Birthing Adults

What a weird era of life.  Perhaps it is because I am currently taking a course on rites of passage, but as I drove over 3,000 miles last week, carting my two oldest children to a very official college visit and music scholarship audition at their school of choice that was once relatively close to home but is now incredibly far away, I kept thinking to myself, “I feel like I am pregnant all over again.”

Stay with me.  I understand how very bizarre that sounds.

There I was, in this closely confined space, when out of nowhere it suddenly felt like all of their hopes and dreams for the future that have been wrapped up inside of me were about to come spilling out in a graphic and violent manner.  I didn’t tell them this.  I was driving.  It would do none of us any good if I became a puddle of tears on the side of the road.  And that is pretty much par for the course on how this Mama does life.  I feel very deeply (uncharacteristically so of most humans), but I can stuff it (believe it or not).

I have given (literal) birth to five children.  Each one of their stories is different, and if you have read me for long, you are probably familiar with them.  I’m not going to take the time to give you the full versions here, today, but there are, indeed, some odd parallels to this new ‘birthing’ experience.  Let us start with ‘the boy.’

After 2 ½ years of trying, it was hard to believe he was coming into existence at all.  I waited a long time to tell anyone.  It was easier to grasp the reality of him when I began to feel him kick, and I knew he was OK when I could see him moving in my body.  There was a certain degree of panic that accompanied any span of time without movement.  It was a difficult pregnancy.  The boy came into the world with a security guard posted at my hospital room door.  You can’t make this stuff up.  It felt like an easy delivery, even though his little body ripped mine all the way through.  I couldn’t hold him for an hour, because there were so many stitches.  It took the medical staff some time to convince me that I could accept pain medication during that process, because I had been so adamant about not taking anything during delivery that I struggled to recognize he was now separated from me, and it would be OK to dull the pain of this after birth experience.  He was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen, and my fierce protection of him grew exponentially the moment I saw him, even though I had already been keeping him safe… sometimes at my own expense… for nine months.  Even though the cord was cut, it was as if I was still carrying him inside of me.  I didn’t realize it until last week, but eighteen years later I still feel this.  It’s hard to believe he is leaving home.  I haven’t made an announcement, because the acceptance process isn’t quite complete.  I had moments of panic over these days when I could not see his movement, but there was peace when I caught a glimpse of him across campus doing all the things an incoming college Freshman should be doing.  In some ways, it has been a difficult childhood, and in other ways it felt easy.  I still want to post a guard around this one.  I cannot bear the thought of him being hurt, and as I am typing these words, they are ripping my spirit… all the way through.  But I have kept him as safe as I could (spoiler alert: the world is not safe)… sometimes… still… at my own expense (I have a bit of a reputation for being a Mama bear, and I can be really ugly if you mess with my babies) for these eighteen years.  When I was pregnant with this first child of mine, I had a few months to think about what my life was going to look like when the baby arrived and changed everything.  Now I have a few months to think about what my life will look like when he leaves and changes everything again.  And I just hope he flies (even though I am now that aforementioned puddle of tears).

And then, there’s ‘the girl.’  In some ways, there is something cruel about having to launch two pieces of your heart at once, but I can’t slow her down.  I have never been able to.  She came to us completely unexpectedly.  No one plans for a little pink line with a four month old in their arms… but certainly not anyone who knows what it is to pee on those sticks month after month.   I have always called her “the best surprise of my life,” and she is.  Her entry into the world was frightening in its own right, because she was conceived while I was on medication that is not conducive to pregnancy but was necessary for dealing with the postpartum condition of my body.  Coumadin.  Category X.  The literature warned that this medication, when taken during pregnancy, may (although I think what I was told sounded much more like ‘should’… and ‘will’…) result in central nervous system defects, deformed limbs, and developmental retardation.  The girl was born singing.  It was really more of a low, guttural, mournful humming sound, and as medical staff and visiting friends and family expressed concern, I shut them out.  I was twenty-two years old.  Maybe I was exhausted because of the longer labor than the one before, or maybe I was preoccupied with the toddler in the pack-in-play, whom I would not allow to be taken home by his grandparents, or maybe I was trying to wrap my mind around why this baby really wasn’t as beautiful as the first and was going to need me in her corner.  Whatever the reason, my line over the next 24 hours became, “I think she just loves music.”  Cue the continued pitiful glances… and the failed hearing test… and walking out of the hospital the second they would let us go.  None of that really matters, because I was right, and she has been stickin’ it to the world ever since.  Most everyone had all but forgotten how her life began by the time she taught herself to read at age four… and was published in a magazine… and started winning essay contests and talent shows and quiz scholarships.  So please excuse me when I post indiscriminately about my girl with perfect pitch who is going to college for free to major in music composition!  As a baby, she was either crying or eating.  She had to be touching me to be happy.  This week I realized that I had to be touching her, too.  I spent most of the week following her around.  It is helpful that she has promised to always text me at the end of the day, so I know she is alive.  I received the first of these texts on Friday night.  It literally said, “I’m alive!”  And I laughed.  Cliché as it might be, I just hope she dances.

Even though I had worked in early childhood for years before having my own kids, there was something far more terrifying about keeping my own little person alive.  Even though I spent many years working with teenagers and their families as they transitioned to adulthood, there is something entirely different about experiencing this for myself.  But this is also exactly what parents are supposed to do.  It is our job to transform slimy, wrinkly, needy little things into loving, responsible people who will make their mark on the world.  Giving birth to adults is hard.  In some ways, I think it’s harder and more painful work than giving birth to babies (maybe I’m just far enough removed from this to have forgotten), because we’ve had them for a long time when we reach this stage, and we like them.  Their being is interconnected with ours, and even a gentle ripping away will leave some raw spaces.  And so… over the next few months, I prepare to push them out into the world, measured breathing all the way…

L.

Don't Blink

Matthew 7:24-25, “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock.  The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on rock.”

I’m waxing a little bit sentimental, today, and it’s odd in some ways, because this morning I am sitting alone in what was a popular college hang-out when I was college-aged but didn’t go to this University.  Simultaneously, my two oldest children have decided to squeeze in an official college visit at the beginning of their quiz week, and I opted to simply drop them off for this, because we are close… really close… and I would never change that for anything in the entire world, but part of the job of parenting is learning how and when to let go, and today is a letting go day.

We have had rain… and floods… and winds.  Heck, if I’m honest, we have has debilitating lightning strikes, hurricanes and tsunamis, and a tornado or two.  I can remember times (distant and recent) when people have stopped me to tell me how invested they are in watching how my children turn out, because they have been so very incredible, all along (and they really, truly have been)… no pressure… But don’t for one single second think we haven’t waded through the crap, too.

And now, these original two of mine are almost ‘turned out.’  And I like them.

Of course, I recognize that we have entered into an era of extended adolescence, but there is something mind boggling about knowing that this time next year I will be the mother of one legal adult and two high school graduates.  Y’all…  I blinked.

Everyone tells young parents how fast it goes… how much you’re going to miss it… but none of us ever really grasps the reality until whatever ‘it’ is has already gone.  So I’d like to say to young parents, today, “It’s fast.  You’re going to miss it.  But I know you don’t really understand, and that’s OK.”

I hope we’ve built these houses on solid rock.  And, I hope they’ve had the grace to sway in the wind just enough to bend but not break. 

L.

Oh, Dear God, Please Don’t Call My Kids to Ministry

I’m glad I’ve been called to ministry.  I cannot imagine doing anything else with my life.  But I would be lying if I said it wasn’t hard.  That’s the understatement of forever, and try to take that in the context of an author who loves hyperbole.  By hard; I mean heartrending, life changing, breaking me down to the core and beyond at times, blood, sweat, and too many tears, scar inducing hard.

And so, for this reason, I admit that I have sometimes prayed, “Oh, Dear God, please don’t call my kids to this.” 

I thought we were doing OK…

I have kids who want to be video game programmers, composers, and architects.  I have one who wants to be a theological paleontologist and discover the backstory of the creation of the world.  I don’t really know if that’s a thing, but it sounds pretty safe, right?  And then I have a seven year old who declared pretty early on that she was going to be an OBGYN, which I thought was a lofty (if somewhat specific) goal for second grade… until she approached me one afternoon and proclaimed that she needed to preach.

Well, crap.

Like any good pastor mom who wishes her kid would choose something less risky, like logging, fishing, flying airplanes, collecting garbage, or construction (try to find the humor… these are the five deadliest jobs in the United States); I put her off.  But she was relentless.  Finally, I told her that she could preach if she prepared a manuscript.  I mean, what seven year old is going to put in that kind of work?  The answer is mine.  I came home from the office the next day and found her with a stack of papers that included not only her sermon but an entire order of worship (call to worship, music, children’s moment with ‘Pastor M,’ (that’s what I get for using only one initial), Scripture, and prayer.

We listened to Pastor M² (that’s what I decided to call her) as she preached, last night.  Her siblings laughed too much.  I made them sit up front for the 'children’s moment.'  I don’t care that they’re teenagers.  Of course, I joined her, kneeling on the floor, for prayer.  She was missing one of her papers, so she rustled through them with a confused look on her face before throwing her hands up in the air (I turned to my husband and said, "Oh my gosh... she's just like me").  When we sang “Jesus Loves Me,” as the closing hymn; she marched her little self right out the door and waited to shake each of our hands and thank us for coming to church.  There were fist bumps, as well.

The other day, she said, “Church people are nicer than other people.” 

Those stinking teenager siblings all choked to death, and I shot them a look that justified the dying.  It seems that her church experience has been different than theirs, thus far.  But I was still holding out hope that this is a phase…  Mommy’s a pastor, I love Mommy, I should be a pastor, too…  It’s the kind of thing that could fade with time and age.

I was hopeful that she got the “I need to preach” bug out of her system. 

She greeted me, this morning, with, “I think the next time I preach will be on Christmas, but I’m not sure what to do for the call to worship…” 

I gave her a hymnal, as I walked out the door…

L.

The Passage of Time

Five years ago, I wrote a short bio for my first graduate class at NNU.  I have no idea how it actually read, but this is what it should have said, “I’m a cynical, jaded, homeschooling mom of five… a pastor’s wife… and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

I am relatively sure I signed my name as “L.” for the first time ever, and thus began a long, unbelievable, sometimes harrowing journey on which I am glad I embarked at least 51% of the time… a journey that shaped and formed my identity more than I imagined it would.

Does time heal all wounds?  I would say no—definitively, no.  But it changes us. I’m not sure I would even be thinking about this if it wasn’t for “Facebook Memories,” which tells me something about the way we process past events in an era where we don’t actually have to remember them on our own in order for them to come back to haunt us.  This one surfaced in the form of a picture of my children a couple of days just before my NNU adventure began.  They were so little.  I like the phrase, “time marches on,” but if I’m real; I think it’s more of a sprint.

Today, I wrote a short bio for my first newsletter at my new local church, where I am the director of family ministries.  If you had asked me, five years ago, where I would be now; this is not what I would have guessed.  I have come to realize that we can only hope that the scales are tipped just enough, every day, that we fall asleep glad for the experience.    

Also, my kids are huge now… some of them closing in on “full grown human being” status.  In another five years, I expect I will be shuffling three off to college (a freshman and two seniors) as I continue to live through teenage parenthood and quickly approach an era where that is all I know (Miah was a “late add,” so I will technically still have a pre-teen for a few more months at that point).

James 4:13-15 is hitting me hard, today:

“Now listen, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’  Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, ‘If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that’” (NIV).   

I like today’s bio better than the one from 2012.  I hope the 2022 bio is fabulous.  I know I have a tendency to blaze ahead so passionately that I can miss the moment, though, so I hope to slow down just a little bit, even though time, itself, cannot seem to be swayed.

L.

P.S. Confession: I'm still not sure I know what I'm doing...

What to Do When Your Friend Marries a Jewish Guy

Or…  Reflections for Hanukkah, Part 1

Let’s get this out of the way right at the very beginning.  I have a confession to make.  Our family has been celebrating Hanukkah for years.  The first year, my kids were little and just really excited that they were going to be getting gifts eight days in a row!  We didn’t own a menorah at the time, and our dining room table turned into something of a mess of mismatched candles and random packages.  When they told their friends about our Hanukkah celebration, things got tricky.  My husband was on staff at a traditional, Christian church.  The community flipped out just a little bit.  What on earth was wrong with ‘these people’?  You know… us.  The extended family flipped out just a little bit.  Were we still Christians?  Did we still believe in Jesus?  Was Christmas going to be ruined?  Should there be an intervention of some sort?  After that, I asked the kids to keep it kind of quiet in ensuing years.  We became closet celebrators of Hanukkah.  And our celebrations grew… and grew… and grew…

By last year; we had a legitimate menorah, we had learned some Hanukkah songs, and our gifts had become more intentional.  We are still struggling to understand the dreidal.

Last spring, my very dear friend who goes all the way back to high school (middle school for her, because she’s a few years younger) married an awesome guy who happens to be Jewish.  The Christian community still gets a little bit upset about stuff like this.  At best, people are usually confused.  But I have a different take on it.  I was all like, “Please, oh please, oh please, may I help you build the huppah?”  And I did.  And I loved it.  They had one of the most beautiful weddings ever.  They love each other a lot.  They make each other happy.  And they gave us enough yamakas for our entire family. 

Earlier today, I dropped off candles for their menorah.  Because… obviously… the most likely person to have an extra box of menorah candles is the Christian pastor friend, right?  I also dropped off a hijab pin, with safety pins dangling from it, because I might as well mix as many metaphors and spread as much love around as possible.  Oh friends… we have so much more in common than we know…

But back to Hanukkah, itself, for just a moment.  It’s the festival of lights.  It’s the celebration of the rededication of the temple.  If you’re confused about where our Old Testament Scriptures come from, let’s clear it up.  These are Jewish holy writings.  And if you want to be like Jesus, let’s clear something else up while we’re at it.  Jesus was Jewish!

 

Goodness gracious!  Christians can celebrate Hanukkah right out in the open!

Phew…  I’m so relieved…

L.

 

PS  Hanukah starts on Christmas Eve, this year.  How great is that?