me too...

Every night, I lie in bed with My Girl for just a few minutes. Every night, even when there's been fighting and yelling and sighing and door-slamming...every night My Girl still wants me to lie down with with her. And even when I'm tired and just want to watch The Neighbors, goshdarnit, I treasure these moments when we remind each other that yes, we really do belong to each other. And sometimes, just sometimes, these are the moments when My Girl chooses to share a part of her heart. Like last night...

I hope God is real and heaven is real.

Me too, My Girl, me too.

I'm afraid

I'm afraid it's been since July 26, 2012...that was the last time I wrote in this space. 7 months of busy-ness and tiredness and hopefulness and sadness and joy and fear, but none of it seemingly blog-worthy. No Big Important Words to say. And so I stopped writing.

But today I write again, even though I still have No Big Important Words. Today I write again because I'm selfishly hoping the very act of writing will calm my heart and mind. At this point, I'll try anything. Maybe even meds. But I'll get to that.

Two months ago I quit the job I'd had for 3 1/2 years as a church secretary in order to finish my Occupational Therapy Assistant degree, which requires two 8-week full-time fieldwork assignments. It was a job I considered both a blessing and a curse. More blessing than curse, but the frustrations were wearing on me, and though the end was bittersweet, it wasn't an end I regretted. Until now. Because now I am almost through fieldwork experience #1, and I'm thinking if I had just stayed at the easy, predictable if unfulfilling job, life would be a whole lot calmer right now and I'd feel a lot less like I'm coming apart at the seams.

Why coming-apart-at-the-seams, you ask (all 4 of you who may actually read this). Well, here's why:

1. Turns out I kinda suck at pediatric OT, which my supervisors all say is OK at this point (and say I shouldn't used the word "suck") but means I am in a constant state of tension about how badly I'm doing at this job I really, really wanted to be good at. Pediatric OT was the whole reason I started OT. 
2. It's almost guaranteed I couldn't get a pediatric OT job upon graduation anyway, even if I were good at it (which remember, I'm not). 
3. Which means getting a job with adults, which is OK, except that I have so little experience with adults that I'm unsure whether I'll like it or hate it (or somewhere in between). 
4. And frankly, it doesn't really matter what I like or don't like about OT settings at this point. I have to get a job. I went back to school hoping to find a more fulfilling path for me, yes. But I mostly went back to school to get qualifications for a job so that finances wouldn't be such a worry every month (day). But now I have to actually find a job so that large school debt won't just put us in way worse shape than we were before ("way worse:" don't I sound like a middle-schooler). 
5. And I don't know how to find a job. Not in the real word. I've only done job searches in the ministerial world in the past (and that is definitely not the real world). Though I've had secretarial positions for the last 7 years, I never applied or interviewed for them. I got those because I knew someone. Even the job I got as a math teacher, I got with only a phone interview because my parents knew someone who had a son teaching at the school (the school was desperate, obviously). I don't know how to do a job search in the real world.
6. And even if I manage to get a job, what if I hate it? Or just tolerate it? What if I did all this for a job that I dread more than my old one? At least I'll be making more money, I guess.
7. But I'll be giving up for good (well, already have given up for good) the one dream I've had since childhood...being a stay-at-home mom. I know that's not glamorous or feminist or even what I'm good at, and I know that statistically very few women in this world can afford such luxury (please don't tell me we could afford it if we just budgeted better...I've tried that) but it's what I wanted, and if I couldn't be a stay-at-home mom, I at least wanted to be flexible enough to spend time with my family, but I feel like I've hardly seen them these last couple of years, and in the last couple of months even when I do see them, I'm such an exhausted zombie that I'm not good for much (how's that for a run-on sentence).
8. And so right now I'm looking at trying to survive another week of never-ending stress, then another 8 weeks of stress in a different setting (inpatient rehab) which I've seen before and didn't love the first time, then (or concurrently) the stress of finding a job (any job), then the stress of passing my certification exam so that I can keep/get said job, then who-knows-how-long to adjust to this new life that I've chosen but right now am very afraid of.
9. And I could add another list of stress over church, faith, community that would be longer than this one, but really, this seems long enough, doesn't it? Maybe I'll save that list for tomorrow.

In the meantime, the stress is getting to me. I've spent the last 4 hours unable to stop crying unless distracted by reading (or now writing). For the first time in my life, I'm thinking of making an appointment with my doctor to ask about anxiety meds. Because even if I survive this year, I'm afraid. I'm afraid of the toll this stress is taking on my family, on my relationships with the ones I love the most. I'm afraid of what the stress is doing to my body physiologically. I'm afraid of always feeling so inadequate. I'm afraid of always being so sad and scared and confused. I'm afraid.

And now I'm going to publish without even re-reading this, which will be the first time I've ever not agonized over every word. But right now I'm going to play Crazy Faces with the family because The Boy asked while tears still stain my face, so editing will just have to wait.

where would you go?

"If you could go back to any time and place, where would you go?"

A friend asked me this question last night. I'm not one to have immediate answers to big questions, so I had to think a bit, but my first thought was, "Only somewhere with a modern bathroom!" Priorities.

Assuming that this place was somewhere I could hop into and out of at will (so the lack of modern hygiene would not be such a deterrent), the place and time I would most like to visit would be the place and time of Jesus.

How churchy of me, right? I was almost disappointed in myself.

But for real, that's where/when I'd go. I'd like to see this man I claim to follow. And not just the man, but the community around him. Would I experience some kind of magical charisma that turned the world on its head? Or would Jesus be quiet, subtle, subversive? Would I even like him? What were his friends really like? Were they all as clueless as Mark makes them seem? What about those disciples who don't speak up in the gospels, the introverted ones? Thaddeus, for instance...who was Thaddeus? And the women...particularly the women. How did Jesus interact with them? Were they full friends, or did they have a different place in the community?

I know I can guess about some of these things from reading the gospels, but that's all it is really...a guess.

One thing I'm pretty sure of, though: If I saw Jesus in his own time and place, he would be unexpected, different-than-I-imagined.

But that doesn't stop my imagining.

Maybe it's good that I can't go back in time to see him in the flesh. Maybe the years and culture separating us would make him seem so foreign, so strange, so unintelligible, that I would only be further confused about how to follow His Way.

Or maybe he would look me in the eye and say, "Come, follow me," and the confusion would fade away.

my failure

A few nights ago, I tried to explain to My Girl what an immigrant and a refugee are. While talking about living in a new country, I mentioned that after college I lived abroad for a couple years. My Girl did not know this. She's almost 8 years old, and she did not know that I ever lived outside of the U.S. She has not heard stories; she has not seen pictures; she had not even heard the name of the countries (Bosnia/Croatia). How could this be?

It's been 13 years since I returned from my 2 years overseas working for a missionary organization. 13 years, and I have hardly spoken of it. With anyone. And when I do break the silence, I speak of it only in general terms. Honest, but not too revealing, because I can't say what I'm supposed to say.

I can't say it was rewarding (it wasn't).
I can't share touching stories (I don't have any).
I can't talk about lives changed or wonderful work done or purpose revealed.

I'm supposed to, but I can't. I once had a women's group ask me to speak about my experience for their annual missions luncheon. I spoke about my 3-week trip to Kenya instead, because what would I say about my time in Bosnia and Croatia?

"The people were beautiful but heartbreaking; the children I taught were sweet and spunky."
"I was a complete and utter failure."

Brené Brown says we're supposed to speak our shame. Well, here's my biggest shame: I believed God was calling me overseas. I went. I was awful. I came home disillusioned, scared, lonely, feeling broken.

During my very first week in Bosnia, another 2-year-stinter spoke about how she prayed that God would give her brokenness. I remember thinking, "Why the hell would you pray that?" I didn't say this out loud, of course. I'm still not sure I understand that prayer...asking for brokenness. I think she meant that she wanted to get to the point where she was fully dependent on God, but I'd still never ask for brokenness. It seems naive and unfair to those who truly are broken, who would trade that brokenness in a heartbeat. I don't want to be broken. I want to be whole.

When I think back to that time of my life, it seems so ridiculous that I stepped into that airplane, headed for a position as a "relational evangelist." What the hell was I thinking? I'm not good at building relationships in my own culture with people who are like me. How in the world did I expect I would be good at it in another culture? Miracles, I suppose. I grew up on missionary stories of miracles. I expected a miracle.

But there was no miraculous transformation. I was still me, in a position that didn't suit. I needed a more explicit job, with more support. I needed a roommate who didn't despise me. I needed some defined purpose... more than "meet people." And so, after 6 months in Bosnia doing not very much other than teaching a few English words to some refugee children and helping a missionary mom with her youngest homeschooler, I transferred to Croatia to be a homeschool teacher for a couple of brand-new missionary kids. It was a job to do. It was a purpose.

I loved those kids with all my heart. And I was a good teacher...to one of them, but not to the other. Not because I was intentionally negligent, but because I didn't understand what she needed until it was too late. So I had a job, but still I failed. And I was so isolated. Often those kids were my only companionship, my only conversation. Maybe that would've been OK if I'd believed I was still serving a good purpose, but I failed at even my very small purpose.

Now, I know that there are small bright spots in this picture I'm painting very bleakly. I did love those children, and perhaps I was a kind, caring presence in their strange new world. I did learn about what it means to be a stranger in a strange land. I learned I could survive. I learned what a life of privilege I lead. My perspective shifted, widened, changed. But I didn't contribute very much.

I am grateful for what I learned, and for any small brightness I might have added in someone's life, but if I could go back and speak to that girl in her tiny Bosnian room, sobbing with fear and shame and loneliness, I would tell her, "Go home. Sometimes it's OK to quit. Don't worry about disappointing your organization (that organization is going to change their rules and repudiate you in a year anyway). Don't worry about disappointing the family and friends who supported you, or the God who called you. They will welcome you with open arms. Don't worry about disappointing yourself. You will find new life. Go home."

I wonder, now, why I did it. Why I went, why I stayed. From the age of 14, I believed God was calling me to a life overseas. I think it was because I wanted to count for something; I wanted to make a difference. I believed sharing Jesus was the most important difference.

I still believe sharing Jesus is the most important difference, though I believe it in a different sort of way. And despite my added years of wisdom (or foolishness), much of that inner desire to count for something still pulls at me. I want to make a difference. I want to share Jesus.

Only these days, I don't expect miracles. I expect to fail.

No, that's too dramatic. I don't expect to fail at everything. I expect that I will complete school and hope that I will be a good occupational therapist. I expect that I will love my family to pieces and hope that I will be a good mom/wife/daughter. I expect that I will look for ways to be compassionate and kind, and hope that I will take first steps, even when they're scary. I don't expect to fail at everything, but I do expect to fail sometimes, maybe even a lot of the time.

I wonder what my 50-year-old self would say to me now. I imagine that somewhere in the speech would be, "Don't worry so much. Failing at a task doesn't mean that you are a failure. Keep trying; give yourself a break; don't miss the joy that is to come. And may your fear of failure always be overcome by your hope for brightness."

monday musings

Vacation is exhausting, but good friends are good for the soul. It was nice to feel un-lonely for a few days, and wonderful to see the kiddoes deliriously happy with their friends. Going to Busch Gardens on one of the hottest days of the year may have been a silly choice, but hey, the lines were short!

I had a yearly physical today and discovered that I've lost 9 pounds in the last year without really trying. I hope this is a sign that I'm doing something right in the diet/activity category and not a sign that I have diabetes.

Reading Real/Whole Food blogs makes me feel a little crazy. But I still do it. And then worry that we're all gonna die young from cancer. On a related note, I'm still trying to find a good whole-grain homemade sandwich bread recipe. One that slices and holds together well, and that the kids/man will actually eat as sandwiches. We've eaten lots of good bread this year, but none that are great for sandwiches. I'm thinking I need to try better quality flour. Maybe. I don't really know. I'm not daunted by bread anymore, but it's still such a mystery.

I love reading good fluff books, but it seriously impedes my ability to get stuff done and spend time with my family. One...more...chapter....

On a related note, I have TWO WEEKS to finish everything for my summer classes! ARGH!!!

I'm afraid My Girl is going to forget everything she learned in her very expensive swim lessons because we don't have/belong-to a pool. And The Boy hasn't even started swim lessons. I haven't signed him up for anything, ever, other than childcare. And I think they've both watched 50 episodes of Finneas & Ferb this summer (in addition to other things). I'm falling short as a suburban mom.

But we're in the midst of watching Season 2 of Dowton Abbey, so I'm (very slowly) catching up on cool TV cred.

Twice this summer, when The Man was gone, I've done worship-at-home with the kiddoes (instead of worship-at-church, not in addition to). Those were the best Sundays.

There is enough time. Apparently, that's what St. Benedict said. I hope he's right. I need to believe that he's right, instead of fearing the passage of time a little more each day.

quitting

We're now 2 weeks into summer break (for the kiddoes anyway...I still have class, ugh). It started well. A week of Art Camp that both kids enjoyed. Lazy afternoons of too much TV. Evenings of grilling out and playing with neighbors.

But then we hit week 2, the week I had signed The Girl up for Girl Scout camp, and we hit a snag. Turns out The Girl hates Girl Scout camp. We signed her up thinking she would enjoy it, but no. It's hard to get a straight story from a very dramatic 7-year-old, but her angst seems to stem from a combination of strict leaders (who don't let them splash in the creek!), boredom with too little activity planned, and feeling left out and lonely in this large group.

Now, we know another girl who is at this camp who seems to love it, so there's not anything seriously wrong with the camp. I'm sure most girls love it. But My Girl doesn't.

So what do we do? We've already paid for 2 weeks. Should she stick it out and hope it gets better? There's value in learning to carry through with things even when it's hard. No doubt. I don't want to teach my kids that quitting at the first sign of difficulty is OK.

BUT, summer is short. Girl Scout camp is not necessary. Childcare is, but Art Camp will gladly take her next week.

This has been a long, hard year for My Girl. She had to carry through with 2nd grade, even though she didn't want to go almost every single day. She also had to stick with piano when she didn't want to practice and stay on the softball team when she wanted to quit. Those were good lessons - school is not an option; she loves how much piano she can play now; she ended up having a great softball year. We've taught her at least a little that you can't just quit, not always.

But sometimes you can.

I remember what it was like to stay at a camp that I didn't enjoy, even though there was nothing wrong with the camp and everyone else seemed to be loving it. It didn't get better. I hated it as much the last day as I did the first.

I remember what it was like to endure a job position that was not good for me, even though everyone around me seemed to be having a good experience. Though I learned a lot from that time, I came home with scars.

My Girl is only 7. I'd like to give her a scar-free summer.

And so we're taking the easy way out and pulling her from camp. Maybe it's the wrong decision. Maybe I'm letting my own angst get in the way of a better lesson. But for this week I'm opting for responding to her desires. This week the lesson I'm choosing is What-You-Like-Matters.

Sometimes quitting is OK. Sometimes.

a new venture

My Man and I have started a new blog together:

Do Not Hinder Them

Our intention is to write about faith practices with children, specifically faith practices within the family (rather than just the church building).

We believe that faith begins and develops more at home (much more) than at church, but there's a tendency in our culture to leave faith education up to the age-based ministries that happen in the church building. There are lots of children's ministry resources focused on putting together a dynamic program, but programs are valuable only as the beginning of a faith conversation, not the end. My kids are at church more than most, but it's still only a few hours a week (which is plenty!). What they're taught at home, either through intention or unintention (non-intention?) matters more.

Which doesn't mean that church education doesn't matter. It does. Church is important for building community, for increasing a faith story foundation, for worship, for intentional time spent with a focus on experiencing God/dess. I have lots of opinions about what I want church to look like for my children! But I'll be honest here and say that many of those opinions have to do with what I don't want church to be for my children. I don't want them to experience fear in their faith; I don't want them to worry about fitting in with a certain church culture; I don't want them to learn an us/them mentality; I don't want them to feel judged or dread going to this place where their dad works (ah, the trials of a minister's kid); I don't want them to think of church as a place for entertainment.

What, then, do I want for them? And for me. And for us.

That's what we'll be talking about over at the new blog. We'll be speaking not as experts, but as try-ers. We believe that faith at home is of primary importance, but how are we intentional about that? We believe that church programs for children should be more experiencial and intergenerational, but how do we implement that? We believe that our own spiritual lives as parents and people are important (to our kids, our community, ourselves, God/dess), but what does that look like for a working couple?

We don't have answers, just some ideas, which I'm sure will change and mold over time.

I must admit that I am nervous. More nervous than I ever was about this small personal blog. I keep thinking, "We don't really know anything. What if we get it wrong? What if we're utter failures at trying on new ideas? What if we're just a disappointment?" The blog was my idea as a different way for my husband, the children's minister, to communicate with church families about faith development. But it's also this great desire of mine to have more conversation about this topic, to have more accountability, to encourage myself to think and practice more consistently with my family.

I don't know where this new blog will lead or what it will look like, really. It will change and mold as we do, I suppose. But we'd love to have you join in conversation with us there if you'd like. Let's encourage one another!