It's Not Either/Or

 I'm a privileged sometimes spoiled whiny brat. There I've said it so no one needs to add that to a comment or send me a private message--I mean you can, but just so you know I'll only respond with, "I know." Here goes anyway....

Today was a long day--long and productive for a reason. I scrubbed our bathroom floors, unpacked boxes, vacuumed, dusted, supervised moving furniture, laundry, and various other chores--including polishing silver and brass--silver in one of the tubs. Oh, and that was also while I was working on summer camp. I'll admit, I did enjoy it, but I was also doing it thinking about the bath I was going to take late this afternoon. 

Another few asides, I recognize there are some people who are creeped out by baths, but I love them. I was also going to use a Buff City bath bomb, which yes, does belong to my daughter, but I bought them, she won't use them at college, and I'm sure she'll be fine with me replacing them--plus I paid her tolls today...back to the story.

I chose a book, chose a bath bomb, got the towel to cover the window (a whole other story), and began to run the bathwater. I tried to pull up the little thing to stop up the drain--wouldn't move. Tried again, and again, and again, and again. It wouldn't budge. I headed downstairs in search of my hammer--the one from attempting to hang the flag pole. I hit it (up) over and over--still no move. I was so frustrated--called my husband who said, "You're using the hammer again?" Me, "I can use it on the drain or your head." (I can also be dramatic...)

I went downstairs, poured a beverage from my new friends, watched basketball, and fumed, I mean thought and perhaps felt a little guilty.

While thinking, fuming and pouting a good friend called. She is an only child who is caring for a chronically ill parent. She has a job, is married, and is an incredible friend to everyone. Over the past several weeks although she has been walking through hell, every single time we talk/text she always asks about me and my family and celebrates with us. We hung up; I stomped upstairs for a SHOWER!

As I stood under the hot water I thought about all the Facebook posts I've seen today, my semi-temper tantrum, my friend, and what I believe about God. Here it is....

• I can be frustrated there always seems to be something wrong with this house, and have compassion for all those who have no homes. 
• I can be over the moon excited my sister is coming to help me tomorrow, and feel sad for all those who have no family or are estranged from their families.
• I can be filled with joy that today all of our children are in happy, healthy places, and have empathy for parents who have buried children, don't know where their children are, or know where they are and are estranged.
• I can be grateful neither Chris nor I have buried a parent, and hold in my heart friends who no longer have their parents. 
• I can worry about the war in Ukraine, and find joy in watching the boys here play soccer in the sunshine. 
• and the list goes on....

If we read the Psalms, we hear ALL these emotions and more. And here's something else. I believe God rejoices when a baby is born enveloping the new parents in God's loving embrace and at the same time, those same arms can be wrapped around people saying goodbye to a loved one. We are created in the image of God. We can hold multiple emotions at the same time. It's not an either/or.

In the meantime, I'm going to wrap myself in a Hecht hug...

Grace-Or Lack Thereof--in the Grocery Store

 Even before Covid world, I stopped going into the grocery store very often. It just was too darn easy to order my groceries, pull up, and have them loaded right into my trunk. I told myself this was saving money as I wasn't impulse buying, and perhaps that is true. It also, however, disconnected me from grocery store reality.

Several weeks ago I had to go into the store as both pick-up and delivery options weren't available until the next day, and I was in need of a few essentials. It was a cold rainy day late in the afternoon. I pulled up, put on my mask, and ran from the parking lot into the store. Immediately I was annoyed at the many people not wearing masks. Just being honest here...

There was a time several years ago when running into the store would take little time as I knew where everything was. But alas, over the years, things get moved around, and what I thought would be a quick trip in was already beginning to take more time. Music was playing overhead sometimes interrupted by "special announcements," and I could hear several children either whining, talking very loudly, or flat out having screaming tantrums. I huffed and puffed wishing I had my AirPods. I would like to claim I was in sensory overload, but really I was just being a selfish jerk.

I filled my cart with what I needed and headed to check out. There was only one cashier and four self-checkouts open. And there were long lines. I waited in the self-checkout line which really isn't a line but rather a gaggle of people all vying for the next open register. A young woman with three screaming children pulled her cart into the milieu. One child was sitting in the cart with snot running out of his nose and down his face. One child was swinging around the cart knocking into other customers, and the third was shrilling proclaiming every five seconds how hungry she was. The woman was on her cell phone it sounded like making some sort of appointment. Needless to say, she was getting nasty looks from other customers. Out of sheer desperation or complete resignation, she grabbed three bags of m&m's off the shelf and handed them out. The volume immediately lowered. (I was, I must admit, quite grossed out by the now snotty m&m snack.) With the lowered volume, I could hear several other customers whispering about "parenting" and "giving in." I'm sure the young woman heard it as well.

Over the next several days, I couldn't stop thinking about that woman. I had been that woman, sort of. At first, I thought these things

• What was she doing taking her children to the grocery store at the arsenic hour? (That's what I call the hours betweeen 4:30pm and bedtime--you either want to take it or give it.)
• Why was she trying to make an appointment while shopping and juggling three kids?
• Why didn't she just leave the cart and try again another day? (I distinctly remember walking out of the grocery store in Athens with four screaming children as I apologized to the clerk who would have to reshelve the entire cartful of groceries.)

I kept thinking and realized how incredibly judgemental and self-righteous, not to mention privileged my thoughts were. I didn't have to take my children to the grocery store during those hours because I didn't work outside of the home. I could go during their "best behaved" hours or while they were in pre-school/school. Maybe this woman goes to work early and rushes to pick up kids before the dreaded late-fee pick-up every day. I had all day to make phone calls and appointments--but let's be honest, I have also been on the phone while shopping...  Maybe she was trying to make a doctor's appointment to get that runny nose treated. I think the thought that gets to me the most is, I could leave that grocery cart full of groceries and just go home because I had food already there. Maybe she didn't.

I don't know this woman's story because I didn't bother to stop and help. I didn't let her move in front of me. I didn't help unload her cart. And I didn't wipe the little boy's nose. Maybe she is just a give-in to every whim parent who doesn't manage her time well, or maybe she's just trying to do the best she can and could have used a smile, a helping hand, and a little compassion.

Dora the Explorer and Bar Evangelism

We were sitting in our regular spot at "The Spot." (That's what we call it...) No really, it's our spot--we even have a sign, but I digress...

Several tables down a woman sat by herself. She ordered a margarita and took one sip. Now here's where the truth is which isn't very flattering. My friend and I were making fun of her. I'd like to say in a nice way, and I suppose if you can make fun of someone in a nice way, we were. We just kept saying, "How can she not drink that? What is wrong with her? She's pretty lame." I get it not the nicest of people we were being. She ordered some food and the margarita just sat there. Periodically her phone would ring and she'd shout into it, "I AM NOT COMING HOME!" and then hang up. It was entertaining, or maybe not entertaining so much as we were curious, and laughing--again, not my proudest moment.

A few minutes later she called Javier (yes we know all the servers) over and started shouting at him to get her server. "This is the worst margarita I've ever had and I've had lots of margaritas. And do you call these tacos? Get my server that other guy." Now she definitely had our attention. Javier kept trying to calm her down and she kept screaming for her server. What we knew (because we're there all the time) was her server, Marlo, speaks NO English. And not only that, he is our favorite and no one was going to yell at him whether he could understand what they were saying or not!

I stood up to go to the bathroom (I had had more than one sip of my drink) and stopped as I was passing her table. "M'am," I said, "It sounds like you're having a really bad day. Why don't I just pay for your drink and meal? There's no reason to yell at the servers." She turned her fury on me, "Why in the world would you do that?" I responded, "I can just tell you've had a bad day. We're regulars here and really like these people so I'd like to do it." Honestly, I have no idea what she was thinking, but she turned back to Javier and said, "Get this stuff off my table." Javier scooped up the plate and margarita and we rounded the corner. 

As he headed for the kitchen and me towards the bathroom, I took that margarita right out of his hand. I mean come on, I was paying for it! She'd only taken one sip, and we could get new straws...

I passed the margarita through the slot, went to the bathroom, and returned to our table. It wasn't over.

The woman came to our table and said in a somewhat hostile tone, "I want to know why you would do that." I was beginning to soften towards her--I think this is probably where the Holy Spirit nudged me into realizing this wasn't just a funny encounter--"I just wanted to help you out. We weren't eavesdropping" (a small white lie for the greater good) "but heard you on the phone" (She was very loud.) "and it just seems like it's been a bad day." Now her eyes softened and she said, "Well, if you consider not getting unemployment for 3 months, losing your house, and totaling your car a bad day. You're right. But I still don't get it. Is this like where I'm supposed to pay it forward?" "You can do that if you want," I told her, "but that's not why I did it. I just hope your day gets better. May I ask your name?"

I might have lied to her a tad bit, but I won't lie here--this is where it got a bit funny again...

"Dora," she said, "Like the explorer." My friend turned to the wall she was laughing so hard. For the record, she turned to the wall several times...

"Well, Dora," I said, "I'd like to add you to my prayer list."

My friend composed herself and said, "She's an Episcopal priest. She does that."

Dora reared back and shouted, "ME TOO!!!" (Friend again faces the wall) "Oh, not the priest part," she corrected, "I'm Episcopalian." The Holy Spirit just wouldn't leave me alone....

"Tomorrow night we're having a Blue Christmas service at St. Thomas across the street. It's for people struggling during this time of year or wanting to be a support to others struggling. I'd love for you to come."

Dora looked at me wide-eyed and said, "St. Thomas across the street? That's my church!" (you guessed it, friend again faces the wall. I mean she's been a member her entire life and I've been the priest for almost six years and neither of us has ever seen Dora...). 

"Please join us," I said, "And I'll definitely be praying for you."

Dora looked at us a little teary and said, "Well, thank you. I'll see you tomorrow night." And she walked out.

She didn't come the next night, but I have prayed for her, and I have told this story many times. The thing is, we never really know what people are going through, and we never really know when or where the Holy Spirit is going to nudge us. We have to be ready. 

Oh, and that margarita, we got two new straws and split it--and The Spot comped the meal...

Mental Health, Suicide, and Resurrection Living

Sometimes you meet a person at Strawberry Fields, an apartment in DC, and as bridesmaids in a wedding, but it takes over 25 years, a tragedy, and a morning show interview for you to realize how much that person will change your life....that's how I know Dona.

If I'm remembering correctly, the last time Dona and I saw each other in person, or at least for any length of time, was at my cousins wedding in 1994. The thing about our family, is once you're a part of it, you're a part of it, and you get us all--siblings, cousins, parents, grandparents--the whole kit and kaboodle for better or worse.  I didn't see Dona and her beautiful family over the years, but I kept up with her through my cousin-and of course social media!

Cousins' Weekend 2019 Beth was catching me up on people we both knew and mentioned Morgan had been struggling a little with an injury and asked me to keep her in my prayers. I had no idea in less than a week Beth would call me with the news that Morgan had died by suicide. This was the third young adult in less than 5 weeks that I knew who had died by suicide. I had no idea what to say or do beyond daily prayers. My heart broke for these families.  

A month or so after Morgan died, I sent Dona a book on grief. I prayed daily and followed her on social media. I didn't know what else to do. Dona and her family did.

During the late spring of 2020, Dona began to post "cryptic" (in a fun way) messages about something big that was going to launch. I begged my cousin to find out what it was. I cannot explain why I felt so drawn (obsessed) with this. Morgan's Message launched on the year anniversary of Morgan's death. "Morgan's Message strives to eliminate the stigma surrounding mental health within the student-athlete community and equalize the treatment of physical and mental health in athletics. We aim to expand the dialogue on mental health by normalizing conversations, empowering those who suffer in silence, and supporting those who feel alone." Morgan's Message

I could write on and on about the good Morgan's Message has done over the last 15 months. I could wax poetically about the speed with which this organization has taken off across college and high school campuses changing and yes, I believe, saving lives. And I'm happy to, as a bystander and cheerleader, but it's not my story. I do believe, however, it's part of The Story.

Last night I watched an interview Dona gave last week. Dona's Brave Interview I began to shake as it became very clear to me what kept me so drawn to this story (other than my love for the family as people who were living the unimaginable). Dona and Morgan's Message was and is telling the story of the resurrection. They are living out an Easter people faith.  In an instant I understood in a whole new way what it meant to be Easter People, what it meant to live into the resurrection. Morgan's struggles were Good Friday. I don't know how long she lived in her Good Friday or how long her family and friends, even unknowingly did, but they did. When Morgan died, Holy Saturday. stretched out before this beautiful family and all who loved Morgan. But out of Good Friday and the depths of Good Saturday pain, Morgan's Message was born and there was resurrection--the birth of and the healing of many. 

Let me be very clear. I do not believe for one single solitary minute that God wanted Morgan to suffer and die. I do not believe this was God's plan so that Morgan's Message could be born. I also don't believe God wanted Jesus to suffer and die. Jesus died because of the brokenness and pain in the world. And so did Morgan. Jesus rose from the dead on Easter Sunday, but that does not erase Good Friday or Holy Saturday or all the days before--the days of laughter and healing and fellowship. Morgan's Message doesn't erase Morgan's life. 

As a mother, I think even knowing Jesus rose again, defeated death, and initiated the Kingdom of God, Mary would still rather he had not been tortured and crucified. I imagine she never got those images out of her mind, and I wonder if she still thought about what she could have done (the answer is nothing) to have changed the way things happened. 

Thanks to Dona and Morgan's Message, I understand what resurrection living looks like. It's not puppies, and unicorns, and rainbows. It's trusting that God truly can and will use all things for good. It's believing that even when the world brings about evil and brokenness, the world NOT GOD, God can bring healing and wholeness.

It's not about forgetting. It's about remembering. Re-membering.

This post was written by me. No one at Morgan's Message asked me to write. They've never asked anything of me, but they are my favorite non-profit. If you feel called, you can Donate here or buy merchandise here. If you are a high school or college student and would like to get involved, find out more here. 

M. Morgan’s Message strives to eliminate the stigma surrounding mental health within the student-athlete community and equalize the treatment of physical and mental health in athletics. We aim to expand the dialogue on mental health by normalizing conversations, empowering those who suffer in silence, and supporting those who feel alone. organ’s Message strives to eliminate the stigma surrounding mental health within the student-athlete community and equalize the treatment of physical and mental health in athletics. We aim to expand the dialogue on mental health by normalizing conversations, empowering those who suffer in silence, and supporting those who feel alone.

Soccer Drills and the Kingdom of God

Our family moved to Atlanta in January of 1977. I was in third grade. That spring I started playing soccer. I didn't start playing because I was in love with the game (frankly, I didn't even know what it was), but rather because all my new friends played. Oh, and my parents wouldn't let me play football.                                                                                                                       

I didn't start playing because I was in love with the game, but almost instantly I was, and at the risk of not being humble, I was good. (I mean I did make the boys varsity team in the ninth grade--and I was on the select state championship team in 1981...just sayin'--and now I'm uncomfortable, kind of.) Anyway, I started playing and never stopped until I blew my knee out in the 10th grade.

I flirted with midfield and defense (my midfield story and scoring the winning goal in overtime of the state semi-finals is quite a good one!), but my true love was playing in the goal. From the goal, I could see and direct the field. It was like I was one with the game; it made sense to me, and my body responded seemingly on autopilot. 

I've watched a lot of soccer over the years, but last week....

I was in Virginia and I went to see the Randolph women's soccer game. I was middle school girl giddy. I know and love several of the girls who were playing, and I just couldn't wait to watch them play. I was not prepared for what happened.

I was mesmerized. As I watched the game, all the feelings came back. I looked at #22, #11, and the goalie, and I knew what they were thinking. I could feel their feelings. I could read the ball and the field. It was like I became one with the game, and my body and mind just knew. It was exhilarating, freeing, and indescribable.

Now to return to my not so humble declaration that I was good. I was. I had some natural talent, but I also worked my patootie off. I spent HOURS both with the team and individually practicing. I studied plays. I watched film. I replayed games in my head and talked incessantly about could of's and should of's. I did the same drills over and over and over. It's been years since I've been on a field or practiced any drills, but last Wednesday my body and my mind kicked in, and just knew.

I've been thinking a lot about what happened last week and about spiritual practices and faith. We read the same scriptures over and over. We pray the same prayers. When we go to worship, sometimes it can seem so repetitive, and maybe sometimes we even wonder, "what's the point?" It feels like nonstop drills with no game. 

I've been thinking about all those Sundays my husband and I wrestled (literally) our four children into their "uniforms" and headed out the door to church--many times we needed absolution immediately upon arrival! I've been thinking about the times we were so exhausted at night and just wanted the children to go to bed, but we took the time (most nights) to say prayers. Some of our children attend church now more frequently than others. But here's the thing, Proverbs 22:6 tells us, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." 

Daily life is the game. Some games are easy peasy.  We don't have to think much or even try too hard, but every once in a while, BAM! We have an encounter with someone, a diagnosis comes, a struggle, or any number of things, and we are struggling to just stay in the game. We may even want to give up, but all those "drills" kick in, and we find we have the strength, the skills, the fortitude to keep going. Our minds and bodies just know what to do. The game is life, and we play for the Kingdom...

PS--That winning goal in the semi-finals, total luck! Coach moved me from the goal into the field to keep me from getting hurt in hopes we would make it to the finals. The ball came to me, and I just kicked it. I had no idea what I was doing which may be why the goalie missed it--she probably thought the same thing!

It's All About Perspective

I have two planters in the front of our house. They were planted at the same time with the same amount of plants. They were cared for exactly the same way--which is code for not at all... One has flourished, and one well, it has not. I have both been amused and confused by it. 

A couple of days ago I was pulling out of the driveway. I glanced over and laughed out loud (yes I was alone in the car) as this thought went through my head. "The one on the left is thriving. Of course it is." And yes, I was thinking about politics in all its forms with all its assumptions. You know more liberal, more inclusive, more accepting--I told y'all the assumptions. Stick with me.

The next morning I opened the front door to refill the cooler for delivery people and I stopped abruptly. Now the flourishing planter was on the right. "It's all about perspective," I thought.

And I can't stop thinking about it. I'm thinking about all the people I love dearly--people on the "right" and people on the "left." I'm thinking about how they all impact my life and help me to be the person I am. I'm thinking about our differences which challenge me and encourage me to look at life from different perspectives, and yes, even sometimes change my mind.

But mostly I'm thinking about how each and every one of us is a beloved child of God, created in God's image and worthy of dignity and respect. I am reminded that God isn't left or right; God is for everyone. I'm reminded that I am called to look at the world through God's eyes, and that requires many perspectives. I am reminded that I am called to join God to create a world where we all flourish. And all this because one planter flourished and one did not!

(I'm still curious about why...the planters that is!)

Adult Parenting and Water Wings

 

I lowered my window as I began the ascent onto the first bridge I was forced to drive leading to my beloved home on Isle of Palms. I moved to the interior lane and far away from the Cooper River that I knew was waiting to gobble up the first car that parachuted off. The wind blew my hair across my face. I reached up to push it back and simultaneously wiped away the tears that had been forming in my eyes.

For the past hour I had been thinking about my now adult children and how much I loved them. I loved them; I missed them; I knew this was part of life. Oh and, I really like hanging out with my husband…

But I also was missing something else. Over the past year, the number of phone calls and daily texts has decreased. Sometimes I send a text and don’t get a response. (EGADS! It's not like they don't have school and jobs, and I might be an overly enthusiastic labrador puppy texter.) When they don't respond, I have to utilize all my willpower, deep breathing, therapy practice, and prayer so I don’t text again either a) passive-aggressively, b) attempting guilt, c) groveling, or d) asking if they’re mad and apologizing for some unknown “sin” I have committed. Sometimes it even works….the not giving in part....

As I pushed my hair and tears off my face, I broke into a grin. I remembered an evening in early September 1998 when I came home with a ridiculously over-priced (but dare I say darn tootin cute) diaper bag. Keep in mind, at this point we had one child who was just 3, one who was 13 1/2 months, and one on the way. I put it on the dining room table forgetting to hide the price tag.

From the kitchen I heard my usually very calm and soft-spoken husband yell, “HAVE YOU LOST YOUR EVER LOVING MIND?!?!?!” (He did not say “ever-loving.”) I walked into the dining room, “What?” “Katherine,” he tried to calmly say, “First we do NOT have $145.00 to spend on this, this, this THING! And second, we must have half a dozen diaper bags not to mention all the OTHER BAGS that continue to reproduce in this house.” “But, I needed this one.” I told him, “It’s a matter of life and death.”

I think at this time he might have poured a bourbon, sat down, and waited for what he knew was going to make sense to only one person—-me. 

“See,” I began, “We’re going to the beach next week, and I started thinking. When I am driving without you if the car goes flying off the bridge and into the water, I only have two hands. Right now I can grab both Sarah Katherine and Boss—one under each arm and get us safely to the surface. BUT, when this baby is born, Boss will only be 17 months old, Sarah Katherine will only be 3, and obviously this baby will be a newborn. This diaper bag is big enough that I can shove the baby into it. It’s waterproof and has long handles I can put around my neck. I can grab Boss with one arm, Sarah Katherine with the other telling her to hold on tight. And you know she always does what we tell her, and then I can swim us all to the surface and save our lives. Don't you want us to survive?”

Now I don’t know what Chris said at this point, but I did get to keep the diaper bag….

As luck would have it, 17months after William was born, Caroline came along. Thankfully I still had the diaper bag. For the others, I might have put water wings on them as we were driving over bridges, and I might have insisted windows were always to be rolled down—you know because the power windows won’t work underwater. (I have since moved from that to carrying a hammer, but NOW I have a tool made especially for this purpose which proves I am not crazy.

I kept thinking about all the trips we have taken over these bridges and many other bridges and how they never questioned that windows came down, and if I could convince them it was better to go ahead and have their water wings on so we could run straight to the beach even before Mommy unloaded the car, well, that was a small price to pay to make sure they survived the harrowing trip. (I didn’t tell them that part.) There were times, however, I would casually mention if we were ever in deep water and Mommy was trying to get us out, they should just hold on but not scratch me or push me under. (Obviously, I did not tell them that at the same time we were crossing bridges. For pete’s sake, I didn’t want to scar them!)

As I crossed the IOP connector (and praise God the final bridge), I finally got it. They were living their lives. They were doing well. They stayed connected to me, Chris, and each other. We still are connected, and it is different. We have plunged into a new way of being. Chris and I have crossed a bridge to the other side of being a parent. They may take a few dives off their own bridges. (Caroline has told me the saying, “If everyone jumped off a bridge would you?” Is actually ridiculous because OBVIOUSLY she would wait until everyone else did, and if they survived and had fun, of course she would jump.) Anyway, I have to let them do that in their own way. If I don’t—if I insist on trying to control, to protect, to save—well, then I’m the one scratching, clawing, and pushing them under. 

Swim sweet babies swim.