disappointment and dilemmas

She sat staring at her brunch—face pale, eyes vacant. This was not our daughter. "I don't feel well," she whimpered, sipping her lukewarm raspberry tea. "You'll feel better after you eat something, Bub," I replied. The same turmoil I'd been feeling all weekend returned. How do I handle this? What's the best thing to do? My stomach churned. I wish to God I knew. But I didn't. And I still don't, even in hindsight.

Life is full of these handbook-less parenting moments—I realize this. I know I am not the only parent who struggles to know what is best for their child on a given day. But somehow the addition of gymnastics to our lives has increased the number of these moments in a rather disproportionate way, and I am left feeling like I'm faltering (and failing) more often than not.

This weekend was meet number two of the month, just one weekend after State Championships. Practices are Wednesday nights, Friday afternoons, and Saturday mornings. Dilemma number one: do we opt for the additional Monday night practice, like many of her teammates do, and give her a competitive advantage, or do we allow her to have at least one afternoon (I work T/Th so she goes to her Grandma's and isn't at home) free for being a child? We choose to forgo the additional practice, and spend Monday's at home, reading and relaxing. Her friends do not, and their scores reflect that. What's a parent to do?

Most of the time, we do not have practice on Saturday mornings on the weekend of a meet, but this weekend we did. This was a good thing, as it meant we didn't have to miss a practice. More time to work on the events that trouble her. A good thing, right? Or no? Dilemma two: do I opt to keep her home and let her rest and rejuvenate, or do I take advantage of another opportunity to get more confident on her bar routine? I choose to send her, some moms choose to keep their girls at home. Which choice was better?

Having practice on Friday nights and Saturday mornings means missing a lot of social events. Sleepovers, birthday parties, mother-daughter events for school—most fall on Friday nights. She finally gets invited to an event on a Saturday afternoon—a couple of hours at Fort Rapids, an indoor water park. She loves water parks, she loves the friend who has invited her. She's tired, but she's had a nap. She never gets to just be a kid and do things with her friends. But the meet is tomorrow. Dilemma three: Do I allow her to go, or no? I consult with her father, the Voice of Reason within our household, and he agrees she needs to be a kid. She goes to the water park. She wakes up today tired and with a sore throat. Wrong decision, or no?

We get up for church this morning, unable to sleep in because I'm teaching Sunday school and Tom's running camera, and we're all out the door by 8:30ish. We leave church and head to brunch, to fuel our gymnast for her meet, and she announces she isn't feeling well. You can tell it to look at her. She is not her normal self, by a long shot. Dilemma four: do we pull out and go home, or push through? We get some cold medicine, and within an hour she is feeling better. We push through. But is it the right thing to do?

The meet begins well, with a 9.15 (out of 10) on her floor routine. She's shooting for her 36 today—she needs two within the season to move up to level five next year. Both of her buddies have achieved it—but both of her buddies practiced all summer while she was out with a broken arm, and both attend the additional practice. Dilemma number five: do I break it to her that she's not likely to catch up to them this year, or let her continue to hope (and continue to be disappointed)?

Vault is decent—another 9.15. She's done better, but she's done worse. She squeaks out an 8.65 on the bars, which is a full half point improvement from last weekend, and I make a mental note to point that out to her. You can't spend four months out with a fracked up arm and expect to get a 9 or above right away on the bars. But I digress. She heads in to her final event, the beam, needing a 9.05 to get her 36. Should be a piece of cake. She took first place on beam for her age group last weekend. The 36 should be in the bag.

I am nervous as she begins, remembering that her warm-up was a little more wobbly than usual, probably because of her head cold. I breathe a short prayer, but that is the last breath I take for what seems like an eternity. She is still wobbly, fighting to hold on to poses that normally don't sway her. I pray harder. She wobbles again. And again. And then, my tenacious little fighter falls off the beam. I curse under my breath, trying to keep my disappointment from escaping my eyes.

She finishes, but she is not happy. She dismounts, fakes a smile for the judges, and makes it barely ten steps before bursting into tears. 8.4. There will be no 36 today. Both her friends make 37s, and my daughter is inconsolable.

Dilemma number six: had I made a different choice on any of the decisions above, would it have changed today's outcome? And if so, am I partially to blame for her disappointment? Or worse, totally?

Where is the handbook for THAT?

yearning: in response

Some good friends have had some insightful thoughts about my previous post, but my thoughts are too extensive to post within the comments, so I will reflect upon them here.

I still stand in agreement with the quote, albeit taken out of its proper context, and with KP, who states, "some parts of our society are trying to vilify any mood state or behavior that is outside of 'normal' and 'happy'." We are taught, repetitively, that happiness is our ultimate goal in life, and anything short of that is both short-coming and short-sighted. I don't know a single person who would tell you his or her life is completely happy. Not a one. What is wrong with those people?

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with a one of us. Other than not measuring up to an unattainable goal. I do not believe, rightly or wrongly, that perpetual happiness is our intended state on this earth. Now, joy, perhaps. Peace, possibly. Contentment, I'm not so sure. But these are not qualities that are naturally occurring. They are fruit that is cultivated.

I'm not saying the opposite, either. I'm not saying that our sole purpose on this earth is merely to suffer. I don't buy that line of bull, either. I'm simply saying that I do believe, wholeheartedly, that we are living every moment in the tension between the now and the not yet. We were meant to live life one way, and we are living it another. That tension is uncomfortable at best, unbearable at its worst. But we don't want to be uncomfortable, not indefinitely, at any rate.

I know there is contextual and circumstantial depression. I know there is chemical depression. I know there is spiritual depression, strongholds and the like. I preach this message several times a week. I know full well that all of the above and more weave together in a delicate, intricate web that is not always easy to untangle. And I know that all strings leading to the center must be considered, not just one.

But I believe that, even as Christians, we are quick to ignore or even disdain this spiritual component. Why is that? I believe it is, in part, because we believe we can control the other parts, but the God part we know we cannot. And that frustrates us. Or, it frustrates me, at least. (And "frustrate" is a mild term, believe me.) I don't want to consider where God fits in to the picture, because there is no formula to follow or pill to take that guarantees an outcome. But, quite frankly, none of those things have provided an overwhelmingly beneficial, sustainable outcome, either, so where does that leave me, and others like me?

KP points to the year I've had, which I've moaned about repeatedly here, as just cause for feeling depressed. I agree. And I also agree wholeheartedly that better self-care and stewardship of my time and energy would certainly help the situation. But it doesn't explain the melancholia that has rested heavily upon my shoulders for as long as I can remember, not ever giving up its roost even in the face of medication, nutrition, exercise, strong relationships, and all the self-care I could possibly muster at various given points in my life.

The past year doesn't explain waking up nearly every morning, from the time I was a child through to the present, feeling as if I could cry for truly no good reason. It doesn't explain the ache in my heart when things end, when moments pass, when life slips through my fingers. It doesn't explain the persistent numbness in my spirit, the quickness to cry at certain things, the inability to cry at others. There is more to it than my overextended schedule. But you know this.

There is more to it than biochemistry. Than my blood sugar. Than not getting enough sleep. There is more to it than feeling occasionally distant from my husband, feeling inadequate as a parent, expecting too much of myself in nearly everything I do. There is more to it than what we want to naturally equate it to. Personally, I believe that this "more to it" has something to do with God. No Christianese bullshit about it.

So, I retract my ending statement from the last post, in which I question whether or not the depression I feel is just my heart longing for its true home. Is it just that? No. And that's not what I intended to imply. But is it part of the equation? Is it one of the strings entwined among the others? Is it something I must consider and move toward in order to move toward joy? I believe the answer is resoundingly yes.

yearning

In our society, we have come to believe that discomfort always means something is wrong. We are conditioned to believe that feelings of distress, pain, deprivation, yearning and longing mean something is wrong with the way we live our lives.

Conversely, we are convinced that a rightly lived life must give us serenity, completion and fultillment. Comfort means "right" and distress means "wrong." The influence of such convictions is stifling to the human spirit. Individually and collectively, we must somehow recover the truth. The truth is, we were never meant to be completely satisfied.

Gerald May, Addiction and Grace

Hmm... going to be chewing on that one for a while. Within the context this is written, it begs the question: is what I consider depression really just the yearning of a heart that knows this is not its home?

just push her

There are tears coming from behind the cubbies. Earnest, gulping cries rising up over the top, the source unseen by all in the bleachers, but definitely not unheard. A mother makes her way to the edge of the mats, leaning over to assess the situation. She does not appear sympathetic. The cries grow louder, in spite of the flurry of activity going on around them. “Everyone else can do it! Why can’t I?,” the voice questions. “Oh, for crying out loud,” the woman replies, growing visibly agitated.

The child’s teacher confers with them, and talks them both over to the uneven bars located right in front of the bleachers where we are sitting. Her mom badgers her up on to the bar, the child still sobbing, her eyes ever downcast. She flips up onto the bar, her arms tight and her weight perched atop it. She swings her right leg up and threads it through her legs and freezes. Her mom lets out an “Oh jeeze,” throwing up her hands. The girl cries even louder.

The poor girl is afraid. It is evident. She is afraid, from her precarious perch, to tip forward and fall over the edge. “But I’ll be upside down,” she tells the teacher, who has graciously stayed after to help her. Her teacher reassures her. Her mother snorts and continues to badger her. The right leg comes down.

Mom bounces back and forth from the bleachers to the edge of the cubbies to “encourage” her six year old daughter. “I’m going to call your Dad and tell him you’re a quitter and a crybaby,” she yells from the bleachers, exasperated. I am mortified for this child. I am all for overcoming fear. But I am not at all for using shame as the motivator.

Mom begins to threaten. She’s going to call her dad and have him come get her so she can’t go to the sleepover. She’s not going to let her go to the meet tomorrow. She’s going to be grounded. If the child doesn’t do a mill-circle. She is obviously upsetting her daughter. She obviously doesn’t care, and continues nonetheless.

The teacher works with the girl for 30 minutes. The right leg comes up. She leans forward. She freezes. The right leg comes down. The scene is repeated multiple times. Mom is watching. Other kids are watching. At least ten other parents in the bleachers are watching. She is not flipping over the flippin’ bar. “Just push her,” a few of the moms joke. Her mother, however, is serious about it.

I know this child’s fear. I’ve never been perched atop a bar afraid of falling into the unknown, but I’ve stood frozen at the end of a diving board, afraid of being in over my head. I’ve cried the same tears of fear and embarrassment. I’ve had the teacher come along side me and tell me, “It’s okay—I’ll jump with you.” And then I’ve been pushed off the diving board, alone. But here’s the difference—instead of encouraging the hand behind me, my mother was furious. So much so that she demanded a refund and took us to private swim lessons. Would my mother have understood my fear? Probably not. Would she have wanted me to overcome it? Definitely. Would she have pushed me? Absolutely NOT.

They shame and pressure this poor child for an hour in front of God and everyone. “I just want her to get over her fear. I don’t want her to think she can cry and get out of stuff.” She laughs an awkward laugh—at least she has the decency to be self-conscious. Finally an older and wiser teacher takes over, working with the girl in increments. Putting a big foam block up under the bar, she gets the child to fall forward six inches, then finally a foot. But that is as far as she’s taking her tonight. “She is very afraid,” the teacher repeats over and over in her broken English, smiling but firmly shaking her head. The mother is not happy. It is evident she feels the teacher is a poor, gullible softie and has given in to the child’s tears. But the teacher knows what the mother obviously does not.

Fear isn’t overcome by pushing. Fear is overcome by coming along-side. Had my swimming teacher not broken my trust, had my teacher jumped with me as promised, my fear would have shrunken at least a size or two that day. Instead, she added shame and distrust to the mix, and the fear grew uncontrollably. This teacher knows better. It is a shame this mother does not.

I watch them leave, the daughter’s face downcast, but visibly relieved. The mother is finally silent if but for a moment, shaking her head as they put on coats and head out the door. I wonder what this small victory will cost this poor child. What promises will be broken? What privileges will be revoked? And all for what? But even more so, I wonder what this will cost her mother. What trust has been irrevocably lost between them? What impact will her words have on their relationship in both the days and years do come? And in the off chance she might ever be insightful enough to make the connection that her daughter’s teenage disdain for her might actually have just cause, would she, then, consider this night worth it? But, then again, that might be pushing the issue.

vanilla

They come to gymnastics in their designer jeans teetering on designer high-heeled shoes, their designer sunglasses perched atop their designer dye-and-straighten jobs. They are pushing designer strollers wearing designer coats and toting designer purses filled with designer snacks and water bottles. Twelve carat designer rings perch above meticulously-done designer nails, and their equally meticulous make-up matches their accessories which match their outfits which match their shoes which match their purses which match their diaper bags which match their strollers which match the interiors of their color-coordinated, designer SUVs. And they look fabulous. Because, of course, it is terribly important to look fabulous when you are sitting at the gym or running to McDonald’s and the grocery and the library. Of course.

I hear them as I read, sitting off to the side, still in my work-out clothes. They discuss make-up brands, Coach purses, Grey’s Anatomy, which local pool is the best, where you simply HAVE to stay at Walt Disney World. They wobble down the bleachers in their three-inch heels and make their way back to their cookie-cutter designer houses, where they will cook name-brand macaroni and cheese in their designer finery and watch TV all day and night in between picking up the kids from school and doing loads of their children’s designer laundry. They have no interests. They have no hobbies. They have no personalities. They are vanilla. Rich, expensive vanilla, but vanilla, nonetheless.

It’s not that I don’t like these women. Truly. I just don’t know how to relate to these women. I mean, I can talk about sofa upholstery for 45 minutes if I really have to, but if I don’t really HAVE to, why on earth would I WANT to? And truth be told, I’d really rather use my 45 minutes of uninterrupted time to read or write than to do anything, and I do mean ANYTHING else these days (except, perhaps, eat chocolate), so it isn’t such a big deal to sit here and try not to overhear their trivial conversations.

But then, despite my best efforts to focus my attention elsewhere, there is that strange tension between complete disdain and childish jealousy that develops, twisting itself around my thought life and breeding rampant sarcasm. There is truly nothing within me that wants to BE these women—but if I’m really honest, I sure wouldn’t mind some of the designer accoutrements. And I find that it is, unfortunately, easier and much more fun to be judgmental than to sit here feeling jealous.

Another woman comes and sits down near me—and I immediately notice she is similarly curly-headed, which is delightfully shocking in this day and age. She, too, is made up and well-heeled, but I am intrigued by her obviously hand-crafted jewelry, her bright, unusual clothing, her pile of books with her. She is studying Korean—to test for her black belt, I find out as I begin talking with her. I listen to her talk about her days as a champion collegiate hurdler, about how boring aerobics is so she needed a challenge, about running marathons and teaching yoga and entertaining local celebrities. I am smug with self-satisfaction at my new-found friend. She is not vanilla—she is Jeni’s Thai Chili, Salty Caramel, Queen City Cayenne. Finally, there is some flavor!

We talk for ten minutes and she never asks me a single thing about myself. I am perplexed and put out at first. And then it finally dawns on me—SHE thinks I’M vanilla.

Designer irony. And, wouldn't ya know, it doesn't match a single thing I'm wearing...

an "ill-conceived" sentiment

For the past few wintery evenings, I have turned on the bed early and cozied up to a delightful book by Rachel Simon entitled Riding the Bus With My Sister. Ms. Simon, whose younger-by-eleven-months sister Beth is mildly mentally retarded, takes the reader on an enjoyable journey through both her childhood and her mid-life “coming of age,” both set around her relationship with her sister, whose sole focus in life is riding the public buses from morning until night around her Pennsylvania city. The year that Rachel commits to riding the buses with Beth is nothing short of life-changing—challenging, among other things, Rachel’s self-protective busyness and her concepts of mental retardation and self-determination. Other than a few conversations that felt overly-philosophical and forced, it was beautifully written and well worth reading.

That being said, I had one jaw-dropping, “I can’t believe she said that!” moment about half way through the book that greatly disturbed me. Rachel recounts reaching a point, once Beth is living on her own and becomes “involved” with someone, when her family must make a determination about birth control. After much deliberation, it is agreed that she would never remember to take the pill, couldn’t be trusted to use a diaphragm, couldn’t manage a condom, and would never agree to an IUD. It is at this point that Rachel remarks, as they are feeling the urgency of the situation, that “…the thought of Beth undergoing an abortion seems unbearable—not that she would anyway, as she is the one family member who objects to abortions.”

This is not the comment, just to be clear, that made me gasp. The fact that Ms. Simon does not object to abortions, while it says something to me about her politics and sense of morality, does not, unfortunately, shock me. It is entirely all too common in our “my rights and my needs above anyone else’s” and “there is no right or wrong, just what’s right for ME” culture. What caused me to wake my husband up came two pages later.

After determining as a family that a tubal ligation is the best option for Beth, Rachel accompanies her to the procedure. It appears she is not prepared for her own emotional response afterward. She writes:

Then, after I pull away, waving with a big, sunny smile, when I am too far down
the road to glimpse them in my rearview, I weep. It is a terrible act to
eliminate the possibility of children, to terminate a long march of futures.

This is the same woman who does not oppose the elimination and termination of a fetus? What am I missing here?

Now, I will grant you that some people may argue that what Rachel is really grieving here is the loss of Beth’s choice. Both abortion and conception are, after all, about “a choice, not a child,” correct? Given the articulate nature of the rest of her writing, however, I am not willing to entertain this argument. Her writing is very blunt and intentional. Had she meant that, I’m confident she would have written it as such.

I believe that what Rachel mourned in her rearview mirror was the loss of life in her sister’s womb. The problem with this is that Beth’s womb did not yet contain life—it merely contained the promise of life. I cannot, therefore, reconcile how she could mourn the loss of the promise or hope of life—the “possibility,” as she put it—yet could be perfectly okay with the actual loss of life within her sister’s womb. The contradiction was apparently not as blatant to Ms. Simon.

It is this type of ill-conceived sentiment that convinces me that many in our nation still have a conscience, but refuse to heed it. We know, in those moments of feeling, that there is something lost—that there is something amiss. We feel it in our gut, it washes down our cheeks, it bunches up in our throats, causing us to be unable to swallow. But so many are unable to untangle the web of feminist politics to see that what is amiss ARE the feminist politics, and therefore go on buying the rhetoric that you can have it all—sex without strings attached, choice without consequence, possibility without the true promise of life.

I, too, grieve for Beth, and for other women who have lost the choice to have children. But I grieve even more for the women who elevate the loss of choice over the loss of a child.

sitting on the couch while the cultural war rages on: why parents do not engage

As the mother of a daughter, there are several choices I’ve had to make that have been less than popular, and, at times, less than comfortable, in regard to how I allow my daughter to interact with our current culture. Such decisions have been made after a great deal of inner debate, and have been guided in part by insight from books I’ve read and discussed with others, such as Home Invasion by Rebecca Hagelin and Your Girl by Vicky Courtney. So when I came across Dean’s post about a hyper-sexualized middle school talent show a few weeks back, I began giving further thought as to why it seems so many other parents DON’T seem to be making similar choices.

Dean quotes from the original New York Times article about the highly provocative nature of the “talent” being displayed, then quotes another blogger who asks, “Why are parents giving up?” Dean responds that the answer is simple. “Many of these parents probably hold secret misgivings about what goes on in these productions, but silence them in an effort not to damage their child's acceptance in the achievement elite.” He concludes his post by saying, "Because those parents who might object to this kind of thing are silent, those who have the greatest tolerance for the sexualization of children continue to push the boundaries of acceptability. Combine this reality with the common belief that sexual mores inevitably become looser as time goes by and the belief that the highest calling one can have on one's life is to be a celebrity (which requires the early sacrifice of modesty) and you end up with talent shows like this one."

While I agree entirely that this is a legitimate factor, I disagree that it is as “simple” as this. I think there are many more reasons why even well-meaning, able-conscienced parents throw up their hands and allow their children to be swallowed whole by the culture. I will take a moment here to offer up just a few.

Rebecca Hagelin states, in the introduction to the afore mentioned book, “…too often, even good moms and dads, when confronted with the struggle—and believe me, it’s a struggle—simply give up. They shrug their shoulders and decide, 'I just don’t have the energy to argue. Everybody’s doing it, so what’s the harm in my child doing it too?' This syndrome has become the mantra of too many parents.” It takes energy to engage in the cultural war against our children and families. Many parents simply lack the energy or the motivation to stand up for what they know internally to be right and appropriate, because they think they are but one facing millions (or even just one other) and they are not up for the argument. They don’t want to be challenged or questioned, they don’t want to be given a hard time, they just want to sit on their couch and be comfortable. If every parent who had a conscience would take the time and energy to stand up for what they believe to be right and appropriate for their children, be it at the school talent show or with the entertainment industry or with their own child, we would see standards change. They would have to.

Furthermore, many parents not only lack energy and motivation, but conviction as well. It bothers them that their twelve year old is gyrating her pelvis on stage (or even just in the living room) with her abdomen exposed and the rest of her body barely covered, but they aren’t really sure why and they’re not bothered enough to really DO something about it. In a culture that lacks a moral compass, lines are not easily drawn. If a parent has not taken the time to draw these lines both for themselves and for their child, they are not equipped to respond to the uneasiness that arises within them in such situations. And they will likely not become passionate about it until the threat of pregnancy or STD is eminent, because those are the only lines they ARE clear about.

But the lines are not drawn come middle school, when the sign-ups begin for the talent show—they begin as early as life begins with the choices surrounding what their children will and will not be exposed to and how they will deal with such exposure. Rebecca Hagelin states, “…media companies who want your child to like their programming at, say, fourteen, start trying to captivate them at age four. The idea is to get the kids and the parents gradually numb to certain ideas that would normally offend their sensibilities—and they start, oh, so subtly and cleverly to do so.” Many parents have become numb to the culture because they are over-saturated by it. About ten years ago my husband and I partook in a little experiment and for all intents and purposes stopped watching TV all together. As the time has gone by, we find ourselves more and more appalled by what is on television, because we have not been regularly and systematically desensitized by the entertainment industry for the last decade. This makes us all the more vigilant about what we allow our children to be exposed to, because we have seen first hand how we can become numb to our consciences.

As previously mentioned, in the interest of time and space, these are but a few of the reasons I believe many parents simply “give up” in the battle against our culture. I believe many (myself included, at times) lack the energy, the motivation, the conviction, and the moral sensitivity necessary to enter into a war that will likely not be won in our lifetime. Combine these factors with a driving desire to be comfortable and not rock the boat, and the pervasive message that parents are no longer the experts when it comes to their own children, and you get entire armies of parents who sit, dazed and useless, on their couches while their children become casualties.

Although the war is daunting, I strongly believe battles can be won for our children in the day to day if we only take the time and the energy to say no to that which makes us uncomfortable. Our conscience is our God-given, internal alarm that tells us that something is not right. As parents we must learn to trust it and follow it, because if we do not exercise our conscience, it will weaken over time, and our children will pay the price.

...and we wonder what's wrong with maurice clarett?

An Ohio judge recently decided two teenagers can complete their high school football seasons before they serve 60-day jail sentences for a car crash caused by a decoy deer placed in a country road. Two teens were injured--one of which is brain-damaged, the other of which is facing his 11th surgery for multiple broken bones. (See the story here.) Is anyone besides me completely APPALLED?!?!?! Anyone?

Our society creates the Maurice Claretts of this world with the mistaken notion that football is a sacred institution and those who play it are its gods. These young men, and their community, gain nothing by being told that starring on the HS football team and leading them to a victorious season is more important than facing the consequences of the irresponsible and dangerous behavior that have cost two families more than can ever be repaid. As a mother, as a counselor, as a Christian, as a member of a community, as a human being--I am completely disgusted and outraged.

Just like the former OSU "star," these young men are hearing loud and clear that there is something much more important in our society than character and personal responsibility. They are hearing that if they can run, throw, and sack--not cure cancer, not protect society, not prevent AIDS--that they can be above the law of reaping and sowing and not face the immediate consequences of their choices. It is a message that is far too prevalent and destructive for my liking.

Had these young men not been football players--had they been in the marching band, on the chess team, in the fall musical--this ruling would not have been rendered. When will we stop worshiping athletes and start valuing the development of young men's' character instead?

augusta, gone

I became busier and busier. Work. Meetings. Off in my car. The only times I went to anything was when I had to. Teacher conferences were no longer the contented exchanges of pleasantries and congratulations they had been when the children were younger. Now I dreaded every phone call from the school. Jack had done something. Been sent out of class. Augusta was in trouble again. She smelled like smoke. She skipped school. She swore in class. She looked stoned. She was missing again. She fell asleep. She said she was sick.

In the car, driving somewhere—to the store, maybe—she starts in on me. “I just want to be free,” she tells me. “I need to be free. You can’t control me. I want to be my own person. That’s my right. You can’t control me. Someday I’m just going to go. I’ll just leave. You’ll see.”

From Augusta, Gone, by Martha Tod Dudman

I’ve taken, lately, to reading a lot of memoir, as I have an afore-mentioned fascination with the stories of people’s lives. (That and I’ve sworn off anything resembling a self-help book in any way, shape, or form. They give me hives. And they’re poorly written.) On the whole, it has been an incredibly enjoyable and gratifying decision. Until, that is, I found Augusta, Gone while perusing the tables at Barnes and Noble, and, against my better judgment, entered into the lives of Martha and her children. I’ve regretted it ever since.

I read the book a month ago, at least, and it is still on my mind. While it is well written (albeit a little too stream of consciousness for my taste at times), it is not the writing itself that made the deepest impression. It was the anxiety-provoking, superimposed images of my daughter and my self, woven throughout my reading of the book, that linger like the smell of gasoline on my hands and offend my nose when I least expect it—reaching up to brush my hair from my face, taking a drink from my glass, putting my hand to my chin as I struggle for clarity of thought in session. My squeaky-clean, sanitized life cannot wash away the smell of fear that spilled over from the pages of their lives onto my innocent hands. And its scent is giving me a headache.

I will be unflatteringly honest. Everything within me wants to judge this woman. Divorced. Single parent. Working full-time. Working over-time. Over-indulgent and permissive. Unwilling to set limits. Unchurched. Sleeping with her boyfriend. Trying to be her daughter’s friend. Her own history of rebellion. Of drugs. Of sex. Of running away. I want to judge her. Some of you may think I would be justified in doing so. She’s reaping what she’s sown, you may think. What did she think would happen? It’s her own fault. I want to think this. I desperately want to think this.

Because if I can think this—if I can ramble down this list of offenses that create an equation for parental failure—then I can avoid it. If X + Y + Z = drugs, alcohol, running away, hatred of authority, rebellion, and heartbreak, then I know to avoid X, Y, and Z. Don’t get divorced. Check. Don’t abhor church. Check. Don’t work full time. Check. Don’t have a history of rebellion. Check. Parenting is reduced to a “to-don’t” list, and I am safe. My daughter is safe. My heart is safe.

I was good at algebra—I can memorize any equation and plug in all the right variables and know exactly what my answer will be. Faith. Strong parenting skills. Solid marriage. Good communication. Involvement. Time. Plug them all in and the answer is a healthy adolescent. But the reality is this—there is no such perfect equation. And as much as I want to believe she doesn’t, as much as I want to believe that she simply had the variables all wrong, Martha Tod Dudman knows this all too well.

I know it, too, and it scares me.

fairy tale, redeemed

“She was our age when she died, you know,” my friend says from the passenger seat. “She was only thirty-six.” Resisting the urge to comment that I’m thirty-five-and-a-half, I stop to consider this for a moment, finally coming to the conclusion that this simply cannot be true. She was so sophisticated, so graceful, so elegant—she had to have been older. But the math adds up. Born in 1961, died in 1997. Thirty-six. I am nearly the same age as was the Princess of Wales. Somewhere in the back of my mind an apprehensive little thought whispers—I’m not old enough to be a princess. But, then again, at the time, neither was she.

We are traveling to Dayton to view the Princess Diana exhibit, though I cannot exactly tell you why except to tell you that I cannot NOT see it. I am drawn to it—indeed, I plan to return with my daughter and another friend, and I’ve not even seen it yet. I am captivated by her story, her beauty, her legend—I entered it as a child and now stand toe to toe with her on some eternal timeline, just as equally in awe as before.

I, who never got up before noon unless under great duress, numbered among the millions who rose in the middle of the night to partake in the spectacle of the Royal Wedding, just four days after my eleventh birthday. I numbered as well among the millions who did the very same in 1997, watching her body travel the very same spectator-lined streets, again drawn by steed, though this time followed by her somber boys, her fallen prince, and her inflammatory younger brother. I cried on both occasions.

As we view the exhibit—the childhood artifacts, the family jewels, the charity work—I attempt in my mind to articulate the allure of Princess Diana, but fail dismally. Indeed, I have never been entirely certain what has drawn me, and millions both like and unlike me, to this woman over the past twenty-five years. By the time we make it through the gallery of dresses, however, I’ve figured it out.

As a thirty-five year old woman (note how I drop the half), I now realize how very young Lady Diana was when she accepted a proposal for marriage and was plunged into the world spotlight. At eleven, nineteen did not seem young at all (though a thirty-two year old prince certainly did cause my preadolescent eyebrow to rise), but in retrospect, I see that she was a child, thrown to the wolves, and we, the world, watched with intense scrutiny and insatiable appetites as she struggled to navigate growing up in front of an audience of millions.

But navigate it she did, and you see it nowhere more clearly than in the dress gallery. Somewhere between twenty-six and thirty-six, Diana became a woman. She shed the flounce and fluff, she shed the idiot prince, she shed the eating disorder and intense insecurity, and she finally came into herself. You can see it in the photographs; you can see it in the dresses. Just like my friend and I, commenting that we have finally, for the first time in our lives, become comfortable with our selves and our bodies and have stopped hiding them but instead have started dressing with a confidence that shows the confidence within, you see the change in Diana through the change in her wardrobe. It is as stunning as the dresses themselves.

Diana was the epitome of the fairy tale, the fairy tale gone wrong, and the fairy tale redeemed. For all her failings, and there admittedly were many, she amazed the world with her tenacious resilience and humble fortitude, and remained Royalty in more than merely name.

Suddenly, thirty-six doesn’t seem all that bad. I know I will be in good company. But I won’t look nearly as good in an evening gown…

Sigh.

the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat...

Counselors should not watch sporting events. At least, this one should not. I’ve known this since childhood, before I was even aware that I was a counselor (because, in truth, I’ve always been a counselor), yet it does not, unfortunately, prevent me from occasionally plopping my fanny in front of the tube and subjecting myself to emotional torture for hours at a time.

ABC’s Wide World of Sports was a fixture at our house growing up, back in the pre-Victorian era of cable-less television. Every Saturday and Sunday, the TV would be tuned, by hand (gasp), to channel 24 and my male relatives, who will remain nameless but include my father and brother, would be worthless until it was over. As we owned only one TV, and as it was against some sacred childhood code to have a television on and not sit in front of it, I watched an unfortunate amount of sports in my tender youth. It was here that the drama of athletic events unfolded for me, engulfing me perhaps for the first time in a surge of emotions not my own. You see, I did not merely watch sports. I felt them.

Every fall, every bobble, every foul, every error. Every heart-stopping win, every heart-breaking loss. My overdeveloped sense of empathy would wrap itself up in knots, tangling up within the muddled mess every personal disappointment stored in my memory bank. Every disqualification, every overtime, every hope deferred, every dream crushed. I felt it all. Indeed, I feel it still.

As I do not watch many sporting events any longer, unless, of course I’m at my father’s or my brother’s homes, I have managed to spare myself the by-proxied agony of defeat for much of my adult life—the last ten minutes of a Superbowl here, the last quarter of an OSU-Michigan game there. I can handle anything in small, digestible portions. I am fairly safe, therefore, until an even-numbered year rolls around and the fanfare begins on a Friday evening and our television set doesn’t cool down until over two weeks later.

Just as the Olympics are the height of athletic competition, so are they the height of emotional turmoil for the empathetic viewer. The stories, the hopes, the dreams. There are no greater heights and no greater depths than observed at the Olympic games. Fallen skiers. Fallen skaters. Fallen heroes. What makes for a good counselor makes for a miserable sports observer. I am an emotional wreck for two weeks.

“That’s just the nature of sport,” my father tells me. Michelle Kwan claims she understands this, but her tear-filled eyes tell us otherwise. My eyes fill with hers—me, who does not even like Michelle Kwan and finds her obsession with Olympic gold bordering on pitiful—I am saddened for her in her disappointment. She is but one of many who move me to tears.

My saving grace (read: copout) in our internet age has been to sit with my wireless laptop in my lap as I sit in front of the Olympic coverage. (We are, for the record, still pre-Victorian in our own household, thereby the Olympics don’t start at our house until 8:00PM.) Even this does not spare me. Even the knowledge of who wins and who loses, who succeeds and who fails, who celebrates and who mourns—even with this knowledge, I am still a nervous wreck. Skaters fall and still medal—I cry. Nerds and beauty queens stand together on a podium—I cry. One skater goes home, another gets a chance of a lifetime—I cry for them both.

In the word of Bill Clinton, Olympic hopefuls, “I feel your pain.”

Perhaps I should be a politician. The counseling experience does not serve me well come Olympic time. Watching sports is definitely hazardous to a Mental Health Professional’s mental health.

things that convict the snot out of me

Our World Vision magazine came today. All I can say is ouch.

...more than 29,000 children under the age of 5 die every single day, most of hunger and preventable diseases. They die for lack of medicine or doctors. They die suffering and neglected. They die from simple things like diarrhea, respiratory infections, and measles, and they die of diseases virtually unheard of in America: malaria, whooping cough, or Chagas...

What these children really die from is apathy and neglect. The developed world has the knowledge, medicines, and treatments, and enough money to save most of these children. What is lacking is the moral outrage to do something about it. [From The
President]

We sponsor a child from Haiti. Roselor was born the same day as my own daughter, who, to brag for just a moment on her tender little heart, prays for her unprompted EVERY DAY, sometimes many times. It convicts the snot out of me. Where is my head? Where is my heart? Why is it not broken for Roselor and the billions like her?

In case that does of conviction isn't enough for ya, here's another: Global Rich List. Guaranteed to make even ME stop whining about the size of my house and car.

independence day and the sex-slave trade of six-year-old girls

For reasons I will never understand, I was born into this country. I did not have to struggle and scrape and pray and hope to come to America. I did not have to flee with grave fear for my life to get here. I did not have to leave it all—home, children, parents, siblings, belongings—to arrive at where I am today. My freedom cost me nothing. I gave nothing to get it. It is merely mine by birth. I was born into freedom. My daughter was born into freedom. Politics aside, I cannot deny the incredible and awestruck gratitude I have for those two facts.

Such gratitude convicts me, in our world of consumerism and super-sizing. I am shoulder-shruggingly ashamed of my constant struggle with discontent—my desire for a bigger house, brighter car, better stuff. I pray daily that I would receive the Lord’s eyes for the world around me and that I would stop comparing myself to the wrong people. I pray that I would have a global mindset that turns my world around. But I also secretly and quietly pray, I’ll admit, that it wouldn’t require too very much of me.

My daughter attends a fairly expensive Christian school—a decision we agreed upon long before her father and I were even married. We are thrilled with her school, but it is not without a few potential pitfalls. We experienced one of them right out of the gate in kindergarten. It involved the discrepancy in lifestyles among her friends and playmates.

My daughter is fairly gregarious and friendly, so she has been invited from time to time over to the homes of her classmates to play. This, in and of itself, was not a problem. The problem arose when she came home from play-dates exclaiming that some her friends lived in “castles.” And she was pretty darn close. At her young age, this doesn’t bother her. I pray that it won’t, ever. But I’m embarrassed to admit that it bothers ME. I have a HUGE struggle internally over this. Why doesn’t my daughter deserve that? Why do they get that and we don’t? Why does God seem to bless them and not us?

And so my daughter is asleep upstairs in her own bed in her own room in our own house, and I am complaining that things aren’t fair. Today she had three full meals and a few snacks to boot and even a chocolate peanut butter milkshake with the cool squirty-can whipped cream on top before bed. Our pantry is full, as is our refrigerator and freezer. We have so much stuff in our 1400 square foot home that we must regularly give stuff away to Goodwill to have room for the new. And with two sets of grandparents nearby, there is always a lot of new. She sleeps across the room from a bookcase filled with more books than we can possibly read in a month’s worth of bedtimes, next to her CD player with more CDs than she can play in a month’s worth of “chill out times.” In the fall, she will walk out my front door completely free, for the most part, from the threat of harm, get into my car, and she will go to school where she will learn freely (although not for free!) for the next twelve years all that she needs to know to put her on solid footing in our global market. She will learn about God freely, will worship freely, and will play freely. She will have a childhood, and will laugh and run and play. And yet I shake my fist at God and ask, “Why don’t we have what they have?”

And why DON’T I have what other people have? Why did I have the good fortune of living in America? Why was I given freedom of choice limited only by my financial resources, which, by global standards, is an incredible amount of wealth? Why do I have a roof over my head and the choice of how warm or cool I heat my home? Why am I not skin and bones, sending my children out to scavenge through dumpsters and trash heaps for our next meal? Why am I so fortunate that I do not have AIDS, or my daughter? Why don’t I live in a mud hut, dying and alone, worried about who will take care of my children? Why don’t I have to fear for my life as I watch thousands of friends, family and fellow countrymen be slaughtered in gruesome genocide? Why don’t I have to flee my home and homeland for my safety? Why am I not persecuted for my beliefs? For the color of my skin? For my gender?

I’m worried because I can’t afford to throw my six-year-old daughter a party at the Rec Center for her birthday and invite 50 of her closest friends, while there are six-year-old girls, all over this world, even within this country, being sold to grown men who know better to be tortured and raped repeatedly in order to pad some slime-ball’s pockets and enable him to get some his next fix. SOLD. I look at the innocence in my daughter’s eyes—the naïve joy on her face—and I shudder. Why are we so fortunate? Why is my daughter not one of them?

She was born free.

I will teach her to never, ever, take that for granted.

Hopefully, I will learn that lesson myself, along the way.

© 2005