionally
Days can go by in which I just live. Checking off the tasks on my list of to dos -- with no real direction, except that list. Go to the store, prepare for class, coffee with Cindy, call vet. Those days seem more about the end result--the destination--not the journey.
Other days I am more intentional about living the day and noticing the day, and the beauty, and the meaning, and in seeking God's presence. I love those days. I love the intention. I give full attention to the day. I see with eyes wide open those days. I feel deeply. I laugh, smile, cry. Those days are about the journey--not the destination.
So, today, my to do list includes more.
Spend time with God
See the people around you
Listen carefully
Be intentional about everything
Today will be about the journey.
http://thetodolistforliving.blogspot.com
Other days I am more intentional about living the day and noticing the day, and the beauty, and the meaning, and in seeking God's presence. I love those days. I love the intention. I give full attention to the day. I see with eyes wide open those days. I feel deeply. I laugh, smile, cry. Those days are about the journey--not the destination.
So, today, my to do list includes more.
Spend time with God
See the people around you
Listen carefully
Be intentional about everything
Today will be about the journey.
http://thetodolistforliving.blogspot.com
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Stepping In To Community: Feeling Alive
I sat in the pews of our Church for three and a half years -- sitting upright, hardly anyone ever talking to me. Sitting and listening and praying. Feeling our pastors and elders are not accessable to the church body, except to the privileged few. I still feel that way, at least a little. While sitting and worshiping without much connection is what I wanted and needed at first, I grew to long for a true community. As Nora Gallagher wrote in her book, "Things Seen and Unseen," I didn't want the "false camaraderie." Rather, I grew to long for community, in all its joy and brokenness.
But I was fearful and tired. Too many times had I found myself stuck between the married, the divorced, and the unmarried. Being married to a non-believer puts you in a category that seems to make you an untouchable to some. Not that others don't want to know you or connect with you -- but I think people don't know how. Married couples look for other Christian couples to connect with; the divorced want to find others who are single and who understand the pain and hope of divorce; the unmarried seemed to be indifferent or maybe even shocked that I would be unequally yoked. Most didn't know my story at all before I felt the pain of the nails of judgment and the loneliness and hurt of being excluded from small gatherings.
No spiritual community at home and no spiritual community at church. Just communion with God and self. A place of pain and darkness at times. But a place of hope and comfort if I would look to Christ.
I felt like I was standing outside a circle of people, all with their backs turned to me. And yet, I felt God's grace.
At one point a few years ago I attended a church members' meeting at which the elders brought in a position paper on divorce. While I was not sure -- and I'm still not sure that I agree entirely with the position of the church on the issues of divorce--I found it refreshing and encouraging that the church actually would take a stance and be supportive of those who have divorced.
I spoke up about how I was encouraged, because as a person who was married to a non-believer, I understood the feeling of being marginalized in a community of believers. I don't think I used the word marginalized, but apparently that was the message that came across. At the end of the evening, the Women's Pastor came up to me and said she would love to talk to me further about what I meant. So, we scheduled a lunch date.
I appreciated her effort and concern to bring all women in the community together. She was genuine, a good listener, and engaged. I was encouraged that she would help me find a place in the community -- even if it meant helping me find a group of women who were also married to non-believers.
She did try.
But it was more affirmation that finding a place, if at all, was going to be a long and arduous and very lonely journey. And, that the journey was mine to make, not hers.
Time has passed. And, I am at peace. God has brought some amazing women into my life. They are women like me, who love God, but who are not afraid to talk about
their faith and doubt, joy and brokenness. They have issues with their marriages and families, just like I do. They grapple with the church and its position on so many things, just like I do. I have found community and hope.
God was and is faithful. I feel alive.
But I was fearful and tired. Too many times had I found myself stuck between the married, the divorced, and the unmarried. Being married to a non-believer puts you in a category that seems to make you an untouchable to some. Not that others don't want to know you or connect with you -- but I think people don't know how. Married couples look for other Christian couples to connect with; the divorced want to find others who are single and who understand the pain and hope of divorce; the unmarried seemed to be indifferent or maybe even shocked that I would be unequally yoked. Most didn't know my story at all before I felt the pain of the nails of judgment and the loneliness and hurt of being excluded from small gatherings.
No spiritual community at home and no spiritual community at church. Just communion with God and self. A place of pain and darkness at times. But a place of hope and comfort if I would look to Christ.
I felt like I was standing outside a circle of people, all with their backs turned to me. And yet, I felt God's grace.
At one point a few years ago I attended a church members' meeting at which the elders brought in a position paper on divorce. While I was not sure -- and I'm still not sure that I agree entirely with the position of the church on the issues of divorce--I found it refreshing and encouraging that the church actually would take a stance and be supportive of those who have divorced.
I spoke up about how I was encouraged, because as a person who was married to a non-believer, I understood the feeling of being marginalized in a community of believers. I don't think I used the word marginalized, but apparently that was the message that came across. At the end of the evening, the Women's Pastor came up to me and said she would love to talk to me further about what I meant. So, we scheduled a lunch date.
I appreciated her effort and concern to bring all women in the community together. She was genuine, a good listener, and engaged. I was encouraged that she would help me find a place in the community -- even if it meant helping me find a group of women who were also married to non-believers.
She did try.
But it was more affirmation that finding a place, if at all, was going to be a long and arduous and very lonely journey. And, that the journey was mine to make, not hers.
Time has passed. And, I am at peace. God has brought some amazing women into my life. They are women like me, who love God, but who are not afraid to talk about
their faith and doubt, joy and brokenness. They have issues with their marriages and families, just like I do. They grapple with the church and its position on so many things, just like I do. I have found community and hope.
God was and is faithful. I feel alive.
Friday, January 22, 2010
The Death of A Child: Holding God's Hand Tightly
In an email yesterday, a friend who lost her son in a climbing accident recently wrote to me the following:
I cannot fathom what my friend is experiencing. As a mother, I fear the loss of one of my children more than anything. Those moments when I sent my little girl off for her first overnight, the first time I handed the keys to the car to my son, the first time my son climbed a mountain and when he went to Africa, alone, at the age of 19.
But the picture her words create in my mind is the only one that I feel I would have comfort in. Holding tightly to God's hand and having faith that He will walk you through the valley of darkness. I am certain I would have moments when I would want to lie down on the valley floor and weep. In those moments, I would hope that God would carry me and restore my strength.
That dark valley of the shadow of death does say we walk through it,
but we can't always see through the tears,
so we are trying to hold His hand tightly.
I cannot fathom what my friend is experiencing. As a mother, I fear the loss of one of my children more than anything. Those moments when I sent my little girl off for her first overnight, the first time I handed the keys to the car to my son, the first time my son climbed a mountain and when he went to Africa, alone, at the age of 19.
But the picture her words create in my mind is the only one that I feel I would have comfort in. Holding tightly to God's hand and having faith that He will walk you through the valley of darkness. I am certain I would have moments when I would want to lie down on the valley floor and weep. In those moments, I would hope that God would carry me and restore my strength.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Suze Orman would be Proud Part 2: Refrigerator Postings --Teaching Kids Not to Impulse Buy
Our culture makes it easy to want things now -- credit cards, no down payments on homes. We know where that has gotten us. But, we saw it in our kids, too. Wanting that item they saw on TV or that their best friend just got; asking for things while shopping because the cool packaging caught their eye. So, how do we teach kids not to impulse buy?
Our recipe was simple: A piece of paper, a magnet, and a refrigerator.
If the kids wanted something, they had to write it down on a piece of paper and put the date on it. We then posted the item on the fridge. It stayed there for two weeks. If they still wanted the item at the end of two weeks, they could buy it-- assuming they had enough money. See earlier post "Suze Orman would be Proud: Kids, Money, and Financial Peace."
Our kids rarely ended up buying the items posted.
I don't remember where we learned that trick, but I am grateful for it. It helped the kids and, over the years, it has helped us, too. Nothing like writing down that you want a $15,000 car and posting it on the fridge for two weeks -- only to decide that you really didn't need it or want it that bad after all.
Our recipe was simple: A piece of paper, a magnet, and a refrigerator.
If the kids wanted something, they had to write it down on a piece of paper and put the date on it. We then posted the item on the fridge. It stayed there for two weeks. If they still wanted the item at the end of two weeks, they could buy it-- assuming they had enough money. See earlier post "Suze Orman would be Proud: Kids, Money, and Financial Peace."
Our kids rarely ended up buying the items posted.
I don't remember where we learned that trick, but I am grateful for it. It helped the kids and, over the years, it has helped us, too. Nothing like writing down that you want a $15,000 car and posting it on the fridge for two weeks -- only to decide that you really didn't need it or want it that bad after all.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Thin Space
I seek the thin space
I find peace there
God reveals himself
Vulnerability envelops me
For there, my heart is known
I cannot hide in the pews silently
There I am stripped of worldly coverings
And I meet face to face
Eyes and heart open
I do not live in the thin space
But I return here often
For I long for this place
In between heaven and earth
I find peace there
God reveals himself
Vulnerability envelops me
For there, my heart is known
I cannot hide in the pews silently
There I am stripped of worldly coverings
And I meet face to face
Eyes and heart open
I do not live in the thin space
But I return here often
For I long for this place
In between heaven and earth
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Suze Orman would be Proud: Kids, Money, and Family Peace
Suze Orman would be proud: Kids, Money, and Family Peace.
Teaching Kids about Money: Tip Number 1 – Decide what categories of things you think your kids should have to make a purchasing decision about, give them an annual budget, and help them plan. Best thing I ever did as a parent. Here’s why.
I remember dreading going to the store when my kids were young—I don’t mean infants or toddlers, they were easy then, they didn’t know how to beg me to buy them the cool foods or the nifty toys they spotted at the check-out stand. They didn’t know how to negotiate, and negotiate, and negotiate again. They also hadn’t been mesmerized by the toy companies that relentlessly targeted kids in their TV commercials.
So, the kids learned to want. To want this or that cool action figure. Or that awesome new truck. Or that lovely new video-game. Or, just about anything they set their eyes on.
It wasn’t that my kids wanted any more—or any less—than other American kids (or adults). But, the shopping excursions exhausted me. Come to think of it, the pre-shopping build up exhausted me, too. “When are we going to the store again? “ “When we go to the store next, can I get the new [fill in the blank awesome toy that all my friends have]?”
I hated sounding like a broken record. “No.” “Please don’t ask.” “Sorry, I don’t have the money for that right now.” “You’ll have to wait for a birthday and see if you still want it.” “We’ll see.”
Aside from these shopping related interactions with my kids, life was good. So, I decided we needed to find a way to fix the problem. The problem: the kids and I were in a struggle over what the boundaries were with money. And, it wasn’t appropriate or practical to sit down and have a heart to heart about the value of money, how much we had to spend, what it means to want v. need. Let’s face it, it would be nice, but that is just not the reality with kids.
So, my husband and I wrote down all those things that we provided to the kids that were important to the kids and us, but that were essentially “wants” not “needs.” The list included: clothes, other than school clothes and the basics like coats, shoes, undies, and socks; summer camp tuition; movies and other activities with friends; dining out; books; toys; gifts for friends and family; and, a few others (depending on the age and gender of the child).
Next we added up what we spent annually on these things and then sharpened our pencils – what should we be spending on these things?
Once we calculated the annual dollar amount, we figured out how that money was spread out over the year. What were monthly expenses or allowances and what were larger annual expenses—like camp tuition. We did this because we wanted to give them a “lump sum” in their bank accounts to cover expected expenses that they would not have time to save for this first year. As I recall, we started the program in January, but tuition for camp was due in February, and we had already planned for the kids to attend camp. So, we started them with the camp tuition in January. The next year, of course, they had to save for camp tuition and other large expenses.
So, we gave the kids an annual dollar amount, gave them a “lump sum” (about 3 months worth) up front, and then gave them a monthly “allowance.”
The next--and final-- step was talking to the kids – explaining the plan, why we had it, and laying out the rules. Kids like rules – bright line rules provide a sense of security. And, for my kids, it made them happier. We sat down with the kids explained the plan. They were excited. And, they liked the rules:
They were responsible for certain types of purchases and activities. We gave them the list.
We told them that they could not ask us to purchase for them any of the items on the list.
We gave them a list of what certain things cost – like movies, camp, shoes, ski lift tickets.
We told them that when they ran out of money they could not ask for more.
We helped them figure out how much they would have to save every month to buy certain items or to have enough set aside for camp or other large expenses.
We told them that we were not going out to dinner unless everyone in the family wanted to pay for their own. Or, if a child wanted to take the family out to dinner with his or her money, that was fine.
We told them that we would always shop at the grocery store from a list. They could not ask us to buy foods at the store that were not on the list. But, they could buy the items themselves—if that was what they wanted to spend their money on.
The result: no more conflict over money. Period. Shopping was relaxing. We had no pre-shopping build up.
The kids often asked us to help them figure out what they could afford to buy – and when they bought things, they learned to shop for bargains. This also opened the door for us to talk about saving for big purchases or giving to a charity or church, which both of the kids chose to do. I remember when my son wanted a new pair of swim trunks – which we didn’t think he needed. So, he went shopping. He found a few pairs he liked and ultimately bought the pair that was on sale for 40% off. He was so proud of himself and his purchase.
The money plan was rewarding for us all and gave us all much more peace and certainty around money issues!
I’ve shared this idea with several friends – one told me I saved her life. A bit of an overstatement, to say the least; but, I smiled when she told me, because I remember the sense of peace this plan gave our family. Suze Orman would be proud!
Teaching Kids about Money: Tip Number 1 – Decide what categories of things you think your kids should have to make a purchasing decision about, give them an annual budget, and help them plan. Best thing I ever did as a parent. Here’s why.
I remember dreading going to the store when my kids were young—I don’t mean infants or toddlers, they were easy then, they didn’t know how to beg me to buy them the cool foods or the nifty toys they spotted at the check-out stand. They didn’t know how to negotiate, and negotiate, and negotiate again. They also hadn’t been mesmerized by the toy companies that relentlessly targeted kids in their TV commercials.
So, the kids learned to want. To want this or that cool action figure. Or that awesome new truck. Or that lovely new video-game. Or, just about anything they set their eyes on.
It wasn’t that my kids wanted any more—or any less—than other American kids (or adults). But, the shopping excursions exhausted me. Come to think of it, the pre-shopping build up exhausted me, too. “When are we going to the store again? “ “When we go to the store next, can I get the new [fill in the blank awesome toy that all my friends have]?”
I hated sounding like a broken record. “No.” “Please don’t ask.” “Sorry, I don’t have the money for that right now.” “You’ll have to wait for a birthday and see if you still want it.” “We’ll see.”
Aside from these shopping related interactions with my kids, life was good. So, I decided we needed to find a way to fix the problem. The problem: the kids and I were in a struggle over what the boundaries were with money. And, it wasn’t appropriate or practical to sit down and have a heart to heart about the value of money, how much we had to spend, what it means to want v. need. Let’s face it, it would be nice, but that is just not the reality with kids.
So, my husband and I wrote down all those things that we provided to the kids that were important to the kids and us, but that were essentially “wants” not “needs.” The list included: clothes, other than school clothes and the basics like coats, shoes, undies, and socks; summer camp tuition; movies and other activities with friends; dining out; books; toys; gifts for friends and family; and, a few others (depending on the age and gender of the child).
Next we added up what we spent annually on these things and then sharpened our pencils – what should we be spending on these things?
Once we calculated the annual dollar amount, we figured out how that money was spread out over the year. What were monthly expenses or allowances and what were larger annual expenses—like camp tuition. We did this because we wanted to give them a “lump sum” in their bank accounts to cover expected expenses that they would not have time to save for this first year. As I recall, we started the program in January, but tuition for camp was due in February, and we had already planned for the kids to attend camp. So, we started them with the camp tuition in January. The next year, of course, they had to save for camp tuition and other large expenses.
So, we gave the kids an annual dollar amount, gave them a “lump sum” (about 3 months worth) up front, and then gave them a monthly “allowance.”
The next--and final-- step was talking to the kids – explaining the plan, why we had it, and laying out the rules. Kids like rules – bright line rules provide a sense of security. And, for my kids, it made them happier. We sat down with the kids explained the plan. They were excited. And, they liked the rules:
They were responsible for certain types of purchases and activities. We gave them the list.
We told them that they could not ask us to purchase for them any of the items on the list.
We gave them a list of what certain things cost – like movies, camp, shoes, ski lift tickets.
We told them that when they ran out of money they could not ask for more.
We helped them figure out how much they would have to save every month to buy certain items or to have enough set aside for camp or other large expenses.
We told them that we were not going out to dinner unless everyone in the family wanted to pay for their own. Or, if a child wanted to take the family out to dinner with his or her money, that was fine.
We told them that we would always shop at the grocery store from a list. They could not ask us to buy foods at the store that were not on the list. But, they could buy the items themselves—if that was what they wanted to spend their money on.
The result: no more conflict over money. Period. Shopping was relaxing. We had no pre-shopping build up.
The kids often asked us to help them figure out what they could afford to buy – and when they bought things, they learned to shop for bargains. This also opened the door for us to talk about saving for big purchases or giving to a charity or church, which both of the kids chose to do. I remember when my son wanted a new pair of swim trunks – which we didn’t think he needed. So, he went shopping. He found a few pairs he liked and ultimately bought the pair that was on sale for 40% off. He was so proud of himself and his purchase.
The money plan was rewarding for us all and gave us all much more peace and certainty around money issues!
I’ve shared this idea with several friends – one told me I saved her life. A bit of an overstatement, to say the least; but, I smiled when she told me, because I remember the sense of peace this plan gave our family. Suze Orman would be proud!
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Love Haiti
This week, the world has joined together for the people of Haiti. The long suffering this country has endured, turned to tragedy this week when a 7.0 magnitude earthquake struck near the capital city of Port-au-Prince. In a country with no building codes and a poorly developed infrastructure, the devastation has been beyond my own understanding. People buried alive in buildings, no water or electricity. For those injured, no basic medical care, and no anesthesia or pain medication or even aspirin. I feel as though I can hear the wailing in the streets--moaning in pain, wailing in grief, crying out to God or man or anyone who will listen.
The world has listened and help has come. But it has been difficult and slow and not enough. The airport was severely damaged and the roads are damaged and blocked and there are few heavy machines to move the debris--and those that are there, are focused on trying to remove debris of fallen, occupied buildings, in hopes of finding survivors. Help has come, but it is not enough for every man, woman, and child in Haiti. More will die. More will suffer. And the poverty and disease that has plagued the people of Haiti forever will continue.
It is overwhelming what this tiny country needs. As if its needs were not enough before, this earthquake--God's handy work--made them unfathomable. Needs so great that the world could not ignore Haiti any more.
I have found that I long to help. And, I long for news--small pieces of good news. News of doctors helping even one person. News that a mother is reunited with her child. News money, and supplies, and help is pouring in. I long for this news and I thank God. Such devastation shows the human capacity for love. The capacity for compassion and hope. The capacity for faith. And, it reveals the fragility and resilience--all at once--of the human spirit.
But, why does it take unfathomable tragedy to open our eyes -- to love Haiti? Haiti has needed the world to stand up and take action for decades. I worry that, in a few days or weeks, the world--myself included--will forget Haiti.
We just can't.
But we are so comfortable and so far removed from Haiti. It is as though we are looking down on it from mountaintops. It is distant and tiny and beyond our reach. Haiti's circumstances are beyond our understanding.
But the truth is, we can't forget Haiti. We need to sustain our love for her people and her culture. Dr. Paul Farmer, the founder of Partners in Health, a non-profit organization that has worked extensively in Haiti, is a model of what should be done. His organization operates on the basis that the obligation to those who face such tragedy is both medical and moral--that we should treat the people of Haiti the way we would treat a member of our own family--or ourselves--by doing "whatever it takes" to make them whole.
I am inspired by their work and their mission. I'm not a doctor, so I don't have the medical skills to help. I'm not a search and rescue trained disaster relief worker. But, I am capable of humbly stepping up to try to be in some small way the hands and feet of Christ. I can be part of the team that stands beside Haiti and do whatever it takes.
In his blog post this week, Dr. Dan Diamond, who arrived in Haiti yesterday with Medical Teams Northwest, reminds me that the work of each person, in any capacity, is significant. He describes what an honor it is to be one of the people going to Haiti to help on the ground there -- yet, he sees not his sacrifice, but the sacrifice and efforts of others who have made it possible for him to go:
"Going on a trip like this is similar to being an astronaut on the space shuttle. As the rocket is beginning to rumble and lift off of the launchpad they must be aware of the fact that they are the fortunate folks that have the honor of the ride. They know full well that they didn't build the rocket. It takes an army of people to make a relief effort like this even possible. Thank you to the folks at Medical Teams International for their never ending commitment to being there when they are needed. I am blessed by your work and pray that we will be a blessing to the people of Haiti."
And so, I pray now for the people of Haiti. And, I am thankful that the world has demonstrated its love for Haiti -- to relieve the suffering of so many. And I pray that we all--individually and as nations--will find the capacity to sustain our love for Haiti whether we serve as "astronaut" or one of the "army of people" who prepares the way for the astronaut. I pray that we will do whatever it takes for as long as it takes.
If you are interested in reading the inspiring story of Paul Farmer's work in Haiti, please read Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder. It not only tells of Farmer's work, but illustrates the model for effective and efficient efforts to truly create sustainable and meaningful change. Farmer's organization, Partners in Health, based in Boston, can be found at pih.org
If you are interested in following Dr. Dan Diamond's blog and work in Haiti, please follow this link to his blog at:
http://www.powerdyme.com/dan-diamond-powerdyme-blog.html
The world has listened and help has come. But it has been difficult and slow and not enough. The airport was severely damaged and the roads are damaged and blocked and there are few heavy machines to move the debris--and those that are there, are focused on trying to remove debris of fallen, occupied buildings, in hopes of finding survivors. Help has come, but it is not enough for every man, woman, and child in Haiti. More will die. More will suffer. And the poverty and disease that has plagued the people of Haiti forever will continue.
It is overwhelming what this tiny country needs. As if its needs were not enough before, this earthquake--God's handy work--made them unfathomable. Needs so great that the world could not ignore Haiti any more.
I have found that I long to help. And, I long for news--small pieces of good news. News of doctors helping even one person. News that a mother is reunited with her child. News money, and supplies, and help is pouring in. I long for this news and I thank God. Such devastation shows the human capacity for love. The capacity for compassion and hope. The capacity for faith. And, it reveals the fragility and resilience--all at once--of the human spirit.
But, why does it take unfathomable tragedy to open our eyes -- to love Haiti? Haiti has needed the world to stand up and take action for decades. I worry that, in a few days or weeks, the world--myself included--will forget Haiti.
We just can't.
But we are so comfortable and so far removed from Haiti. It is as though we are looking down on it from mountaintops. It is distant and tiny and beyond our reach. Haiti's circumstances are beyond our understanding.
But the truth is, we can't forget Haiti. We need to sustain our love for her people and her culture. Dr. Paul Farmer, the founder of Partners in Health, a non-profit organization that has worked extensively in Haiti, is a model of what should be done. His organization operates on the basis that the obligation to those who face such tragedy is both medical and moral--that we should treat the people of Haiti the way we would treat a member of our own family--or ourselves--by doing "whatever it takes" to make them whole.
I am inspired by their work and their mission. I'm not a doctor, so I don't have the medical skills to help. I'm not a search and rescue trained disaster relief worker. But, I am capable of humbly stepping up to try to be in some small way the hands and feet of Christ. I can be part of the team that stands beside Haiti and do whatever it takes.
In his blog post this week, Dr. Dan Diamond, who arrived in Haiti yesterday with Medical Teams Northwest, reminds me that the work of each person, in any capacity, is significant. He describes what an honor it is to be one of the people going to Haiti to help on the ground there -- yet, he sees not his sacrifice, but the sacrifice and efforts of others who have made it possible for him to go:
"Going on a trip like this is similar to being an astronaut on the space shuttle. As the rocket is beginning to rumble and lift off of the launchpad they must be aware of the fact that they are the fortunate folks that have the honor of the ride. They know full well that they didn't build the rocket. It takes an army of people to make a relief effort like this even possible. Thank you to the folks at Medical Teams International for their never ending commitment to being there when they are needed. I am blessed by your work and pray that we will be a blessing to the people of Haiti."
And so, I pray now for the people of Haiti. And, I am thankful that the world has demonstrated its love for Haiti -- to relieve the suffering of so many. And I pray that we all--individually and as nations--will find the capacity to sustain our love for Haiti whether we serve as "astronaut" or one of the "army of people" who prepares the way for the astronaut. I pray that we will do whatever it takes for as long as it takes.
If you are interested in reading the inspiring story of Paul Farmer's work in Haiti, please read Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder. It not only tells of Farmer's work, but illustrates the model for effective and efficient efforts to truly create sustainable and meaningful change. Farmer's organization, Partners in Health, based in Boston, can be found at pih.org
If you are interested in following Dr. Dan Diamond's blog and work in Haiti, please follow this link to his blog at:
http://www.powerdyme.com/dan-diamond-powerdyme-blog.html
Seeking God's Face
Several years ago when my son went to summer camp, I remember thinking that when he came back he had changed. Really changed. I don't mean he was so filthy that I didn't recognize him or that he simply needed a bath to soak off the layers of wilderness that encased his suntanned body. It was as if the wilderness had changed him from the inside out. The impression sticks with me even today. I remember watching him and thinking that he had been transformed. He left as a young boy who had grown up being taught about Christ's love and returned as a young man who now knew God--who understood what it meant to seek God's face. There was a peace about him and an exuberance. I can't describe it, really. It just was.
This wasn't an ordinary summer camp adventure. The program was sponsored by a camp where my son had spent many summer weeks in his younger years. The camp had every possible draw for young boys--a skate park, motor bikes, paint ball, a lake with a huge slide. But this year, this program was new and it was exclusive: 8th grade boys only. And, it was limited to a handful of them. The plan? A group of young men would take a group of younger soon-to-be men out on a 3 week wilderness trip. White water rafting, camping, rock climbing, mountain climbing. But the trip was more. I don't know the specifics of the daily activities--eighth grade boys just don't tell their moms that much--but at the age of 20 my son finally shared with me that it was the first time that he stood on the top of a mountain and wept at the beauty of creation. Until that moment, I didn't understand that eighth grade boys had that capacity.
These young men who lead the trip understood. As we dropped our son off at camp that first evening, all I could think about was that these were middle school boys who laughed most vigorously when one of their bodies expelled a loud noise or a plug-your-nose kind of odor and they were proud of it. They were silly and loud and completely oblivious to the fact that their moms were holding back tears because their boys would be out of communication with them for longer--much longer--than they ever had been. But, the young men who took these soon-to-be-men to the wilderness of western Washington knew what made these middle school boys tick.
While I don't know the specifics of the trip, except the names of the places they traveled and some of the young men and boys who traveled with my son, I do imagine what it was like. Lots of vigorous exercise and learning new skills that required the boys to overcome their deepest fears--water, heights, repelling. Shear exhaustion. Lots of laughter. And evenings around a campfire in reflection about the day and God's plan. I imagine that is what the trip was like because those are the ingredients that seem to help us, as spiritual beings, to draw closer to God so that He might reveal himself. And, those are the moments when we feel free to speak and think because we develop a trust with those we are with. We can let our guard down--we don't need the mask that we put on for the rest of the world. These are the moments that we need--whether we are middle school boys or middle aged women. These are the moments and relationships that, if we look, allow us to see the heart of God. We need the wilderness moments.
I do find those quiet wilderness moments alone, in the early morning hours with my cup of coffee. I find those quiet wilderness moments alone when we go to the beach and I have a chance to walk in God's creation, alone with the wind in my face, and the waves deafening the world around me. It's just me and God and his creation. It is then that I seek and can find God's face. These are my wilderness moments, but they are wilderness moments of solitude with God. The relationships that would help nurture me and sustain me -- the fellowship with others that Christ wants for me--are few. I am too often in the wilderness alone. God reveals himself when I am alone. But, in wilderness moments with others, I have seen how God reveals himself differently. I have see him reflected in the lives and hearts of others. I need that. I need to know that God shows up and lives in the hearts of others around me. I am keenly aware that I need that and I long for those times.
But, that longing has been overshadowed by my fears. I blame myself mostly for being in the wilderness alone rather than with others. I have not been intentional enough about seeking out moments and relationships with others who are on this journey of life. It's been about time, but it has mostly been about fear. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of being rejected. Fear of being judged by Christian women because sometimes I doubt and question my faith. Fear of being judged by Christians because I am married to a man who is not a believer.
With God alone, I know I can doubt and know he loves me anyway. With God alone, I am comforted and assured that I am married to the man I am supposed to spend my life with and love deeply despite our spiritual divide. With others, particularly Christians, I don't know that they will love me anyway. With Christians I don't know that they will understand my marriage. The wilderness feels safer alone. My fears have been stronger than my longings.
My fear is based on experience. In my own brokenness, I have failed to love fully and accept others fully and they me. Those nails of rejection and judgment have left deep and permanent scars that only God's love and grace and mercy can wash away. I have been hurt and hurt others. And so, I have built up a wall, one brick at a time. Slowly at first. But it became easier. Easier than risking letting others know who I was and easier than risking letting God reflect himself in all my vulnerability. Easier than trying to seek God's heart in others.
But now, I am weary. Weary of carrying the cross of fear on my back. Weary of not fully knowing God. The longing now overshadows my fears. And so, I venture out into the wilderness with others and I seek God's face one moment at a time. Removing one brick at a time. But it is hard. For I am not the only one who has chosen fear over longing. I stand in the pews or attend church gatherings. I see masks and walls and barriers of various shapes and colors and sizes.
Those young men who took those loud middle school boys into the wilderness were wise. They were intentional in developing their relationships with these boys and God showed up and revealed himself. They knew the importance of seeking wilderness moments and experiencing wilderness moments with others. I may not get a 3 week outdoor adventure in the wilds of western Washington's rain forests, but I need to intentionally seek God's heart in others. And so, into the wilderness I go seeking God's strength so that I may have the capacity to risk what I have feared. So that I may love others and know God in ways that I have longed to know him all these years.
This wasn't an ordinary summer camp adventure. The program was sponsored by a camp where my son had spent many summer weeks in his younger years. The camp had every possible draw for young boys--a skate park, motor bikes, paint ball, a lake with a huge slide. But this year, this program was new and it was exclusive: 8th grade boys only. And, it was limited to a handful of them. The plan? A group of young men would take a group of younger soon-to-be men out on a 3 week wilderness trip. White water rafting, camping, rock climbing, mountain climbing. But the trip was more. I don't know the specifics of the daily activities--eighth grade boys just don't tell their moms that much--but at the age of 20 my son finally shared with me that it was the first time that he stood on the top of a mountain and wept at the beauty of creation. Until that moment, I didn't understand that eighth grade boys had that capacity.
These young men who lead the trip understood. As we dropped our son off at camp that first evening, all I could think about was that these were middle school boys who laughed most vigorously when one of their bodies expelled a loud noise or a plug-your-nose kind of odor and they were proud of it. They were silly and loud and completely oblivious to the fact that their moms were holding back tears because their boys would be out of communication with them for longer--much longer--than they ever had been. But, the young men who took these soon-to-be-men to the wilderness of western Washington knew what made these middle school boys tick.
While I don't know the specifics of the trip, except the names of the places they traveled and some of the young men and boys who traveled with my son, I do imagine what it was like. Lots of vigorous exercise and learning new skills that required the boys to overcome their deepest fears--water, heights, repelling. Shear exhaustion. Lots of laughter. And evenings around a campfire in reflection about the day and God's plan. I imagine that is what the trip was like because those are the ingredients that seem to help us, as spiritual beings, to draw closer to God so that He might reveal himself. And, those are the moments when we feel free to speak and think because we develop a trust with those we are with. We can let our guard down--we don't need the mask that we put on for the rest of the world. These are the moments that we need--whether we are middle school boys or middle aged women. These are the moments and relationships that, if we look, allow us to see the heart of God. We need the wilderness moments.
I do find those quiet wilderness moments alone, in the early morning hours with my cup of coffee. I find those quiet wilderness moments alone when we go to the beach and I have a chance to walk in God's creation, alone with the wind in my face, and the waves deafening the world around me. It's just me and God and his creation. It is then that I seek and can find God's face. These are my wilderness moments, but they are wilderness moments of solitude with God. The relationships that would help nurture me and sustain me -- the fellowship with others that Christ wants for me--are few. I am too often in the wilderness alone. God reveals himself when I am alone. But, in wilderness moments with others, I have seen how God reveals himself differently. I have see him reflected in the lives and hearts of others. I need that. I need to know that God shows up and lives in the hearts of others around me. I am keenly aware that I need that and I long for those times.
But, that longing has been overshadowed by my fears. I blame myself mostly for being in the wilderness alone rather than with others. I have not been intentional enough about seeking out moments and relationships with others who are on this journey of life. It's been about time, but it has mostly been about fear. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of being rejected. Fear of being judged by Christian women because sometimes I doubt and question my faith. Fear of being judged by Christians because I am married to a man who is not a believer.
With God alone, I know I can doubt and know he loves me anyway. With God alone, I am comforted and assured that I am married to the man I am supposed to spend my life with and love deeply despite our spiritual divide. With others, particularly Christians, I don't know that they will love me anyway. With Christians I don't know that they will understand my marriage. The wilderness feels safer alone. My fears have been stronger than my longings.
My fear is based on experience. In my own brokenness, I have failed to love fully and accept others fully and they me. Those nails of rejection and judgment have left deep and permanent scars that only God's love and grace and mercy can wash away. I have been hurt and hurt others. And so, I have built up a wall, one brick at a time. Slowly at first. But it became easier. Easier than risking letting others know who I was and easier than risking letting God reflect himself in all my vulnerability. Easier than trying to seek God's heart in others.
But now, I am weary. Weary of carrying the cross of fear on my back. Weary of not fully knowing God. The longing now overshadows my fears. And so, I venture out into the wilderness with others and I seek God's face one moment at a time. Removing one brick at a time. But it is hard. For I am not the only one who has chosen fear over longing. I stand in the pews or attend church gatherings. I see masks and walls and barriers of various shapes and colors and sizes.
Those young men who took those loud middle school boys into the wilderness were wise. They were intentional in developing their relationships with these boys and God showed up and revealed himself. They knew the importance of seeking wilderness moments and experiencing wilderness moments with others. I may not get a 3 week outdoor adventure in the wilds of western Washington's rain forests, but I need to intentionally seek God's heart in others. And so, into the wilderness I go seeking God's strength so that I may have the capacity to risk what I have feared. So that I may love others and know God in ways that I have longed to know him all these years.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Adoption, Hope, God, and Heritage
I'm adopted. I was proud of it as a kid because it made me different and people always asked me about it. What did I know about my birth mom? Why were you adopted? Do you have any siblings? It was cool, at least on the surface.
I remember driving home from a trip to visit my Grandmother. For some reason my sister, who was 22 months older and also adopted, wasn't with us. Dad was driving the green 1970-something sedan, Mom sat in the front passenger seat, and I sat in the seat directly behind her. From the safety of the back seat, where mom would have to turn around to an uncomfortable position to look me in the eye, I finally found the courage to ask. "Mom, what do you and Dad know about my adoption?" I could see Mom take a breath and she turned a little. "What do you want to know?" I don't recall what I said then -- but I know I wanted to know anything they knew. Every detail. I hated that I didn't look like anyone. I wondered why I was left handed and blond. I wanted to know if I had siblings or a father that knew about me. I wanted to know if my mother cried at the drop of a hat like I did and whether she loved sports and ice cream or was afraid of the dark.
So Mom told me all they knew. Very little. They were told that she was single and had moved to the Seattle area to work for the phone company when she found out she was pregnant. Her fiance was Catholic, but had been killed in an accident of some kind. She had gone through classes to become Catholic before they were to be married, but the accident cut things short. Mom didn't know if my father ever knew about me. I was offered to another family first. But, the attorney told Mom and Dad that when the family found out I was Irish and 1/32 Cherokee Indian, they decided they didn't want me -- they didn't want a "mixed race" baby. So, the attorney called Dad at work the day I was born and told him there was this little girl that needed a home. He left work early to tell Mom. They decided to take me. That was all they knew. Who knew whether any of it was true. And, it really didn't answer any of the questions I had.
A few years later, a guy I dated for a short time while in college, asked me, "So what is your heritage?" I remember it vividly. I lived in a beautiful sorority house. When male visitors would come by to see us, there were only a few places we could visit. The favorite was a small window seat in a small alcove in the front entry of the house. It had dim lighting and had just enough room for two people to sit and visit. When he asked me the question, I thought it was rather harmless and I jumped at the opportunity to share with him my adoption story. When I was done telling that young man my story, such as it was, he said. "Wow. So you really don't have any heritage." To him, it wasn't cool that I was adopted. Not even on the surface. The message of his response, at least as I took it at that moment was: heritage matters, you don't have one; therefore, you don't matter. That comment haunted me for years. And, in some ways, I think it became a subtle but significant force behind who I sought to become.
If I didn't have a heritage, then I would create my own. I didn't want to ever feel insignificant because I didn't matter in someone's eyes. In hind sight, of course, that young man, whose name I even struggle to remember, probably meant no harm.
At 22, I began the search for my birth mom. I attended a meeting hosted by an organization called Washington Adoptee Rights Movement (WARM). I remember it was in this room in a building on the port of Seattle. It was dark and sterile and cold. But a friend came with me, which gave me some comfort. I don't recall much about the meeting except there was information about searching in Washington. A few people introduced themselves -- as birth mothers or adoptees -- and told stories of their successful searches and reunions. I felt hope and a longing to know my birth mother. A longing to know my heritage. A longing to thank my birth mother for this life. I could hardly wait.
I also remember a statistic I learned that night -- only 5% of birth mothers don't want contact with their children. Wow. It never dawned on me that my birth mother might be among that 5%. But she was. I did a search, through a confidential intermediary--which is how you get access to closed adoption records in Washington. It took several years to get to the top of the list to be assigned a confidential intermediary, but after that the waiting was less than a year. The intermediary petitioned for my adoption records to be opened. Based on that record, she learned my birth mother's name and eventually found her. She called me the night she made the phone call. My birth mother was terse. She had never known I was a girl. She wasn't married currently, but had been. My birth father had been the love of her life. There had been an accident. He never knew she was pregnant. No one in her family--including her mother, who was still alive--knew about me. She was never able to have children after me because of complications following my birth. She didn't want to meet me. She didn't want to tell me anything. She didn't want to know anything about me.
I learned a little bit more about her -- she was blond like me and about my height and build. She was raised Baptist and was the youngest of seven children. The first and only one to go to high school. Her father had died from heart disease. My birth father was Catholic. One of two children. An athlete. His father had died of TB. The file indicated I was a "mixed race" baby. (are you kidding me, mixed race, really? who isn't mixed race?). That was my heritage.
I grieved for a long time. I felt a deep sense of loss because I would never know either my birth mom or my birth father. I cried, I was angry, I was hurt. I longed to know them. Deep down, I kept up hope that she would change her mind. I knew she was alive so I had reason to hope.
Several years later, after I had children, I even convinced the intermediary to try to contact my birth mom again. Maybe now she would want to know me.
The intermediary found her again--it took a while, she had changed her name.
But this time, my birth mother slammed the door. It was none of my business. Any of it.
My hope ended. As painful as that was, it was what I needed. I had closure even if I had no information. I was who I was, in part, because I didn't have a heritage. I needed to move forward and respect my birth mother's decision.
While I moved forward, it took several years for the pain to fade. A woman's retreat is where the veil of pain was lifted and I finally found peace. I remember that moment. In a time of reflection following the events of the day and time spent meeting with a guest speaker, I had an epiphany. I felt a flood of joy and peace come over me and the words, "you are a child of God." I had heard those words spoken before, but I never really considered their significance to my life. I am first a child of God, and only second a child of a woman who had no room in her life for me or the child of a man and woman who chose to love me and raise me. My heritage was God's heritage. I can think of no better Father than the one who loves me unconditionally.
While I still rest in the comfort that I am a child of God first, I still carry the old tattered me around. The me who strove to do well, strove to impress, worried about what others thought. The me who worked so hard to create a heritage or legacy that I could point to as mine--seeking the praise and acceptance of others. But I've been slowly shedding that weight. I remember that I need to rely on God more and seek His purpose for my life. I stumble with the weight still, but He is present, and He catches me if I look to Him for help.
And, now, I am more certain than I was as a child that being adopted really is cool--after all, it was part of my Father's plan for my life.
I remember driving home from a trip to visit my Grandmother. For some reason my sister, who was 22 months older and also adopted, wasn't with us. Dad was driving the green 1970-something sedan, Mom sat in the front passenger seat, and I sat in the seat directly behind her. From the safety of the back seat, where mom would have to turn around to an uncomfortable position to look me in the eye, I finally found the courage to ask. "Mom, what do you and Dad know about my adoption?" I could see Mom take a breath and she turned a little. "What do you want to know?" I don't recall what I said then -- but I know I wanted to know anything they knew. Every detail. I hated that I didn't look like anyone. I wondered why I was left handed and blond. I wanted to know if I had siblings or a father that knew about me. I wanted to know if my mother cried at the drop of a hat like I did and whether she loved sports and ice cream or was afraid of the dark.
So Mom told me all they knew. Very little. They were told that she was single and had moved to the Seattle area to work for the phone company when she found out she was pregnant. Her fiance was Catholic, but had been killed in an accident of some kind. She had gone through classes to become Catholic before they were to be married, but the accident cut things short. Mom didn't know if my father ever knew about me. I was offered to another family first. But, the attorney told Mom and Dad that when the family found out I was Irish and 1/32 Cherokee Indian, they decided they didn't want me -- they didn't want a "mixed race" baby. So, the attorney called Dad at work the day I was born and told him there was this little girl that needed a home. He left work early to tell Mom. They decided to take me. That was all they knew. Who knew whether any of it was true. And, it really didn't answer any of the questions I had.
A few years later, a guy I dated for a short time while in college, asked me, "So what is your heritage?" I remember it vividly. I lived in a beautiful sorority house. When male visitors would come by to see us, there were only a few places we could visit. The favorite was a small window seat in a small alcove in the front entry of the house. It had dim lighting and had just enough room for two people to sit and visit. When he asked me the question, I thought it was rather harmless and I jumped at the opportunity to share with him my adoption story. When I was done telling that young man my story, such as it was, he said. "Wow. So you really don't have any heritage." To him, it wasn't cool that I was adopted. Not even on the surface. The message of his response, at least as I took it at that moment was: heritage matters, you don't have one; therefore, you don't matter. That comment haunted me for years. And, in some ways, I think it became a subtle but significant force behind who I sought to become.
If I didn't have a heritage, then I would create my own. I didn't want to ever feel insignificant because I didn't matter in someone's eyes. In hind sight, of course, that young man, whose name I even struggle to remember, probably meant no harm.
At 22, I began the search for my birth mom. I attended a meeting hosted by an organization called Washington Adoptee Rights Movement (WARM). I remember it was in this room in a building on the port of Seattle. It was dark and sterile and cold. But a friend came with me, which gave me some comfort. I don't recall much about the meeting except there was information about searching in Washington. A few people introduced themselves -- as birth mothers or adoptees -- and told stories of their successful searches and reunions. I felt hope and a longing to know my birth mother. A longing to know my heritage. A longing to thank my birth mother for this life. I could hardly wait.
I also remember a statistic I learned that night -- only 5% of birth mothers don't want contact with their children. Wow. It never dawned on me that my birth mother might be among that 5%. But she was. I did a search, through a confidential intermediary--which is how you get access to closed adoption records in Washington. It took several years to get to the top of the list to be assigned a confidential intermediary, but after that the waiting was less than a year. The intermediary petitioned for my adoption records to be opened. Based on that record, she learned my birth mother's name and eventually found her. She called me the night she made the phone call. My birth mother was terse. She had never known I was a girl. She wasn't married currently, but had been. My birth father had been the love of her life. There had been an accident. He never knew she was pregnant. No one in her family--including her mother, who was still alive--knew about me. She was never able to have children after me because of complications following my birth. She didn't want to meet me. She didn't want to tell me anything. She didn't want to know anything about me.
I learned a little bit more about her -- she was blond like me and about my height and build. She was raised Baptist and was the youngest of seven children. The first and only one to go to high school. Her father had died from heart disease. My birth father was Catholic. One of two children. An athlete. His father had died of TB. The file indicated I was a "mixed race" baby. (are you kidding me, mixed race, really? who isn't mixed race?). That was my heritage.
I grieved for a long time. I felt a deep sense of loss because I would never know either my birth mom or my birth father. I cried, I was angry, I was hurt. I longed to know them. Deep down, I kept up hope that she would change her mind. I knew she was alive so I had reason to hope.
Several years later, after I had children, I even convinced the intermediary to try to contact my birth mom again. Maybe now she would want to know me.
The intermediary found her again--it took a while, she had changed her name.
But this time, my birth mother slammed the door. It was none of my business. Any of it.
My hope ended. As painful as that was, it was what I needed. I had closure even if I had no information. I was who I was, in part, because I didn't have a heritage. I needed to move forward and respect my birth mother's decision.
While I moved forward, it took several years for the pain to fade. A woman's retreat is where the veil of pain was lifted and I finally found peace. I remember that moment. In a time of reflection following the events of the day and time spent meeting with a guest speaker, I had an epiphany. I felt a flood of joy and peace come over me and the words, "you are a child of God." I had heard those words spoken before, but I never really considered their significance to my life. I am first a child of God, and only second a child of a woman who had no room in her life for me or the child of a man and woman who chose to love me and raise me. My heritage was God's heritage. I can think of no better Father than the one who loves me unconditionally.
While I still rest in the comfort that I am a child of God first, I still carry the old tattered me around. The me who strove to do well, strove to impress, worried about what others thought. The me who worked so hard to create a heritage or legacy that I could point to as mine--seeking the praise and acceptance of others. But I've been slowly shedding that weight. I remember that I need to rely on God more and seek His purpose for my life. I stumble with the weight still, but He is present, and He catches me if I look to Him for help.
And, now, I am more certain than I was as a child that being adopted really is cool--after all, it was part of my Father's plan for my life.
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