MUSINGS

Spectrums

2009-11-17T09:20:00.002-06:00

I've been reading about perfectionism/depression/marriage/parenting and have come to some "integrations" that I think are really relevant to how we interact with our daily world and vocations. A pattern I see in my reading and in myself is to either try to "over-control" my environment (and make it perfect) or to become passive and give up. Daily life lived in this paradigm is exhausting and can lead to much despair. The practical result of a life lived as such is that my house is either spotless or a disaster. I'm completely caught up on my to-do list or there is no to-do list at all. I spent all day with my kids or completely ignored them. There's not very much room for "in the middle" because I am almost fearful of being "in process" and of being "not yet perfected." (This is actually a subtle form of Gnosticism!) And this paradigm is also at work in parenting, in friendship, in marriage, in work. But what the Gospel calls us to is a "third term"---something mysterious---but something that is characterized by paradox. Strength in weakness. Holiness by grace. Our most transcendent moments are often the most daily of moments---the care of children, the completion of work, sex, tears, relationships, food---all of this is the stuff of the Incarnation and where Jesus meets us in our weak humanity. What we do each day, even the most mundane tasks, becomes an opportunity to meet Jesus, rather than an opportunity to become perfect. Our daily lives are an opportunity for peaceful prayer. Kathleen Norris writes of this connection between daily life and prayer in a powerful and poignant way:

"To convert all our work into prayer and praise is admittedly an ideal, but the contemplatives of the world's religions might agree that it is something to strive for. I once saw a photograph of a Buddhist nun sweeping a temple floor with a smile that was as peaceful and wise as that of the Buddha. With her whole body she exemplified the grace of that connection between prayer and work that is so much a part of the Benedictine tradition. When I recently conducted a weekend retreat at a monastery, I was pleasantly surprised to find that a third of the participants were health care workers---registered nurses, nursing home attendants and hospice volunteers---who had recognized their need for a break from their stressful work. Through our silence and conversation, our contemplation and storytelling, it became clear that they also knew that in a hospital or hospice room, where people need assistance with the most basic of tasks---breathing, eating, urinating, excreting and bathing---the holiness of ordinary acts is made most manifest. It is there, at one extreme of human vulnerability, that we come to realize that all we customarily take for granted is truly a gift from God. The Christian faith also asks us to acknowledge that to shortchange these quotidian gifts is to reject God's incarnation in Jesus Christ.

We are, all of us, Christian women and men, engaged in priestly work, the work of transformation. But it may be work that is deemed useless by the standards of the world. Bathing a woman who is in a coma, for example, a woman many would say is better off dead. The poet Laura Gilpin, who is a nurse, has a poem entitled "The Bath" that quietly reflects on such an experience:

I stand here bathing her
while she sleeps
in a far place beyond my reaching.

I bathe her
as I have been taught to do:
first the eyes, then the forehead,
the face , the neck.

The poet talks to the woman all the while, "believing that hearing is the last to go," but is not certain that her words have any effect. The poem (and I believe it is a prayer) concludes:

She offers no resistance,
except that of gravity,
the earth pulling her down
while I lift,
as though something between us
is being weighed.

Then I turn to wash her back
talking to her about what seems to matter
in this life---though I make no promises.

Only this morning
the promise of spring was in the air
and I tell her that.

We are asked to make all that we have been taught and trained to do---as nurses, educators, theologians, poets, doctors, secretaries, accountants or what-have-you---available to God. Especially when human need is at its greatest, and we know ourselves to be incapable of meeting that need on our own, we are asked find our strength in Jesus Christ. And we are asked to make our most serious and intimate commitments with very little idea of how long they will last, or what will be required of us. The ordinary demands of a pregnancy, for example, require a woman to find the strength to give birth to a child who, even if it is healthy, will need daily nurturing for years, who will most likely devalue and rebel against that nurture in adolescence, and who will eventually leave home for schooling, work and a marriage of her own. At the deepest level, a pregnant woman must find the courage to give birth to a creature who will one day die, as she herself must die. And there are no promises, other than the love of God, to tell us that this human round is anything but futile.

In one of my poems, "Ascension," I tried to restore a sense of gravity and beauty to the image of a mother and infant, which is often sentimentalized in our culture. I wrote the poem because of a simple juxtaposition in my life. On Ascension one year, my mother phoned to tell me that my sister's water had broken and she had gone to the hospital to have her second child. And all day I couldn't get the thought out of my mind that as Jesus was rising to heaven, my sister was pushing down for all she was worth. Here is the poem that resulted from that meditation:

ASCENSION
Why do you stand looking up at the sky? Acts 1:11

It wasn't just wind chasing
thin, gunmetal clouds
across a loud sky,
And it wasn't the feeling that one might
ascend
on that excited air,
rising like a trumpet note,

and it wasn't just my sister's water breaking,
her crying out,
the downward draw of blood and bone...

it was all of that,
mud and new grass
pushing up through melting snow,
the lilac in bud by my front door
bent low
by last week's ice storm.

Now the new mother, that leaky vessel,
begins to nurse her child,
beginning the long good-bye.

And in another poem, a new one named for the hot lunch program for the elderly in my small town, I pay homage to the other end of life. Here is "Nutrition site":

We are off-site now,
in the van, delivering
hot meals
in a fierce winter.
One widow's house
smells of stale water.
Ancient linoleum peels
and buckles
on the wounded
hardwood floor.

Her Valentine roses
have lost their bloom;
wrinkled, they droop
on their stems,
as if weighted
by beauty.

Their beauty. Yes.
Like the widow's icy walk,
her gnarled hand
on the lap
robe, in the musty
living room, her Bible
open to Isaiah 35:
"and the desert shall rejoice,
and blossom as the rose,"

her wrinkly smile
as I knock and
enter. Beauty, yes. All of it.
And truth."

Icedream Tears

2009-08-12T21:58:00.003-05:00

I have been losing things this summer. Jobs. Friends. Neighbors. Plans. All lost. Some to the Economy, some to Hardness, some to Africa. And so I've been sorrowing, and in my circles, we talk about "sorrowing well." I'm really not sure what that means.

Evan's grandmother took us to Chick-fil-A tonight, as she does faithfully every Thursday evening. Each Thursday she frets about the children not eating enough, and she embarrasses us when she defends the children against indoor playground bullies. But then she tips the nice boy who brings our ice cream over, both making his day and reminding us of her generosity. Tonight she seems weary, though, and in a moment with just the two of us, she confesses that she is tired and ready to go home. She clutches her purse as if to leave, but then she says that she wants to go home to be with Papa. Papa has been gone for more than two decades. For her, Papa is home, and home has been lost to her for a very long time. And so, at the Chick-fil-A playground, I tried my hardest to "sorrow well" with her. I cried a good cry right there. I think she had no idea someone else could feel sorrow for her and with her. And I think she realized that she could be a loss for someone else to incur. I believe tonight was important for her. I hope she doesn't go home yet.

I think "sorrowing well" might be this: having your sorrow exposed, instead of controlled, in the hope that you will realize your need for the tenderness of Jesus, and that maybe even someone else will soften in the presence of your neediness.

Toward Generosity and Contentment

2009-08-12T13:36:00.003-05:00

Jesus taught us, saying "Sell your possessions and give to those in need. Get yourselves purses that do not wear out, treasure that will not fail you, in heaven where no thief can reach it and no moth destroy it. For where your treasure is, there is where your heart will be too."

Jesus taught us, saying "The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field."

Jesus taught us, saying "Again, the Kingdom of Heaven is like a man who is a merchant seeking fine pearls, who having found one pearl of great price, he went and sold all that he had, and bought it."

The purse that does not wear out. The treasure hidden in a field. The pearl of great price. Jesus Himself. The Gospel at work. The Kingdom to come.

Fruits, Again

2009-08-01T15:49:00.004-05:00

The Spiritual Marriage

2009-06-24T14:28:00.003-05:00

Jayber Crow finally found his way into my heart. I've been stubbornly affectionate toward Hannah Coulter, with her being a woman and all, but then Jayber went (warning: plot spoiler) and married Mattie Chatham. Mattie was already married to a dreadful, unfaithful man and Jayber was an uneligible bachelor himself. But still, he made a vow, and he kept it, and he loved her well, considering she didn't even know that he was married to her. The beauty of this idea is so warming, so daringly hopeful, and it got me to thinking about marriage, as I sometimes do. I wonder, readers, what you think makes a "good" marriage? And what about a spiritual marriage, a Christian marriage?

Sandra Tsing Loh wrote, rather pessimistically, about this subject in the latest Atlantic. (http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200907/divorce) Fascinating Article. Tsing Loh (just recently divorced) sums up well the contradictions of American marriage:

"I sense you picking up the first stone to hurl, even if you yourself may be twice or even three times divorced. Such a contradiction turns out to be uniquely American. Just because marriage didn’t work for us doesn’t mean we don’t believe in the institution. Just because our own marital track records are mixed doesn’t mean our hearts don’t lift at the sight of our daughters’ Tiffany-blue wedding invitations. After all, we can easily arrange to sit far from our exes, across the flower-bedecked aisle, so as not to roil the festive day. Just because we know that nearly half of U.S. marriages end in divorce—including perhaps even those of our own parents (my dearest childhood wish was not just that my parents would divorce, but also that my raging father would burst into flames)—doesn’t mean we aren’t confident ours is the one that will beat the odds. At least that is the attitudinal yin/yang described by Andrew J. Cherlin in his scrupulously argued Marriage-Go-Round: compared with our western European counterparts, Americans are far more credulous about marriage. In World Values Surveys taken at the turn of the millennium, fewer Americans agreed with the statement “Marriage is an outdated institution” than citizens of any other Western country surveyed (compare the U.S.’s tiny 10 percent with France’s 36 percent). We are also more religious—more Americans (60 percent) say they attend religious services once a month than do the Vatican-centric Italians (54 percent) or, no surprise, the laissez-faire French (12 percent). At the same time, Americans endure the highest divorce rate in the Western world. In short, although we say we love religion and marriage, Cherlin notes, “religious Americans are more likely to divorce than secular Swedes.” Cherlin believes the reason for this paradox is that Americans hold two values at once: a culture of marriage and a culture of individualism. Or is it an American spirit of optimism wedded, if you will, to a Tocquevillian spirit of restlessness that inspires three out of four Americans to say they believe marriage is for life, while only one in four agreed with the notion that even if a marriage is unhappy, one should stay put for the sake of the children."

So, I wonder, what makes a lasting marriage? I've been brainstorming with a friend, and we've come up with a few possibilities...The idea of oneness. A home that shelters the marriage, rather than exposing it. A home where the marriage relationship is central, especially (but not only) if kids are present. The willingness to love and forgive despite the other spouse's actions and failings. An understanding of one's own poverty. Suffering. Sacrifice. Patience. Intertwined dreams.

What am I missing?

P.S. I apologize for not updating previous stories. Just so you know, the package finally arrived safely to China, six months after I sent it. Jack's birthfamily seemed to cherish each item.

And, Fran has still not learned to clean her room. But I've found that if I help her by cleaning her room once a week (she knows this will happen on Monday morning), then she is much more able to manage for the rest of the week. She is genuinely grateful when I extend my Monday morning grace to her, and I am genuinely grateful that I have lowered my standards a bit.

For all the Ladies out there...

2009-06-10T22:53:00.006-05:00

who might feel like they're not, or never could be, good mothers:

All of our kids have bad days. And so do their stuffed animals.

The perfect gift.

2009-04-15T13:54:00.003-05:00

I've been obsessing over what to send Jack's birthmother for Jack's birthday. The single thing we committed to each other before she returned to China was to exchange gifts each year on Jack's birthday. In December (around Jack's first birthday), I sent a package to Angelica and her family with gifts for each of them and special photograph albums I had printed to chronicle Jack's first year. I spent a lot of time writing Angelica a letter, pouring out my feelings about her and Jack and our adoption. I spent a lot of time wrapping and placing each item in the package for safe travel. I really wanted the package to be special. I probably wanted too much from that package.

A few weeks later, a package arrived from China with gifts for all the children. Angelica picked out a big stuffed animal for Jack and some beautiful shoes for Frances and a little doll for Mary Helen. She wrote tiny, brief messages on each gift that expressed, in her succinctly teenage way, the love and longing she felt toward our family and her son. I am moved by her willingness to pursue a relationship with us, despite the Pacific Ocean between us.

But it is April now, and Angelica still has not received the package we sent to her in December. The package is presumably lost forever. I imagine that some customs official's daughter is really enjoying her new earrings while her father sips from his new insulated coffee cup. And I imagine they are having loads of fun making up stories about the pictures of the handsome little Chinese boy with his white "Waiguoren" parents. Good for them. But I have to start all over again, and honestly, it is painful. For some reason, this time I can't decide what to buy her. Maybe the distance of time between December to April has made me that much more uncertain of who Angelica is and what she wants from us. Re-assembling photographs of Jack's only pictures with his birthmother reminds me again of all that lies ahead as Jack navigates this unorthodox relationship with his birthmother. I am reminded again that there are no books about international, transracial, familial, open adoptions. We have no guidebook, no contract, no expert opinions. Just our fragile relationship with Angelica.

So this is why I am obssessing over these gifts. A journal? Earrings? New sketching pencils? Truthfully, I don't really know Angelica, and it is difficult to buy something for someone you love but don't know.

I love spring.

2009-04-10T16:44:00.004-05:00

Sticky Thoughts

2009-01-28T13:24:00.002-06:00

"Your children's propensity toward sin shouldn't surprise you; it shouldn't threaten you; and it shouldn't even really bother you. You know you've given birth to sinners, children just like the parents who sired them. You realize that your children have a bent toward selfishness, stubbornness, and lawlessness—exactly the kind of people Christ loves and for whom he died. By acknowledging your children's bent toward sin from the outset, you can encourage your children to struggle with their sin out in the open where you can talk about it and direct them to the power of Christ. And when the children are actually sinning, grace makes it easy for you to have open, candid, and vulnerable discussions about these areas where they struggle, Your children will be able to talk with you about their internal battles with jealousy, lust or anger...Grace demands a humility and sensitivity toward your children's battles with sin because grace is a daily reminder of how desperately you need the Savior as well. You should join David in thanking God that He doesn't keep score when it comes to your sin."

"Grace-based parents realize that their children need security in their hearts, significance in their lives, and strength for the future. They also know that these things don't come via prepackaged programs based on clever formulas. These things come by way of the heart—transferred through parents who enjoy a grace relationship with Christ."

"Legalistic familes are preoccupied with keeping sin out by putting a fence between them and the world. The difference with grace-based families is that they don't bother spending much time putting fences up because they know full well that sin is already present and accounted for inside their family. To these types of parents, sin is not an action or an object that penetrates their being. The graceless home requires kids to be good and gets angry and punishes them when they are bad. The grace-based home assumes kids will struggle with sin and helps them learn how to tap into God's power to help them get stronger. It's not that grace-based homes don't take their children's sin seriously. Nor is it that grace-based homes circumvent consequences. It isn't even that grace-based homes do nothing to protect their children from attacks and temptations that threaten them from the outside. They do all these things, but not for the same reasons. Grace-based homes aren't trusting in the moral safety of their home or the spiritual environment they've created to empower their children to resist sin. They know that ultimately a home and an environment are no match against the forces of evil. When their children do sin, grace-based parents don't get surprised. They expect it. They assume that sin is an ongoing dilemma that their children must constantly contend with. This attitude changes their mind-set about finding victory. The freedom children enjoy in a grace-based family is this: They are accepted as sinners who desire to become more like Christ rather than being seen as nice Christian kids trying to maintain a good moral code. Grace is committed to bringing children up from their sin; legalism puts them on a high standard and works overtime to keep them from falling down. Grace understands that the only real solution for out children's sin is the work of Christ on their behalf." (All from Tim Kimmel's Grace-Based Parenting)

And as our dear friend Sarah said last night (this is paraphrased), we need to be reminded of our Covenant theology, so that we can rest in Christ's work when it comes to parenting. We need to escape the culture of fear that is so present in Christian parenting.

Omamma, what?

2009-01-20T15:04:00.004-06:00

I had a serene morning watching the inauguration festivities with little Mary Helen. While Jack was napping and Fran was at school, we sat on the couch and read books while we watched. I am delighted that MH's first experience with TV (under my watch, at least) was to see our first black president sworn in. I can't wait to tell her that someday. As we watched, she kept saying over and over "I want see Omamma! I want see Omamma!" And then, when "Omamma" would come on the screen, she would clap and say "YAY!" right along with the crowd.

Jack's birth grandfather wrote to us recently about how inspired he was by Obama, and then he made quite an ambitious and hopeful prediction: that Jack would become the first Asian American president of the United States of America (I guess he has moved on from his NBA hopes for Jack). Wouldn't that be something? I wonder if pundits would say Jack wasn't "yellow" enough, since he has white parents? And even if he doesn't become president (ha- don't you love a mother's confidence in her own child's ability to rule the world?), will Jack be stuck between Asian and white his entire life? If we've come this far in fifty years, how much more will our children have gained by the time they are fifty? Will Jack's generation have a radically more hopeful view of racial differences, just as our generation's view is radically different from that of the generations above us? I've been reading about this, in light of recent events, and was intrigued by one writer's view of how we are changing the way we see race:

"The problem of the 20th century, W. E. B. DuBois famously predicted, would be the problem of the color line. Will this continue to be the case in the 21st century, when a black president will govern a country whose social networks increasingly cut across every conceivable line of identification? The ruling of United States v. Bhagat Singh Thind no longer holds weight, but its echoes have been inescapable: we aspire to be post-racial, but we still live within the structures of privilege, injustice, and racial categorization that we inherited from an older order. We can talk about defining ourselves by lifestyle rather than skin color, but our lifestyle choices are still racially coded. We know, more or less, that race is a fiction that often does more harm than good, and yet it is something we cling to without fully understanding why—as a social and legal fact, a vague sense of belonging and place that we make solid through culture and speech.

But maybe this is merely how it used to be—maybe this is already an outdated way of looking at things. 'You have a lot of young adults going into a more diverse world,' Carter remarks. For the young Americans born in the 1980s and 1990s, culture is something to be taken apart and remade in their own image. 'We came along in a generation that didn’t have to follow that path of race,' he goes on. 'We saw something different.' This moment was not the end of white America; it was not the end of anything. It was a bridge, and we crossed it." (From Hua Hsu's "The End of White America?")

Can our children "cross that bridge" for good? Will race even as a concept become outdated? It's hard to imagine it so, but what an extraordinary thing to hope for—I think those that have brought us this far (who have even given their lives for it) would demand that we be at least that optimistic.

She says it really doesn't bother her.

2009-01-15T08:36:00.003-06:00

The experiment continues, even as I grow weary of it. We talk about it everyday, and she claims that it doesn't bother her and that it's probably just best that adults don't come in her room.

Another one of my experiments...

2009-01-09T15:34:00.008-06:00

"If you were making a bow out of a tree limb, you'd first study the limb to figure out what its natural 'bent' is. Then you'd string it. If you didn't do this, when you pulled the bow back, it would snap because it was strung against its natural bent rather than with it. In the same way, we are to groom our children according to their natural bents. This means coming alongside them with a plan to help leverage their natural and unique gifts and skills into highly developed assets they can lean on in the future." From Tim Kimmel's Grace Based Parenting

Every single night for probably the past year or so, Frances has pitched a fit about cleaning her room. Evan and I have insisted for more than three hundred nights that she "tidy up" before bed, and she has insisted more than three hundred times that she is not at all interested in tidiness. I'm tired of this, so I'm conducting an experiment. What would happen if I stopped demanding this of Frances? Would it be so bad? It has turned out (of course!) to be an opportunity for me to reflect on how I parent and how little I pay attention to the way God has "hard-wired" my children.

So for the last two days I have said nothing of Frances' room, or if you wanted to be more accurate, her mess. I think I'm holding out hope that deep in her heart she will recognize what beautiful things cleanliness and order are, that she will come to my side of the human spectrum, that she will, in short, be like me. But alas, she seems contented with her little disaster zone and seems unfazed by the extra time it takes her to find her Holiday Barbie underneath all the debris. She's in no hurry. She's not concerned with efficiency. She's not like her mother.

After TWO days, this is how things look, and I'm not planning on cleaning this up anytime soon.

Check out Emily's blog about respecting our children as individuals and accepting them for who they really are made to be. Ironically, Emily is not at all into order and her little girl likes to straighten things up, quite literally. (you'll have to scroll down to the post titled "Genetics")

Housewife Hangover

2008-11-16T21:55:00.003-06:00

Those of you that know me know that I'm not prone to drunkenness; in fact, I would say I have never really been drunk in my life. Or I would have said that last week. But then Evan sent me off to stay with my dear friend for the weekend and she has very European sensibilities and she threw a lovely dinner party and she poured me a lovely glass of wine...one glass. Those of you who know me would also know that one glass is enough. But mysteriously, this special glass of wine, infused with the freedom and delight of my weekend away, was sort've like an everlasting gobstopper from Willy Wonka's secret lab. I could never finish it. It was miraculously full again and again— like at the wedding at Cana— such a miracle this wine was! As our little party progressed, everything got funnier, and I got louder. And then I realized I got louder and so I tried to be softer which just made me giggle and then I knew I was drunk. Being a novice drunkard, I finally made it to bed at 1:30 without any water and woke up at 3am sweating and feeling like I was going to vomit. Two more hours of sleep and then I woke up to my little son "talking" in his bed at 5:00am. "Time to wake up, mom! I had 10 1/2 hours of glorious sleep and now I want you to play with me!" I emerged into a cold, gray St. Louis day with cobwebs in my head and a clear understanding of something: Hangovers are not fun. They are stupid, and I can't believe all you partygoers have been living with them for years. My friend and I had 3 kids to take care of for the day and not enough wits about us to even make the coffee we desperately needed for our survival, for our children's survival. I guess we eventually got some coffee together, but I really don't know what we did all day Saturday. I think there was some roulage for breakfast and maybe we watched Pride and Prejudice? We might've cried a little bit too. And somehow we ended up at the mall at 7:00pm on a Saturday night, pushing around a $5 schoolbus stroller, feeding our kids cookies for dinner and wondering why in the heck people were already shopping for Christmas.

Lilies of the Field

2008-10-24T10:30:00.005-05:00

God's after me this week.

It all started with Tom's sermon on Sunday. I tend to editorialize a lot, so forgive me if this is not what was preached about, but I think he was talking about how we let our emotions (anger and anxiety, specifically) rule us and about how we flatter our emotions (and ultimately ourselves) by not applying the Gospel to our anger, frustration, etc. And, if we let this happen, especially over a lifetime, our emotions will own and identify us—and destroy us. It's not that our emotions or the expression of our emotions is a bad thing. But when we refuse to look behind our emotions and see what's really going on, our emotions can take charge of us (and even become uncontrollable emotional problems). In the midst of our anger/anxiety, we have to ask ourselves: What am I believing about God and the Gospel here? Is my heart's orientation leading me to anger and anxiety (or whatever)?

This sermon left me wondering about my anxiety.

And then, Thursday morning happened. I had my day all planned out (translation: I'm in control today, kids! And that goes for you, too, God!). We were going to run errands (no small feat if you consider my three little ones and the old lady that will inevitably want to talk about my Chinese baby in the bank lobby for 30 minutes) and then come home for a nice lunch and naptime. So first, in order to not fall into the trap of "letting yourself go after baby" (Oprah did a show on this that scared the crap out of me), I needed to shower (I think Oprah had makeup and high heels in mind, but a shower is a good place to start). Since waking up early for a shower only seems to make my kids wake up even earlier, I have devised a system of putting the two babies in a crib and having Frances play "cruise director" while I'm in the shower. Usually this goes alright, but halfway through my shower I hear two babies screaming. Dammit. All I want is a shower. So I hurry through and go to see what's the matter. Fran, in her benevolence, had given Mary Helen her water bottle (not spill-proof) and Mary Helen had doused Jack and herself and the entire bed with cold water. So that's two crying babies to calm and change completely (which takes me about 30 minutes) and then sheets and bedding to wash and change (another 30 minutes). Oh my, I just lost an hour. Just like that—an hour gone. And then I lost it. I got angry. I yelled things like "I'M TIRED OF CLEANING!" And I threw a stuffed animal across the room (Crazy, I know). And then I cried my anger. And then I knew what I was feeling. I wasn't tired of cleaning, I was tired to trying to hold it together by controlling every second of my day. And I was especially tired of this not being enough for me or my children. My complaint was something like "Why, God, can't there be enough of me to do this? Why can't I do this well? Why can't I keep things together?" And this sort've melted into "I'm not enough for them. I'm really not. I'm not supposed to be." By then, Fran was quietly playing with her dollhouse (purposefully giving me my space). She later pledged her undying affection and forgiveness, despite "mommy throwing a fit." Children are so full of grace.

So what I'm realizing is that my perfectionism (which I've been reading about- I have a great article about it if anyone wants to join me) is all about my belief in an "ideal life" and my anxiety is my response to how I feel when I fall short, or when I feel that God hasn't delivered on any particular day. And my anxiety shields me from really facing my sin and weakness and talking to God, who never promised me comfort or an ideal life anyway.

Truthfully, you'd much sooner find me cleaning my house than talking to God about why I'm scared and anxious. Because cleaning gives me control and takes me toward the illusion of perfection but talking to God opens up the mess. Sitting around with my kids quietly reveals the mess, too. Even enjoying my children is messy for me, which is one thing I haven't quite figured out. Maybe it's because I avoid God by avoiding beauty (because that is where He is found) and so staying busy is all about building up the scaffolding around me to keep God out? I don't know, but I'm glad God's after me about all of this. Thanks for the sermon, Tom. I'll keep y'all posted.

I feel hopeful.

For an Hour

2008-09-19T15:11:00.008-05:00

The week started with Jack coming down with a fever. As the week progressed, he seemed to get worse and began crying inconsolably. I, being the conscientious mother that I am, consulted my Dr. Sears health handbook and found inconsolable crying under the "When to Call the Doctor" list. So I called Dr. Stagner and she agreed with Dr. Sears. We made our appointment and showed up just as Jack was beginning to scream inconsolably. I confess that I was happy that he was screaming when we got there, so that I could prove that there really was something wrong—I wanted to set myself apart from all those over-reacting moms waiting in the waiting room with their sniffly-nosed babes. And indeed Dr. Stagner was truly concerned with Jack's crying; he seemed to be in pain and yet she could find no reason for it. Appendicitis? Meningitis? Some other hard-to-pronounce disease I've never heard of? She decided to run bloodwork. When she came back in with the results, she seemed upset. Her voice shook when she told me that Jack's bloodwork did not look good. His hematocrit levels had fallen drastically over the last week, and paired with abdominal pain, she would need to refer me to the hematologist/oncologist at Children's Hospital. In other words, Mrs. Munger, I'm freaking out because I think your son may have leukemia. (Just so I don't cause you the same pain the doctor's office caused me, let me spoil the end of this story by telling you that everything with Jack's health is just fine) Um, excuse me, I'm sorry, what did you say? Leukemia? You mean, Cancer? Like the sweet children on the Telethon? Like Ronald's McDonald's children? MY child? And Jack's life flashed before my eyes. In a matter of seconds, I was in a hospital watching my child suffer, not knowing if he'd be okay. I had already done that once with Jack, and the thought of doing it again seemed more than I could bear. He was mine. Not cancer's. Mine. Over the next hour, I made the appropriate phone calls, secured childcare for Frances, etc while Dr. Stagner's office prepared referrals to Children's and drew out maps for me to follow. A map to the Children's Hospital Oncology Department? I don't want that. You people are crazy. I called Evan and told him to meet me there without much of an explanation. I thought I would throw up at any time. I cried while paying my damn co-pay (you shouldn't have to pay co-pays on days like that). And then, just as I was about to leave, the head of the lab came and got me. She took us back to the lab, drew Jack's blood again, and within 5 minutes confirmed to me that the original labs had been an error and that his hematorcrit level was perfectly normal. At this point in the story, a lot of people have expressed the anger they feel toward the lab. But I have to say there was no anger- only sweet relief. The sweetest relief I have ever felt in my life. Sweeter than when Jack finally passed his meconium 10 days after he was born. And what I realized later on in the day was that my experience was a tiny bit like heaven, like the work of the Gospel. My imagined months of pain, sadness, suffering and even death were erased. Made new. Undone. Gone. And even though this experience was only a little picture of what heaven might be like, it gave me hope for the suffering and pain I see in the world. That bitterness will turn sweet in the light of heaven. That death will be life. That hope will not be in vain.

In the end, I think Jack had a case of bad gas. That's right, I took him to the doctor for some gas and, for an hour, he "had" leukemia. Perhaps we should've stayed home...

Do you believe in magic?

2008-09-14T13:50:00.008-05:00

This past Thursday was one of those long, slow days, the kind that's hard to get through without a little "mommy magic." For those of you who either don't have kids, or more importantly, for the mothers out there who don't know what I'm talking about, "mommy magic" is the term I give to the art of buying your kids' happiness. For example. Mommy just worked out, Frances is in a bad mood, Mary Helen skipped her morning nap and Jack is hungry, but Mommy is out of baby food and doesn't feel like lugging the kids through Publix...the answer? McDONALD'S, of course! You drive on through, Mommy gets a very large Diet Coke, Frances gets the "happiest of meals," Jack is introduced to table food for the very first time (why not start with the worst possible food? Then, if it goes well, you know he can handle pretty much everything), and Mary Helen gets her most favorite toy ever: a straw. And...Presto! A happy family! Something to do for an hour!

The thing I've noticed, though, is that the McDonald's experience (at least for my children) has nothing to do with the food. Frances thinks she likes the food, but she doesn't really eat it. I could probably replace the contents of the Happy Meal box with cardboard (or wait, aren't the hamburgers supposedly made with cardboard?) and she wouldn't notice. It's really just the idea of McDonald's that she loves—which I suppose is the simple result of a whole, whole, whole lot of marketing. McDonald's has tried to buy my daughter's affection, and IT HAS WORKED. And so I find myself in this strangely symbiotic relationship with McDonald's that has nothing to do with food—I'll pay for your marketing campaigns, you'll make my kids happy. Is this what Ray Croc had in mind?

But just as I'm starting to feel comfortable with a little McDonald's here and there, I had an unsettling experience at the Greek Food Festival this past weekend. The Greek Food festival is a culinary wonderland full of hard-to-pronounce, hard-to-resist food (spanakopita, baklava, YUM!). We attended the Greek Food Festival with one goal in mind: to eat a lot of good food. On our way out, moving slowly because we had achieved our goal, we passed a family who had felt the need to bring along some supplemental nutrition to the Greek Food Festival. That's right, folks, they had brought Happy Meals for the kiddos. At the Greek Food Festival. The Greek FOOD Festival. THIS is the dark underbelly (well, there are lot of dark underbellies) of McDonald's. Kids believe the marketing. They believe the "magic" is real and they refuse to try Souvlaki in deference to the almighty cheeseburger. Yikes. And I realize it's not just a McDonald's problem. It's an American problem. My brother-in-law convinced my nephew to try the Pastitsio by telling him it tasted "a lot like macaroni and cheese" (He didn't fall for that one for too long). The food (and obesity) problem in America defines what I think is a significant cultural shift from "hard work gets me what I deserve" to "Working hard always leads to getting what I want." It's a subtle difference but a significant one because deserving something and wanting something are not the same thing. McDonald's is all about making kids want something.

I think that McDonald's is a pretty good metaphor for our great nation. It's adventurous (McRib sandwich, anyone?), it's excessive (Large Size, please), and it's fun to be around...but it's not good for us. And so maybe the next time I'm feeling desperate I'll go somewhere else. Any ideas?

They ARE learning!

2008-09-09T16:30:00.006-05:00

Here is a video of my students playing the parts of Hamlet and his psychiatrist for a class project. Amazing.

A Dream Deferred

2008-08-19T10:27:00.010-05:00

I wish I could have been an Olympic athlete. You know those cheesy icebreaker questions about whether you would rather have all the riches or beauty or talent in the world? Well, I'd choose athletic talent. I was a runner in high school and college and some people get the idea that I'm really "athletic." The truth is, though, I have always lacked true athletic talent (to all you doubters, keep in mind that the only reason I ran track was that there were no try-outs—I had already been cut from the seventh grade basketball team). Coaches would watch me at meets and pay me complicisms (a word I coined meaning "a criticism within a compliment"—a very useful word, it turns out): "That Kelley Franklin's sure got fire and grit, even if no natural talent!" And so I sort've faked my way through the sports world, and had a whole lot of fun doing it. There was something so deeply satisfying about pushing my body to its absolute limits and being so closely tied to the physical on a daily basis. But now, watching the Olympics, I really just feel so jealous of those athletes. I've started asking Evan every night which Olympic dream passed me by without me knowing. Rhythmic Gymnastics? Judo? BMX? Could I have missed my chance to stand on the podium? OR, should I start training now? (Look at Dara Torres!) No, the truth is that I lost the genetic lottery—it was not meant to be. So what does one do when she possesses the proverbial heart of an Olympian but not the resting heart rate? Apparently she sits in front of the TV every night screaming giddily when America sweeps the Men's 400m hurdles whilst developing crushes on Michael Phelps and Yang Wei. (Gold Medalists are sexy, no?)

Adult Onset ADD

2008-08-04T21:27:00.003-05:00

Mary Helen has started pacing the halls of our home holding my cell phone to her ear yelling "BUY!" "SELL!" "BUY!" "SELL!" Okay, not really. She's actually yelling "HI!" but the point of my telling you this is that Mary Helen has yet to imitate me peeing (something I do several times a day) or even nursing (something I do a million times a day) but she's already picked up on mommy's signature behavior: pacing the house jabbering away on her cell phone. And I suspect her next act of imitation will be to post a blog, send an e-mail, edit a photo, and check her facebook all at the same time. Frances has already berated my impatience with the line "HOLD ON A MINUTE, MOM. I'M ON THE INTERNET!!!" (Yeah, I wonder where she heard that.)

So here's what we have to face: Despite our Wendell Berry dreams of a slow life, our world is accelerating, and multi-tasking is changing how we think and how we live our lives (check out an interesting article about this: http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200807/google).

And I am wondering how this will change our children. Will they possess some new intellect that their parents don't understand? Will Fran check her e-mail twice while she does her Math homework (like I did while writing this blog)? I guess she will, and so what?

It's hard to imagine that our mothers had so many less distractions (no text messages, no cell phones, no internet, no e-mail) and our grandmothers didn't even have TV. I imagine, though, that our great-grandmothers had plenty of distractions—hmmm, let's see, I'll make soap and knead dough while I wait for Pa to bring in the slaughtered pig.

Many will criticize some of our new habits (and certainly with some merit), but I'm glad I get to talk to my good friends (the majority of whom are not in Birmingham these days) on a whim or submit my tag renewal online (Alabama DMV=Hell). Even Jack would not be here with us without technology. E-mail was a powerful agent in his coming to us and neonatal technology helped him breathe and eat and live his first weeks in this world.

So, I guess, 100 years ago we would give kids a hatchet and washtub and tell them to "play like daddy and mommy." And now Mary Helen catches up with friends on her cell while Frances checks e-mail. But they do a little cooking and a little gardening on the side, and so I guess they'll be alright.

Toward a More Diverse Barbie World

2008-07-27T14:58:00.003-05:00

So I've been wondering, what's the deal with Barbie?

Somehow Barbie made her way into our little girl's heart. It started with an innocent birthday gift from a grandparent. And then a hand-me-down from a neighbor. And then a "You pooped on the potty 5 days in a row - why don't you pick out a new toy at Wal-Mart?" And then an "I'm sorry I yelled at you- why don't you pick out a new toy at Wal-Mart?" And then people got the idea that Frances was into Barbie and that we were cool with that (weren't we?) and here we are, a year later, with enough Barbies to fill a Bud Light cruise ship.

And so what?

Well, you've heard about and read about the dissertations about body image and how Barbie's dimensions are humanly impossible, blah, blah, blah. And really, if you look at Barbie, she is absurd. She's plastic and pretty in a porn star sort of way. Is this really what I want my daughter playing with? Wouldn't we rather her play with my vintage Strawberry Shortcake dolls (so sweet, so innocent)? The problem is that Frances would rather play with Barbie. She loves playing with Barbie. And hell, so did I! Barbie keeps Frances occupied for hours (okay, Barbie keeps Frances occupied for minutes- let's face it-Barbie isn't TV). My question is: WHY? What is it that is so attractive about Barbie (other than, well, her attractiveness)? Why are little girls drawn to this fake idea of beauty? Am I being ridiculous? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps Barbie is harmless or perhaps it will come out in counseling 20 years from now that Frances has formed her identity around "plasticity." But for now, we're sticking with Barbie. We're tired, and she's happy.

Follow-up Note: Just yesterday, in a mixed moment of surrender and guilt I told Evan: "Fine, let her play with Barbie. But we're throwing out some of the blondies and buying an Asian, African American and Latino Barbie next week. It may be be a size -2 Barbie World over here at the Munger house, but we're at least going to have a little ethnic diversity."

So there you go. We've prioritized our values and apparently diversity is more important than healthy body image.

Middlefruits

2008-07-22T10:57:00.005-05:00

Impossible

2008-07-22T09:56:00.003-05:00

I am always struck when men are able to articulate in art what I feel or experience. I am reading Hannah Coulter (at the insistence of many a GoodRead recommendation) and had to stop and catch my breath when I read this:

"I took her into bed with me and propped myself up with pillows against the headboard to let her nurse. As she nursed and the milk came, she began a little low contented sort of singing. I would feel milk and love flowing from me to her as once it had flowed to me. It emptied me. As the baby fed, I seemed slowly to grow empty of myself, as if in the presence of that long flow of love even grief could not stand."

So love empties us? Not just of our selfishness but also of our grief? I heard someone preach about this awhile back and the teacher said something like this (my paraphrase): We are most like who we are meant/made to be when we are giving ourselves away, when we are using our time, gifts and resources on behalf of others. The implication of the teaching was not only that we are supposed to give ourselves away but that we find life in sacrificial giving. Okay, I don't think I believed that a year ago. I was more inclined to embrace some Oprah-ish idea that being selfish is selfless. But I think I believe it now. I am seeing it. The curtain is being pulled back ever so slowly, and as I am being emptied (and believe me, the nursing metaphor is not lost on me) I feel like I am seeing the goodness of God and it is stunning to me. "The presence of that long flow of love" is Christ's love in us—the divine, eternal river—and as Christ flows through our beings, he shapes us and carves us (and it is painful) and joins us to one another. It's so impossible-sounding, so wonderful—dare we believe it to be true?

Firstfruits

2008-06-09T13:59:00.005-05:00

Hey, guess what? My flower garden decided to bloom this year! Last year was a bust (thanks to that nasty drought and my inexperience and inattention) but this year, it is so exciting to walk out the door every morning and see what's going on out there. I am posting pictures of some of my harvest. Please come over (if you're local!) and cut a bouquet this summer!

And by the way, I highly recommend planting a flower garden as a therapeutic and meaningful experience. It has been especially enjoyable to watch Frances' excitement about all the goings on outside. In Waldorf education, children are supposed to observe and participate in meaningful work alongside their parents as a primary means of education. I have been puzzling on how this happens in the post-modern, technologically-driven world (Hey Frances, watch me generate this fantastic e-mail!) since I'm not grinding my own wheat or sewing new mattress ticking! But, weeding and pruning a garden are perfect tasks for 3-year-olds. If you come over these days, Frances may grab you by the hand and say "come on! Let me show you my dahlias!"

Here's a list of what I've got growing this year...stay tuned for more pics.
Any other planting suggestions (already thinking about next year...)?

Black-eyed Susan
Snapdragon
Cosmos
Zinnia
Dahlia
Gladiolus
Sunflower
Larkspur
Bells of Ireland

How simple.

2008-04-24T23:09:00.004-05:00

"The common element in all three of these lives is the realization of a truth so true as to be almost universally overlooked, that life has one purpose above all others—to give love to God and to those near you and to allow yourself to be loved in turn. Any work that expresses this love is great work, any that does not is nothing. There is nothing we can do, not anything at all, that rivals this in importance. We are called first to find the depth of love, then its breadth. To have loved deeply, profoundly, fully, even one other human being, and to have welcomed his or her love in return, expresses the essence of all that life continues." From Finding God at Home by Ernest Boyer, Jr.

The hope of loving others and of being loved is human. The quest to love and be loved is so powerful that it can destroy you. I've seen lonely old women slowly wither without love, and I've seen much younger women retreat from life in fear, too tired to suffer the loss of love again. I have also observed, in myself and others, the misery of not giving one's self in love. I have discovered that a self-centered life easily becomes a lonely life.

The idea of my work being love is new to me, and it has been energizing to me in my daily tasks. All of a sudden, working dough or playing in the dirt or swinging Mary Helen makes me feel alive and purposeful, because I see love there. It is a new way of framing my existence, one that I had seen hints and shadows of before, but that is now becoming clear and in focus. This new season of life has brought a lot of exhaustion and pain and confusion, but even moreso, and I say this with all sincerity, I have never felt such freedom and joy. How surprising.

Finally.

2008-04-14T20:33:00.002-05:00

This morning our adoption of Jack was finalized. Hooray! In the adoption world, they call this "adoption day" and it is usually a day celebrated each year much like a birthday. I am not sure how this will play out in our family since we had the privilege of being there for Jack's birth and haven't missed a day of him since, but I do feel compelled to reflect on Jack's journey to us, and our journey to him.

Here's what I can tell you: when we first heard of Jack (then he was just a teeny tiny embryo) I opened my heart to him because I thought "well, God, what do I have to lose? If you can make this happen, I'm in!" Truthfully, I had no faith that Jack's life was possible. The circumstances were impossible. As we pressed on in the situation, barrier after barrier appeared, only to disappear in some often quiet and unexpected way . Over time, I began to "learn" hope (with practice it came easier) and I began to hope for the impossible. And I began to say things like "No matter what happens tomorrow, I know I have a third child." I guess I was "seeing the unseen." I guess I was having faith.

I have found out that children are not just born from bodies but also from hearts, and looking back, I do see that Jack was "gestating" in my heart, while he was also growing in his mother's body. And now he is here, and he has wiggled his way into a LOT of hearts. Welcome to the family, baby boy!!!!

You're Not a Mean Girl

2008-04-11T14:28:00.004-05:00

"The demons of the spirituality of the family, and in fact of community in general, are the frustration, anger, and despair that again and again appear in a life lived primarily for others. It is frustration at the interruptions that inevitably break into every task, the ringing phone, the need to drive across town to pick up a child, the dishes that are no sooner washed than they are dirtied again, the night's sleep shattered by a crying baby. It is anger at a lack of choices, at the feeling that there is nothing else to do but answer others' needs." Ernest Boyer, Jr.

So, in my struggle as a mom, I deal with anger and frustration about my seemingly limited daily life, and I sometimes find myself more acutely aware of my sin than ever in my life. A few days ago I really lost it on Frances and yelled at her and I am certain that she felt deeply my contempt for her at the moment. It's hard for me to admit to that, but it's true. I felt like a complete failure and a worthless mother. And I felt very far from Jesus, until he sent my child to me to lead me back home. After I had calmed down, Frances came out of her room and said with a gentle and kind voice, "You know you're not a mean girl, Mamma." But I AM a mean girl, Frances. And what I heard back (although she didn't actually say this): But Jesus loves you, Mamma, and he sees you differently and he's changing you, and I am a part of that.

Personal Questions

2008-04-11T14:11:00.007-05:00

I feel like I'm in China again because I feel like a celebrity every time I leave the house. I'm not sure if people are bored or rude or what, but people constantly stare at me. I watch their fruitless efforts to solve the strange Math problem that is my family's composition:

Those babies aren't twins. The little boy looks like he's a different race. Asian? Hispanic? The babies couldn't be more than 6 months apart. Maybe they're a Jon and Kate Plus 8 Family. I bet her husband is Korean. The Asian gene is dominant, you know. But then again the little girls are so blonde and white. But wait, all the babies adopted from Asia are girls (unless you count Brad and Angelina's babies, but you know they get special treatment). And why would you have two biological children and then adopt one? I wonder if she is infertile and they are all adopted? Has she been married twice? Or maybe it's like that Grey's Anatomy episode where the woman has a double uterus and two babies with two baby daddys...

The actual conversation comes out something more like this (my thoughts in parentheses):
"MY, have you got your hands full!" (Yes, which is why I don't have time for this conversation)
"Now, how far apart are the little ones? (translation: i'm too curious to keep my mouth shut)
At this point, I have two choices: I can explain that they are six months with no explanation, which feels a little bit cruel (but in a fun way) or I can go ahead and preclude the next question with explaining that Jack and Mary Helen are 6 months apart and Jack is of course adopted, which leads to more questions.

"Well, now, I thought all the Chinese babies were girls." (actually, there are thousands of Chinese baby boys, but I get your point)
"Now, are your other girls adopted as well?" (translation: are you able to physically conceive and give birth to babies?)

And then it just gets rude with questions like
"Why did his mother go into labor so soon?" (I'm not at liberty to discuss others' medical histories)
"Why did his mother give him up?" (Seriously?)

One day, a Chinese woman told me that my little son looked JUST LIKE ME. When I preceded to explain that he was adopted (after a lot of prying questions), she informed me that he probably wasn't full Chinese. Most likely, his birth father is white. Thanks for the advice, lady; I really should check that out.

So I probably sound a little cynical and should chill out a bit. I know that people have harmless intentions and are just curious, but I really didn't expect to have this conversation EVERYDAY. (A typical Publix trip will yield 3 or 4 of these conversations.) Exhausting.

We'll Miss You, Ozzie!

2008-04-05T09:13:00.004-05:00

Dear Ozzie the Greyhound,

You've been a faithful friend, or at least you have been a faithful friend to my husband, and that certainly counts for something in my book. You are a wonderfully quirky, weird, strange dog. I complain about you so often that you might think that I won't miss you. But you are wrong.

Some things I will miss:
The way you collected all of our shoes from around the house in a little pile in the dining room corner—We always knew where to look!
How you loved to snuggle up in bed with us—You never could get enough of that!
Your excitement when I saved some rotisserie chicken for you—I only wonder why you never appreciated me more.
Your excessive friendliness to our guests—You are truly a Southern gentleman.
Your careful supervision of our family couch—thanks for being clear about who should sit where.
The list goes on...

But now you are headed back to the fine establishment know as the Birmingham Race Course where, let's face it, you'll have a good time being all manly with your racing buddies. I can imagine it now: you and the guys sitting around smoking cigars, playing poker. You won't have to worry about annoying toddlers or figuring out which plants are okay to pee on. You're free, Ozzie!

Thanks for walking (and sometimes sprinting) this road with us. It's been quite a journey since we brought you home, and you've weathered a lot.

Yours Truly,
Your Family

For those who are wondering why the heck I am writing letters to my dog on this blog...Ozzie bit Frances in the face last week and so we felt we had no choice but to send him back to the race track to live out his final years (he's pretty old). Those of you who know Ozzie know how ridiculously annoying he was but also how much we loved him...

FLOWERS, SPRING, AN END TO THE LENTEN SEASON?

2008-04-03T15:01:00.001-05:00

This year, I am crazy about flowers. Frances and I have started an indoor cut flower garden that we hope to transplant into the outdoor garden this weekend (I know, I know- how do you have time for that?). Evan is building a beautiful stone wall next to the garden with his own bare hands. Somehow I can't help to think that the Mungers are all too ready for an Easter season, one in which we are growing and building and seeing new life. This year has been an unexpected mix of mourning and rejoicing, of gain and loss, and of profundity and banality. And even the gains have been full of loss. The miracle of Jack was brought to life through much loss. The sale of Evan's father's boat funded our adoption. We have been grieving the separation of Jack from his birthmother as much as we have been rejoicing in his being a part of our family. Little Mary Helen quickly lost her place as the "baby" of the family, only to gain a sweet brother with whom I'm sure she'll plot and plan all sorts of adventures within just a few short years.

Our life has shifted to a new form that is beyond recognition. Our family has grown wildly. And so now I really do feel some connection to what grows and dies—and then—comes back to life again. I have been walking around my yard everyday looking for shoots poking through the ground. My hostas are coming up and our Japanese maple is covered in healthy, green leaves. Jack is getting fat, too, and Mary Helen sure smiles a lot. Frances named all the things she would teach her brother and sister soon: how to swim, how to put on bedroom shoes, how to wear headbands—and most important of all—how to make things grow.

Disney Logic

2008-02-26T14:49:00.001-06:00

Today Frances came running into the room after her fourth costume change of the day. I immediately went into a diatribe about how I wasn't her personal maid, and how she had better hope she put the previous outfit back in the drawer, and how kids should only wear one outfit per day (Having given up cake and cookies for Lent, I am irritable these days)...Frances stopped me and looked at me and said "But mom, Aladdin says it is only okay to even be yourself." "Frances, are you saying that multiple outfit changes each day is a part of who you are?" "Yes, and Princess Jasmine said she didn't want to be a princess anymore." (Wow, so Frances is picking up on the theme of female liberation in Aladdin.) Then, Frances paused and thought for a moment. I watched the toddler-sized lightbulb go off in her head. "But, Mommy, Jasmine only wore that same blue outfit all day long." "Yes, Frances, so do you think you could do the same?" "Well, okay."

I doubt the costume changes will stop but I am amazed to see that Aladdin really does affect her thinking about the world. Maybe TV doesn't rot your brain, but it definitely changes it. Or, maybe I should say that stories change our minds and so we ought to be mindful that our children know good stories, true stories. Where does Disney fit into all of that?

So you want to see if anyone's changed...

2008-02-13T21:22:00.000-06:00

Dangerous Moments

2008-02-13T21:03:00.000-06:00

Snapshots from Day 1 alone with the kids:
Kelley out of bed AND bathrobe by 6:30 (amazing.).
Kelley nursing two babies at once (will sharing boobs prepare them to share a room?).
Kelley nursing again, this time while cleaning up lunch (I can walk and nurse one-armed- YAY!)
Mary Helen happily waving a steak knife at me.
Rest time...interrupted by Frances calling me into her room.
Kelley removing a plastic Barbie bracelet from Frances' nose (tweezers work as well as a trip to the ER).
More nursing.
More nursing.
Evan coming home to four survivors.

It was fun.
I think we'll do it again.

Our Sweet Little Man

2007-12-05T07:07:00.001-06:00

Here are some pictures our friend Brian kindly took for us last night. I love them!

Craziest Day of My Life

2007-12-03T14:31:00.000-06:00

Yesterday morning we received a call to come to the hospital immediately- Baby Jack was on his way! Less than an hour later I was in an OR with Angelica and Susan and watched Jack being born via C-section. When he first came out, he did not cry for awhile and we all held our breath. But then we heard his squeaky little cry and were completely overwhelmed with joy. Little Jack is just 3 lbs 5 oz but he is breathing well and we are blessed to have him here. He is in the NICU for 6 to 8 weeks. Pray for him. pray for us. And don't expect too much blogging, although I think writing about this experience could be healthy for me.

Here's a picture:

Sorry about your bad luck.

2007-11-29T20:57:00.001-06:00

Recently we were eating at a Mexican restaurant with some of Evan's relatives. My niece Kaitlyn was sitting next to me and next to her was Evan's second cousin Taylor. Kaitlyn had ordered a taco dinner with great optimism about what the waiter might bring her. Much to her disappointment, the beans looked gross and the taco didn't taste right. She proceeded to pitch a little fit about her meal and whine and complain as seven-year-olds will do. Thankfully, Taylor was there to sympathize with her. He leaned over and with all seriousness said, "Hey, sorry about your bad luck."

I love how Taylor was able to be in the moment with Kaitlyn and be sad with her about her taco. A teacher I respect has talked about asking our children to do hard things but then letting them be sad about it. We don't have to ask for "happy hearts" all the time. Tonight someone asked me how I was doing and I gave a big fake smile and said in my best Southern sorority girl voice "GREAT. HOW ARE YOUUUUUU?!?" (Draw the smile out for awhile) but then I self-edited and revised my answer to "actually, I'm not that great."

Right now, I have a lot of people in my life to whom I want to say with all sincerity: Sorry about your bad luck.

My friend who has been in the hospital twice in the last two weeks.
My friend who is a high-school dropout living on food stamps and SSI on the North side of Birmingham.
My friends who lost their precious son 18 months ago.
My friend who feels overwhelmed with her daily life and the task of raising her baby up.
My friends who are going it alone a lot in new cities with new surroundings.
My friend who is pregnant and will most likely give her baby up.
My mother-in-law who lost her husband.
My husband who lost his daddy.

Don't take my saying "sorry about your bad luck" to mean that I think it's all just bad luck or that i'm being trite. No, I think Taylor really had compassion for his little cousin and that was his seven-year-old way of saying "Life is hard. It's painful. I'm here for you. I love you."

It's been a tough year. And a year of blessings too. Sweet Mary Helen made it safely into our world. Our friends who lost their son are now awaiting the arrival of a second son. Evan had the best visit he has ever had with his dad the week before he passed.

How precious and fragile it is to have hope and to see God's mercy and grace at work in it all.

Problems of Community

2007-11-26T08:43:00.000-06:00

Most of you know that my father-in-law passed away last April. My mother-in-law now lives alone on a pecan orchard in rural Alabama. After Jack's death, Evan and I took Frances and Mary Helen across the street from Evan's mom's home to visit her neighbors who raise horses. Frances wanted to pet the horses and the owners had always been very gracious to let us come see the horses. As we talked with the owner (I don't even know his name), it became obvious that he hadn't even realized that Jack had died. He said that he had seen the ambulance and had stayed away to give the family some room. Somehow he had missed the passing of his across-the-street neighbor. The truth is, there was no relationship there in the first place, so why would I expect this neighbor to be of any comfort to my mother-in-law? But it pissed me off. Dee had not received one offer of support from people who lived just a few yards away.

This lack of support and connectedness is all around me. My neighbors are surprised (and embarrassed?) when I drop in. (In contrast, neighbors 200 years ago delivered one another's babies.) Family conversations are drowned out by blaring TVs. People don't eat together. Mothers raise children in the isolation of their homes or they rely on places of business (rather than family) to care for their children while they work. When my Chinese friend, He Xin Dong came to stay with us for a few weeks last Christmas, she was amazed at the amount of work and responsibility American mothers carry and the depth of their isolation with their children (especially the stay-at-home set). I talk to mothers all the time who feel lonely, depressed and completely unsupported.

Did you know that we are one of four nations in the world who doesn't offer paid paternity leaves? And, did you know that postpartum depression is a post-industrialization, post-nuclear family phenomenon? I read this in Mothering: "Postpartum depression was not evident before industrialism, but now is present in every industrialized country...we are not genetically adapted to the nuclear family, which is a byproduct of industrialization. In some ways, PPD is an adaptive strategy, a signal for help." Fascinating.

In the past, families and communities were connected in an extravagant web of relationships. One by one I see those connections weakening and falling away. Some are being replaced by artificial things like TV/Internet (ha- look at me blogging- is this considered artificial?- I like to think of it as a last resort for those of desperate for more connection). A lot of people are relying on "things bought" to take care of needs once met by communities (fast food instead of a meal prepared together by a family, for example).

Open your eyes and I think you will see that our fences are higher. Our individualism and comfort are slowly giving way to isolation and despair.

My hope for all of you reading this: LOOK AROUND. Are there widows or young mothers who might need your help, resources, strength, or encouragement? Do you need to ask for help or start building more relationships? I don't mean to sound "preachy"- I just know that we simply cannot do this alone. And, in light of the life changes I'm facing, I am contemplating how in the world I will stay at home with 3 babies without losing my mind. I suppose I will need to be brave and ask for help...

The Midwest, $10 in Cupcakes, and Two Emilys

2007-10-09T19:04:00.000-05:00

Today I had cupcakes with the two Emilys. And if you know the Mungers at all, you know we are serious about our cupcakes. These were serious cupcakes (at $3.50 a pop, they ought to be). If a fly on the wall also had a handheld video camera, he could have made a low-budget porn film. Confection #1 (with the extravagant moniker "Chocolate Thunder") elicited a sensual response from all partaking—ooooohhhhhhh, mmmmmmmm, WOW! We spent some time analyzing the components of the frosting, as if were a $50 bottle of wine—a strong butter flavor, with hints of melted (not dry) sugar. Creamy to perfection. Chocolate Ganache center? Orgasmic. No...Cupcasmic. Confection #2 was a classic Carrot Cake Cupcake. The cream cheese frosting, as Emily H put it, had "just the right amount of sour." Not everyone can look at cream cheese frosting with much scrutiny (Incidentally, cake has been a recurring theme in my friendship with Emily). Confection #3, where is it? It's sitting on the countertop, waiting for a late night rendevous.

The Midwest is annoyingly flat. A salad in the Midwest might very well include mayonnaise and a Snickers bar. But the cupcakes? I am satisfied.

Portraits of a Mother

2007-09-30T22:57:00.000-05:00

Tonight I got to sit by Angelica ("Baby China's" mother) at church and I realized how immensely thankful I am for the opportunity to know Angelica and to be around her and to watch her. And not only that, but I'm so thankful that she has the opportunity to know my children—to know the big sisters that will be looking out for their little bro. Tonight she was holding Mary Helen and you could tell she felt completely awkward; her posture indicated a fear that Mary Helen might explode on her at any moment. But she sat smiling and wiggling Mary Helen's toes, and she is really quite beautiful, and her belly is a bump now. I want to burn that image of her onto my mind and hold it there forever, so that when "Baby China" wants to know more about his birth mother, I will have some real pictures to draw from. I love it that I know she is an artist and loves death metal and photography and that she can rival even the most fervent chocolate lovers (I saw her wipe out a six-pack of chocolate bars in just a few days- Missy,can you compete with that?). She only likes to wear black (I think that might be a teenager thing) and despises pop music, although Avril Lavigne is on her mp3 player. She gets carsick easily and loves ice cream and fried chicken. She likes to be by herself and can play the guitar. She likes Red Mountain music because it sounds sad. With knowing her, I know that I put myself at risk for a lot more pain down the road, and I know it will change the adoptive experience altogether. After all, I can not comprehend the pain of placing a child for adoption, and knowing that Angelica will most likely go through that pain hurts me.

Speaking of, I've noticed a lot of people worrying about us, that we are too attached to this baby or even to Angelica. Evan and I talked about this today over our landscaping job and decided that we both felt really comfortable with the boundaries we have. We both feel like this has been a long, painful, daily process of learning to trust, and so we continue on this journey by faith. We don't know what will happen this February. We can't anticipate the pain (and joy) that will inevitably surround this event, regardless of the outcome. But we do know this (and we don't say this as a sweet sentiment): God has taken care of us. He has provided for this child's life, and He will continue to do this. We have abandoned ourselves to this, and have our hands open. We are not so foolish to think we won't need people to walk through this with us, though. I may very well fall apart if this falls through or when I realize that I am not enough and cannot do this (raise 3 kids 3 and under, I mean)— and that is where Jesus shows me His love and grace through the community of the church.

Please don't forget the miracle that is this child's life. We are still rejoicing that Angelica had the courage to come, and that He provided for that. I've been a little unsettled by people acting like Evan and I are "heroes" in this- we are not- Susan and Andy (Angelica's surrogate parents) and Angelica herself are the "heroes." They are the ones making these enormous sacrifices at this point, and I have been experiencing a sense of shame and guilt about this (a recurring issue for me). Susan (Angelica's surrogate mom) reminded me (through a friend) that I am not so big or important as that- I did not bring Angelica to the Edwards'. God did that. And He is pursuing all of us, Susan, Angelica, and I, through this truly incredible situation.

I promise my next blog will be lighter. Those of you who know me well know that I am just, well, SERIOUS. I was born that way.

Oh yeah, and if you were wondering, the link to Natasha Trethewey's interview is a link to a Terri Gross interview with a former teacher of mine from Auburn who I REALLY admire and respect. Her poetry won the Pulitzer this year!!!!

3:27 am

2007-09-26T03:27:00.000-05:00

Well, I have finally succombed to my destiny as a blogger. What better thing to do at 3:28 when sleep is avoiding me? (believe me, I'm not avoiding sleep) I will save my readers (all 3 of you- here's a shoutout to Emily, to whom I owe this blog) a long discourse about "why blogging is stupid and dangerous but I'm going to do it anyway" or what my purposes are in blogging. I'm just writing because that feels good to me and in a life where my home can oscillate so quickly between a Waldorf-ish place of domestic harmony and a harsh prison sentence, a blog seems like a good enough idea. I think Blogs (here I go discoursing) are really a way to jump over the high fences we've built in this culture. The human soul longs to GET OUT, and the mothering human soul living in this country is most desperate of all.

Speaking of mothering, Frances stopped mid-play today, looked at me with a very serious, concerned face and said "Mom, I think it's time I had a potty break." And honestly, I was thinking "Frances, I think it's time I had a Frances break." I don't need to say that I love this girl intensely, but I think that love is part of the "problem." I can't disconnect my boredom with puppet shows from my love for her. My distaste for puppeting marathons becomes more meaningful than it is because I feel it's some indictment on my ability to mother. And so guilt is always the elephant in the room around here (we also have two puppets who ARE, in fact, elephants). Guilty about not wanting to play anymore. Guilty about being so short with her so often. Guilty about being so busy. Guilty about our rapidly increasing family (how will there ever be enough of me to go around?). This is the kind of stuff moms don't talk about very easily- I think because for the "stay-at-home" lot, it's basically like saying "I suck at what I do" or "being defined by this just isn't enough." Which is true. I do suck at what I do and being a "perfect" mother will never fulfill me. Which is like saying "I'm more sinful than I'll ever know and I need Jesus." Ahh, the Gospel finds me here even. My performance as a mother, even my poor performance as a mother, will point Frances and Mary Helen (and Baby Boy China) to the Gospel. Can you hear my sigh of relief? Our homes are not factories where "good kids" are produced. And it's okay to say that our homes can be places of loneliness and brokenness. This is what sends us to Jesus.

Okay, well, I feel better after just one post.
I hope this speaks to some moms who may feel they've lost their voice.
Please dialogue with me about this.