If you ask a parent what their frustration is about summertime, one issue that might come up is the friction that happens between children when they are together so much more of the time.  Blessed respites are few, unless you are able to put your kids in multiple camps and activities. But for mine, they did not want to go to camps all summer which was fine on the wallet.  But I worried (small worry) that there would be so much bickering that I would put both kids out on the side of the road, dressed in their finest, next to a large sign that said FREE.

My kids have blown me away.  They have certainly bickered, yelled, wrestled and tattled, but no more than normal.  Their friendship has grown exponentially this summer, and when given a choice they choose to play together more than apart.  

One night recently we were in Florida visiting grandparents, and I sat in the chair nearest their room after putting them to bed.  I listened to them chatter and giggle, talking nonsense and singing and sharing what they would do the next day.  They do not share a room anymore at home, so this is treasure for them.  And it was treasure for me.  Oh, their giggles are a balm for my soul.  I prayed for so many years that they would love each other in this way.

A few days prior to this contented scene, I was at my father's house with all but one of my siblings.  Four of us, with spouses and kids and a pool and needs and a rare chance to enjoy each other in person.  My father and his wife hosted us for two days.  In the midst of this great time, I also felt loneliness and sadness and joy all rolled up into one.  

My family is unique in some ways.  I have four siblings, but have lived with only one for a few years due to divorce.  I am second oldest, and yet an only child in many functional ways.  Even with our family fractures, we maintain a sense of closeness with one another that has grown as we get older.  But there are some things that lost to me.

Like two of my siblings are full sisters, and grew up together in the same house.  It is evident in the way they joke, take care of each other, love on each other, understand each other.  They depend on one another, and call each other sister and friend.  They are a few years apart, but it does not really matter at this point.

I grew up sleeping on my own, with no siblings in the house to wrestle, giggle, play or verbally spar.  My brother and I did as much as we could when he visited, but he didn't live close enough for it to happen often.  It was mostly my mother and myself, and later my stepfather.  My fights and wrestling came with people who became family later.

Like the guy who lived with us while attending college in our town.  I drove to the beach with him, offering fewer bruises than I received while we played punch buggy.  

Like my cousin who lived with us a couple times, who is just two weeks younger than me.  We fought better than most siblings, for sure.  

Like my best friend in college, who taught me the fine art of falling asleep while we talked late into the night in our bunk beds.  

I am so grateful to have these other experiences, and to be getting closer to my siblings as we age. But I will never have the experience that my children now have, of learning each other's faces, rhythms, likes, dislikes, and moving so fluidly around each other. Sometimes there is chaos and fighting, and sometimes there is chaos and love.  My children get the treasure of sleepovers in their home, of hiding secrets from mom and dad while they build from their imaginations together.  They are learning so much from one another, and I pray with all my heart that this foundation will sustain them through the many decades ahead.

I used to worry that I was forcing their closeness in order to create something I did not have as a child.  I don't worry about that anymore, because their closeness is not something of mine.  It is a force all its own, and I am just standing in its wake.  The force of which takes up residence on a daily basis next to the quiet loneliness, holding its hand and reminding me that there is more to life than the holes of what we wish had been there.  

Lead by scary, scary example

Today I stuck my face in the water.  I swam with my face underwater without holding my nose.  For many of you, this seems anticlimactic. But let me explain why this is a big deal.

There are some people who thrive in new situations and experiences.  They jump right into the deep end of the pool, immediately stick their leg out for the hokey pokey, and take off with a run on that sled down a steep hill. 

I am not one of these people.

Cautious and perfectionistic are better words to describe me.  I like trying new things but am terrified of doing it “wrong.”  Wasting money on food that I might not like, or looking like a ridiculous fool in front of others?  Either of these is considered anathema in my mind!  Several years ago, in our pre-kid era, my husband decided that he wanted to train in a new taekwondo studio that opened less than a mile from our house.  Ah cool,  I thought, that sounds awesome.  But maybe we don’t have enough money. Maybe I will look silly. Maybe I am not strong enough.  I don’t have those skills.  So even though he wanted me to, I did not join.  Eight months later, as I watched my husband in a testing, I realized that I was mentally correcting the students in their techniques.  I had observed enough over the testing to know when something was done accurately or not; what did this say that I was paying that close of attention? 

So I joined. 

Our master provided three individual sessions to new students to acclimate them to the basic kicks and punches, and I am sure to assess skill level and ability.  I will never forget that first hour with him.  He showed me jabs, crosses, hooks and upper cuts.  I learned front kicks, side kicks, and that kicking and punching from my hip would allow me the greatest force and length (What was punching from your hip?).  At the end of the session, I was soaked in sweat and vulnerability.  At that moment, my master told me to get down and do 20 pushups. 

Excuse me?

I had not done a push up in years, much less twenty of them.  But I got down on my knees, humbled to my shaky and rocky core, and did five.  That was as much as I could do.  I kept my eyes down as I got up slowly, afraid to see disappointment in his eyes.  Why is this girl here, thinking she could keep up in my classes? But I saw invitation in his eyes; they sparkled as he told me I had done well and that we would learn more in our next session.

Four years later, I earned my black belt in taekwondo.  I broke boards, performed tornado kicks, and sparred.  I was flexible and strong and felt like a ninja. 

Flash forward a few years.  This past August, I took my kids to my parents’ house where we swam for ten days straight.  We had been in a cold and mild New England summer, so my kids reveled in the warmth of the sun and the water.  My son loves to swim, but was so cautious about putting his face in the water. I tried to show him, coach him, support him, encourage him. 

But I would not put my face in the water. Where is the ninja now?  I could tell my stories about why, but the truth is I have had years and many opportunities to face my fears.  I just have not. Until now.  I would not put my face in.  

So he would not either.

It was decision time.  I could either continue pushing my sweet son into doing something I would not do, or I could do it myself.  So I put my face in the water and swam. 

I did not die.  I did not choke.  The water did not go up my nose. 

My son encouraged and cheered for me as I came up out of the water, and then the most amazing thing happened.

He put his own face in, and swam like a fish underwater.

I learned that same lesson from taekwondo again that day, one that repeated itself this week when my daughter asked if I would show her a cartwheel.  Motherhood and parenting and leading and mentoring are done by example, as evidenced by my son's ability to swim underwater and my daughter's cartwheel improving by seeing a real one.  YES! I really did a real one.  Many, in fact.  And yes, I am proud. 

A master's twinkling eyes.  A cheering son. An amazed daughter.  All at a woman just trying.

There will always be new things to try and new ways to be vulnerable.  I can throw a mean upper cut but cannot swim like a fish.  But I can try.  That is what I want my kids to see.  Trying can be fun, even when you are not the best or when it makes you tremble like a leaf.  Because it is in the trying that we connect and grow and learn.  These risks teach those we lead that mistakes and trying bring richness and depth to us otherwise unexplored.

I do not want to romanticize.  Trying is hard work, and it takes practice.  Taekwondo taught me that I cannot do spinning kicks without having the feel of where my body needs to be in the turn before I lift off the ground. I also could not have learned that without seeing it done, then practicing, then watching again, and then practicing some more.  Whether it is sharing our stories, doing a tornado kick, turning cartwheels, or swimming underwater, it takes repetition and relationship before it becomes more natural.  Or if it does not become more natural, we become more just for trying.  

Shame storm

Vulnerability is not knowing victory or defeat, it's understanding the necessity of both; it's engaging.  It's being all in.  --Brene Brown, Daring Greatly

My stomach is knotted.  My head feels fuzzy.  My palms are sweating.  Past conversations are reworked with wishes of what I should have said versus what actually came out of my mouth.  Future conversations are played out in my head.  Stop, Jennifer. Stop ruminating.  But none of those people really know me, and do not know what I meant.  They will think less of me. But you are taking up too much wasted time by your words, which are not valuable because you said nothing you actually meant.  What a waste.  Stop thinking about it!  I am going to throw up.  Why can't I let this go????

Florida Bible Camp is where I spent at least one week of every summer from age 9-21.  My second year of camp, I was a chubby fifth grader who had moved states, schools, environments, and social classes two years before.  This was an overnight camp, and I did not know many people other than the two or three kids from my own church.  But I enjoyed making new friends so off I went.  A few days into camp, kids were doling out nicknames and mine came back.

Jabberjaws.

I remember the wash of shame that stole over me as this nickname was given.  I talked too much.  I took up too much space.  I remember not talking much after that, with a hot face most of the time when I did.  This was not a nickname given in fun or enjoyment; it sounded more like a brandishing to just shut up.  I felt as though I did not belong, that I was always on the outside.  Just so we are on the same page, here is a definition of shame. Shame is the "intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging" (Brown, Daring Greatly).  

So I did shut up. For years, in the true sense of who I was.  But it is hard right?  What I have learned about myself is that I am a talker, an external processor.  I do tend to jump in with ideas and thoughts, and while I have more appropriate boundaries and mutuality now, I still am a talker.  Discussion and conversation is where I grow and learn the most rapidly.  It is also still where I experience the most shame and hot-washing moments of regret.  Every time I talk or feel as though I am talking too much, I get embarrassed and feel ashamed for saying anything at all. I worry so much about how people will take my words, because I know the impact words have had on me.  Just when I feel as though I am getting to a place where I am not as shame prone, the rug is pulled and my feet are in the air.

Many of you read this and might think, gosh, she is so sensitive.  You're right, I am.  I am sensitive to my own reactions and to yours too. I am constantly assessing individuals and groups and am always aware to ongoing dynamics.  It is overwhelming at times to feel it all, and yet it is what makes me an effective psychologist.  

But sometimes I miss it.  Sometimes I am all in, and out of tiredness and frustration and impulsivity and naivete I miss it.  I say something wrong or offensive and all of a sudden I don't know where my footing is.  That sense of shame that I felt as a 10 year old girl is back, and I fear. Fear what?  I am not always sure.  But fear it is.  As a psychologist, I know that these are moments we all have and relationships are built on working them through.  But when there is no chance to work it through immediately, or there is no relationship context to provide grace, it is hard to sit in the feelings of shame and uncertainty.  

Brene Brown, in her book Daring Greatly, encourages shame resilience. She says that shame is a common human experience, one that we rarely talk about because it is so intimately vulnerable.  Brown says that one of the things shame resilient people do is call on their people to remind them of their worth and value and help them reason through the storm.  The last few days have been hard, as I have withdrawn and also attempted to look like normal on the outside.  No one usually knows that I feel this way.  This time I reached out to a couple of my people, which helped, and then I was back in the wash as I retreated again.  It is literally like walking around emotionally naked, feeling as exposed as my skin to this cold Massachusetts winter.  Brutal.

The storm is not over. But today as I read the above quote by Brown, I am reminded that I will stumble with people and be misunderstood and there will always be people who choose to walk away or call names or whatever it is that humans do.  But those stumbles happen because I am choosing, now more than ever in my life, to be all in.  That has consequences, and once the storm calms, usually I realize that it blows away the people that I will never have a strong relationship with anyway because of how tenuous or fragile those connections were.

And now, even with all that wonderful cognitive reframing, I will excuse myself to go wipe my underarms from the anxiety of writing this post.  Peace.

Apples and oranges

Eleven years ago, I came home after spending time with a new friend, groaning to my husband that I was not sure this lady and I would be deep friends.  That night my wise man said something that has shifted me for a lifetime.

Not every friend will be the same.  Each of your friends will have a different purpose. Some will be laughing friends, some will be shopping friends, some will be deep friends, and some will be all-around friends.  But you can't expect the same out of each friendship.

This may come intuitively to most of you. But to me, it was such an insight.  I love and crave depth in relationships; small talk is barely tolerable so that we can get to the good stuff.  To go back to the beginning of making friends is like going back to learning to walk after breaking both legs.  You know the goodness, the ease, the richness of using your own legs.  But they don't work the same, and it is depressing.  

Eleven years later, this woman is one of my dearest friends.  Because I let go of expectation and let that friendship be what it was, let it develop into whatever it could be, it deepened and strengthened in ways I never imagined.  Shelly and I are very different women, with different beliefs and interests and personalities.  But we are joined in ways that celebrate these differences.

Shelly showed me how to parent. She had one boy already when we became friends, and another within a couple years.  She was so relaxed and yet attentive, playful and loving yet gave them space to grow.  She and her hubs let us watch their kids over a weekend when the second was only three months old.  Who does that?  She may have been desperate for some sleep, but still?????  She is amazing.  She has showed me over the years how to be faithful to God when working in difficult environments. Shelly is the nurse they call when families need support because of stillbirths or miscarriages or conflict. Her presence of mind and spirit are calming.

Shelly and I met in Illinois.  Our families shared card nights, movies, RibFest at the 4th of July, prayer and small groups, and life in general.  She and her family moved to Texas within weeks of us moving to Ohio, and neither of us knew that we would end up together again in one year in that small town of Abilene.  We shared another five years of life together there.  

We connected over lost babies.  We connected over new babies.  Our baby girls were born a few months apart, and we were present at each others' deliveries (Shelly was infinitely more knowledgable and helpful as my nurse than I to her!).  

This past fall this same sweet friend texted me from South America while her husband was teaching abroad. She shared some symptoms that a few days later were confirmed as ovarian cancer.  A few weeks prior her father-in-law passed away from cancer, and while grieving this loss they now had to navigate foreign hospitals, three nervous children, and a major diagnosis all while attempting to figure out how in the world to get back to Texas.  

Fear spread through me. This same woman, that I at one point did not know if we would be good friends, I am now terrified that I will lose.  This same woman and I have shared fears and joys and mundaneness that make up life, and a depth of friendship I treasure.  She is a warrior, one who has battled cancer head on (hair off) without missing a beat.  Even when she feels terrible, she still parents and directs her kids from her chair.  People have risen up and taken care of them amazingly, and prayers have gone up on their behalf all over the world.  You know why?  Because she is a phenomenal woman who in the middle of her treatments, asked others how she could pray for them.  This is who she is, figuring out faith over fear every day of these last several months.

Shelly's doctors say that the cancer is visibly gone now.  She has three more rounds of awful life-saving chemo to go through, and then she plans to have a major celebration.  I plan to join her, dancing and singing and praising as she learns how to live as a cancer survivor.  

Life is unpredictable.  I am so glad that my husband spoke wisdom over me and this friendship has been cultivated over the last decade.  Our lives would look so different without this family who has impacted us so much.  Iron sharpens iron, and we continue to lift each other up when we need.  Warrior on, Shelly.  

And if you have a new friend who you are not sure about, check your expectations.  You  never know what can develop when you let things grow without trying to make an apple tree into an orange.

Cleaning, Murky Dismal and a happy gray

If you are a child of the 80s, you might recall a character by the name of Rainbow Brite.  She is a happy and delightful girl who has seven color kids and many sprites who help her color the world each day.  Murky Dismal is her nemesis, who loves gray and constantly attempts to destroy Rainbow's efforts for happiness and joy.

Lately, I have seen many memes that say things like Good moms have sticky floors, dirty ovens and happy kids! While I have many friends who like and post these memes, I find myself wondering, are there other moms like me????  Are there others who think that this is slightly all or nothing thinking, and maybe my kids are not depressed or anxious because we happen to have a regularly cleaned home?

I have no problem with other people's messes.  If you read this and think, I will never have her to my house, then you are missing the point.  We often have a mess in our house, laundry piles, and yes, sticky floors.  But here is my issue with this thinking.  What do mothers think when they read this?  What if you are organized and more cleaning-oriented like myself, does this mean that my kids are not happy?

I just think the issue is gray.  Call me Murky, because we are all different and there are so many ways for homes to function.  I am a mother who works part-time from my house.  My children make messes like everyone else's, and there are days when those messes do not get cleared up.  But I am a person who is impacted greatly by my environment, and when things are continually messy and chaotic I feel moody and increasingly frustrated.  It has gotten better over time as my children (and husband!) have forced increased tolerance.  Which is good, as my children do not need to be subjected to my neurosis and never feel as though they can get messy.

But they also need to be taught responsibility for their possessions.  Our household statement with mess is "it is great to make a mess as long as you help clean it up."  They need to realize that they are not the only people who live in our home. They have time where they are responsible for themselves through the day, or they assist me in cleaning and other household chores.  I don't think that they are distressed by this, but they enjoy joining in adult activities as we share time together.

There has been a great deal of emphasis on social media lately about making sure we moms are all in this together, and picture posts of dishes all over the sink, laundry piles that reach mountain status, and PBJ dinners.  I value this so much, and yet I wonder if there are women out there like me who wonder, Am I NOT a good mom because I do clean my house, meal plan, and have less tolerance for ongoing mess?  Am I scarring my kids because we stayed home today and cleaned our house rather than doing something fun or playing games all afternoon?  Maybe if we did that EVERY day.

My kids are happy, messy and wonderful.  I also have kids old enough to create and clean a mess, kids who do not have special needs, I have a part-time job, and I am sure many other differences between other houses and ours.  Each home is unique, and what I want to say clearly is that even without sticky floors and dirty ovens and ever-present laundry piles, you are still a good mother and you likely really have happy kids.  Both are possible.  You can have a clean oven and floors and the laundry mostly done and have happy kids.  You can be a mess lover (I would LOVE  to be like this sometimes) and do art all over your house and clean up the dishes at the end of every couple days and have happy kids.  You can be somewhere in between and have happy kids.


Maybe something like this is more accurate and encompasses all of us who love our children dearly and are more than good enough mothers.  What I like about this is no one's happiness is dependent on it.  And who knows what this means in each house?  It's flexible, and that is something we practice developing in our house alot.

Hopefully I did not just ruin your happiness and joy.  Because this gray is really happy for me.

A Double Life

Today was a hard day.  But it was a fine day.  It depends on which level you look at.

On the surface, today was fine. I got up with the alarm, got dressed before I ate breakfast (does NOT happen often), took out the trash and recycling and herded two children to school.  In the school line to drop off my daughter, I was asked by another mother "how did you have time to paint her nails this morning?" to which my immediate thought is, "I must not be doing it right if I have enough time to do this."  The next two hours were spent grading, then dropping off paperwork to the municipal building and making lunch for two hungry hippos that find their way into my kitchen at least fifty times a day.  While spending time at our table, I watched in fascination as my son completed a crossword puzzle and my daughter drew pictures that two weeks ago she could not do.  They made cards for cousins, friends, and grandparents.  We talked about the uncertainty of life, Boom Beach, and Encyclopedia Brown.  Eden made "medicine" in the sink for her dolls and declared herself a scientist.  My kids giggled and played amazingly well with each other for an unrealisticly long time.  I did not interrupt nor did I see any need to check on them and disrupt my bliss.  We chopped vegetables for dinner and had an appointment with a contractor and ate dinner. 

But there is an undercurrent that flows with the strength of a riptide.  One time when I was a teenager I got caught by a strong undercurrent at my favorite beach. My feet flipped over my head and I could not find the ocean floor for almost a minute. Panic set in as my attempts to right myself failed.  Once I got my feet under me and my mouth above water, gasping for breath, I hoofed it to shore immediately.  Being that out of control was terrifying.  Today I got close to there.

Today was hard. Today was fine.  The undercurrent tells me that what I do on a daily basis is not enough.  It screams that I am not living up to the training and degree I earned.  The undercurrent says that if I do not keep moving professionally, I will never make traction. These thoughts easily give way to my desire to be around people who are my shame resilient folk. My 'people', as my good friend calls us.  These are simply the tip of the iceberg thoughts that lead to other thoughts and feelings of the last year that if given voice, might lead me to that same panic place of being out of control in the ocean.

I miss familiarity. I crave being with people who know me well. I miss hanging out with people easily, as in we can go to a  movie or lunch or a hot drink or a walk without having to schedule three weeks in advance.  I miss trusting that people will say yes to being with me. I  miss Southern accents.  I miss a church that is liturgically home, spiritually home, familially home.  I miss that small section of our huge church that holds the bodies of those in "our church."  I miss hugs and conversations that flow rather than are awkward, wondering what the next turn will be or if there will be a connection that leads to future easier conversations. I wonder if life here will ever feel like my feet are planted.

One year ago my life turned upside down.  I moved away from many people that I love, from a town that nestled its way into the furthest corners of my heart, from people who inspired me to live a life beyond myself.  On some days, this place that I have come to feels as foreign as a different country with new rules and groups and ideas and expectations.  Days like today, I feel it.  On the surface, my life is good.  I have a great family, kids who are growing exponentially, and we are developing new friendships. But there is nothing like being known, being with people who know your stories, whose love you trust and it inspires you to lean more into who you are no matter what because it is enough.  The process of establishing yourself all over again in so many domains is incredibly hard and long, and as I get older it is exponentially more draining.

Today was fine. Today was hard. And this is pretty much my life every day right now.  

From the mouths of babes

A few weeks ago, my daughter began changing the words to Jesus Loves the Little Children. Her little voice began carrying throughout our house and at bedtime, “Mary loves the little children.”  At first, this really struck me as odd and I felt squirmy inside when she sang it.  One night at bedtime she was insistent on singing her version, but faltered when she got to the verse about Mary dying or raising.  I talked with her about how Mary can love and pray for all of us, but not die and raise for our forgiveness because she was not God.  She cried when she realized that Mary had died and was in heaven.

I was raised in a Protestant tradition that belittled and condemned those who worshipped Mary.  She was “simply” the mother of Jesus, which was a position that was not intended for any special treatment.  She was relegated to a position of subjugation, as all other women of the Bible were. Deborah was chosen as a judge but that was an exception to the rules of leadership at the time.  Philip’s four daughters prophesied but it was again an exception to the rule.  The dominant gender for God and his most important followers were male. 

When I was in college, I interned with the youth at a church and went with them as a counselor for a week to the camp I had attended myself.  One of the girls in my group wanted to be baptized, and requested that I be the one to baptize her.  Though it was affirmed by the youth minister and another deacon from a different church (both male), it spawned an awful fight in the unseen world that night.  I was told that by baptizing this young woman, I had put her soul in grave danger.  This was one of my first realizations that maybe I did not fit into this tradition in which I had been raised.  There was so much fear of women in a “leadership” role.  Baptizing someone did not seem like a leadership role to me!  It was a conduit role, one where I am not doing the real work of salvation but witnessing to this amazing commitment the young girl made.  The real work was done by the Holy Spirit interacting with this precious girl as she made her choice to follow Jesus.  Yet, I was the one who had connected with her that summer. Why did it seem so threatening that I would be the one to let her down and up out of the water?

Later in graduate school, I would draw a responsive picture of God nurturing a young woman, her head in the lap of a grandmotherly type lady who was softly touching her hair.  Clearly, this God was not male.  “His” identity was changing as I began to understand that God was not one gendered identity, but the fullness and best expression of both male and female.  “Humankind was created as God’s reflection; in the divine image God created them; male and female, He created them.” Genesis 1:27

My daughter has a strong gender identity.  She likes being a girl, she identifies with girls, and when she reads her Bible she primarily picks out the stories about women.  At four, she is trying to figure out her place in God’s narrative, and it is vital for her to know that she is accepted.  Not just second place, and certainly not peripheral.  This is the beauty of the gospel to me; we are all accepted, we are all beloved, and there is no second place.  We all come in first because God’s mother/father love brings us all into that special circle of intimacy with him. 

So each night I put her to bed we sing these verses:

Mary loves the little children, all the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in her sight, Mary loves the little children of the world.

Jesus died for all the children, all the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight, Jesus died for all the children of the world.

Jesus rose for all the children, all the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight, Jesus rose for all the children of the world.

Mary prays for all the children, all the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in her sight, Mary prays for all the children of the world.

And while it might not be the most theologically sound in your eyes, my daughter’s radiant face as we sing this together shows me that she is getting it somewhere deep inside that both men and women are highly favored to this God of ours.