For the last time...

I was at our family's fourth of July picnic.  My great uncle lingered about at the end.  I was very interested in this, because this is a family that is very practical and hard working.  I watched him walk towards his house a little bit and come back.  He seemed to want to say goodbye again.  I made an effort to talk to him again, very business like.  I'll never forget the picture in my head of him turning, waving and walking off with his baseball cap. 
It was the last time I ever saw him.  He died a few weeks later.
I think that at that very picnic, he knew.  I think we all, on some level knew.  Of course, we would never discuss that.  That is just not how things are done.  I just tried to be present to it.  I'm glad that I did, because I have no regrets.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we lived every day this way?  How would it be if we all lingered about, trying to find a word or action?  This could be for the last time.
I've found that sense of finality a good bit lately.  It doesn't necessarily have to be someone dying.  It could be a simple as the last time we ride in this car, the last day of summer.  Sometimes, I try hard just to linger in the sweetness and uniqueness of a moment.  I don't want to take anything for granted.
A few years later, my great aunt spent an unexpected night at my house.  I loved fussing over her and fixing her breakfast.  I made this event as special as I could, loving and hanging on to one of my favorite people.  It became apparent that her health had declined greatly, and I spoke seriously with her daughter.  At the end it became very bittersweet as I made sure she knew how much I loved her.  I managed not to get too mushy.  I had same feeling I had when I watched my uncle walk away.  As Aunt Susie rolled off to her car, I knew it was the last time I would see her.  I held her in my heart and savored those moments, for last time. 

A narrative

I've spent a great deal of effort in this blog and in the past years of my life telling MY story.  It has become very important to me as I journey through this life.  Yet, sometimes I am reminded that there are other narratives involved in a story.  It is humbling to hear your child describe a particularly intense time of your life from her own perspective.  It brings gratitude in the form of a shared experience unique to everyone who was present.  I forgot how truly present children can be.
I've watched my children be told stories of my child hood.  It is offered in the the view of a singular perspective, not in a shared experience.  In other words, some people think that there is only one narrative.  I offer a concept that shows there are diverse narratives in shared experiences.
I think that this is, by far, one of the greatest divisions among people.  We have parents, leaders and people in authority who offer only their story.  I have grown tired of this.  I'm tired of sitting in a pew, meeting or class room with only a one way conversation.
I think that I am truly blessed to have found elders in my life who have listen deeply to me.  They have offered me that opportunity to be heard in a way that helps me hear myself.  I have been seeking Spiritual Direction from the moment I read about it in a book 8 years ago.  Although, I realize that a midwife had already guided me onto this path.
I think that the true gift of discovering your own unique narrative in life is to be able to listen to other people.  I will probably never tire of telling my own story.  I just hope that I can honor those who share this Journey with me and listen to them.

Young mother

Here I am with the 103rd Archbishop of Canterbury (and an unnamed child who had him wrapped around her finger).  I heard he was coming to the Cathedral, so I decided to go.  I'm not sure why I had so much stress today getting ready.  I'm always concerned I will sit in the wrong place or have some old lady cluck at me for not wearing panty hose.  The old lady who sat next to me was actually quite charming and welcoming.  I told her that I lived out in the country and I came to the Cathedral whenever I needed some high church.  She responded with "Episcopalians put on a parade like nobody else!"

Lord Carey gave quite a nice sermon, using humor.  He talked about a Cathedral being a place for seekers to come to.  It was quite affirming in my desire to show up there every once in awhile.  He was also able to speak about the Anglican Church in a very global nature.  It was very interesting to hear this perspective.  As I waited in line to shake his hand after the service, I joked with a retired Priest:  "Am I supposed to curtsy?  I don't know how.  I've never met a Lord before."

Well, he shook my hand and asked my first name.  I was at the end of a very long line and he was still very much engaged with people, standing in 90+ degree sunlight.  What he said to me has had me stymied.  I guess this is why I am writing about this here.  He said "You're one of the young mothers."  I laughed and said, "No, I'm an old mother."  I'm 41 years old and it is hard to think of myself as a young mother.  Plus, I did not have a single child with me.  Why would he refer to me this way?

I'm in an interesting place in my life.  Being a mother is, by far, the most difficult and important job I have ever had.  In many ways, it became how I identify myself to everybody.  I still seem to struggle with this role of mother.  Is this who I am, or all I am?  I've decided I am so much more than just one thing.  Yet, is there a better way of distinguishing myself?  I guess it is still place in the back of my mind that our culture diminishes women.  More importantly, I've watched too many people try to diminish my worth because I am busy raising my children.  I wish I didn't have to fight back about being diminshed.  I wish that I could recieve a decleration from the Archbishop with pride and excitment.  Yes!  I am a young mother.

 

 

A message

I am homeschooling my 3rd grader this year.  One of the main reasons we take a couple of years to home school each kid is to give them some real life experience as they grow up.  A strict public school schedule doesn't allow for much extra.  When I heard about a rally in Columbia in support of the homeless population, we decided to take off.  Of course, my kindergartner tagged along also.  I was the only person there with kids, so I got interviewed on TV. 

http://www.wistv.com/story/23270273/protestors-push-back-on-columbia-city-councils-homeless-plan

I have my kids yelling and pulling on my back pack while I am talking, so I had really hoped they wouldn't show it.  Plus, I looked pretty rough.  I really hadn't intended to be in TV, or have my statements made public.  I've, in many ways, backed off being on stage.  I'm still working on things behind stage, don't get me wrong.  I have nothing to hide, I just got tired of all the attention I was getting at one point.  Infamous was the word a bishop used with me (as in well-known).

With all of the attention give to the 50th anniversary of the "I have a Dream" speech, my husband and I have had some conversations.  We both expressed hope that we would have taken part in the March on Washington.  During this Homeless Awareness Rally, I met a white woman who stated she was arrested 4 times during the civil rights era.  She talked about her husband finding out and packing up the three babies and trying to figure out what jail she was in.  I looked at her and said "I'd like to think I would have been working with you."  Then I realized:  I'm with you now.

This woman also confessed to working in a homeless shelter for many years.  She and her husband volunteer every Sunday and holiday,  "We don't go to church."  My response was simply "That is what church is supposed to be."

I'm intrigued at the fact that my voice was heard and broad casted in Columbia.  I'm intrigued that I did this protest and interview without hesitation.  I guess I've decided to stop hiding behind rules and expectations.  I am finding it incredibly freeing in this white southern culture.  I'm starting to be confident and my voice and whatever message I might bring.

The mall

We walked out to the parking lot carrying our bags and my 5 year old announced "It was a good day at the mall!"  This melted my heart as I tried not to think about how big she has gotten.  Yesterday, she announced she was getting her ears pierced.  This required a trip to the dreaded mall.  I really hate going there because we always spend more money than we have.  After her comment, I figured it was worth it.

Our house has had a baby in it since 1997.  It is all over when this beautiful girl starts kindergarten next week.  Where did it all go?

 

 

 

Emotional Reserve

     When my baby was 1 day old, the midwife came by for the checkup.  After it was over, she turns to my husband and looks at him square in the eye.  "At this point in recovering, your wife has about a 5 minute emotional reserve."  We all laughed.  Later that day, we would find out that she was wrong.  It was about 2 minutes.
     I was so glad to have this bit of wisdom in my post partum time.  It helped me feel better about the complete meltdowns and sheer sense of panic when unexpected things came up.  I had every reason to have depleted my emotional reserve with the work in birthing a baby.  I enjoyed the validation and love that came.  I also was able to accept my own limits without expecting rescue.  I could just feel what I was feeling.
     This summer, I have been working nights.  Once again, I have watched my emotional reserves dwindle as I loose sleep and rest.  I've realized there are quite a few times in my life when my reserves have dipped, and I had not paid attention to them.  Instead of paying attention, I ended up finding myself exhausted and completely depleted.  It is hard to build reserves back up from a negative.  I've learned to start paying attention sooner.  I also value friends who understand "I've over extended myself, sorry."
     I used to think that taking care of myself was simply selfish.  I should feel guilty for pulling back and saying no.  This, of course, means that I have one more reminder of how inadequate I am.  In a culture where you are valued for all that you do, I have to be happy with who I am.
     I hope that I can head into a world where people look for emotional sustainability.  A place where we can learn when to rest and when to work.  In this place, I wouldn't be judged.  In this place, people wouldn't express great concern.  They'd simply be able to recognize exhaustion.  Perhaps, they would recognize it in themselves and spend time building their own reserves without taking away from others.

Provoke

Colossians 3:21 21 Fathers, do not provoke your children, lest they become discouraged.

     Parents and other parent figures hold a special place in people's lives. I've read a great deal about parenting as leadership. As most psychologists would tell you, parents have an immense impact on a child. In my struggles to define myself as a parent, I decided I would accept the fact that I was extremely powerful in my kid's psyches. I realized that I really do set a tone with them. Ultimately, how we function as a family reflects my inner station. This was a very, very hard realization to come to. I would really rather abdicate my position in my child's life to everything else. More importantly, I could be less of an authority and more of a passenger to things. In our culture, most leaders blame the followers for any mistake. So parents can just blame their kids.
     I think the problem comes in when we realize that parents have the unique ability to provoke their children. No one can make a child cry quite as effectively as his own dad. Moms reside at a very intimate and vulnerable space. Therefore, we parents have a great power. We can use that power to provoke anger. And we can also use that power to heal.
     I read a book a couple of years ago about this exact scripture. I stammered about for the whole day realizing that a child's anger is provoked. Children, inherently don't have anger. It is a secondary emotion following fear. I had to look at myself in the mirror and realize that my child's anger was being provoked. In a more excruciating moment, I realized that I was provoking it.
     I grew up in a household full of anxiety and anger. For me, it can be the only emotion that makes sense. It is a place I easily go. It is a place I can send my kids to make me feel more comfortable. And sadly, at age 40, I remain easily provoked. Tonight, unable to sleep, I looked at my bookshelf full of books on enlightenment, parenting, leadership, psychology. I keep reaching for that next book that is going to make this all better for me, for my family. I keep wondering why I struggle so much in these aspects of life. I wonder when the struggle will end. Then, I take a sip of wine and realize that the day I quite struggling is the day I die. My journey towards understanding continues. I pray that it serves someone. Most importantly, I hope it serves this next generation I have living in my house. Perhaps they will be able to sleep at night and not struggle to unburden themselves from past generations.