Some folks have written, "Oh, dear Contemplative Chaplain, sweet kind and lovely woman who really doesn't look ten pounds overweight, do please tell us about the birth of your adorable son." So, of course I must oblige. And, actually, it was just one person and she is very nice and gives me way, way too much leeway in her requests. She knows who she is.
However, given the fact that I'm not so great about keeping Grayson's baby book up to date and recognize that this blog might be one of the only ways he knows his history, and that I seem to like sharing intimate details online, and some of you actually do wonder how this little person came into being, and I need a topic to write about, here goes.
As many of you know, I was getting frustrated beyond belief with the last stages of this pregnancy. The puking, my God the puking, which was supposed to end with the first trimester...the inability to make it up a flight of stairs without getting breathless...the fact that my belly was large enough that there was nowhere for the dog to sleep on the couch next to me anymore...the fact that I had to give up working at a job I love before it was technically "time."
On my first day of maternity leave, Karen the mother and I shopped like maniacal OCD women on ritalin. We hit Babies R Us for more receiving blankets, Target for a CD player for the baby's room, JC Penney for nursing bras, Olive Garden for lunch, Borders for just a few more board books to add to the already overflowing bookshelves, Macy's for hospital pajamas, and Starbucks for an afternoon snack (as we hadn't eaten in approximately forty-five minutes). And so, it was no surprise to me in the 70+ degree weather (the first warm spell of Indiana spring) that my feet were swollen to twice their size and my wedding band was cutting off circulation to my head (thus explaining the weird lightheadedness and visual disturbances).
On Tuesday, I decided to spend my day with my feet propped up on the couch. I, thankfully, decided to take off my wedding band (remember this detail for later), and moved hardly at all that day. When R. got home from teaching I moaned and groaned to him about water retention, being a beached-whale, yadda-yadda-yadda. He kissed me on the forehead and reminded me that I was, simply put, pregnant.
However, that swelling I mentioned, the feet and the hands. It did not go away. And my reassuring pregnancy tomes were no help. They all said, "Yes, swelling is normal in the third trimester, but if it doesn't go away overnight, perhaps you should call your doctor. Actually, listen to us and call your doctor Right Now. We mean it, don't pass go and don't collect twho hundred dollars, just call them now, fattie." On Wednesday morning, the feet could no longer fit into slippers and the fingers, they were adorable little sausages. I decided to heed the pregnancy tomes and call my doctor, twelve hours later than I probably should have (thank God I took off that wedding band, or it would have been sawed off...).
I, though, am a clean freak and had made an appointment to have the windows cleaned on that Wednesday morning. And, of course, I didn't want a doctor's appointment to interfere with my need for bird poop to be eliminated from my bathroom window. Certainly not. And so, despite my swelling, well, I had to get up at 8:00 a.m. for the nice cleaning men to come over. As they were concentrating on my windows, and as R. was grumbling about why I had agreed to such an early morning visit from the aforementioned cleaners, I decided to call the doctor. The very nice nurse on the phone listened to my predicament and said, "Um....so your shoes don't fit? And it has only gotten worse? Um...I don't want to alarm you, but we need you to come in RIGHT NOW. And, have you packed a hospital bag? Maybe you should throw it in the car, just in case." Oh. Well. Okay.
I lumbered up the stairs to tell R. who said cautiously, "Do you want me to stay home and go with you?" I was, in a moment of completely uncharacteristic anti-hypochondriasis, adamant, "Nah...it's probably nothing." Besides, the windows had just been cleaned and I certainly needed to enjoy them before blue jays had their way with them. I called my mother, gave her the scoop, told her it was probably nothing, hung up. Two minutes later she called back and said, "I think I'll just meet you there, so you're not alone." As the office was only a few minutes from her house I didn't object, figured she was just being an overprotective parent. I added a few more things to the "just in case" bag (included Constant Comment teabags, James Taylor CDs, and peanut M&M's) and zipped it up, kissed R. goodbye as he left for work, received the invoice from the window washers, put the dog in her crate, and hauled my pregnant belly to the doctor's office.
And now, dear readers, the baby is crying...and so...I leave you in suspense as you wait for Birth Story Part Deux. But ask yourselves, "Will she indeed be admitted to the hospital? And will R. get there in time if she does? Will she ever become unswollen? And will her windows be as clean as she hoped?" Tune in next time...soon.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
1 Month
Remembering that imitation is the best form of flattery, I attempt my own feeble monthly letters to the one who has stolen my heart.
Dear Grayson,
Tomorrow you will be one month old. I look at the pictures of you from our luxurious spa-like stay at the hospital and marvel at how quickly you've grown. I have entered the world of parenthood, where children are constantly changing and morphing into new beings and there is little to do apart from pausing to shake one's head in wonder.
Here are things I have learned about motherhood in our short month together. The things people say about developing "Mommy Brain," whereby one forgets names, places, details, to even use the restroom is true. I cannot believe how scattered I have become, how difficult it is for me to concentrate. Of course "Mommy Brain" could also be affiliated with its quite accurate counterpart "Sleep Deprived Zombie." This is difficult for one who feels called to a contemplative dimension. I have said very few prayers, as concentration is shot to hell. Very few prayers, that is, except for the one I breathe countless times throughout the day and night as I inhale your delicate baby scent, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Also, on a more practical note, I've learned that there are amazing contraptions, gadgets and gizmos for parents and babies. I marvel in slack-jawed wonder at whoever came up with the idea for the Diaper Genie. I would give him or her a sloppy wet kiss and a nice aged bottle of Glen Livet scotch if I only knew who to credit. And, as for sleepers that zip rather than snap? Nobel Prize to that person. Immediately. And pacifiers? Perfect name for them. Enough said. And in time to come when you have a baby of your own, if someone tells you that swings are a waste of time? Hit them. Hit them really hard. Oops...we're pacifists, and Brethren pacifists at that, so I guess you'll have to be really passive aggressive with them. Maybe "forget" to tell them about an important church meeting or something.
Weekends change when you are a parent, at least in this household. Because your father is teaching and facing the end of the year stress of most professors, I stay up with you on the weeknights while Daddy teaches the next day, and Daddy does weekend duty. Therefore, whilst in college Friday and Saturday nights were filled with excitement as my roommates and I pondered what parties or dances we might attend, what boys we would flirt with, or how many bottles of Boone's Farm wine we might consume, life has changed. It is equally thrilling to know that on a weekend night after a glass of chardonay (a benefit of not breast-feeding), I can retire at 8:00 p.m. and sleep a full twelve hours while you are tended by Daddy. I'm not sure I've ever had a more fulfilling weekend night. I'm hoping this changes by the time you're seven or eight years old, or else you're going to have a pretty pathetic mommy, perhaps the kind who wears stretch-pants and makes you wear headgear to your eighth-grade holiday dance.
It's probably important to apologize at this time for that nasty comb-over I've been giving you. Ever since your baby hair started falling out, I act as your self-appointed baby groomer and dutifully brush your locks across your gigantic chrome dome of a head (sorry, it had to be said). Both your grandfathers remind me that you are in good company, but I'm afraid your comb-over rivals that of my former high school algebra teacher, and for that I am oh-so-very-sorry. Please don't join the Eagle Forum or any of Phyllis Schaffly's minions to pay me back, as Mr. Becker was a card-carrying member of the aforementioned associations.
You don't do so much "social smiling" as the baby books call it. However, I chalk that up to your discerning mind. There simply hasn't been all that much to smile at yet, I mean, let's face it Geroge W. is still in office. Perhaps your first smile will peak in mid-January of 2009? Your father claims that you did indeed smile at him when he was making faces at you last night. But, as I am the primary caregiver for the time being, I would prefer to believe that it was just gas pains and that you are reserving that first big smile for the woman who wakes up with you at 3:00 a.m. five of the seven days of the week. Having said that, your father is pretty silly when he wants to be and there is no other person I'd smile at in the universe given my druthers.
You are, for all intents and purposes, an "easy baby" it seems. When you cry, you're pretty clear about why you're crying. However, it's hard not to laugh at your fast-breathing, overexaggerated hyperventilation if you're not fed IMMEDIATELY. You breathe, quick-quick-quick through your mouth in what sounds like a Lamaze exercise. Once the problem is addressed, and an Avent bottle inserted properly into your full baby lips you usually calm. You often lie in your cradle in the mornings and stare at the light above you as if to say, "Take me to your leader" and coo contentedly or grunt vigorously. You hate, hate, hate having your diaper changed and you hate, hate, hate the one who changes it...for about thirty seconds (your memory hasn't developed that much...have you considered that it could be sleep deprivation?).
As a rabid feminist, I continue to dress you in gender-neutral clothing (although I am cheap as well and take whatever hand-me-downs or gifts that anyone offers, so you do have lots of blues in your wardrobe). You wear lots of greens and yellows and puppies and bunnies, and still today at the eye doctor's office a sweet little old woman approached me and said, "He's a beautiful boy isn't he?" I wonder if she would have said the same if I had dressed you in your "Future Feminist" onesie?
You have developed a tender relationship with your big sister, B. She absolutely adores you and insists on picking you up and holding you as soon as she gets home. She changes your diapers, mixes your formula, feeds you, burps you, and comforts you. Keep this in mind, kiddo. She's got your back and in time to come you will have to refrain from embarassing her around significant others or annoying her with repeating the lyrics to the Barney theme song for hours at a time on our road trips to Texas to visit your beloved relatives there.
I am astounded by the utter joy you bring me. I am a more passionate activist, a more ardent feminist, a more earnest disciple because of the ways in which I want this world to be right for your generation.
I adore you beyond words.
Love,
Mommy
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Secret Which Shall Remain Hidden
R. and I had our first post-baby date this past weekend and Grayson stayed home with Grandma and Grandpa. I prided myself on the fact that I left the house with no spit-up on my shirt, and that while I can not wear my pre-pregnancy jeans yet, I no longer have the tell-tale post-pregnancy pooch which signals to the world that I now live in the world of stretch pants and Similac formula and obsess about things like the consistency of baby poop. I also found it admirable that I only called home to check on him twice while we were out, although I did sigh often throughout the evening and say, "I wonder what the baby's doing..." to which R. would respond for the sixty-seventh time, "He's probably sleeping, Christen. I mean, really, what else does he do at this point?" (In Grayson's defense, he also poops and eats, so he does have a busy social calendar).
Some may find our first post-baby date unique, for we spent it at a place most new parents don't find themselves. We spent the evening whooping it up at a drag show. It was a wonderful, refreshing change of pace from our normal routine. The small-town college where R. teaches, had their sixth annual drag show sponsored by United Sexualities, an advocacy group which supports the rights of gay/lesbian/bi-sexual/transgendered students on campus. R. is one of the advisors for the group, and as such, was being honored at the drag show. It was a delightful evening filled with both hysterical and poignant moments. There is nothing more freeing than watching students feel comfortable celebrating gender in new and unlikely ways, regardless of their understandings of sexuality. I was unbelievably proud of my husband, as students thanked him for his advocacy for them, and for his gift of being a "safe" faculty member who accepts and celebrates them exactly as they are.
All the way home we reveled in the night, replaying our favorite songs in our minds, remarking on how talented the students were, and how honored we were to be invited into their world. R. wore his pink princess crown, the gift from his students, proudly as we came in the house to cradle our sweet boy, who was taking his final bottle of the night from his grandma. We waved R.'s coveted princess wand around Grayson's head, wishing for him a world where all people felt free to express themselves and know that they were accepted by a loving God into an open-minded world. I sat down the next day and carefully penned into Grayson's baby book the night his mom and dad went out for their first date after he was born, and where they were. I want him to know someday how important it was for us to be there. I want to paste the photo of us with happy smiles on our faces into the pages of his Pooh Memory Book.
However, there is a secret which shall remain hidden throughout Grayson's life. A secret I breathe here only because I know that you, my sweet readers can hold it carefully and not breathe a word of it to my boy ever. The secret is this: for Grayson's very first outing, the first time he was allowed out of the house, we went to...Wal-Mart. It couldn't be helped. We needed formula desperately and it was the closest location in a pinch. And we did try to salvage the experience by having R. stay in the car with him while playing some Arlo Guthrie on the CD player to help counteract the Wal-Mart influence. However, in time, when my sweet baby grows up and asks in all innocence, "Mommy, where was the first place you took me after I was born?" I will calmly respond, "To an anti-war rally, followed by a trip to the organic market for non-fat soy lattes, and then a stop at the library to check out all the Booker Prize winners, and oh yeah, then we went to a drag show, and you my boy, opened your eyes wide in sheer wonder at all the sparkly sequined costumes, and your father and I smiled."
Some may find our first post-baby date unique, for we spent it at a place most new parents don't find themselves. We spent the evening whooping it up at a drag show. It was a wonderful, refreshing change of pace from our normal routine. The small-town college where R. teaches, had their sixth annual drag show sponsored by United Sexualities, an advocacy group which supports the rights of gay/lesbian/bi-sexual/transgendered students on campus. R. is one of the advisors for the group, and as such, was being honored at the drag show. It was a delightful evening filled with both hysterical and poignant moments. There is nothing more freeing than watching students feel comfortable celebrating gender in new and unlikely ways, regardless of their understandings of sexuality. I was unbelievably proud of my husband, as students thanked him for his advocacy for them, and for his gift of being a "safe" faculty member who accepts and celebrates them exactly as they are.
All the way home we reveled in the night, replaying our favorite songs in our minds, remarking on how talented the students were, and how honored we were to be invited into their world. R. wore his pink princess crown, the gift from his students, proudly as we came in the house to cradle our sweet boy, who was taking his final bottle of the night from his grandma. We waved R.'s coveted princess wand around Grayson's head, wishing for him a world where all people felt free to express themselves and know that they were accepted by a loving God into an open-minded world. I sat down the next day and carefully penned into Grayson's baby book the night his mom and dad went out for their first date after he was born, and where they were. I want him to know someday how important it was for us to be there. I want to paste the photo of us with happy smiles on our faces into the pages of his Pooh Memory Book.
However, there is a secret which shall remain hidden throughout Grayson's life. A secret I breathe here only because I know that you, my sweet readers can hold it carefully and not breathe a word of it to my boy ever. The secret is this: for Grayson's very first outing, the first time he was allowed out of the house, we went to...Wal-Mart. It couldn't be helped. We needed formula desperately and it was the closest location in a pinch. And we did try to salvage the experience by having R. stay in the car with him while playing some Arlo Guthrie on the CD player to help counteract the Wal-Mart influence. However, in time, when my sweet baby grows up and asks in all innocence, "Mommy, where was the first place you took me after I was born?" I will calmly respond, "To an anti-war rally, followed by a trip to the organic market for non-fat soy lattes, and then a stop at the library to check out all the Booker Prize winners, and oh yeah, then we went to a drag show, and you my boy, opened your eyes wide in sheer wonder at all the sparkly sequined costumes, and your father and I smiled."
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
And I Am Not the Same
This baby lies across my back, milk-drunk. A sleepy smile, some automatic reflex, spreads across his crooked lips for an instant, followed by a scowl. His eyes dart around behind their lids. What must babies dream of? Giant breasts? Or in the case of Grayson, Avent bottles circling around him madly bidding him to feast the wonders of Similac formula?
I have learned that time passes quickly in the presence of an infant. Already I see miraculous changes in him. He is different than two weeks ago when he hardly opened his eyes. Now he watches, and his eyes cross and focus and refocus. Time passes quickly for mothers too, or at least for this mother. I begin to gaze at him as he lies asleep in my arms, and I look up and ten minutes has passed and I wonder if the clocks are wrong. I remain fixed on his face, amazed that I could love something so fiercely, so protectively.
Throughout my CPE experience (for those of you not in the chaplaincy business, CPE is the crucible which either kills or shapes you as a chaplain, it's the drill camp of hospital work, the grunt work whereby you are overworked and underpaid and taught that you will learn to love it), I was reminded that I did not completely fathom the love that God had for me, that I could not completely accept God's grace in my own life. Once, in my consultation interviews, the Spanish Inquisition/Therapy Session which brings you to the core of yourself, someone who had read my portfolio but didn't know me well said, "Christen, can you imagine God loving you as a loving parent cradles their newborn?" And I said, "I think so." But I was wrong, because the love I have for this helpless child stops me in my tracks. It makes me catch my breath. And I realize how impossible it has been for me to fathom God's love for me.
This is all so startlingly new. I am exhausted. I am exhilirated. I am not the same.
I have learned that time passes quickly in the presence of an infant. Already I see miraculous changes in him. He is different than two weeks ago when he hardly opened his eyes. Now he watches, and his eyes cross and focus and refocus. Time passes quickly for mothers too, or at least for this mother. I begin to gaze at him as he lies asleep in my arms, and I look up and ten minutes has passed and I wonder if the clocks are wrong. I remain fixed on his face, amazed that I could love something so fiercely, so protectively.
Throughout my CPE experience (for those of you not in the chaplaincy business, CPE is the crucible which either kills or shapes you as a chaplain, it's the drill camp of hospital work, the grunt work whereby you are overworked and underpaid and taught that you will learn to love it), I was reminded that I did not completely fathom the love that God had for me, that I could not completely accept God's grace in my own life. Once, in my consultation interviews, the Spanish Inquisition/Therapy Session which brings you to the core of yourself, someone who had read my portfolio but didn't know me well said, "Christen, can you imagine God loving you as a loving parent cradles their newborn?" And I said, "I think so." But I was wrong, because the love I have for this helpless child stops me in my tracks. It makes me catch my breath. And I realize how impossible it has been for me to fathom God's love for me.
This is all so startlingly new. I am exhausted. I am exhilirated. I am not the same.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
For Unto Us...
A son is born. And his name shall be called Grayson James Pettit.
All of us are well. And all is well. And all shall be well. Blessed Be.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Packing it up, Thowing it in, Giving it over.
The other night I had a little "come-to-Jesus" meeting with myself. The meeting happened after sitting on the bathroom floor in my pajamas sobbing so hard that I began to wretch. The issue? When to stop working and begin my maternity leave.
Initially, I decided I would be a superhero and work right up until my due date, thus saving my precious twelve weeks of FMLA time to be with Grayson after his birth. Of course, I also thought that every single day of my pregnancy I would run three miles and eat only organic vegetables and fruits too. So much for dreams (I say, while popping another strawberry poptart into my mouth). However, I've come to the place where waddling, I mean walking, is hard and riding in the car puts too much pressure on my back, and I don't feel as if I'm giving my best emotional and spiritual energy to my patients. And so, despite the fact that I still have a few weeks to go before Grayson's birth, I think it's time to begin maternity leave. It's hard to say goodbye, though, especially knowing that statistics show that most of my patients will likely die in the next few months and I won't get to be part of that journey with them, that I will feel as if I am abandoning them (how selfish is that?). The overriding emotion for me, though, as I contemplate the time away from this agency is one of tremendous relief. I'm so exhausted. I'm so tired of feeling as if I'm not giving the appropriate attention to those who I serve. I'm tired of being torn between the world of "work" and the world of "home and body." I think it's probably time to turn my energy toward making room, spiritual and emotional and physical room, for my son.
So, come Friday afternoon, I'll pack up some files and books and turn the light off on my desk and realize that the next time I sit here the calendar will be open to the month of June and there will be a new photo next to the portraits of T. and B. It's time.
Initially, I decided I would be a superhero and work right up until my due date, thus saving my precious twelve weeks of FMLA time to be with Grayson after his birth. Of course, I also thought that every single day of my pregnancy I would run three miles and eat only organic vegetables and fruits too. So much for dreams (I say, while popping another strawberry poptart into my mouth). However, I've come to the place where waddling, I mean walking, is hard and riding in the car puts too much pressure on my back, and I don't feel as if I'm giving my best emotional and spiritual energy to my patients. And so, despite the fact that I still have a few weeks to go before Grayson's birth, I think it's time to begin maternity leave. It's hard to say goodbye, though, especially knowing that statistics show that most of my patients will likely die in the next few months and I won't get to be part of that journey with them, that I will feel as if I am abandoning them (how selfish is that?). The overriding emotion for me, though, as I contemplate the time away from this agency is one of tremendous relief. I'm so exhausted. I'm so tired of feeling as if I'm not giving the appropriate attention to those who I serve. I'm tired of being torn between the world of "work" and the world of "home and body." I think it's probably time to turn my energy toward making room, spiritual and emotional and physical room, for my son.
So, come Friday afternoon, I'll pack up some files and books and turn the light off on my desk and realize that the next time I sit here the calendar will be open to the month of June and there will be a new photo next to the portraits of T. and B. It's time.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Hypocrite
This afternoon I was called upon to do what I have done before; to speak in a class of fresh-faced college students about the work I do as a hospice chaplain. The critical difference between today's class and other classes in which I've spoken was that today's class was at the local Bible college, a Bible college significantly more conservative than my social milieu. This should not be surprising, as I do live in Indiana, which is not exactly Diane Feinstein country. But, I am always taken aback when certain assumptions are made about me because I am a chaplain. Mainly assumptions about my belief in Jesus Christ as the only way to heaven, and my understanding of the importance of "winning souls" before people die. Today I was asked, "Is it hard for you to just let people die when you know they aren't saved?" and "How do you feel good about your work knowing that so many people don't come to Jesus before they die? Do you feel responsible for that?" I don't think I gave them the answers they wanted, the easy pat answers, the answers which seem to guarantee a one-way ticket to heaven.
Instead I talked about the power of story as that crucible which holds us. I spoke of the power of being heard into speech and the importance of listening, and then listening some more. I told them that each person has to tell their own story, and find the ways in which grace and forgiveness and confession and guilt and loss and hope and resurrection have all played a part in weaving each person's life story. I talked of a God of love and forgiveness who is manifest in many forms and many ways and with many names. And many of their eager faces seemed to stare at me with blank stares. And then one young woman said, "I have a question for you...how many people in your agency are Christian?" And I wanted to bang my head on the table and say, "Who gives a flying fuck?!? Is it that important to label people into your all-important categories?"
Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite in my work, as if I am the one the least concerned with bringing my patients to kneel before the feet of Jesus. Instead, I would like to imagine Jesus sitting at their feet, washing their mottled toes, and healing their wounded hearts, completely unconcerned with their theological rules.
Perhaps I'll burn in hell for that. But, if that's the case, I think I'll find myself in good company with the other sinners.
Instead I talked about the power of story as that crucible which holds us. I spoke of the power of being heard into speech and the importance of listening, and then listening some more. I told them that each person has to tell their own story, and find the ways in which grace and forgiveness and confession and guilt and loss and hope and resurrection have all played a part in weaving each person's life story. I talked of a God of love and forgiveness who is manifest in many forms and many ways and with many names. And many of their eager faces seemed to stare at me with blank stares. And then one young woman said, "I have a question for you...how many people in your agency are Christian?" And I wanted to bang my head on the table and say, "Who gives a flying fuck?!? Is it that important to label people into your all-important categories?"
Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite in my work, as if I am the one the least concerned with bringing my patients to kneel before the feet of Jesus. Instead, I would like to imagine Jesus sitting at their feet, washing their mottled toes, and healing their wounded hearts, completely unconcerned with their theological rules.
Perhaps I'll burn in hell for that. But, if that's the case, I think I'll find myself in good company with the other sinners.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Listening for the Word--Sermon
This is the sermon I didn't get to preach last Sunday due to an ice storm which kept me home. It is based on three scriptures from the book of Mark (1:35, 6:45-46, 14:32).
When I was a little girl, my father and I had a daily ritual which began when he would come home each noontime for an hour to eat his lunch with my mother and me. While my mother was preparing our egg salad sandwiches, my father would take me into the living room for our noontime confab, which I assume now was an attempt to rescue my mother for at least an hour from a spirited only child. Dad would ask about my morning. I’d ask about his day at work. I’d tell him about who I had seen on the Captain Kangaroo show while I was eating breakfast, he’d tell me which of his parishioners stopped in for coffee at the church. I’d put on a mini-show for him. He’d show me a magic trick. Every day it was the same routine with a little different variation. Father-daughter time.
One day, my father came home during the noontime hour preoccupied and overwhelmed. It was during the Watergate scandal I believe, and while my mother was putting lunch on the table, my father hunkered down in his reading chair with the newspaper, trying to catch up on the latest national news. This was not a normal day. As many times as I would try to get my father’s attention, he would answer from behind his Journal Gazette with only a half-hearted “hmmmm” or an uninterested “Oh, really?” I watched him expectantly with all the impatience and righteous indignation that a precocious four-year-old can muster, climbed into his lap, patted the paper down underneath me and sat on it, and then took his whiskered cheeks in my little hands, turned his face toward me and said, “Daddy, you must look at me when I talk to you. I need to know you’re listening!”
The Gospel of Mark is a unique one. It is, by all accounts, the earliest written Gospel message, and it is terse to the point of annoyance at times, for a word-lover like me. It is the shortest of the four Gospels and it records fewer of the words that Jesus spoke as well. The Jesus that we find in Mark is busy. He’s always moving. He’s always acting. He’s always on the go. Reading Mark is like watching a movie on fast-forward. Jesus has marathon days where he heals, teaches, prophesies, performs miracles, walks on water, argues with Pharisees, travels from town to town to town, feeds multitudes, makes disciples and welcomes children (sigh) all before noon and all without breaking a sweat. Surely this Jesus could rub his tummy and pat his head at the same time, all the while whistling Great is Thy Faithfulness. He’s one of those kind of guys, an up and comer of sorts. In fact, Mark’s favorite word, used over 40 times in this short book, is the Greek word meaning “immediately” or “at once.” Mark tells us over and over again, “First Jesus went here, and now look, immediately he did this.” That Jesus was an activist is inarguable. But even in this account of Jesus’ life, we have glimpses of the contemplative side of this one who was himself the Word incarnate.
At several points in Mark’s account, Jesus finds ways to go away, whether it be with others or alone, to do some listening of his own, rather just that immediate speaking. At critical points in his ministry, Jesus finds his way to a quiet place to connect himself to the one who named him “The Word.” Even in the midst of all the action, there is the need to some profound listening. And those of you who are introverts in this sanctuary can’t tell me that that doesn’t allow you to breathe a sigh of relief. Mark tells of a whirlwind day early in Jesus’ ministry, shortly after his baptism where after recruiting some disciples, and teaching in the synagogue, and healing a friends’ mother-in-law, and then having a rally to heal all the sick, he found a place to sleep and awoke while it was still dark and went out to a deserted place to pray. And then there was another time, when after encouraging his disciples to practice self-care and find some space for themselves to pray he realized that there were hungry crowds and he multiplied the food and sent the disciples out on the water for some R&R so that he could again make his way alone to listen and pray on a mountain. And, let’s not forget that on the night he was betrayed, he asked his disciples to stay awake, while he went off by himself to pray. Jesus, the Word incarnate, models for us the need to listen ourselves.
And while this would seem like a simple task, while each of us know that we are each skilled at listening to others, and even perhaps to the nudgings of our God, I would wager that we’re not as good at it as we may think. I would wager, that what most of us are doing is the passive act of hearing, rather than the ever so active task of truly listening, and there is a world of difference between those two.
Several years ago, I went with a group of 4th, 5th, and 6th graders for an overnight retreat experience at a nature preserve. One of the group activities while we were there was to sit outside on a sunny June day with our eyes closed and listen to what we heard around us. After several minutes of this listening, we were given paper and pencils and asked to write or draw the sounds we heard on the paper. I was amazed at the variety of noise which surrounded me as I participated with them. I was aware of the noise which I simply filter out each day, or don’t consider. I sat under a tree that day and listened with new ears to the voice of God. I did more than merely hear. I noted bird calls, and airplane sounds, wind in the trees, and the distant sound of a dog’s bark. True listening opened me and startled me awake.
I confess freely that I am not one who hears the voice of God on a regular basis. Or ever, for that matter. And that doesn’t mean I haven’t deeply desired that kind of response. I remember lamenting to a spiritual director several years ago the doubt I have, and the deep yearning I have for the heavens to open and a booming voice to tell me exactly what it is that I should do in a given situation. And her response was, “Christen, perhaps God doesn’t do that anymore in our culture because God doesn’t have to. Perhaps we’re capable of being attune enough to God that God can afford to be subtle.”
I despised that response at the time for it’s lack of immediate gratification and direction from a Creator, but confess that it has grown on me in the years after and now provides me with hope. Perhaps God’s actions and purposes are so subtle around me, that when I stomp through them like a bulldozer demanding definite answers I miss those slight nuances. Perhaps when as a community or individual we listen only to the shoulds and oughts of our society, or when we remain afraid of truly opening our hearts to the subtleties and whispers of our Creator, but assert our own haughty opinions we are missing the deeper truth of Jesus’ message.
Sometimes I have a vision of God, standing like the four-year-old that I was, impatiently tapping a foot and waiting, waiting for us to pay attention. Sometimes I imagine God folding down my newspaper of a daily life, and putting gentle hands on my face and steering me to look anew into the eyes of my Creator, while a loving voice says, “Christen, you must look at me when I talk to you. You must listen.”
Friends, as we enter the mystery of the Lenten season, as we allow it to have it’s way with us, we are surrounded by the mystery of the ever-present Word. It seems as appropriate a time to listen as ever. And so, come away, come to a quiet place and find balance that we may each know our God anew.
Amen.
When I was a little girl, my father and I had a daily ritual which began when he would come home each noontime for an hour to eat his lunch with my mother and me. While my mother was preparing our egg salad sandwiches, my father would take me into the living room for our noontime confab, which I assume now was an attempt to rescue my mother for at least an hour from a spirited only child. Dad would ask about my morning. I’d ask about his day at work. I’d tell him about who I had seen on the Captain Kangaroo show while I was eating breakfast, he’d tell me which of his parishioners stopped in for coffee at the church. I’d put on a mini-show for him. He’d show me a magic trick. Every day it was the same routine with a little different variation. Father-daughter time.
One day, my father came home during the noontime hour preoccupied and overwhelmed. It was during the Watergate scandal I believe, and while my mother was putting lunch on the table, my father hunkered down in his reading chair with the newspaper, trying to catch up on the latest national news. This was not a normal day. As many times as I would try to get my father’s attention, he would answer from behind his Journal Gazette with only a half-hearted “hmmmm” or an uninterested “Oh, really?” I watched him expectantly with all the impatience and righteous indignation that a precocious four-year-old can muster, climbed into his lap, patted the paper down underneath me and sat on it, and then took his whiskered cheeks in my little hands, turned his face toward me and said, “Daddy, you must look at me when I talk to you. I need to know you’re listening!”
The Gospel of Mark is a unique one. It is, by all accounts, the earliest written Gospel message, and it is terse to the point of annoyance at times, for a word-lover like me. It is the shortest of the four Gospels and it records fewer of the words that Jesus spoke as well. The Jesus that we find in Mark is busy. He’s always moving. He’s always acting. He’s always on the go. Reading Mark is like watching a movie on fast-forward. Jesus has marathon days where he heals, teaches, prophesies, performs miracles, walks on water, argues with Pharisees, travels from town to town to town, feeds multitudes, makes disciples and welcomes children (sigh) all before noon and all without breaking a sweat. Surely this Jesus could rub his tummy and pat his head at the same time, all the while whistling Great is Thy Faithfulness. He’s one of those kind of guys, an up and comer of sorts. In fact, Mark’s favorite word, used over 40 times in this short book, is the Greek word meaning “immediately” or “at once.” Mark tells us over and over again, “First Jesus went here, and now look, immediately he did this.” That Jesus was an activist is inarguable. But even in this account of Jesus’ life, we have glimpses of the contemplative side of this one who was himself the Word incarnate.
At several points in Mark’s account, Jesus finds ways to go away, whether it be with others or alone, to do some listening of his own, rather just that immediate speaking. At critical points in his ministry, Jesus finds his way to a quiet place to connect himself to the one who named him “The Word.” Even in the midst of all the action, there is the need to some profound listening. And those of you who are introverts in this sanctuary can’t tell me that that doesn’t allow you to breathe a sigh of relief. Mark tells of a whirlwind day early in Jesus’ ministry, shortly after his baptism where after recruiting some disciples, and teaching in the synagogue, and healing a friends’ mother-in-law, and then having a rally to heal all the sick, he found a place to sleep and awoke while it was still dark and went out to a deserted place to pray. And then there was another time, when after encouraging his disciples to practice self-care and find some space for themselves to pray he realized that there were hungry crowds and he multiplied the food and sent the disciples out on the water for some R&R so that he could again make his way alone to listen and pray on a mountain. And, let’s not forget that on the night he was betrayed, he asked his disciples to stay awake, while he went off by himself to pray. Jesus, the Word incarnate, models for us the need to listen ourselves.
And while this would seem like a simple task, while each of us know that we are each skilled at listening to others, and even perhaps to the nudgings of our God, I would wager that we’re not as good at it as we may think. I would wager, that what most of us are doing is the passive act of hearing, rather than the ever so active task of truly listening, and there is a world of difference between those two.
Several years ago, I went with a group of 4th, 5th, and 6th graders for an overnight retreat experience at a nature preserve. One of the group activities while we were there was to sit outside on a sunny June day with our eyes closed and listen to what we heard around us. After several minutes of this listening, we were given paper and pencils and asked to write or draw the sounds we heard on the paper. I was amazed at the variety of noise which surrounded me as I participated with them. I was aware of the noise which I simply filter out each day, or don’t consider. I sat under a tree that day and listened with new ears to the voice of God. I did more than merely hear. I noted bird calls, and airplane sounds, wind in the trees, and the distant sound of a dog’s bark. True listening opened me and startled me awake.
I confess freely that I am not one who hears the voice of God on a regular basis. Or ever, for that matter. And that doesn’t mean I haven’t deeply desired that kind of response. I remember lamenting to a spiritual director several years ago the doubt I have, and the deep yearning I have for the heavens to open and a booming voice to tell me exactly what it is that I should do in a given situation. And her response was, “Christen, perhaps God doesn’t do that anymore in our culture because God doesn’t have to. Perhaps we’re capable of being attune enough to God that God can afford to be subtle.”
I despised that response at the time for it’s lack of immediate gratification and direction from a Creator, but confess that it has grown on me in the years after and now provides me with hope. Perhaps God’s actions and purposes are so subtle around me, that when I stomp through them like a bulldozer demanding definite answers I miss those slight nuances. Perhaps when as a community or individual we listen only to the shoulds and oughts of our society, or when we remain afraid of truly opening our hearts to the subtleties and whispers of our Creator, but assert our own haughty opinions we are missing the deeper truth of Jesus’ message.
Sometimes I have a vision of God, standing like the four-year-old that I was, impatiently tapping a foot and waiting, waiting for us to pay attention. Sometimes I imagine God folding down my newspaper of a daily life, and putting gentle hands on my face and steering me to look anew into the eyes of my Creator, while a loving voice says, “Christen, you must look at me when I talk to you. You must listen.”
Friends, as we enter the mystery of the Lenten season, as we allow it to have it’s way with us, we are surrounded by the mystery of the ever-present Word. It seems as appropriate a time to listen as ever. And so, come away, come to a quiet place and find balance that we may each know our God anew.
Amen.
Random Factoids of Little Significance to the Rest of the World
Pregnancy seems to have sucked all the creative energy out of me. What can I say? My body is probably busy perfecting a spleen or putting the finishing touches on some fingernails. Apparently my creative energy is being exerted in other directions at the moment. I'm sure Grayson will thank me later for putting attention there. So, here are a few random factoids which probably matter very little to any of you, but which reassure me that, indeed, I have been posting to my blog.
- The stray cats outside now are all named. I chose a mystic theme and choose to call the yellow and white one Hildegard of Bingen, who suns herself regularly near the pine tree and thus seems to lean toward the aforementioned mystic's joy of viriditas. The tiger has been named Julian of Norwich, just because I have an icon of Julian holding a tiger cat, and the little gray girl I have named Mechtild of Magdeburg. I have a hunch that there's a fourth tiger too, but I'm plain out of female mystics, so if anyone has any wisdom here, please say the word so the last isn't nameless.
- My parents came this afternoon to see the nursery and celebrate my step-mother's birthday and they surprised us with over 1000 diapers! Really! 1000 diapers! How amazing is that? Seems that since I announced my pregnancy, they have been squirreling away diapers, thus creating a dearth of diapers for other babies in the tri-state area. And now, they (the diapers, not my parents) are happily ensconced in Grayson's nursery simply awaiting their audition as worthy poop-catchers. Do you have any idea how much space it takes to store over 1000 diapers!? How high the tower is that all these plastic bundles can grow? They are giving R.'s DVD collection a run for the money.
- I now waddle. Enough said.
- Jim the Father and I are finishing a book on caregiving. Actually, Jim the Father is writing the book and I read it and say, "Yep, that's right on," or "Nah, doesn't work," or "I dunno...what do you think?" and for this I get credit for assisting in a book's creation. The book is, as far as I'm concerned, superb. The title, however, is leaving us stymied and I find that I become, well, irreverent and not-so-helpful in creative ideas when stymied (remember I am creating a new life here, so I cannot be blamed for my lack of creative powers). Some titles which should probably be vetoed, and for which R. and I will probably burn in hell for after throwing out lots of ideas: "They Wiped Your Butt, Now You Can Wipe Theirs: 12 Encouraging Truths for Caregivers" and "Sucks for You: 12 Thoughts on Why Your Life is Now at the Command of Another" and "When Caregiving Calls, It Might Be Best to Allow the Answering Machine to Pick Up." Burning in hell, I say. I will burn in hell.
- My belly button is still an innie. The fact that this makes me proud is something which should concern all of us.
Monday, February 19, 2007
And Today's Reason to Cry
As we all know, my pregnancy hormones continue to rage out of control and I am now big enough to be quite uncomfortable when sleeping, and so...add sleep-deprivation to pregnancy hormones and you can imagine how delightful I am to be around for long periods of time in the cold dark winter.
And, to add to this, we have a new situation in our happy home which has this animal lover a mite testy. I have lately discovered that we seem to be harboring at least two, and maybe three or four cats under our shed where they have somehow survived sub-zero temperatures and blizzard conditions of the past week. Today as the temperature soared at about 40 degrees, two of them were sunning themselves contentedly on the back fence, and one was climbing one of our pine trees. I see little tiny cat prints circling the shed, and Cooper and Moses are perpetually yowling or staring pensively out windows at their newest rivals, or would-be buddies.
I am an animal lover, specifically animals of the feline variety and stray cats utterly wound me. Would that I could take them in, keep them warm, feed them tasty tuna treats and let them sleep in my bed. But, there are obvious logistical difficulties with this (especially given the protective feelings of the two male cats who shark around my ankles as I type, and the fact that others in my family do not share my neurotic cat issues).
Chances are good that the cats are feral and wouldn't want human contact anyway. Chances are that after the snow melts they'll move on to greener pastures, grateful for the shelter of the shed. They all seem to be fat, fat, fat, so they're somehow getting the food they need. But, I can't help but gaze sadly out the window and wonder whether their little paws are too cold, or whether they worry about where their next meal is coming from. And then tears well up in my own eyes and I can't help but weep a little for my three new orphans.
Pregnancy. Not for the faint of heart.
And, to add to this, we have a new situation in our happy home which has this animal lover a mite testy. I have lately discovered that we seem to be harboring at least two, and maybe three or four cats under our shed where they have somehow survived sub-zero temperatures and blizzard conditions of the past week. Today as the temperature soared at about 40 degrees, two of them were sunning themselves contentedly on the back fence, and one was climbing one of our pine trees. I see little tiny cat prints circling the shed, and Cooper and Moses are perpetually yowling or staring pensively out windows at their newest rivals, or would-be buddies.
I am an animal lover, specifically animals of the feline variety and stray cats utterly wound me. Would that I could take them in, keep them warm, feed them tasty tuna treats and let them sleep in my bed. But, there are obvious logistical difficulties with this (especially given the protective feelings of the two male cats who shark around my ankles as I type, and the fact that others in my family do not share my neurotic cat issues).
Chances are good that the cats are feral and wouldn't want human contact anyway. Chances are that after the snow melts they'll move on to greener pastures, grateful for the shelter of the shed. They all seem to be fat, fat, fat, so they're somehow getting the food they need. But, I can't help but gaze sadly out the window and wonder whether their little paws are too cold, or whether they worry about where their next meal is coming from. And then tears well up in my own eyes and I can't help but weep a little for my three new orphans.
Pregnancy. Not for the faint of heart.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Helpless
This morning we sat together at McDonalds. We have figured out the perfect way to order breakfast now. We each order a cinnamon roll and coffee (we think McDonalds has the best) and then we order one hash brown and split it down the middle (we think they're greasy, but worth it). You have named McDonalds "Our Special Place." You have no idea what this means to me, to share a special place with just you. I have become accustomed to the special places and things you share with your father, but still marvel when you want to share things with me alone.
We talked of many things, trivial and surprisingly intimate. Our conversation varied from jokes about frozen boogers in sub-zero temperatures to the latest antics of your nemesis, Johnny D. (who you always name with the last initial, as if I might confuse him with Johnny B. or Johnny Z.). But you quickly switched to a deeper level as you asked questions about what it was like for me to be a child of divorced parents, and whether or not I felt "weird" when both sets of parents were together. It is easy for me to understand you, and I know you ask me not only because I was a child who lived that kind of divided life, but also because you want me to know of your struggles as my step-daughter wanting to live into the hopes that all the adults in your life have for you.
School has been hard for you this year. Fifth grade girls can be nothing less than brutal in their dealings with one another at times. Teachers don't always understand. The pressure to get good grades is foremost in your mind. And there is a new baby coming into this family who may feel threatening to you as you ask what your role is now that you will no longer be the youngest. Your body is changing and growing and adapting. You vacillate between watching the Disney Channel and MTV.
After hiding away in the warm coccoon of McDonalds, with the smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafting between us, the assault of returning to the cold and to our respective obligations felt overwhelming. You said, "Can't we just get stuck in a snow bank and avoid school and work?" I feel helpless when I hear those words, for how I would love to shield you from any pain, to grab you and shelter you from the winds of change, and the cruelty of others, and any illness or harm that could come your way.
I am not your mother. I know this. You have a mother who loves you and nurtures you and I would not dream of imposing on her territory. But I am your friend. And as such, I will do whatever is within my power to make you feel safe, and loved, and infinitely sheltered. And I will happily schedule McDonald's dates with you for as long as you'll have me. And I will marvel with each and every one at the girl-becoming-woman who fills me with such tender joy.
And you will weather these storms, my chickadee. And you will be stronger and truer because of them. And I will stand right behind you and prop you up lest you fall. Believe it.
We talked of many things, trivial and surprisingly intimate. Our conversation varied from jokes about frozen boogers in sub-zero temperatures to the latest antics of your nemesis, Johnny D. (who you always name with the last initial, as if I might confuse him with Johnny B. or Johnny Z.). But you quickly switched to a deeper level as you asked questions about what it was like for me to be a child of divorced parents, and whether or not I felt "weird" when both sets of parents were together. It is easy for me to understand you, and I know you ask me not only because I was a child who lived that kind of divided life, but also because you want me to know of your struggles as my step-daughter wanting to live into the hopes that all the adults in your life have for you.
School has been hard for you this year. Fifth grade girls can be nothing less than brutal in their dealings with one another at times. Teachers don't always understand. The pressure to get good grades is foremost in your mind. And there is a new baby coming into this family who may feel threatening to you as you ask what your role is now that you will no longer be the youngest. Your body is changing and growing and adapting. You vacillate between watching the Disney Channel and MTV.
After hiding away in the warm coccoon of McDonalds, with the smell of freshly-brewed coffee wafting between us, the assault of returning to the cold and to our respective obligations felt overwhelming. You said, "Can't we just get stuck in a snow bank and avoid school and work?" I feel helpless when I hear those words, for how I would love to shield you from any pain, to grab you and shelter you from the winds of change, and the cruelty of others, and any illness or harm that could come your way.
I am not your mother. I know this. You have a mother who loves you and nurtures you and I would not dream of imposing on her territory. But I am your friend. And as such, I will do whatever is within my power to make you feel safe, and loved, and infinitely sheltered. And I will happily schedule McDonald's dates with you for as long as you'll have me. And I will marvel with each and every one at the girl-becoming-woman who fills me with such tender joy.
And you will weather these storms, my chickadee. And you will be stronger and truer because of them. And I will stand right behind you and prop you up lest you fall. Believe it.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
An Open Apology to the Cat
Dear Moses,I am very sorry for accusing you of stealing my diamond ring from the dish on my dresser. But you can understand how it was an honest mistake, given your penchant for aluminum foil and all things shiny. And, don't forget how you like to stand on the dresser at night and wait patiently until I am sound asleep before you take your tiny white front paw and scoot, scoot, scoot things to the edge and then knock them loudly off onto the floor. And, there is also the simple fact that your curiosity for hiding Q-tips, barretts, bobby pins, tampons, bottle caps, milk jug rings, and earrings is the stuff of legend. Remember how just last month I lifted the area rug in the bedroom only to find all those aforementioned secret items squirrled away? I think it was pretty low down and dirty of you to point your paw at R. for that one. I'm not sure he'll forgive you as quickly...
But, it must be said, that I was wrong in pointing a finger of blame at you in regard to this whole ring thing. I'm sorry for all the dirty looks I have been giving you, and for mumbling all those mean things which had the word "damn" and "cat" in the same sentence. For when the ring came tumbling out of a pile of old clothes on the floor of the closet, I realized I was wrong...or wait...wait just a minute...haven't I seen you lately gently opening the closet door? And didn't I see gray and white hair collecting on a pair of R.'s khakis? And where have you been in the middle of the night when you're supposed to be reclining on my feet at the end of the bed? And haven't you been a little bit bitter ever since I moved your litter box into the laundry room? Hmm...
I wasn't the president of the Garfield Spy Club for nothing, mister. I'm beginning to think my apology might be premature. But nevertheless, I'd hate to incur your wrath anymore, lest you find some creative place to relieve yourself. So, we'll just call it a day. Me with my long-lost ring on my finger, you with some savory catnip between your paws. And we'll just pretend this never happened, Thief-Boy.
Sincerely,
Your mother
Sunday, February 11, 2007
A Nook of One's Own
Coming of age when I did, being raised by a 1970s feminist mother who kept a copy of Our Bodies Ourselves on the coffee table in the living room, I was taught early on that a woman needs a space to herself. A room of one's own if possible. Virginia Woolf's feminist ideal.
I was an only child and my room was my safe haven. From green polka-dotted bedspreads, morphing into the pink princess dream, and then being clad in rainbows and unicorns in my pre-adolescent years, and finally settling into a classic blue with beautiful cherry furniture when I turned fifteen, my room reflected my identity. And I spent hours there, listening to music, reading books, writing in my diary, sitting in my bean bag chair, playing with my dollhouse.
When I went away to college, I was startled with how much I resented my roommate's things--the detritus of everyday life. I adored my roommate, loved the late night talks and shared confidences, but having to share a dresser, and a closet, and a refrigerator, were difficult for this only child to handle. I remember when sharing with a college boyfriend my struggles with sharing space his comment, "Geez, Miller, you're going to be hell to be married to some day."
As soon as I graduated from college I got my own apartment, and while I was afraid this would be a lonely thing, I embraced it with a freedom previously unknown. The tea cups in the kitchen were mine, the towels in the bathroom were folded the way I liked them folded, the sheets smelled like the detergent I chose to use, if I wanted to swig Sprite from the two-liter container in the middle of the night I didn't have to worry about anyone else's germs.
When K. and I were married, living in a tiny brick cottage, I had a sun porch of my own, but it offered little privacy, and smelled of cat pee. While I loved the sun streaming in its windows, the books on my bookshelves were quickly fading, and in winter it was unbearably cold. It was with a sense of relief, even as it was tinged with sadness, when I reclaimed that home as my own.
I carried that sense of entitlement to one's own room, that deep need for private space into my marriage with R. and thankfully we had a home big enough that I could have my own room, which quickly became christened as "The Sanctuary." I painted it myself, a soothing blue. The furniture were all heirlooms from my family, the chest of drawers from my grandparents, the mirror which hung in my great-grandparent's home, the dresser which my parents purchased at an antique store before I was born. I adorned my sanctuary with candles, and incense, framed photos of those I loved, and icons of holy women. I spent countless hours in my chair, my feet propped on the ottoman, my prayer shawl draped around my shoulders, a cat on my lap.
Today was a turning point for me, as I packed up my books, and took down my photos in preparation for my sanctuary to become Grayson's nursery. Necessity requires that this room now be passed on to another, and while I celebrate the little one who will sleep embraced by its blue serenity, I mourn my sanctuary. I know that I will change as I become a mother, that I will yield and have to give in ways previously unimagined. But, it doesn't come without a bit of worry. Will I lose part of my identity, as I am losing part of my space? Have I forever forsaken the woman who craves her solitude and space?
This evening R. and I moved my reading chair into our bedroom, next to the window so I can look out over the pine trees in the backyard. Wonder of wonders, the blue upholstery matches with our light green walls quite nicely. R. gave up his top drawer so I can keep my pens and notecards next to my reading chair, and more importantly offered me the safety of our bedroom as private space whenever I need it, allowing it to shift and become more mine than his. I found a shelf upon which to place my candles and photos in an altar of sorts. And there is comfort in knowing that while I have had to sacrifice my room, I have gained a nook. And small spaces have their comforts too.
I'm only beginning to learn what motherhood entails. And I don't want to lose the Christen who seeks solitude in the process. I sense this is only the beginning of the journey.
I was an only child and my room was my safe haven. From green polka-dotted bedspreads, morphing into the pink princess dream, and then being clad in rainbows and unicorns in my pre-adolescent years, and finally settling into a classic blue with beautiful cherry furniture when I turned fifteen, my room reflected my identity. And I spent hours there, listening to music, reading books, writing in my diary, sitting in my bean bag chair, playing with my dollhouse.
When I went away to college, I was startled with how much I resented my roommate's things--the detritus of everyday life. I adored my roommate, loved the late night talks and shared confidences, but having to share a dresser, and a closet, and a refrigerator, were difficult for this only child to handle. I remember when sharing with a college boyfriend my struggles with sharing space his comment, "Geez, Miller, you're going to be hell to be married to some day."
As soon as I graduated from college I got my own apartment, and while I was afraid this would be a lonely thing, I embraced it with a freedom previously unknown. The tea cups in the kitchen were mine, the towels in the bathroom were folded the way I liked them folded, the sheets smelled like the detergent I chose to use, if I wanted to swig Sprite from the two-liter container in the middle of the night I didn't have to worry about anyone else's germs.
When K. and I were married, living in a tiny brick cottage, I had a sun porch of my own, but it offered little privacy, and smelled of cat pee. While I loved the sun streaming in its windows, the books on my bookshelves were quickly fading, and in winter it was unbearably cold. It was with a sense of relief, even as it was tinged with sadness, when I reclaimed that home as my own.
I carried that sense of entitlement to one's own room, that deep need for private space into my marriage with R. and thankfully we had a home big enough that I could have my own room, which quickly became christened as "The Sanctuary." I painted it myself, a soothing blue. The furniture were all heirlooms from my family, the chest of drawers from my grandparents, the mirror which hung in my great-grandparent's home, the dresser which my parents purchased at an antique store before I was born. I adorned my sanctuary with candles, and incense, framed photos of those I loved, and icons of holy women. I spent countless hours in my chair, my feet propped on the ottoman, my prayer shawl draped around my shoulders, a cat on my lap.
Today was a turning point for me, as I packed up my books, and took down my photos in preparation for my sanctuary to become Grayson's nursery. Necessity requires that this room now be passed on to another, and while I celebrate the little one who will sleep embraced by its blue serenity, I mourn my sanctuary. I know that I will change as I become a mother, that I will yield and have to give in ways previously unimagined. But, it doesn't come without a bit of worry. Will I lose part of my identity, as I am losing part of my space? Have I forever forsaken the woman who craves her solitude and space?
This evening R. and I moved my reading chair into our bedroom, next to the window so I can look out over the pine trees in the backyard. Wonder of wonders, the blue upholstery matches with our light green walls quite nicely. R. gave up his top drawer so I can keep my pens and notecards next to my reading chair, and more importantly offered me the safety of our bedroom as private space whenever I need it, allowing it to shift and become more mine than his. I found a shelf upon which to place my candles and photos in an altar of sorts. And there is comfort in knowing that while I have had to sacrifice my room, I have gained a nook. And small spaces have their comforts too.
I'm only beginning to learn what motherhood entails. And I don't want to lose the Christen who seeks solitude in the process. I sense this is only the beginning of the journey.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
In the meantime...
Writing and updating and essaying will happen soon...I promise. But in the meantime, be sure to check out this essay by Real Live Preacher, one of my favorites.
And the reason I cry when I read it is absolutely not hormone related, it's because RLP is the real thing.
And the reason I cry when I read it is absolutely not hormone related, it's because RLP is the real thing.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Fantasies Not So Accurate
I have a secret confession to make. And here I am, professing it to the world.
I always thought bedrest would be sort of fun. When I heard of other women in pregnancies who needed to go on bedrest I imagined fluffy bed jackets and bon-bons. I imagined a perfectly coiffed woman resting on over-stuffed pillows while she caught up on all the latest Booker Prize awards, or who dutifully finished that baby afghan she'd been quilting, content in her little nest.
And then, yesterday, sweet Dr. S. said, "To bed, or to the couch, with a heating pad and Tylenol around the clock and don't get up until Monday." And I thought, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, what will I do on the couch." Nevermind the fact that R. has perhaps the largest DVD collection in the tri-state area, or that our library is filled with unread books that I keep sighing and saying, "If only I had the time..." as I drape my fingers across their glossy covers. Nevermind that it's only four freakin' days and certainly not the weeks and weeks that some women have to endure. Nevermind that it's mostly for my own comfort and that I have no need to worry about the health of the baby.
All in all, I'm pretty damn lucky that it is what it is (a terribly pulled and inflamed side and back brought about by a minor fall). And I do have a tremendous new empathy for my sisters in the world who are confined to their beds for months and weeks on end.
But, it's sort of lonely here in this house during the day (even after only two days). And I haven't been able to teach the dog to play dominoes.
I suppose my Polly-Annaish side would remind myself to just lie still and count my blessings, but the hormonal third-trimesterite who runs my mind lately would rather curl in a ball and wail.
It is what it is. And there it is.
I always thought bedrest would be sort of fun. When I heard of other women in pregnancies who needed to go on bedrest I imagined fluffy bed jackets and bon-bons. I imagined a perfectly coiffed woman resting on over-stuffed pillows while she caught up on all the latest Booker Prize awards, or who dutifully finished that baby afghan she'd been quilting, content in her little nest.
And then, yesterday, sweet Dr. S. said, "To bed, or to the couch, with a heating pad and Tylenol around the clock and don't get up until Monday." And I thought, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, what will I do on the couch." Nevermind the fact that R. has perhaps the largest DVD collection in the tri-state area, or that our library is filled with unread books that I keep sighing and saying, "If only I had the time..." as I drape my fingers across their glossy covers. Nevermind that it's only four freakin' days and certainly not the weeks and weeks that some women have to endure. Nevermind that it's mostly for my own comfort and that I have no need to worry about the health of the baby.
All in all, I'm pretty damn lucky that it is what it is (a terribly pulled and inflamed side and back brought about by a minor fall). And I do have a tremendous new empathy for my sisters in the world who are confined to their beds for months and weeks on end.
But, it's sort of lonely here in this house during the day (even after only two days). And I haven't been able to teach the dog to play dominoes.
I suppose my Polly-Annaish side would remind myself to just lie still and count my blessings, but the hormonal third-trimesterite who runs my mind lately would rather curl in a ball and wail.
It is what it is. And there it is.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Third Trimester Hormonal Freak: A Real Life One Act Play
Characters: R. and C.
Setting: The comfortable family room of the couple's home. R., a dapper man with beautiful silver hair sits in his leather recliner. C., his seven-months-pregnant wife, who happens to be feeling especially frumpy on this particular Sunday evening is lying on the couch trying to get in a comfortable position where nerve pain doesn't shoot down her leg. They are happily watching the sitcom "The Office" that they taped earlier this week. It has been a good day and all is well, the dachshund snores contentedly under the blankets next to C., the cat purrs lazily while lying on the back of the couch. The show ends and R. fast-forwards to the next show, "Scrubs." But then...the action begins.
C: Wait! Don't start it yet.
R: (Pausing the tape and turning to C., assuming she will be making one of her myriad trips to the bathroom during the commercial break) Yes?
C: I just...well, I just feel like I've got to eat something or I'm going to throw up again. And I think it needs to have protein (tears welling up in her eyes and a catch in her voice).
R: Okay. (Long pause as he waits for C. to continue speaking or get up to find her protein-fueled food).
C: And...(struggling to sit up as her sciatic nerve throbs and her belly keeps her from moving gracefully) And...I just think I'm going to cry.
R: Oh no...I'm sorry...(Stands up gingerly and walks to sit next to C. on the couch).
C: (Bursts into anguished sobs) I'm hungry and I don't know what to eat. (More sobbing as tears pour dramatically down her cheeks).
R: (Hugging C.) I'm sorry.
C: And my leg hurts. And I need some protein. And I don't want to throw up again. (More sobbing, burying her face in R.'s shoulder, undoubtedly snuffling snot into the fleece of his sweat suit).
R: I'm sorry.
C: And I don't think I can do this (More tears).
R: Do what?
C: Be pregnant.
R: Well, sweetie, I think you're already doing it.
C: (A pause in the tears as this realization sets in) Oh....(more tears) But, I don't know what I want to eat. And I can't stop crying (more tears). This is so stupid.
R: It's okay.
C: Some day you're going to tell Grayson about the fact that his mom started crying because she couldn't think of anything to eat.
R: Probably. But it will make a good story.
C: (More tears) I need protein. I need someone to take care of me. My leg hurts. I hate this.
R: Would a grilled cheese help? (Whereby C. and R. make their way into the kitchen where C. sobs some more and R. suggests all sorts of delictable protein-rich treats to entice her).
Raspberry yogurt and green beans never tasted so good.
Tune in next week for more "Tales of the Third Trimester Hormonal Freak."
Setting: The comfortable family room of the couple's home. R., a dapper man with beautiful silver hair sits in his leather recliner. C., his seven-months-pregnant wife, who happens to be feeling especially frumpy on this particular Sunday evening is lying on the couch trying to get in a comfortable position where nerve pain doesn't shoot down her leg. They are happily watching the sitcom "The Office" that they taped earlier this week. It has been a good day and all is well, the dachshund snores contentedly under the blankets next to C., the cat purrs lazily while lying on the back of the couch. The show ends and R. fast-forwards to the next show, "Scrubs." But then...the action begins.
C: Wait! Don't start it yet.
R: (Pausing the tape and turning to C., assuming she will be making one of her myriad trips to the bathroom during the commercial break) Yes?
C: I just...well, I just feel like I've got to eat something or I'm going to throw up again. And I think it needs to have protein (tears welling up in her eyes and a catch in her voice).
R: Okay. (Long pause as he waits for C. to continue speaking or get up to find her protein-fueled food).
C: And...(struggling to sit up as her sciatic nerve throbs and her belly keeps her from moving gracefully) And...I just think I'm going to cry.
R: Oh no...I'm sorry...(Stands up gingerly and walks to sit next to C. on the couch).
C: (Bursts into anguished sobs) I'm hungry and I don't know what to eat. (More sobbing as tears pour dramatically down her cheeks).
R: (Hugging C.) I'm sorry.
C: And my leg hurts. And I need some protein. And I don't want to throw up again. (More sobbing, burying her face in R.'s shoulder, undoubtedly snuffling snot into the fleece of his sweat suit).
R: I'm sorry.
C: And I don't think I can do this (More tears).
R: Do what?
C: Be pregnant.
R: Well, sweetie, I think you're already doing it.
C: (A pause in the tears as this realization sets in) Oh....(more tears) But, I don't know what I want to eat. And I can't stop crying (more tears). This is so stupid.
R: It's okay.
C: Some day you're going to tell Grayson about the fact that his mom started crying because she couldn't think of anything to eat.
R: Probably. But it will make a good story.
C: (More tears) I need protein. I need someone to take care of me. My leg hurts. I hate this.
R: Would a grilled cheese help? (Whereby C. and R. make their way into the kitchen where C. sobs some more and R. suggests all sorts of delictable protein-rich treats to entice her).
Raspberry yogurt and green beans never tasted so good.
Tune in next week for more "Tales of the Third Trimester Hormonal Freak."
The View from the Pulpit
I am smitten. I may even have fallen in love a little bit. I wasn't going to do it. I was careful about the way I gave my heart. I set all sorts of boundaries and was careful to remain in control. And yet, when I sit on the pulpit side of the chancel and look out over my sweet interim congregation, my heart softens and it is through the gooey eyes of sugarlumps and wagging puppy dog tails that I see them.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...for they have accepted me exactly as I am (even as the ex-wife of a former beloved pastor). For they accept what little pastoral care I can give as grace. For they can sit with one another in a Sunday school classroom and respect the differences amongst themselves with neither fear nor anxiety. For the welcome they grant new visitors, flocking to them and surrounding them with interested questions and hearty hand-shakes. For the "mistakes" in worship which end up being holy hilarity and for the freedom they feel in their laughter. For the candor they share in the joys and concerns time, when simple joys like using a new snowblower are celebrated. For the melt-in-your-mouth cinnamon rolls that age-worn and gnarled hands have kneaded to sell at the local fair and which raise money to send to their sister church in Nicaragua. For the honest way they yearn to be followers of Christ.
This morning my eyes scanned that sea of expectant faces as I stood up to preach and I thought, "I am not worthy of this." And the hush in that room said, "Christen, this is what grace is."
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...for they have accepted me exactly as I am (even as the ex-wife of a former beloved pastor). For they accept what little pastoral care I can give as grace. For they can sit with one another in a Sunday school classroom and respect the differences amongst themselves with neither fear nor anxiety. For the welcome they grant new visitors, flocking to them and surrounding them with interested questions and hearty hand-shakes. For the "mistakes" in worship which end up being holy hilarity and for the freedom they feel in their laughter. For the candor they share in the joys and concerns time, when simple joys like using a new snowblower are celebrated. For the melt-in-your-mouth cinnamon rolls that age-worn and gnarled hands have kneaded to sell at the local fair and which raise money to send to their sister church in Nicaragua. For the honest way they yearn to be followers of Christ.
This morning my eyes scanned that sea of expectant faces as I stood up to preach and I thought, "I am not worthy of this." And the hush in that room said, "Christen, this is what grace is."
Friday, January 12, 2007
Marital Differences
Part of what it means to be married is to recognize and celebrate the things which unite and strengthen a relationship--the conversations while lying in bed at night, the ability to know one another's story and history, the utter acceptance of who you are. Even the struggle to understand one another's point of view when it doesn't coorelate with your own reality can become fodder to learn more about one another. I have come to find marriage is safe haven, and pilgrimage all in one. And I find that with each year that I am married I know myself more because of the nurture of the one I love.
But, and you knew there was a but here...no matter how you slice it, in my world there ain't no thing as an "Epiphany Tree." And I am already anticipating some sort of nonviolent demonstrations in order to ensure that the tree will safely make it back into it's box in the garage since my elephantine figure makes it impossible for me to do myself. But, the case has been made by the other partner in this marriage that there are all sorts of creative uses for a pine tree throughout the year which could change with the seasons...a Valentine tree, an Easter tree to hang with eggs, a 4th of July tree to decorate oh-so-patriotically, an autumnal theme with real leaves draped throughout it's branches. And, with the baby coming, there could be a Grayson themed tree with baby booties, and pacifers. Heck, during ordinary time we could just pick a theme and decorate. The possibilities are endless in our house based on the things we seem to have an overabundance of: cat hairballs, embroidery floss, bobby pins, old Beta tapes, half mangled dog chews.
As I said before, different viewpoints are all fodder for growth in a marriage. Who knows, I may have discovered my latest decorating passion. Or not.
But, and you knew there was a but here...no matter how you slice it, in my world there ain't no thing as an "Epiphany Tree." And I am already anticipating some sort of nonviolent demonstrations in order to ensure that the tree will safely make it back into it's box in the garage since my elephantine figure makes it impossible for me to do myself. But, the case has been made by the other partner in this marriage that there are all sorts of creative uses for a pine tree throughout the year which could change with the seasons...a Valentine tree, an Easter tree to hang with eggs, a 4th of July tree to decorate oh-so-patriotically, an autumnal theme with real leaves draped throughout it's branches. And, with the baby coming, there could be a Grayson themed tree with baby booties, and pacifers. Heck, during ordinary time we could just pick a theme and decorate. The possibilities are endless in our house based on the things we seem to have an overabundance of: cat hairballs, embroidery floss, bobby pins, old Beta tapes, half mangled dog chews.
As I said before, different viewpoints are all fodder for growth in a marriage. Who knows, I may have discovered my latest decorating passion. Or not.
Monday, January 01, 2007
O Captain, My Captain
Last night we sat at the dining room table and we played dominoes and I watched your sturdy hands, hands which have fixed numerous engines, and coaxed numerous machines into humming order, and hooked worms on countless fishing lines. I watched those hands as they shakily pieced together tiles of nine dots with other tiles of matching number and I noticed that while they are camouflaged with age spots from your years out in the sun at the lake, that they are the same strong hands which scooped up baby painted turtles for me, and placed them gently in my own small hands.We talked honestly last night about your aging, about what happens next for you in this life and in the next. We wondered and we pondered and as I told you stories of my Hospice patients you repeated softly, "Is that right...is that right" in your own reassuring, dulcet tones. I don't know who I was trying to comfort, you as you bravely face your mortality, or me, who marvels at the courage of you.
You have no idea how proud I am of you, of your ability to shift gracefully as your body changes and your vision dims, at your continuing sense of calm even in the face of gradual losses, at the smile that lights up your eyes when you talk about your home on the lake, and your life with my grandma.
I know you now better than I ever have, and I still feel sometimes as if I have barely scratched the surface of learning who you are, and what made you the man you are.
We sat around the table last night at the closing of a year, and when I left you said, "Goodnight, Granddaughter" and it felt like benediction.
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