Christian Name

Lately in the news, in town, on Facebook, in the air there is a war brewing. The war is over the name Christian. Who is one, and what does it mean, and what does it look like from the outside, and what does it look like from the inside?

I overheard a conversation among some Christians a few weeks ago while I was visiting friends. "I saw my nephew had posted something with profanity on Facebook, and I told him, 'I know we don't know each other well, but you need to get that down off your Facebook.'"

"Good for you," came the reply. "It's good that you were there to stand up for the truth."

I stopped what I was doing for a minute as what I had overheard sank in. I couldn't help wondering whether this kind of "Christian offensive" is really going to be useful in the long run. Would you pause and consider your actions prayerfully and carefully if someone you hardly knew came up and shook their finger in your face? It seems like at that point, the rightness and wrongness of the situation would almost be irrelevant. What would matter would be the emotions. The shock, the anger, and the defensiveness. The people who I had overheard were good people. They had good intentions. But in the name of Christianity they may have pushed some unnamed nephew even farther away from the Good News than he already might have been.

Let me offer this as an alternate tale that illustrates the same idea from a different angle. I met a good friend of mine while I was finishing up my graduate work. At the time, some older friends of mine were taking turns giving me a really hard time. There were lots of accusations, criticisms, blatant insults. I would not claim that I didn't play any part in the situation -- because I'm sure I did -- but the end result of all of it was that I was being bombarded with terrible messages about myself, and in the end I just had to stop listening to all of it, even though there might have been a kernel of truth in there somewhere.

My new friend met me in the TA office with a smile, and only minutes after our first conversation she listened to my dilemma and explained Eudamonia to me with excited hand gestures and diagrams drawn in highlighter on an index card. "Also, just don't talk to them when they call," she said. That one conversation set me freer than a thousand nights of meditation on my faults. She helped me change gears from negative anger and self-loathing to something more constructive, and from that I was able to rebuild my life in a new shape. The word succor explains what she provided to me there.

My friend is not a Christian. She does not profess a specific religious creed, and yet she lives by a personal code of integrity. She evaluates and reevaluates her actions in light of that code, and she does it without spilling her own personal journey all over the people around her. She has a calmness that allows other people to grow beside her, not at the same rate, not in the same way, but perhaps, after all, in the same direction.

When I am sick, the first thing my friend asks is if she can bring me some soup or other groceries. When I need a book or movie recommendation, she puts serious analytical thought into suggesting just the right obscure Netflix gem. She is a rare friend because she sees me as I actually am, with all my contradictions and faults, and she just sits with it all, neither embracing nor judging. She is willing to sit. And wait.

Her patience has played a large part in my own spiritual journey. Whether she knew it or meant it or not, her life example has brought me closer to Christ; the ministry of her friendship has allowed me to see past the bitter, bean-counting relationships -- and religions -- of my past into a future where friends just share space and time because they want to.

She doesn't profess a Christian creed with her voice, but who acts more in keeping with the example of Christ? The righteous Christian who dispenses unasked-for advice to her sulking nephew, or my agnostic/atheist friend who sits with me in all my ragged glory-mess?

When I was breaking with my earlier faith community I came across some commentary on YouTube by Stephen Fry and Christopher Hitchens. The two men were witty, succinct, efficient in their criticisms of my former church, and I couldn't argue with the veracity of anything they said. Far from turning me to an atheist, their clear concision allowed me to let go of the contorted doctrines I had been wringing to death in my hands, and allowed me to consider that grace, not perfection, might just be the key to a Christian life, after all.

So this means that my own Christian walk, bumbling and stagger-about though it might be, has been informed in part by a little group of agnostics and atheists -- not just those who I have mentioned here but others as well. The quality about them that has made their words and actions ring so true -- and the reason I can hear the Holy Spirit echo in their words -- is that they say their piece and then sit quietly. They explain their view, and then they get down off the soapbox and give someone else a turn. They listen as well as they speak; perhaps they listen better than they speak. They know how much to say, and how much not to say, and when to say or not say it.

What if a Christian could do this same thing?

Five Years Old!

Five years after the worst-and-best day of my life, when my son was born two months early, I am happy to find that the bad memories fade, and the good ones are brighter.

I mean, look at him! I love him so much.

He has taught me so much more than I have ever taught him. The lesson I am learning right now is slowing down to listen to him when he talks. 99% of the time, when he is whining, that is all he wants -- to be understood. Interestingly, this is also my life's ambition, and simultaneously one of the hardest things for me to do for someone else -- just listen and understand. It's strange to get to know your child and realize how similar the two of you are.

Today we went to the mall after school to meet with the cousins, and as we were getting out of the car Chris announced that he would keep on his birthday crown "so that everyone will recognize that it's my birthday." Usually he is hesitant to do anything that will call attention to himself, so I thought it was noteworthy. But to him it was just good sense. He's only had five (well, six) birthdays in his life, and probably only two that he can really remember. Best to savor the day, and make sure everyone knows that it is his own special day.

He has a way of becoming something, and then stopping, turning, and looking back at me to see if I have realized yet what he is. He learned his ABCs without me knowing, and just sang them to me one day. He uses bigger words than some of my college students can, and he only took seven months to grow before he was ready to be born and take on the world. I have the feeling that one day soon I will wake up and he will be grown, and doing something amazing with his life, and with his very specific talents, and he will turn back to see if I have noticed.

I am so excited to see what he will become.

Happy Birthday, Christopher!

Are You A Good Mother? Quiz

1. Give yourself 50 points for gestating or adopting, no matter what kind of pregnancy, birth, or adoption process you had.

2. Do you let your kids starve? If yes, give yourself zero points. If no, give yourself 25 points.

3. Are your kids happy more often than they are unhappy? If yes, give yourself 25 points. If not, give yourself 12 points.

4. How often do you make dinner from scratch? Give yourself 10 points for each day per week that you do.

5. How many enriching activities (museum trips, zoo visits, etc.) do you do with your kids every month? Give yourself 20 points for each.

6. What percentage of your children’s food is organic? Give yourself a point for every percentage point of their total diet.

7. Write your final score on a piece of paper and go into the bathroom.

8. Tear up that fucking piece of paper and flush it down the toilet.

9. Look at yourself in the mirror and repeat after me: “I am a good mother because I care about whether or not I am a good mother.”

10. DONE! :)

Sunday Thoughts: Soul Cathedral

The church I attend is plain, simple, and full of Grace. Wide windows connect the worshiper to the outdoors as the songs and prayers are lifted up. The unaffected, plain nature of the pastor and congregation give a sense of community.

Even in this beautiful setting, though, it is hard not to see the shadow of the ornate Catholic cathedral peeking out from behind the simple furnishings of the Lutheran sanctuary. You can see that the two are related. In fact, the more time goes on, the more I begin to see, paradoxically, the genius of Catholicism. It really does draw the whole self in – body, mind and spirit. How it maintains its membership once the whole self has been drawn in is a much more problematic question, but the initial wooing of the soul is really quite delightful.

So I am left with fragments of memory – incense, creaking pews, the shining golden monstrance, Ubi Caritas and holy water and the high cathedral altar. If there is one emotion-feeling that I miss, it is the quiet hush of prayer, congregants kneeling down, light filtering in through a stained glass window. The smell of old wood and furniture polish and candles, maybe a trace of leftover incense from the day before, hanging in the air. The hushed, whispering tones of those who dare to speak because they must. The sense that this place and time are sacred. What does a post-Catholic do with these bittersweet impressions, somehow too large and unwieldy for the scrapbook?

An answer begins to show itself as I study the plainness and lack of ornamentation around me every Sunday morning. When the twisting, turning mental circles of Catholicism slow down (and stop!), and I can accept grace on the basis of faith instead of perfect performance of ritual, the question changes from “Will I be able to end up in heaven?” to “What should I do now on earth?” Without the ritual requirements there is time -- and energy -- to live a holy life now.

If the Catholic cathedral succeeds in drawing the attention of the soul upwards and outwards, the Lutheran sanctuary I see every week succeeds in drawing it back down to the people, asking questions about how to show the inclusive nature of God’s love to everyone, not just those who share the same creed and beliefs. I take comfort in the workaday nature of the new faith I am learning, because of this focus on the practical, tangible elements of a spiritual life. Less time is spent defining its legalistic boundaries and differentiating itself from other denominations, so more time is available for a vibrant, joyful Christian life.

The real genius of this smaller, simpler way begins to poke through like a chick pecking its way out of an egg: this faith can sustain me without the grandeur of cathedrals, without the “smells and bells,” because I have the spiritual energy to build a cathedral with my own life, and prepare a tabernacle in my own heart. George Fox, who is credited with being the founder of the Religious Society of Friends (the Quakers), famously said, “Let your life speak.” This idea has just as much relevance in 2012 as it did in the 1600s. Without a Cathedral to proclaim the grandeur of God, it is left to me to do so with my own life and service.

Now, when I think of the old Catholic furniture that I miss, I can compare it to a visit to a "living history" site like Colonial Williamsburg. I am not ashamed of having the old places in my history, and I enjoy thinking about them, reading about them, strolling through the streets and shops and turning the old objects over in my hands, watching the light reflect off their polished surfaces. But at the end of the day, I do not live there anymore. Instead, the great Cathedral begins to take shape within me.

Growing Pains

Yesterday Chris was being a pain around the house, and I took him out for some "Mommy - Christopher Time" which is what we call it when just he and I go out without Norah and Ben. Right now he is going through some challenges because his body and his emotions are very much appropriate for his age, but his brain is leaping ahead of both of them, analyzing, finding patterns, experimenting, and taking on frightening amounts of vocabulary and scientific principles. There is a mismatch there, and while it has always been there in one way or another, now it is becoming more noticeable to him, and he hates the fact that his brain is somewhat "held back" by his age and size.

He has articulated as much to me, which is another sign that his brain is jumping wildly into the future -- he says things like "I am a big boy, but I am still smaller than some big kids, but I am NOT a baby, and I want to be in charge of the things that I do, and grown-ups always tell me what to do. I am frustrated at being a kid." Yesterday, Norah was having a 2 year-old temper tantrum because she wanted to do something her way, but her way was dangerous. Chris came up and patted her on the back and said, "I know what it's like to be frustrated at being a kid, Norah." So, at least we have empathy on lock-down?

I totally get it. I had almost the exact same frustrations, although I remember it hitting me when I was more like 8 or 9 rather than 4. I hated things that were meant for kids, and I never wanted the same things that other people my age wanted. Chris wants (needs?) desperately to be in charge of something, but he just doesn't have quite enough experience for me to really let him loose on anything major. So I let him be in charge of little things wherever I can, and I am always trying to think of new ways to let him "take the reins." I basically need the 4 year-old equivalent of that thing when you are 14 or 15 and your dad lets you drive the car for a few hundred feet down an empty country road. But what might that 4 year-old equivalent be? I have no idea.

When we arrived home after our field trip (unhurried trip through the ice cream shop/toy store), I had a moment of momgrief. Not long ago at all -- just a few months -- every time we went out for Mommy - Christopher time, Chris would say, "Since it's Mommy - Christopher time, you can carry me!" When he was younger he loved this aspect of M-C time, because Norah spent her first 18 months pretty much in my arms, so he loved having some of that space to himself. Today, almost-five and so much taller than he was even at the beginning of the summer, he didn't say that, and the fresh, baby-bright quality to his voice was gone as well, flown off in the wind. He is taller and gangly, and moody, feeling the corners of his ever-expanding self bumping against the edges of the space the world has hollowed out for him. He is chafing at its boundaries.

My mom-heart aches because I can't fix it all by carrying him to and from the car on an errand anymore, and because I know that feeling, of knowing that everyone around you just sees a child when they look at you, but inside your mind and heart you are twenty feet tall, an invincible universal spirit. They don't understand it, and they won't, for at least fifteen or twenty more years. Being Chris's mom shifts from being his protector and nurturer to being his advocate, like a lawyer for his spirit, making my arguments and presenting evidence, but in the end it is not up to me who wins the case. The force is strong with this one, though. It delights and terrifies me as I see him now in his nascent stage, this seething, electrical ball of potential, shooting off sparks in every direction, sulking in the backseat as we pull up into the driveway.

I watched Jane Eyre today

Okay, so I admit that I bought it for Fassbender, who broods appropriately as Rochester and also bears a resemblance to my own beautiful husband, which makes him even more compelling on the screen. But in the end I was won over again by Mia Wasikowska’s Jane, who is the best Jane I have ever seen, and is the closest in spirit to the Jane that you read when you read the real novel. Jane in the book feels something for Rochester and yet fights it, gives herself sort of “anti-pep talks” in which she teaches herself not to hope, not to be attached, not to expect anything. It is the way she has lived her whole life, and she keeps herself in check even in a very compromising situation.

So why, sitting back at naptime and enjoying the lovely Blu-Ray version of this great film, did I find myself 

WEEPING

as Jane runs back to Thornfield from the tiny church, ripping off her wedding dress, buttoning up in her greys again and putting her impassive face back on?

Rome has been tugging at my heart lately, in that same old siren-ish way that she has, the little mental land mines she has planted in the past 30 years exploding like tiny fireworks in my head at key moments, keeping me tied to her no matter how far I run over the windblown moors, my name echoing across the hills as she calls out for me from her burned out castle.

I still love her, but it’s the muted love of old love, the way you care for someone who you never see anymore. As I climb out of the pit of illness and exhaustion brought on by clinging closely to her, as I see how much healthier I am each day since the last day that I saw her, how being far away makes me healthier, I feel a new wave of grief for the woman that I wanted to be, and more than that, the woman that I vowed to be, on my knees, kneeling in front of the altar as the blessing was pronounced over me:

Father, by your plan man and woman are united,
and married life has been established
as the one blessing that was not forfeited by original sin
or washed away in the flood.
Look with love upon this woman, your daughter,
now joined to her husband in marriage.
She asks your blessing.
Give her the grace of love and peace.
May she always follow the example of the holy women
whose praises are sung in the scriptures.

It is a strange blessing because it was only for me, not for Ben; the priest explained it in his tiny office full of fish tanks as he said it was an anachronism; a prayer left over from the times when a married woman’s life was hard, when she could very well die, when she would have a child every year and become old and tired quickly from scrubbing floors and nursing ten or twelve children, half of whom would live and half of whom would die. Looking at my own decline in health as I answered the call of my vocation I cannot help but think the prayer was not only appropriate but desperately needed.

I was crying on the wingback chair in front of this film because this blessing which very well may have sustained me through two bouts of postpartum darkness, a premature child, and the gaining and losing of fifty pounds over and over again, this is a blessing that I have to turn my back on as I walk away from the church. She helped to cause my illness but she gave me the salve to smooth over it as well; is that not love? It is not.

My love for my husband is deeper now than it was on that day when we married. It is true when they say that love deepens over time; it is not a separate thing anymore, it is part of my body. It’s in my bones. It is my bones. I dare to see it as a thing separate from the priest’s hands held over us, Rome’s hard-won benediction.

I look back over my shoulder like Lot’s wife and it confounds me, this thing I left behind. It is a beautiful angel and a monster all at once. It tried to kill me, and it tried to save me. I wanted to be that wife, the one that knelt down and took the blessing that would make me invincible through life’s danger. I wanted to be her with all my heart. But Ben never wanted me to be her; he only wants me, happy, healthy, and together with him for the rest of our lives. Unlike Jane I have this to lean into as I walk away.

When I decided to save myself and cut the cord, to decide that I had individual worth, that my health mattered to me not just because I was needed by others but because I was needed by myself, the first wire popped like a violin string wound too tight, and the rest rose and fell and broke as well, like the old grainy movie of a suspension bridge collapsing. The water rushes over it but the wreckage is still there. My heart is at the bottom of the river.

Adrenal Fatigue Update!

I thought I would take a minute to post an update on the Adrenal Fatigue recovery which has been going on for almost a year now. I think I have finally turned a corner toward steadily improving. Of course, there are supposed to be lots of setbacks, so I am not going to overdo anything right now, but for this moment, and for a few solid weeks now, I have the following good news to talk about:

-I have done yard work without collapsing afterwards
-I have been doing some strength training
-I have had a more steady positive mood overall (takes less time to get out of the dumps if I get in them)
-Good afternoon energy levels (although I need a break sometimes)
-Being nicer to the kids (I think?) Less overwhelm, less frustration, less of that awful panicky feeling when the house is a mess and both of them are screaming, etc.

I think that these things are due to lifestyle changes:

-Sleeping at night (who knew??)
-Limiting my work to certain hours so that I have time for other things (this is super hard. More on this later.)
-Hacking my to-do lists down to almost nothing, on purpose
-Cutting back on energy-draining things
-Asking for help when the problem arises instead of when I have exhausted myself from trying to fix things without any help
-Going on vacation (ok so this isn't really a "lifestyle," although it would be awesome if it were, but the mental state of being on vacation -- being very much away from work at times -- is getting more important to me)
-Avoiding all wheat and dairy, always. Whenever I try to bend the rule, I end up feeling awful. Not worth it.

Some bonus effects are that now that I have limited my work hours, I get to hang out on the sofa with husband more often, which I like! I hired someone to come and clean my house a few times, which felt very strange and aristocratic and weird at first -- I was raised that you basically don't hire anyone to do *anything* you could do yourself -- but after seeing the results, I think it's worth it to have someone come as often as possible, when I can afford it. And it's really not that extravagantly expensive. About the cost of a night out with Ben.

I have discovered that I have some traits in common with workaholics (as in, I am probably a workaholic, although I am pretty ready to let it go, so maybe I'm not quite a *raging* workaholic... we'll see how it plays out. Anyway. Hush. I can quit whenever I want to... I totally have it under control...)

Overall, I feel cautiously positive about these changes. I know how quickly things can turn around, either for better or for worse, so I know I have to stick with my lifestyle changes and prioritize health and sanity.

It's hard to end a positive post with a kicky punch, but hey. It's nice to be able to do things without being constantly worried about running out of energy. So yay! :D