As my daughter grows, I see her experiences through the lens of my childhood memories. No matter what she does, she is accompanied by a chorus of stories. Now she is confidently navigating the complicated year before middle school, and I am transported back to my fifth grade year, when I was bound and determined to act like Jesus.
It was a renegade project for me. My parents weren’t church goers, and aside from the Christmas story, I didn’t know much about Jesus until my mother had me watch a play called Cotton Patch Gospel while she worked in the theater’s back office. The play depicted Jesus’ life as it might have been if he’d lived in the American South. Sitting alone in the audience, I decided matter-of-factly that I wanted this riveting story to be part of each day of my life. I was in fourth grade.
From that play, I understood that I had the opportunity to take part in a love that was so deep it could transform anything I might experience, even violent death. I had access to a peace so profound that it turned the regular rules of life upside down and gave me a chance to do something beautiful, no matter what was happening. To the best of my limited understanding, my main job in life should be to imitate Jesus, so that’s what I tried to do.
Fourth and fifth grades were difficult. There was a lot of teasing, and I usually responded by asking, as earnestly and lovingly as I could, whether the person teasing me thought they were being kind. I often asked them while trying not to cry. Then I went home and secretly prayed for them. This seemed like turning the other cheek, but it did not seem to discouraging bullying, and I felt wildly alone in trying to be like Jesus.
As I watch my fifth grade daughter and her friends, I see that I was not alone. There are plenty of fifth graders doing their imperfect best to live out the beautiful stories of their faiths, but it sometimes looks different than it did for me. It didn’t even look that way all the time for Jesus. In the Gospels, He doesn’t just calmly ask people if they are being kind. He wades into the fray of conflicts and calls people vipers if the name seems to fit. (Of course, He also says that if you call someone a fool then your soul is in danger, so I guess I wasn’t totally off base.)
The chorus of stories that surrounds my fifth-grade daughter tells me that I can learn a great deal from the child that I used to be. As a mother who wants her children to be nourished by deep faith, I am also reminded that not all religious experience looks like my own and that I must walk a delicate line between teaching and learning.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Monday, December 19, 2011
The backhoe is here
There’s a backhoe parked outside my living room window. It dug a trench out to the western field so that we can run water and electricity to two year round chicken coops west of the house. The coops won’t be ours, though. They’re being built by the Mainstreet Project, which will rent them from us and then offer them to aspiring Latino farmers that have gone through a beginning farmer class.
This is something we’ve been planning and agonizing over for many months. During the last parts of my pregnancy, I’d sometimes wake up because of contractions and in my half-awake state, I’d assume that the contractions had something to do with the proposed chicken barns instead of the baby. “What does this mean for the barns?” I mumbled to myself until I woke up enough to regain a grip on reality.
After all this anticipation, the back hoe is here now, and our western field has been terraced, and there’s a 6-foot trench dividing our yard. It seems surreal. In spite of myself, I find myself wondering how it all came to be, as though the decisions had been made by someone else.
We made the decision though, and I think it was a good one. We’re renting this land to the Mainstreet Project because they’re trying to help people realize their dreams of being independent farmers. I’m so grateful that we’ve had the opportunity to follow this dream ourselves, and we couldn’t have done it on our own. We feel excited to be part of a sustainable food movement that includes more diversity. Also, we see opportunities to possibly work together with these farmers to sell chickens so that our family’s farming can be more financially sustainable.
Like all exciting changes, it brings a sense of loss. This fall, my daughter wrote a paper for school about her favorite place, sitting in a maple, looking out over waves of corn. Starting this spring, her maple will look out on a chicken yard, and twice a day, folks will drive in to take care of those chickens. It won’t be quite as isolated, and for a girl entering middle school, it’s sometimes important to have privacy when you’re doing things like climbing trees. The same might be said for 38 year old mothers who sometimes sit in trees.
We’re moving ahead with it though, and it’s exciting. People might be raising chickens here by March!S
This is something we’ve been planning and agonizing over for many months. During the last parts of my pregnancy, I’d sometimes wake up because of contractions and in my half-awake state, I’d assume that the contractions had something to do with the proposed chicken barns instead of the baby. “What does this mean for the barns?” I mumbled to myself until I woke up enough to regain a grip on reality.
After all this anticipation, the back hoe is here now, and our western field has been terraced, and there’s a 6-foot trench dividing our yard. It seems surreal. In spite of myself, I find myself wondering how it all came to be, as though the decisions had been made by someone else.
We made the decision though, and I think it was a good one. We’re renting this land to the Mainstreet Project because they’re trying to help people realize their dreams of being independent farmers. I’m so grateful that we’ve had the opportunity to follow this dream ourselves, and we couldn’t have done it on our own. We feel excited to be part of a sustainable food movement that includes more diversity. Also, we see opportunities to possibly work together with these farmers to sell chickens so that our family’s farming can be more financially sustainable.
Like all exciting changes, it brings a sense of loss. This fall, my daughter wrote a paper for school about her favorite place, sitting in a maple, looking out over waves of corn. Starting this spring, her maple will look out on a chicken yard, and twice a day, folks will drive in to take care of those chickens. It won’t be quite as isolated, and for a girl entering middle school, it’s sometimes important to have privacy when you’re doing things like climbing trees. The same might be said for 38 year old mothers who sometimes sit in trees.
We’re moving ahead with it though, and it’s exciting. People might be raising chickens here by March!S
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Age 10
My 10-year-old daughter has become quite competent. A few weeks ago, I watched her in the kitchen, holding her little brother in one arm while fixing some food in another, and something old rose up inside me. I saw that she was capable of pulling her own weight and quite a bit more as well, and I evaluated her capabilities as rationally and eagerly as my husband evaluates tractors. This is a girl who can work, I told myself. This is a girl who can work for me. I didn’t like the way I was thinking about her, but I thought it anyway.
When I watch my girl, I often see family stories transposed upon her. I know that at age 10, my grandma’s oldest sister worked harder than I ever have. She cared for three young siblings and fixed the family’s main meals while her parents worked in the fields. I expect she did the work fairly well. At ten years old, my mother went trick or treating for the last time. Several months later, my grandma died, leaving my mother to take up the work of keeping house. Mom wouldn’t let me go trick or treating after the age of 10, because she expected that if she had done a good job as a parent, then I should be fairly grown up by that age. The first Halloween without trick or treating, I put on a leotard, painted wrinkles on my face with eyeliner and told the neighbor children who came to my door that I was dressed up as a dream deferred. I felt both jealous and superior.
My daughter and I are living out lives that our family members longed for. We have the precious education that my great aunt wanted so badly. We both have mothers who are alive and who love us like no one else can. Neither of us must work so hard that we have to leave part of ourselves behind before we’re ready. Even though I enjoy our privilege and take it for granted, I sometimes feel as though I’ve wandered out on untried ground, and I keep glancing back, trying to learn what strength we might be leaving behind.
When I watch my girl, I often see family stories transposed upon her. I know that at age 10, my grandma’s oldest sister worked harder than I ever have. She cared for three young siblings and fixed the family’s main meals while her parents worked in the fields. I expect she did the work fairly well. At ten years old, my mother went trick or treating for the last time. Several months later, my grandma died, leaving my mother to take up the work of keeping house. Mom wouldn’t let me go trick or treating after the age of 10, because she expected that if she had done a good job as a parent, then I should be fairly grown up by that age. The first Halloween without trick or treating, I put on a leotard, painted wrinkles on my face with eyeliner and told the neighbor children who came to my door that I was dressed up as a dream deferred. I felt both jealous and superior.
My daughter and I are living out lives that our family members longed for. We have the precious education that my great aunt wanted so badly. We both have mothers who are alive and who love us like no one else can. Neither of us must work so hard that we have to leave part of ourselves behind before we’re ready. Even though I enjoy our privilege and take it for granted, I sometimes feel as though I’ve wandered out on untried ground, and I keep glancing back, trying to learn what strength we might be leaving behind.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The first 6 weeks
My baby, like his brother and sister, was born at home in the dining room. We had many people in the house on the afternoon of his birth – grandmothers, friends, midwives, etc. – but everyone spoke in hushed tones. Mom said it was like being in a library.
A few hours after the birth, my new son and I went upstairs to my bedroom where we stayed there in bed for a whole week. For the first several days, there wasn’t a clock in the room. I spent my time staring into the round face of this new person who made eye contact with me often and smiled. I watched the rectangles of sunlight moving across the floor and the bed. At night, when I was often awake, the moonlight spilled over us, and I lay staring up at the stars. I looked out at the tops of the maples that line the western edge of the property and watched them lose their leaves over the course of that week. The power of the land and the movements of light and wind were like a new womb that held and comforted both me and my son.
Each time after I have given birth, I have felt almost like a baby myself. The world is a foreign, daunting place that has to be re-explored. Written language or logical conversation doesn’t make sense to me. I live in some special kind of warm light. This was a difficult situation during my first two births because I felt I had to act competent and strong as soon as I possibly could, and so I was constantly fighting with myself. After this birth, my husband and mother in law doted on me, bringing me water and food and speaking quietly. The children visited reverently. In this quiet place, I didn’t have to pretend to be experiencing anything except what I was, and I was able to open fully to the Light.
After that first week, I ventured downstairs a little bit but mostly stayed cocooned upstairs with the baby. When I could read again, I kept the Fedco tree catalogue by my bed and spent hours re-reading several descriptions of rose bushes. Reading about those roses was one of my baby steps as I eased gently into family life again, bursting into tears when I pushed too fast.
Now almost a month and a half has passed, and I feel strong again, but I am carrying that sensation of lying in my bed with my baby with the wind and the sun moving past the windows. Remembering it fills me again with Light and stills my thoughts. I am reminded of the steadfastness of God. I try to slip into that place when I pray silently, and I try to pray often.
After staying at home for five and a half months because of a difficult pregnancy and then this birth, I am starting to go out into the world again. Someone at Meeting said last week that I must be so relieved to be done with bed rest. This small talk kind of floored me, and she repeated herself as I sat there with a blank look on my face. Finally, I answered awkwardly that it was OK. In truth, I am not relieved or disappointed to be done with this time of stillness. It's impossible to have an opinion about it because I am still living under a sense of awe. Something within me shifted during this time, but I don’t understand yet what it is.
A few hours after the birth, my new son and I went upstairs to my bedroom where we stayed there in bed for a whole week. For the first several days, there wasn’t a clock in the room. I spent my time staring into the round face of this new person who made eye contact with me often and smiled. I watched the rectangles of sunlight moving across the floor and the bed. At night, when I was often awake, the moonlight spilled over us, and I lay staring up at the stars. I looked out at the tops of the maples that line the western edge of the property and watched them lose their leaves over the course of that week. The power of the land and the movements of light and wind were like a new womb that held and comforted both me and my son.
Each time after I have given birth, I have felt almost like a baby myself. The world is a foreign, daunting place that has to be re-explored. Written language or logical conversation doesn’t make sense to me. I live in some special kind of warm light. This was a difficult situation during my first two births because I felt I had to act competent and strong as soon as I possibly could, and so I was constantly fighting with myself. After this birth, my husband and mother in law doted on me, bringing me water and food and speaking quietly. The children visited reverently. In this quiet place, I didn’t have to pretend to be experiencing anything except what I was, and I was able to open fully to the Light.
After that first week, I ventured downstairs a little bit but mostly stayed cocooned upstairs with the baby. When I could read again, I kept the Fedco tree catalogue by my bed and spent hours re-reading several descriptions of rose bushes. Reading about those roses was one of my baby steps as I eased gently into family life again, bursting into tears when I pushed too fast.
Now almost a month and a half has passed, and I feel strong again, but I am carrying that sensation of lying in my bed with my baby with the wind and the sun moving past the windows. Remembering it fills me again with Light and stills my thoughts. I am reminded of the steadfastness of God. I try to slip into that place when I pray silently, and I try to pray often.
After staying at home for five and a half months because of a difficult pregnancy and then this birth, I am starting to go out into the world again. Someone at Meeting said last week that I must be so relieved to be done with bed rest. This small talk kind of floored me, and she repeated herself as I sat there with a blank look on my face. Finally, I answered awkwardly that it was OK. In truth, I am not relieved or disappointed to be done with this time of stillness. It's impossible to have an opinion about it because I am still living under a sense of awe. Something within me shifted during this time, but I don’t understand yet what it is.
Monday, October 10, 2011
As of 9/30
Our new son was born at home on 9/30. He was a big baby (9 pounds and 10 ounces) and as of Thursday, 10/6, he weighed 10 pounds 8 ounces. He's a pretty peaceful guy. We've been enjoying him.
Monday, September 26, 2011
roots
When I lived in Minneapolis, they were cutting down many elms along the boulevard because of Dutch Elm disease. I started praying for the elm trees I passed. I put my hands on them, waited until my mind was clear, and then prayed that they should stay healthy and strong.
We passed the same two elm trees every day when I walked my daughter to her kindergarten bus stop, and so I put my hands on them every school day and prayed for them briefly. My two-year-old son, who observed this from his stroller every day, accepted this as a normal part of his day and would occasionally walk up to other trees and quietly put both hands on them. (He has since stopped doing that!)
Over time, I grew very attached to these two trees, which were almost a block from my house. I experienced very different emotions when I prayed for each of them. When my hands were on one, I felt both a gorgeous sense of lightness and a grief that sometimes made me cry. The other felt much less effusive. I felt guarded and angry when my hands were on that tree.
More elms were marked and cut down in our neighborhood every week, so I made some calls, asking if I could get "my" trees vaccinated against the disease. I found out it could cost more than $2000 to protect those trees, because we'd also need to vaccinate the elm across the street. I also found out that it would probably be a waste of money because the vaccination couldn't protect them from becoming infected under ground through their root system, especially if other elms had once been growing nearby. I was sure that another elm once grew next to these two trees, but had been cut down within the last few years.
Apparently, when trees grow close together, their roots sometimes entwine, and after many years, they grow together. In these places where the roots are joined, they share sap under ground and become like one tree.
This past summer, while I stayed at home tenaciously avoiding anything exciting (or even entertaining), I could feel my roots growing. I felt them twining silently with my husband's roots and growing together under ground like the elm trees. After being in love with this person for 20 years, I am amazed by how much there is to learn and by the unexpected ways that love changes me.
We passed the same two elm trees every day when I walked my daughter to her kindergarten bus stop, and so I put my hands on them every school day and prayed for them briefly. My two-year-old son, who observed this from his stroller every day, accepted this as a normal part of his day and would occasionally walk up to other trees and quietly put both hands on them. (He has since stopped doing that!)
Over time, I grew very attached to these two trees, which were almost a block from my house. I experienced very different emotions when I prayed for each of them. When my hands were on one, I felt both a gorgeous sense of lightness and a grief that sometimes made me cry. The other felt much less effusive. I felt guarded and angry when my hands were on that tree.
More elms were marked and cut down in our neighborhood every week, so I made some calls, asking if I could get "my" trees vaccinated against the disease. I found out it could cost more than $2000 to protect those trees, because we'd also need to vaccinate the elm across the street. I also found out that it would probably be a waste of money because the vaccination couldn't protect them from becoming infected under ground through their root system, especially if other elms had once been growing nearby. I was sure that another elm once grew next to these two trees, but had been cut down within the last few years.
Apparently, when trees grow close together, their roots sometimes entwine, and after many years, they grow together. In these places where the roots are joined, they share sap under ground and become like one tree.
This past summer, while I stayed at home tenaciously avoiding anything exciting (or even entertaining), I could feel my roots growing. I felt them twining silently with my husband's roots and growing together under ground like the elm trees. After being in love with this person for 20 years, I am amazed by how much there is to learn and by the unexpected ways that love changes me.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Grateful
Sometimes I am ambushed by grace.
Last night, my husband played the song "Stand by Me" on You Tube because it had been going through his head, and I suddenly found myself weeping. The end of the movie "Stand by Me," which I watched as a kid, says that one of the main characters is killed while intervening in a robbery. Fifteen years ago last month, I intervened when a man was attacking his girlfriend. She was killed, and I lived.
Last night, a familiar voice rose up in my head, saying that I should have died on the day of the attack, too, and that there is no greater love than laying your life down for someone else. Over time, that message has grown so old and brittle that it sounded more like a crackly recording instead of the booming voice of condemnation. It couldn't make me cry, but I wept when I thought about all of the blessings I've been able to experience during the last fifteen years.
Soon after the murder, I became a Quaker and married the man that I love so dearly. Later, I helped bring the world a lovely, passionate daughter and a steady, compassionate son. I was heard a leading from God to move to the country, and so I live surrounded by trees and fields, like I had always dreamed I might. Now, I am experiencing the holy and illogical fullness of late pregnancy. These are the most important things I've known.
I am so grateful that I've been able to live this life, and I am aware that the lives of so many others are cut short. They are present in the quiet corners of my existence, but their presence isn't condemning. If anything, they remind me to live with integrity and gusto, for their sake if for nothing else.
I am reminded, too, that to whom much has been given, much will be required. I have been given so much that I will never be able to give back even a portion of it, but I know that if I keep pressing into God, then I will be led to do what needs to be done. Grace has led me through so far, and grace will lead me home.
Last night, my husband played the song "Stand by Me" on You Tube because it had been going through his head, and I suddenly found myself weeping. The end of the movie "Stand by Me," which I watched as a kid, says that one of the main characters is killed while intervening in a robbery. Fifteen years ago last month, I intervened when a man was attacking his girlfriend. She was killed, and I lived.
Last night, a familiar voice rose up in my head, saying that I should have died on the day of the attack, too, and that there is no greater love than laying your life down for someone else. Over time, that message has grown so old and brittle that it sounded more like a crackly recording instead of the booming voice of condemnation. It couldn't make me cry, but I wept when I thought about all of the blessings I've been able to experience during the last fifteen years.
Soon after the murder, I became a Quaker and married the man that I love so dearly. Later, I helped bring the world a lovely, passionate daughter and a steady, compassionate son. I was heard a leading from God to move to the country, and so I live surrounded by trees and fields, like I had always dreamed I might. Now, I am experiencing the holy and illogical fullness of late pregnancy. These are the most important things I've known.
I am so grateful that I've been able to live this life, and I am aware that the lives of so many others are cut short. They are present in the quiet corners of my existence, but their presence isn't condemning. If anything, they remind me to live with integrity and gusto, for their sake if for nothing else.
I am reminded, too, that to whom much has been given, much will be required. I have been given so much that I will never be able to give back even a portion of it, but I know that if I keep pressing into God, then I will be led to do what needs to be done. Grace has led me through so far, and grace will lead me home.
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