Developmentally Delayed Parenting

I love to write, and sometimes I hate to write. Writing makes me look deeply at myself and the world.  Okay, that's not entirely true, I already think (or as I'm often told overthink) myself and the world, but writing forces me to put it in some sort of order, which sometimes is freaking hard and painful and unsettling and all those things--and sometimes even after writing it still doesn't make sense, and I still don't know what to do, but here goes.....

The BIG question is, "Why doesn't anyone tell you how hard it is to be the parent of adult children?" Seriously y'all. There are oodles and oodles of books about babies, toddlers, preteens, and teens, and then when it comes to young adults and adult children--well google it and you'll see. And keep in mind, I'm not saying parenting adult children, I'm talking about being the parent of adult children. There's a difference. There is this perpetual myth that once they turn 18 or 21 and move out it's like the first verse of Joni Mitchell's Both Sides Now.

Rows and floes of angel hair

And ice cream castles in the air

And feather canyons everywhere

I've looked at clouds that way

But instead of looking at clouds that way, it's looking at parent/adult-child relationships that way. It's going to be all magical and everything will be perfect. Well done good and faithful servant, you've launched them into adulthood now sit back and enjoy. And the biggest overused and deceitful line, "The youngest is almost out of the house. We're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel." What no one tells you is there is a very real possibility that light is a train!

Anyway....

I've been thinking about this a lot, and I've been wondering (and praying about) why I'm feeling so sensitive, unsure, and inexperienced. (Spoiler alert, the answer is because I AM all of those things! But let's back up a little.) 

Two days ago I was listening to the podcast "Share the Love Stories" and my good friend The Rev. Amelia Arthur was interviewing Karoline Lewis. Karoline was talking about her college-age sons being home during the pandemic and how she was trying to navigate that if they were still at college she wouldn't talk to them or know what they're doing all the time like she can now. I literally stopped running, stood on the street, and rewound it four times. Then this thought raced through my mind, "I am a developmentally delayed parent." (You really should take the time to listen to the whole podcast here.) 

Stay with me here. When our children were/are away at college or living somewhere else, I heard from them a lot! SK would text or call as she was walking to class. She would tell me about all the great classes she was taking; we would talk about friends; and sometimes, she would ask my advice. Or she would text or call when things weren't going great--the car got towed, the zipper in her formal dress broke 2 hours before formal--she needed me (or at least my debit card---sort of joking with that comment). The same happened with Caroline. And I loved it! 

To be totally transparent and honest, the boys didn't call and text as much, but it was still multiple times a week, and they always responded to me. They shared their lives with me, talked about relationships, asked advice (yes often laundry advice), and told me about their fears, frustrations, and successes. I had this, I'll admit it, smug satisfaction whenever I'd hear mama's saying, "Once boys leave home, you never hear from them." Not my boys, not my girls. And then things started to change.

Now here's the thing I do truly believe 100% in my head and 75-80% in my heart. THIS IS NORMAL AND GOOD!. But it's also HARD!! It's like this landmine of navigation, at least for people like me who overthink. How much calling is too much? If they don't answer my text should I assume they're mad at me, dead in a ditch, or maybe just busy? Do they roll their eyes when they see my number pop up? Do they have a funny ringtone for me? Would they tell me if I was annoying them? Or are they glad to hear from me and they'll stay in touch as their lives allow and it has nothing to do with me?

And then there's the whole thing about their relationships with each other....y'all this isn't just a landmine, it's a whole dang country of mines. I love they have always been close, but life. and choices have created some stresses between them and it's not mine to fix. Damn, I hate that! Then there's the 53-year-old woman I am who is overjoyed they talk to each other so much--truly it was always our dream/goal that they would stay close, but that mature woman is taunted by the 5 or 3-year-old who is jealous and misses them and wants to (or at least thinks she wants to) know everything about them. And don't get me started on the times they are together and I'm not with them. Should I text or call? Is that interrupting them and being too overbearing? If I don't engage do they think I don't care?

I am loving watching them grow and become the people God created them to be. My heart burst with pride watching where life and their hard work take them. I am excited for the plans they have already made and are executing and for the dreams they are dreaming. I'm just trying to figure out where I fit or maybe just how we navigate our relationship now. And let's be honest, just like with so much of being a parent, I come to it with my own "stuff."

So here's the thing. I can write all about this, think all about this, pray all about this, but I'm just at the beginning of this. Years ago when she was 13 Sarah Katherine said to me, "Mama I think you should just try to be the mother we need and not the one you wanted." She's pretty smart...

Here we go--no one tells you how hard it is, will someone please tell me if it gets easier?

Also maybe we should all just
listen to Joni Mitchell's complete song and not just the first verse. Both Sides Now

Being Brave Without My Pearls

I broke my string of pearls....

For my whole life, or what feels like it's my whole life, I've wanted to be a writer. I really want to publish a book. I long to see my name on its cover. It's actually why I started blogging to begin with. I told the children one day I was going to write a book about our lives, and they were THRILLED! No seriously, they were. This was probably 10 years or more ago and at that time they thought me chronicling and sharing every last detail of their lives was super cool. So I started a blog to start recording things. Not this one, This One--Growing Up Doyle.

Back in those days, the children frequently asked, when is your book going to be published? None of us knew anything about the publishing business--probably a good thing because I would have never voiced my dream--chalk it up to that whole "what if I tell people and then I can't do it" part of me. Well right now that part of me is screaming at the cocky person I was 10 years ago thinking I could write a book! Anyway...

Over time I started this blog and began sharing my dream with a few people (and now the whole freaking world or at least the 60 something people who will read this). Some people who aren't related to me so don't have to encourage me while silently laughing, even have told me I should write a book. One person, who is actually in the publishing business, even gave me the title for my book--Running with Pearls.  A couple of weeks ago I decided to be brave.

I started working with a coach/spiritual director. One of the first things she said to me was, "You know you're not really a writer. You're more compelling when you speak." Okay, I'm lying she didn't say that. But it's what I heard...

What about my dream to be a writer? What about the really cool title a really cool publisher gave my book? 

Well, what my really cool coach/spiritual director actually said that I could hear after I silenced the stupid whiny teenager part of my self, was in response to me saying I wanted to be a writer and a speaker--I meant speaking about my non-existent book, and she said, "I think you ought to start doing some short videos now and getting them out there." I figured why not? (Plus I'm paying her and she told me to, so there is that....)

And then my 20-year-old daughter told me she liked it when I put a video inside a blog, and you know when you're 20-year-old says anything positive to you or about you, you act on it! So I have started sticking videos in like the one at the top of this page. Okay, that's also not entirely true--but truly young adults living at home during Covid is not for the faint of heart! And she would agree--I mean she covered up the I love my mom bumper sticker!!

So now I'm doing all these other things and I have no idea who I really am. Here's another thing--I have no idea if what I'm doing matters to anyone but me. I have no idea whether people are laughing at or with me, and I have no idea where this is going. But here's something I do know, or I'm trying to know.

We are more than one thing. We can do more than one thing. We might even be good at more than one thing. Or we figure something else out.

When my pearls broke I was upset and still am--well not upset enough to already have them at the jewelers--but upset. Wearing pearls is who I am. I never take them off even though I want to be like my really cool friend Andrea who takes hers off every night (see video for explanation)--well I also want to be like her anyway because I'm telling you that woman has her shit together! (Truth, most of the time she has her shit together and does amazing things, but because I get to be her friend, I know it's not always perfect.) But I am not Andrea who lovingly takes her pearls off each night; I am that lady who wears pearls even when I'm running--even when I'm running on the beach with my dog who also wears her pearls--which also broke last night.

But the real lesson in all this is I don't know. I don't know if I'm a writer, or a speaker, or both. I don't know if I'll ever be published or asked to speak anywhere. But I'll never know if I don't try, and I do know whether it reaches anyone else, or means anything to anyone else, it brings me joy--and joy seems to be lacking in huge quantities in the world right now.

I also know this--we all have lots of identities. Important identities--I am a wife, mother, priest, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, and friend. But our most important identity is the identity we all share, and that is we are all beloved children of God created in God's image. And that's enough. 

PS--I just got a text from another really cool friend (she may actually be the coolest--at least my children think so) that said "Thank you for your recent posts and thank you for helping me to take a break." That made me smile.

Football is Indeed Holy

I try not to be the kind of person that is cynical and obnoxiously opinionated and most of all a judgemental person of faith. Sunday I realized, every fall, I have been all of the above.

Chris and I were sitting at a bar, (outside bar with masks on) waiting for our lunch as our beloved Steelers took the field. I have no idea who it was, but as they ran out of the tunnel, one player pointed to the sky and made the sign of the cross. Normally, I would have scoffed and said either aloud (oh far too many times...) or mumbled under my breath, "Good grief." (I'm trying to make my typical comments G rated here) "That is so sacrilegious. God isn't going to intervene and help you win this game. God has way more important things to do than deal with a football game." (More important things like deal with hypocritical, judgemental priests...) Well, apparently this weekend God was dealing with me because that's not at all what I thought.

Instead, I thought about how wrong I have been. `First, I have no idea what the faith is of these people I have criticized. I have no idea where their hearts are. I have no idea whether they are praying to God to help them win or whether, hold your hat--or your helmet, they are pledging to play to the best of their ability using the talent given to them by God. I have no idea if they are promising God to play to bring God glory. Bottom line, I have no idea...

Colossians 3:17 says, "and whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him." and 1 Corinthians 10:31 says, "So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do everything for the glory of God." So, why doesn't that include football? And who am I to limit God--to judge how much, how many things, God has the capacity to deal with at one time. (Spoiler alert--the answer is an infinite number of things.) Who am I to decide what "important things" God chooses to pay attention to?

I beleive ironing is holy as I pray for those who will wear the clothes or sleep under the sheets I'm ironing. I believe doing my best in any and everything I do, is holy because God is holy and God is present in all things. So yeah, I have changed my mind. God cares about football and football is indeed holy.

Life is Not a Competition; Faith is Not a Competition

I woke up Tuesday morning and did not want to get out of bed. Nothing particular had happened—just felt like a gerbil in a habitrail—same ole thing day after day—or at least that’s how I felt that day. But the dogs were barking, so I got up, let them out, and laid down on the sofa in the den. Some time passed,

and wouldn’t you know it? Those darn dogs wanted to come back in (read above), so I let them back in and moved to the sofa in the living room.

 

So slight confession here—when Chris got up I pretended I was asleep so he would make the coffee. That seems to be the extent of our change in routine—who makes the coffee.

 

I started to get up and thought to myself, “I don’t want to get out of my pj’s today. I just want to lounge around doing what I want.” But then I remembered…

 

August 1^st I joined a Facebook group One for One Hundred. Actually, I joined the group in 2016, and that year I completed it, but I recommitted on August 1^st. Basically, you commit to walking or running at least one mile every day for 100 days straight no exceptions and I had done it—even the day I had an infection. I really didn’t want to do it on Tuesday AND I really didn’t want to be a failure AND I’m a little competitive with myself and others. Not a good combination.

 

I got up and moved to the basement (where there is not another sofa to lie down on). I looked over at the ironing and realized I could iron and be on the zoom calls I had scheduled for that day (truth y’all, ask the Bible study group). Two and half hours later after ironing 37 napkins, 9 pillowcases, 7 sheets, and 4 shirts, I was finished.

 

I was finished ironing and I was finished beating myself up because I didn’t want to and ultimately wasn’t going to complete my mile that day.

 

Here’s where I am—at least for today. Accountability groups are good, lifesaving even (think AA, NA, etc), they are meant to build up and support. Being a part of this accountability group was not doing that for me—it did once, but now instead of being encouraging and supportive, it made me grumpy, self-loathing, and competitive in an unhealthy way. It was standing in the way of me listening to the still small voice (what I consider the Holy Spirit) inside of me saying, “It’s okay. Take this day to do what you need to fill your soul.”

 

While ironing I thought about the upcoming readings for this Sunday. Romans 12:3-4says, “For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith God has assigned. For as in one body we have many members, and not all members have the same function.” Faith is not a competition. Life is not a competition. How we live our lives of faith is not a competition. We do not have a measuring stick or measuring cup that proves one person is “more Christian, more Christ-like, more holy, more worthy.”

 

Yes, we are to hold one another accountable, but that does not include making judgments. There is a difference. We each have a calling, a function God is calling us to. For some people it might be marching in protests, for others, it might be stocking food pantries, for others, it might be spending hours in prayer, for others, it might be extending hospitality to all, for others, it might be participating in studies, and the list goes on. There is no particular way that makes someone a “real” Christian.

 

Tuesday the meanie little voice in my head (I call her Darlin’ Devil) was telling me if I didn’t do that mile I wasn’t a “real” runner, a “real” competitor, a “real” athlete. It’s a good group, with good people, and there was a time it was a positive in my life, but not now, and that’s okay.

 

Let’s commit to not being the Darlin’ Devils voice in each other’s head. Let’s support where we are each called because we are all real people created in the image of God and loved unconditionally, no exceptions.

The Answer Was Always There--in the Music

"You don't really care about the music in worship, do you?"  It was a casual question-or maybe more of a comment--a rhetorical question.  The comment/question came right as a meeting was about to start, so I didn't have time to answer; frankly, I didn't know how to answer.  There was no judgement meant in the comment (at least I don't think so), but it rankled me.  

That question was two years ago, and I still think about it--a lot (I'd say I obsess about it, but I do have a life, fine, I admit it--I obsess--remember I have a therapist).  Why didn't I answer?  How would I answer? What did I really think about music in worship?  Several months ago I ran across a wonderful blog (Ponder Anew); I read it religiously (pun intended) hoping it would help me answer the question.  Honestly, I love it--I love the comments, I love reading how other people are wrestling, but it has not give me closure for the question....it hasn't given me an answer.

Last month during spring break, I drove over to see my dear friend Mac (or as our family calls him Mac-a-doodle--they're kinda crazy too!)  Mac and I worked together at St. Marks in Louisville for a number of years.  I was the intern/communications/pastoral care person, and he was the music director.  We have stayed close friends despite time and distance.

I was as excited as a middle school girl on her first day of school--I had so many questions to ask Mac and my other dear friend Gary.  They are wise and faithful, and most importantly they know me and yet they love me--the exact combination I needed.  After we had lunch and they imparted their wisdom (I had to resist the urge to ask if I could take notes--they know I'm crazy but that seemed over the top), Mac and I went for a walk through the city.

We went into the The Cathedral of St. John the Baptist where he is the music director.  He first introduced me to the lady who works in the kitchen--that is so Mac--friends with everyone.  She was amazing and I told her I was trying to steal him back.  "We'll fight over him," she laughed.  Next we went into the wedding coordinator's office.  "This is my best friend from Louisville," Mac said.  My heart burst--seriously back to the middle school girl--I'm thinking I'll sign everything to him BFF. (Truthfully, I needed that affirmation--needed to hear that I was loved and true or not that I was someone's favorite, that I mattered to someone--but that's another blog.)  "I'm going to go play some for her."  FOR ME!!!! (Did you hear that?  He was playing FOR ME!!!)

The cathedral is beautiful and a popular tourist attraction.  People were milling about as I followed Mac through the "Do not enter" signs; I was secretly feeling superior.  We went up into the choir loft and he began to play.  I admit my first thoughts were, "All you people get to hear this, but it's really FOR ME." I really am a middle school girl in a middle age body....

As Mac began to play, the tears began to fall, and I remembered.  Mac was new at St. Mark's.  We were in the middle of the Eucharistic prayer; I was standing at the altar next to the The Rev. Dr. Charles Hawkins (another amazing man) and I looked up.  Standing next to the organ was Mac, not sitting, but standing and quietly and inconspicuously participating.  His personal piety and mine seemed to be the same (over time I learned that we did indeed share a high Eucharistic theology--again another blog.)  In that moment I fell in love with Mac; I fell in love with his reverence and with his humility. I fell in love with a man who gave his gift to the church not to promote himself but as a prayer to God. In that moment, I began to fall in love with sacred music, because in that moment I understood...

Over the next few years I learned so much about sacred music from Mac.  He patiently explained to me how he chose different pieces and why certain anthems were appropriate for different seasons. There were many times that I was almost paralyzed during service as a piece washed over me and deepened my worship experience.  (I got to use those very pieces during my ordination.)  Mac chose service music to be a part of worship not to overtake worship--not to be a concert.  Make no mistake, it was concert worthy, but what I learned from Mac, what I loved and love about Mac is knowing that music during worship is his gift to the people. Mac didn't try to put himself in the spotlight; he let the music be the gift not himself.  He is humble, faithful and good.  What I learned from Mac was we all have different ministries.  Mac's ministry is music, mine is not.  It doesn't mean I don't care about the music it just means I leave it to those whose gift it is.  I have my gifts to offer worship, to offer ministry in the world and Mac has his.

As I sat there the tears falling, I realized I finally had the answer to the pseudo question/comment.  It wasn't about caring or not caring--that's what rankled me.  I absolutely cared about music in worship. I, in fact, have my preferences, but what I don't have is the need to, the desire to, the skill to, the gift to choose sacred music.  Music is not my ministry, and that's okay...

Thinking back on that day last month I realize Mac taught me or at least reminded me of more that day.  We each have a ministry that God has given us--for some of us it's being vested and serving on the altar during services, but for many other people it's in the world, in the ordinary every day world. No one's ministry is more important than another's,  and no one's ministry should be co-opted by another, controlled by another--rather it is by owning our own ministries and by working together, as the entire body of Christ, together and co creating with God that one day the Kingdom of God will truly reign.

I've spent the past couple of years trying to find the words to answer the question, but the answer, the answer was already there...the answer was in the music.

Thank you Mac-a-doodle; I love you.

Colonel--A Gift from God

It was definitely the beginning of a terrible week--you know the kind of week when you are on your therapist couch starting your session with, "Let me be clear, I am not suicidal but I just want to disappear." (Having been a therapist I'm well aware of the key words that can send a therapist to the phone dialing 911).  Anyway, it was the way my week started and by Wednesday it didn't seem to be getting better.

I had a board meeting for Central Louisville Community Ministries--a board I love serving, a ministry about which I am passionate, and made up of board members I have grown to love. Surprisingly I didn't want to go, but I put on my big girl panties and a smile and headed downtown.  I walked into the library and was greeted by a precious puppy.  "Who's is he?" I think I shrieked like a preteen girl at a boy band concert.  "He can be yours." Linette said in a joking manner, "I found him at a gas station this morning.  He'd been there 3 days and I think he was abandoned.  I have to find a home for him."  I have no idea what came over me, we have two dogs, but I took his picture and sent it to the children, "Should I bring him home?" All responded "YES!" (Boss did say, "I don't think Daddy is going to like this." Did I mention Chris was out of town?)  I think I conducted the board meeting okay, but my mind was elsewhere--I kept being drawn to the puppy--I needed this puppy.

After the meeting I offered to take him outside.  As I was walking him around the parking lot I ran into a man I had served in my previous position, "Preacher Lady," he said (I'll admit it, I LOVE the group of men who call me Preacher Lady and I really love the title) "Who's dog is that?" "I'm trying to decide if my husband will divorce me if I bring him home.  He was abandoned." I answered. "Preacher Lady, you have to take him home.  You have to help him like you helped me."  And that sealed the deal.

As Linette was getting his stuff out of her office, she told me how she'd been having a grumpy morning and this puppy changed her day.  He's been a gift from God.  I knew how she felt.

I took him home and we all immediately fell head over heels in love with him.  He was incredibly sweet and loving.  After a flurry of texts between the children they agreed to name him Ralphie.  For the first time in days I felt light, happy, and hopeful.  He followed me everywhere but he especially loved Caroline.  He slept in her room and if her door was closed he laid outside of it until she came
out or I let him in.

I took him to the vet silently praying he wasn't chipped (he wasn't).  I looked at Craig's list and in the paper to see if anyone was looking for him.  The vet assured me she thought he was abandoned and had been for some time--he was slightly emaciated.  She estimated he was 5 or 6 months old.  

Chris got home and reality set in.  "We simply cannot have four teenagers and three dogs."  I knew he was right but my heart didn't.  "Can we keep him until I find him a good home?" (I didn't define what I considered a "good home."  I'm sneaky like that!)  "Yes," but he has to go, "Or we can get rid of Bobby."  (Bobby is Caroline's dog and definitely not Chris' favorite.)

I texted my sister-in-law who had been considering getting a dog.  She was out of town but said she'd

bring the boys over when she got home and maybe she'd take him if he was good with them.  (I knew he would be--he was so gentle with the toddler.  He even let her boss him around--kind of like Boss--that girl wraps people around her finger....)

That weekend my sister called.  Sanders, her dog of 13 1/2 years was dying and she was incredibly sad.  She was home alone with him for the weekend.  She took him to the vet and they told her it was time--she set the appointment, went home and cried.  "I don't know why I'm asking you this and I haven't even asked Bob, but can I please have the dog you found?"  (We Kanto girls have this habit of not asking our husbands...)  I told her I had already offered him to my sister in law but if she decided no he was hers.

I texted Jenn and told her if they didn't want him I had a second option and I told her the story.  She responded, "I think it's clear; he needs to go there."  (Have a I mentioned I have the most loving, compassionate, wonderful sister-in-laws in the world?  I hit the sister-in-law jackpot!) It was settled and the Sherrills began fighting over names--their story but they settled on Colonel in honor of Sanders who had been named for Colonel Sanders.

My children, however, were not happy.  Boss, "How much more work can it be for you to have another dog?"  Well he did get it right who would be doing the work--but I knew in my heart we had to let him go, and I knew that the joy he brought me he would bring to them.  We made a plan for me to drive him to Charlotte a couple of weeks later.

Later that week Caroline was sent home from school with concussion symptoms.  She was miserable and lonely--Ralphie/Colonel remained by her side.  I really began believing he was and is a gift from God--he was right where he needed to be for all these people who needed to feel unconditional love, who needed to be uplifted, who needed hope.

I drove him to Charlotte--they were in love.  I got to watch my beautiful athletic niece play lacrosse which I loved--they lost, which I hated.  She was so upset-- Colonel loved her through it.  He now sleeps with her. It may sound corny but I see Colonel as a connection between cousins.  And y'all know how I feel about cousins.  (A Letter to Gangan After Cousin's Weekend, Cousin's Weekend--Where Wearing Lipstick and Mascara at the Same Time Means You're Overdressed, Cousin's of the Heart--to name a few!)

Last night at dinner we were telling Bob about the vet visit--(the vet had also fallen in love with him and offered to take him home) he's closer to 8 months which means puppy chewing stage is over; he's springer spaniel/australian shepherd mix which means no shedding; he's mostly housebroken.  Bob, "I just can't believe how lucky we are with this dog--it's like it is..." "A gift from God," Meredith interrupted.

I'm sitting here alone in their kitchen Colonel curled up at my feet.  I'll be leaving in a couple of hours--leaving without Colonel.  I have to admit, I'm glad no one is home.  I'm pretty sure I'll shed a few tears. He brought comfort and love to me when I needed it; he brought comfort and love to Linette when she needed it; he brought comfort and love to Caroline when she needed it; and now he is bringing love and comfort to my sister's family right now when they need it most and for years to come; I truly believe he is a gift from God.  I'll shed a few tears, my heart will hurt a bit, and I'll give thanks to God for the gift of Colonel--a gift I needed.  I'll also give thanks for the gift God has given to my sister and her family.  And then I'll drive away leaving Colonel to love them for me knowing he is right where he needs to be.  He's home--Colonel is home.