The "Worst" Birthday Gift Ever

When William turned 4 in December of 2002, we were living in

Pittsburgh. It was cold and gray and there were record amounts of snow. School was frequently delayed and canceled several times. Everyone kept telling me, "This winter is an exception. It's never like this." Well, they could tell me that all they wanted, but it was my reality normal or not. I was stuck in the house with four children under 6 who couldn't play in the snow, or at least not for very long because they just sunk and got wet. I spent hours putting on and taking off snowsuits and boots.

Anyway that year, my sister thought it would be a great idea for William's birthday to give him a butterfly growing kit from live caterpillars. She thought it would be fun and educational. I thought I was about to spend a lot of time talking to the children about death while also trying to figure out what payback gift her daughter would get in a couple of months. William thought it was the best gift ever!

Going to admit this--I dragged my feet on starting this project. It seemed like a lot of effort for something I was sure would be a dismal failure. I might have even stretched the truth when I told William I had sent the coupon in for the caterpillars to be sent and they were just lost somewhere in the mail. Thank goodness he couldn't read the directions to see they would be shipped overnight, and thank goodness Sarah Katherine either didn't care enough to read it for him, or I was smart enough to hide the packaging.

Eventually, I could wait no longer, and with fear and trepidation, I ordered the caterpillars and our adventure began. We got everything placed in the net cage and I hung it up as high as possible reminding them not to touch it. I could picture them twirling it around and around or using it as a pinata when my back was turned. Seriously y'all, that was a real possibility. They had A LOT of pent up energy that didn't stay pent up.

For the first few days, the children ran into the sunroom every morning to see what our caterpillars were doing. (They also named them and swore they could tell them apart--an argument I wasn't willing to enter.) I can't remember which day, but within the first week, 2 caterpillars ceased moving. I delayed the conversation about the circle of life assuring the children they were sleeping. One morning I heard Christopher explaining to William, "They're not sleeping. They're dead like the squirrels on the road Mommy tells us not to look at." So much for believing I was shielding them from the reality of death.

Once the still living caterpillars were snugly settled into their cocoons, the novelty of checking on them rapidly wore off. When I remembered I would prod them to go look but to be completely honest, I had slim hopes butterflies would ever emerge. I reminded them frequently not to touch, and for the most part, they complied--most likely because they had moved onto some other "project." This project had become, in their words, "boring" "nothing is happening" "we can't play with it, we just have to look."

And then one morning as I sat drinking my coffee and having a brief period of total silence before the monsters, I mean children, woke up, I glanced over my shoulder and there were butterflies. I was so excited I forgot my never break rule of not waking sleeping children. They raced down the stairs and for a split second were completely quiet as they stood in astonishment. "They really did become butterflies." William said, "It's a miracle."

I decided to try to explain the miracle--they weren't interested. They were too busy trying to figure out which caterpillar had become which butterfly. I knew we needed to release them, but I was also really worried about how cold it still was. Nonetheless, a couple of days later we took the net cage outside, and with a warning from me to make sure he didn't touch them, William released the butterflies. We stood on the snow-covered patio and waved goodbye as they fluttered around together and then each flew away in its own direction.

This week I have been thinking about that gift and those weeks. I think from start to finish it probably lasted 3-4 weeks, but for the children, it seemed to go on forever. The novelty wore off; they got bored. It feels like the world right now.

When we first started the shelter at home, there was a lot of energy. As the days wear on, fatigue has set in. As the days wear on it feels like nothing is changing; it feels like no progress is being made. We miss touching others. And the hard truth is so many people are dying.

I have retold myself this story several times this week, and last night at the family dinner table. I love this story and what it reminds me of.  It reminds me that although just like we couldn't see the changes being made in the cocoons, we can't see all the work being done by others. It reminds me that although we don't know when, this time will indeed come to an end. There will be a day we are all released back into the world, and it reminds me that even when that happens there will be dangers. We won't be able to touch each other; we will each have to find our way in a new world. We will all have to find a way that fits our lifestyles and our needs. Those of us who have been sheltered in place together will go our separate ways. This story reminds me God is also working in and through us. This story reminds me God is ever-present.

This story reminds me there is always hope. Today I give thanks for the worst birthday gift ever. The gift that keeps giving.

You're Not Supposed to Still Fit into Your Wedding Dress

My wedding day was not the best day of my life.

Well, now that I have your attention...here's another truth. After years of marriage, you're not supposed to be able to still fit into your wedding dress.

Okay, so now the story.

Two days ago I put on my wedding dress, and yes, it still fit after 27 years. (And because I promise to always be honest, I was shallowly proud of that.) After putting on the dress, my husband and I took a walk around the neighborhood, and no, it was not our anniversary as several people asked. I made dinner in my dress, and I sat by our fire pit in my dress while my husband grilled. I don't know why I did all that. It just seemed like a good thing to do 5 weeks into quarantine. It made people smile; that was worth it.

So what about my above truths?

The girl who wore that dress 27 years ago as I walked down the aisle would NEVER have done something so silly as to wear an outrageous outfit and walk around a neighborhood just because. That girl was so worried about what people thought about her--even on her wedding day. Here's something I've never told anyone, there was a moment at my reception when I thought to myself, "I wonder if these people here really like me or if they just wanted to come to a good party?" (And for the record it was a great party...) I was insecure and had a very negative view of myself. I had no idea why this wonderful man wanted to marry me, but I never doubted his love for me.

I could go on and on with examples of how I'm different now than I was then, but a) that would bore you to death and b) it would require extra therapy sessions, and that's nearly impossible to fit in right now because of all these zoom calls I continually commit to. So just suffice it to say I'm different, and more importantly, I'm more comfortable with who I am--my strengths and my weaknesses. (I was going to leave the word "more" out--but I'm also a priest and honesty is important well really for everyone, not just priests, so to be honest--"more" not "totally" is the way to read it. Totally may never come, or maybe it will. Who knows?)

This is what I think is essential. The man who waited for me at the end of the aisle 27 years ago, two

days ago, walked around the neighborhood with me wearing a wedding dress. I can't imagine he ever dreamed he would do that. He has been by my side as I have grown and changed, and I have been by his. Our love for one another, for our family and for God, and our commitment to supporting one another as we have grown and are continuing to grow into the people God created us to be has sustained us. On that day, we were joined together through the bond and covenant of marriage established by God in creation. We promised to love, comfort, honor, and keep one another in sickness and in health forsaking all others. I think, for me, part of "forsaking others" meant letting go of what others thought and allowing that to dictate how I lived. It didn't happen overnight. In fact, it's still evolving, but it's so so so much better. Over our 27 years, as we learned to love each other more deeply, we have had some of the most wonderful days of our lives, and we have also weathered some of the most challenging, heartbreaking days. We have done it together.

Neither of us is the exact same person we were on our wedding day, and we're not supposed to be.

I have grown. I have released so many of the "shoulds" and expectations that bound me, and I have been able to do it because Chris has loved me and accepted me and encouraged me. I'm not supposed to fit into that "dress" anymore.

I was over the moon, happy walking down the aisle 27 years ago. Sitting by the firepit Saturday night, listening to music, seeing our grown children interacting through the windows, and talking, well, 27 years ago, I had no idea there could be this much happiness.

Please, We Need to Hear Your Voice; We Need to Listen; Please Speak

You know how you have those moments where you hear or see something, and you remember everything about the moment--the sights, the sounds, the smells--just everything. That's happened to me twice in the last week, and then today they came together. I'm not sure I'm ready for that.

Last week, I was listening to an interview with Glennon Doyle about her new book Untamed. In the book, she writes about her daughter Tish and then also herself, "It is easier to call us broken and dismiss us than to consider we are responding appropriately to a broken world." I was running and had just turned the corner back onto our street. Our neighbor was dragging his trashcan to the edge of his driveway. A black car was driving towards me and slowed down so I could pass. "That's me," I thought, "I don't just overthink or make a mountain out of a molehill. I'm not just too sensitive. I don't just look for pain. Pain is there, and I see it, and I feel it, and it stays with me. And I don't always know what to do with it." Except the last thought isn't true. What I do with it is I write.

I remember as a little girl and a teenager and a young adult and even a "mature" adult being told all those things. I remember being told, "Sometimes you just have to let things go and move on--you've got to get over things." I remember being hushed. I remember thinking there was something wrong with me. And here's another truth, and one I don't like. As a parent, I've done the same thing.

I have at least one child just like that, and I have said the same things to him/her. Sometimes it's because I'm busy or I'm stressed, and I just want the "drama" to stop. But the truth is the "drama" isn't drama--it's authentic living in a broken world. Then I also realize sometimes it's not for any of those reasons but instead because I want to protect my child from realizing how broken the world is, so I act like the Great Wizard of Oz and desperately try to keep him/her from looking behind the curtain.

Yesterday I was listening to Brene Brown's new podcast Unlocking Us. (Highly Recommend) She was interviewing Dr. Marc Brackett, who wrote Permission to Feel. As they began talking, Brown said this about his book, "it's equal part scientific rigor and a big juicy heart." Then she continues talking about writing, specifically her own as a Ph.D., LMSW, "if it's too accessible, we're not that smart." I was digging out daylilies in my backyard, my foot was on the right side of the shovel, I was under the dining room window at the end of the plot, and I froze. I thought to myself, "That's me. I won't even attempt to publish because my writing won't be taken seriously. After all, it's so basic."

Today as I worked in the front yard weeding and mulching those daylilies I'd been digging out and transplanting, the two came together--and may I add not in a comfortable way. I thought about how my dream, my dream that took root when I was a child, was to write a book, and I'm not sure I ever will. I thought about the steps I "take" to get there. Sharon Pearson, both my friend and a woman I highly respect and I can't even believe she thinks I'm smart, has even titled my book "Running with Pearls." I thought about my friend Jerusalem Greer, who I believe is just magic and holds the secrets to deep everyday spirituality and also whom I am sure is my long lost soul sister, and how I pestered her for days asking to see her book proposals and how she sent them and I haven't even opened them. And why is that?

Because my writing is simple. I have earned a Masters in Psychology, a Masters in Theology, and a Masters in Divinity, as well as a Degree in Anglican Studies, but my writing is simple. Sometimes it seems right. My call to ordained ministry came as I heard God say, "you see the holy in the ordinary. Speak that." I forget that or don't think that is enough or maybe just that it doesn't really matter in the bigger world. I am convinced, beyond all objective criteria, that it's because I'm not smart enough or because I don't have anything valuable to say. And that may be true. I often think I should use a thesaurus to make me sounds "smarter," but when I reread it with those words I searched, it doesn't sound like me, so I delete it. There's something safer about blogging and being able to take it down, then to try to write a book. A book is out there with review stars on amazon or with lost money spent on publishing which "proves" you' re/I'm not enough.

I don't know what to do with all these thoughts except to say this. Who gets to decide what "smart" is? Who gets to decide what the world needs to hear? I'm not saying it's my voice; it may not be--that's my own road to travel and discern. But I do believe there are many voices out there we need to hear, and we don't need to wait for you to get it "right" or "intellectual" or "perfect." We just need to hear from you. Please, we need to listen to you.

I'm Just So Sick of It

This has been a hard week. I'm not going to sugar coat it. I'm just

going to say it, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of it all.

I'm sick of dirty cups and mugs left next to chairs because "I'm going to get them later."

I'm sick of dishes left in the sink because either, "I didn't have time." or "The dishwasher was clean." (that brings up a whole other set of issues)

I'm sick of language I don't like, and while they are trying really hard to not offend me, we live in 2800 square feet, and there are 7 of us so even when they're talking to each other or are on the phone or online, I hear it. And I'm sick of it.

I'm sick of having to wait to take a shower.

I'm sick of figuring out meals.

I'm sick of arguing about why they can't see their friends even from social distancing when so many others are doing it.

I'm REALLY sick of people not following the guidelines, so I have to have the above argument.

I'm sick of the internet going in and out when we're all trying to work, go to school, or stream movies.

And to be fair, I'm sure they're sick of me too. I mean, being quarantined with a premenopausal woman cannot be fun.

So yeah, I'm sick of all of so many things, and this week I'm just going to say it.

Chris went to get SK and Patrick (and my wonderful Goddog who I am NOT sick of) on March 18. Two days later, SK told us her office was going to be closed until at least May 17. I remember thinking, "That is ridiculous. How do they know they're going to have to stay closed that long? It's just March." Well turns out, when you're listening to the experts, you do know what you're doing." And can I just add, I'm sick of people not listening to the experts?

The next week the other three returned home. Boss lives here in Louisville, but we told him he couldn't go back and forth between his house and ours (because we are freaking RULE followers and I'm sick of people who aren't), so he moved in with us. He's been furloughed but still in school. The Babies spring semester abruptly went online, and they returned home without a chance to say goodbye or clean out their dorm rooms (so yeah that's looming...). We settled in for the long haul and tried to figure out our new normal.

Here's the thing y'all. There is no new normal. THIS IS NOT NORMAL! This is not normal time. Normal time would be...

Normal time is the time when young adults are figuring out their own way--they're figuring out who they are--they're growing into the people God created them to be and not the people I tried to mold (you can read manipulate if you choose)--they're figuring out what's important to them and how to differentiate from the family while still being part of the family. And we, as recent empty nesters, are trying to figure out who we are as a couple. We're trying to figure out what we want to do with our newfound free time. We're trying to figure out what we enjoy doing and not just what we are supposed to do. And for the record, Chris and I were thoroughly enjoying it.

So we are in this tug-of-war with ourselves and each other. On the one hand, we are still trying to live into these new roles that are developmentally appropriate and healthy and good. On the other hand, we are finding it very easy and somewhat comfortable to slip back into the roles we spent years perfecting--the bossy one, the annoying one, the baby, the slob, the funny one, the fill in the blank....

Our family has always thrived on traditions--all kinds of traditions, and I love it. We all do, and we

don't adjust well to change. (Chris reminds me I created this monster which most of the time is a lovely Barney style monster but every once in awhile is more like the loch ness monster, and that is why he got the same birthday cake last night that he has had for TEN years.) I stupidly and nostalgically thought holding tight to these traditions during this time was going to be what sustained us. We could still have Easter the way we always do. We still have the same Easter baskets they've had since birth; we still know what the Easter dinner menu has to be. I can still hide the baskets, and they can find them when they wake up. It'll be just the same, I ignorantly assumed.

Here's what really happened. The Easter baskets were filled minus Easter grass--couldn't find any of that. I hid them before I left for church, but they didn't file in to join me for service fussing about how hard it was to find them. They didn't try to make me laugh as they entered the church, where I was trying to maintain some sort of decorum as I lined up for the processional. We couldn't find any fresh rosemary to stuff the leg of lamb. We didn't take pictures in front of the flowered cross. We didn't even dress up.

While there were parts of being able to maintain our Easter traditions that brought me peace and some happiness, here's what else I discovered.  For years, as a family, we have been clinging to our traditions. We have, led by me, falsely believed those traditions are what define us. Those traditions have brought us comfort through some really difficult years, for that, I am incredibly grateful. But, traditions, I am figuring out, have to be held lightly, and our family does not do that. We tight fist our traditions as though they are the bonds that hold us together. But they're not--our love for one another and our love for God and our supporting one another as we all live into our best selves, being vulnerable and exposing our most broken places. That's what holds us together. That's what defines who we are as a family. That's what is both beautiful and brutal.

And the whole thing is flipping hard (not the f word they more regularly choose--see above), but we can do it together. We can do it through our laughter and our tears, through our frustrations and our fun, through our angst and our acceptance. But above all, through our love for one another.

Yeah, I'm sick of it, but love is the best medicine out there.

Hold Your Head High

In the summer of 2000, we sold our business, and Chris started

graduate school. Oh, and we also had our fourth child in 4 1/2 years.

But it was okay--or at least we thought it was. We had a plan. Chris can put together spreadsheets and proformas like nobody's business. We were going to be just fine. We had savings, and we thought it was enough. We had money from the sale of the business. Chris had scholarships and a graduate assistantship. We cobraed (Is that even a word?) our health insurance. We had a plan; we were going to be fine, and we were at first.

But then...

Boss's asthma got worse, and his monthly maintenance medicines, even with that cobra insurance we were paying over $1000/month for, cost close to $200/month. Caroline got RSV and was hospitalized. William had to have his tonsils out. The suburban needed new tires. The plumbing backed up. And we watched our carefully laid plans along with our savings slip through our fingers at lightning speed.

In August of 2001, at my Daddy's urging, we dropped our cobra health insurance. We applied for the children to be on PeachCare for Kids, a government program for uninsured children in Georgia. Chris and I went on a much cheaper insurance plan with much higher deductibles--no maternity and my knee was pre-existing so not covered. We cut expenses as far back as we could.

Here was our reality...

We pulled the boys out of preschool. The director, a dear friend, offered to scholarship them even though I had told her I just wanted to spend more time with them at home. (She's both a dear friend and not stupid.) We accepted but begged her not to tell anyone. God bless our friend.

We worried when it came time to donate money for teacher's gifts. And sometimes we just couldn't do it so I kept the children home on the days that money was due.

We sold stock at the wrong time to pay for Sarah Katherine's kindergarten. We were still late with payments many months and I would have to call the headmistress and "explain."

The money my parents gave us for the children's college fund that year, didn't go into the college fund. It bought groceries and new shoes (little children grow quickly--thank goodness they liked to be barefoot and we lived in Georgia) and paid bills. I have never told them that.

My knee gave out, and I had to have surgery. We just finished paying that bill 2 years ago. There were months we couldn't pay, and we worried about our credit score.

We stopped keeping drinks and snacks in the garage refrigerator because we had always had an open-door policy for the neighborhood children, and we could no longer afford it.

We made up excuses not to host supper club because the host had to provide the main dish. We could only afford to make a side. Often we just didn't go.

Our children stopped all extracurricular activities--no more soccer buddies for the boys. SK continued ballet only because our neighbor and a dear friend made a "deal with me." I didn't pay tuition, and I would watch her son while she taught ballet. Most days, her husband watched her son, but we pretended. Chris was the "bouncer" (you're not allowed to video, he's still traumatized by the woman with the large pocketbook) at the recital, and I was in charge of backstage to cover our recital fees. God bless that family.

We made homemade birthday cards and "forgot" to send gifts. We stopped going to birthday parties.

I met with our rector and reduced our pledge to almost nothing.

When I took the children to the doctor, I had to show that hot pink (Why does PeachCare use bright pink and not a nice subtle peach color?) 8 1/2 x 11-page "card." I was embarrassed; my face was bright red. After the third time, the receptionist made a photocopy of it (not legal), and I never again had to dig it out of my purse and try to slide it through the window. God bless that woman.

I remember clearly one-afternoon needing milk and not wanting to worry Chris, so I dug in the cushions of our sofa and chairs to come up with enough to buy it.

We ate a lot of pasta without meat sauce. Breakfast for dinner was a regular meal, and leftovers did not rot in the refrigerator. They were never thrown away.

We learned how to transfer balances around credit cards and how to get limit increases. (You can only ask every 3 months.) We paid minimums and have spent years crawling out of debt.

One weekend our water was turned off. A BIG bright (what's up with all the bright colors) yellow sticker was put on our front door. We told everyone we thought the other person had paid the bill. We were really just waiting for Chris's stipend check. We told the children we were playing pioneers.

It was a long year full of fear and frustration and yes, I'll say it shame. We thought we knew what we were doing. We weren't living extravagantly even before we sold our business. We made good choices. We tried really hard. And yet it happened, and we didn't want anyone to know. We didn't want to ask for help. So we hid, and we lied, and we pretended.

When we moved to Pittsburgh, and the first paycheck and the signing bonus were not yet available but we were living in a hotel because our house wasn't ready yet (buying that house was not a good choice, more on that later), we could only go eat places that took credit cards. (Back in 2004, that did not include any fast food chains.)

That Pittsburgh house--I loved that house, and it was a huge money pit. We bought at the top of our loan amount. We rationalized we deserved it because we had sacrificed so much the year before. Then we worried about people's judgment. It wasn't a good choice, but it wasn't a choice we made because we were lazy, didn't want to work hard, or thought anyone, the government included, owed us anything. We didn't want more than "our share." We didn't want to hoard. We just wanted to feed our family and have a roof over our heads, and to maintain just a little dignity.

This morning I think about the many people who are or may be now living our reality. And I want them, you, all of us to know. It's no one's fault. It's not because you're a terrible person, a dumb person, a lazy person, or someone who deserves it. It's because we are in a global crisis, and I suspect we will all spend months or years climbing out of it.

In the meantime, hold your head high. Take the subsidies offered to you. Apply for unemployment. Do what you need to do to get through this time. You are enough; you do enough, and that's enough.

May God bless us all.

My Greatest Grief

First, let me say, I fully recognize my place of privilege. Okay,

that’s not true—being in a position of privilege means I don’t have to think about all the ways I have privilege and/or remember that I haven’t become aware or been made aware of some of those privileges. But I know I have them.

I know I have them in what used to be a normal life, and I know I have them during this pandemic. I know it; I feel guilty about it; I feel relieved I have them, and then I feel guilty about that.

Second, I am not trying to start a dialogue/argument about who has it the hardest during this time or whose grief is “more” authentic. Comparative grief is never helpful.

But this is where I am today. All four of our young adult children plus one boyfriend are living with us during this pandemic. That is a HUGE blessing. For the most part, our family gets along exceptionally well, and we enjoy spending time together. Four of us are working from home, and three are in school online—yes, we did have to upgrade our internet. During the day, we all work in separate spaces, and then at night, we gather for a family dinner, something I have greatly missed since becoming empty nesters. And the real bonus is they clean up!

So yes, there are some true gifts I am being given during this time. There is also grief and pain.

I am carrying my own grief; I am carrying grief from those I pastor, but the hardest grief to watch, and attempt to carry, is that of my children. And because they are all under our roof, I get a front row and center seat. Right now, I’m longing for the days when a popsicle, a cartoon character bandaid, or a silly song could chase away their sadness. Instead….

I am watching the grief come and go as they navigate the world today. Some of it comes crashing down at particular moments, and some laps at the shore hour by hour and day by day. And I get to watch it. I get to watch as they struggle with:

·       Separation from friends

·       Separation from girlfriends and boyfriends

·       A season-ending too soon

·       A school year that abruptly came to a close with little time for goodbyes

·       The temporary loss of a job

·       Recovery

·       Feeling distant from a new job

·       Feelings of inadequacies

·       Learning to navigate online school

·       Worry over friends and family members who are sick

·       Politics

·       Religion/belief

·       And the list goes on

I am watching, and there’s nothing I can do other than hold space for them, pray for them, and love them.

Two days ago, in a conversation about something else, my daughter said, “You know Mama, I get that you had to watch what I went through last year, and that was probably really hard. But I had to actually live it.” She was right. Now they have to live this too. The truth my daughter expressed reminds me I can't carry it for them.  So I sit and I pray and I watch.

And that is my greatest grief.