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.  

Finding your voice in kickboxing

Two days ago I was in a kickboxing class with a multitude of women: young, old, different ethnicities, pregnant, tall, short, thin, stocky.  Everyone dressed in their comfy clothes for 45 minutes of getting our butts handed to us by the peppy instructor who is actually really awesome.  Music is intense, with strong beats encourages us to keep going when we really want to quit.  But the room is quiet otherwise, and this is what stands out to me.

Years ago, I trained in taekwondo under an amazing master, who I always refer to as Sabumnim (Korean for master).  Before you entered group classes, Sabumnim spent three individual sessions teaching you the basic kicks and punches, as well as language necessary to participate well in class.  One of my first lessons was the “kihap”, and it startled me as to the strength with which Sabumnim communicated.  The kihap is the sound made when striking.  It felt awkward and weird to be so LOUD.  Sabumnim touched my stomach lightly, told me to yell from there, and encouraged me until I was so loud I was hoarse.  Honestly, it felt embarrassing to be that loud. Taking up that much space in the room and announcing my presence felt like putting on shoes a size too small.  But you know why he said it was so important?

All your power in your strike comes from your kihap.

Of course, I was skeptical.  A voice and muscles are totally separate, right?  But the more I trained, the more this statement became reality.  When our strikes were off and sloppy, he would yell for us to kihap and we would, and immediately our strikes were strong and sharp.  There is something about the release from both the voice and the body that combines into something powerful and effective.  

For a woman who struggled with voice personally, as well as living in a society where my female voice was discouraged, this was like a lightning bolt to my system. 

Kickboxing is awesome because I get out a lot of my extra energy and unnecessary anxiety that builds up throughout the day.  Wednesdays I am a much better mom to my kids and woman to society because of this class.  Maybe it is because I can take up space and move with solidity around others.  But I wonder how much better it would be if the whole class was shouting as well as striking, and what kind of women would walk out of the studio into this world that desperately needs the feminine voice for balance.   Voices that come from a point of grounded power instead of desperation to be heard are likely more effective, as it is rooted in the belief that our voices matter instead of working so hard to get others to believe our voices matter. 

Your voice matters.  Speak loudly. Take up space.  Find power in your kihap.

Experimenting with vulnerability

My mother loves to tell about how I made up songs and stories when I was little, particularly one where I created a marvelous diddy about a doorknob.  Singing and story came naturally to me, I suppose, as a child.  Books were my friends and companions, my teachers and my rejuvenation.  One time as discipline, Mom took away my books for two weeks. I remember sitting in front of my bookshelf, pining to read, gazing longingly at them.  That was the worst punishment I ever had.

In high school, I sang in the chorus and participated in theater. I was average, at best, in these endeavors.  I always felt a little behind, less polished and refined than my peers. When I was a senior, I thought I knew what I wanted to do with my life when I settled into AP Psychology.  I LOVED that class.  And yes, today I am a psychologist.  But one little fact has rested with me for years, in the same jar I keep all my other secret comments that I take out and hold on crappy days.

I took AP English that same senior year.  Our teacher was cranky and quirky, with long toenails that edged out over her Birkenstocks.  She wore those gross shoes every single day.  I remember reading stories like Beowulf and A Prayer for Owen Meany, and writing and reading poetry.  Sitting down at the end of the year to my AP English exam was painful; it was the last one and tiredness was threatening to overwhelm.  I remember writing, and the cramps that resulted from actually using my hands (do they even still use blue books????), and then the next memory is the results coming in.

AP Psychology: 3

AP History: 4

AP English: 5

Now if you are not familiar with Advanced Placement scoring, you might think, wow that girl busted all of those with awful scores. But the best score you could get was a 5, and there it was on my writing.  It was not on the one I had pinned my career hopes, but on the one that housed my creativity and passion.  

Those do not pay the bills.  Nor are they believed in, respected, or supported as adolescents age and move toward college.  So psychology is where I stayed, and I believe that my gifts are well suited and have flourished within it.  But this is the feedback I have gotten over the years since that score, from a variety of people.

You have a way with words.  

You should write.

Have you ever thought about writing Bible studies?

When are you going to have a podcast?

When are you going to blog again?

Of course you should write a book.

You have wisdom beyond your years.

Hearing these across the years planted a secret garden inside of me.  But I would not tend it often, and when I did, it was through a hailstorm of shame phrases.  

Others are more eloquent.

There are so many voices, who needs another one?

Your thoughts are no good to put out there.

No one will read what you write.

You have no idea what you are doing.

You're not funny enough to write.

You're not smart enough to write.

Wisdom? Haha!  They have no idea what goes on inside my head. 

In the last two years the comments from others have increased and so I sit wondering when I am going to listen to the feedback handed me gently for many years.  It is scary, vulnerable, and uncertain to put your story and thoughts and beliefs out there in this wide internet.  Sitting with these feelings inside myself is excruciating.  Believing that there are words that could bless others is shaky.  But it finally feels like time to tend the garden, even knowing that there will be hailstorms from myself and others along the way.  

Thus the blog.  It will not be linear. Some days it might be boring, others insightful, and others where we can connect in vulnerability.  Psychology, spirituality, parenting, strength, weakness, sexuality; these are all paths it could go.  It may bear fruit of encouragement, one day it may make a book.  But what I know right now is that writing whatever is the obedient thing to do.  

In fifth grade I drew a picture of a plant with craypas.  It is not hideous and it is not amazing; it is just fifth grade average art.  My mother framed it several years ago and hung it on her wall, much to my huge embarrassment.  Every time I visited I would cringe internally, wishing she would put it in the attic, or better yet, the garbage.  Who hangs onto such poor art?   And I am not talking a small picture, it is HUGE.  It is still there, and over time I have grown to love seeing it.  I am getting used to seeing my vulnerable, imperfect, wonderfully average self displayed on the wall for all to see.  The crazy thing is that the more I see it or others see it, I love it a little more.  I love my whole self a little more.

Here's hoping that is what will happen here. That as I learn to hold my vulnerability a bit more, I will love my whole self more. And that my whole self can love others more tenderly and hospitably.  Welcome to the obedience project.