Not in My Village ~ Jen

I really, really believe in the idea that it takes a village to raise a child. Super believe, as Dana would say. I can’t do any of it without help–not raise my kids, tend my marriage or grow my faith. I need help! All the time!

It occurred to me this weekend, as I was reading the hopefully fake story of the Mean Lady in Fargo who was going to hand out shaming letters instead of candy to roly-poly princesses and Pokemons on Halloween, that maybe we need to be more specific in what we mean by village. After all, that lady said in her letter that she was just doing her job as a member of the village.

So here it is: it takes a village, yes. But not Salem village.

In Salem, people parading as good, decent folk used the accusation of witchcraft to punish their neighbors, and make themselves look better. Classic case of deflection: If everyone’s looking at the poor drunk woman in town, no one will notice that I am greedy and mean, even though I sit in the first pew every Sunday and paid for half the church to be built. Nineteen innocent men and women were hanged.

It’s true the devil was afoot in Salem; also that they hung the wrong folks. I wonder what the Mean Lady in Fargo is trying to deflect? Anyone in my village should make me feel better and supported as a mom, not worse and like a failure.

I want Walnut Grove, where Reverend Alden was gentle with his flock and the truth always won. They had their issues there in the Grove, but the issues were always settled with everyone’s dignity intact. Even Nellie’s.

Or how about Avonlea? Anne of Green Gables seemed happy there. Or Concord, MA, where Little Women learned their life lessons. Yes, these are fictional and idyllic. But admirably fictional and idyllic.

In my village, I need god-fearing folk who will live and speak what they believe so that my kids are steeped in the love of God. I need to know that on the day I can’t read that freakin’ Dora book one more time, someone else will do it for me. And if a friendly villager knocks on my door before the 4 pm clean-up, they will judge me by the smile on my face and not the toys on the floor. Or at least believe my story about the 4 pm clean-up.

The neighbors who brought our puppy back when we left her outside? The mom who gently let me know there was more to the story than ours sons were telling us? The friend who reads the Dora book one more time? The couple who offer to watch our kids so we can have a date? Those are my Village People. We have God and we have love and we have each other.

And Mean Lady in Fargo needs to remember that. I have a whole entire village. If my kids ever get a fat letter in their trick or treat bag, we’re going to come for you and love you right out of town.

We know the devil when we see him and we’re not having that Here.

Let It Ride ~ Jen

I was raised to believe that everything is a game. You’re either winning, or you’re losing. There was nothing wrong with the philosophy in itself—my parents wanted us to do our best.

The problem is that I am a natural born meateater. I have a hard time turning it off. So I suck at losing. Or being wrong, which in my head for so long was the same thing.

Because I don’t like being wrong, or losing, I made sure that I knew what I was talking about. Shea will tell you that I am not often wrong. And that he owes me $110 million for all the times he’s said “I bet you a million dollars I’m right” and lost. Even Gabriel is in to me for about $30 million.

Lately I have really been thinking about this need to win. I read some books by a man who says—among other brilliant things—that our cultural obsession with winning in this country traps us in a very basic existence. Specifically, that we can never be the Christians Christ calls us to be if we are constantly ordering ourselves as above or below everyone in our lives.

We only need to orient ourselves in terms of one thing, really. Our relationship with God.

In percolating on this, I realized I need a whole new perspective. I had no idea how many times in a day I order myself in the hierarchy. I do it so naturally, it’s almost unconscious. Just yesterday, I had this conversation in my head: “I’m wearing yoga pants to pick up the kids. Again. I wore yoga pants to pick up the kids Tuesday. If I wear them today, what will the other moms think? But so-and-so wears yoga pants every day, and the same ones, I’m pretty sure. I’m not as bad as that.”

And do you know as I was typing that, I thought in my head “Well, at least I just thought it. So-and-So would have said it out loud to everyone and asked if that made her a bad mom. I’m not like that.”

Well.

Natural born meateater. It’s going to take a minute to replace the motherboard.

My goal this month is to let it ride. To shake it off. To be quiet and watch. To not need to be the one who knows or does or handles it. To not keep score. To not always try to hold the high ground, where I just find myself alone and under siege anyway. To let Shea win some of his money back.

I am going to try out the idea that I don’t have to have a say. I don’t have to have a point of view. I don’t have to have an explanation or an answer. I don’t have to take every person’s idea in and sort it immediately into a pile of “brilliant”, “stupid”, “ridiculous”, “intriguing” or “foolish”. I can just let it be, since it usually has nothing to do with me, and trust that God is doing His work.

Folks who know me really well know that I will need a lot of support to make this happen. A lot of prayerful support. Maybe even a miracle. I’d be grateful if you could remember me in your thoughts.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

God Blessed the Seventh Day ~ Jen

The Catholic Church is celebrating the Year of Faith. So I signed up for a daily dose of catechism. This one popped up a few weeks ago.

If Sunday is disregarded or abolished, only workdays are left in the week. Man, who was created for joy, degenerates into a workhorse and a mindless consumer. We must learn on earth how to celebrate properly, or else we will not know what to do in heaven. Heaven is an endless Sunday.

It’s referring to the Third (or Fourth, if you are a Protestant) Commandment. The biblical text is as follows:

Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.
Six days you shall labor, and do all your work;
but the seventh day is a sabbath to the LORD your God;
in it you shall not do any work, you, or your son,
or your daughter, your manservant,
or your maidservant or your cattle,
or the sojourner who is within your gates;
for in six days the LORD made heaven and earth,
the sea, and all that is in them,
and rested the seventh day;
therefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day and hallowed it.

The verse from Exodus references Genesis and the creation story:

And on the seventh day God finished the work that he had done, and he rested on the seventh day from all the work that he had done. ³So God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it, because on it God rested from all the work that he had done in creation.

Oh man, I have so many thoughts on how this is (not) working in my life. The last two weeks since this posted I have been chewing on it, with a side of my mom’s recent comment that we’re a pretty busy family, and my months long obsession with finding the exact right trailer for my family, which ate up a fair amount of weekends.

On Sundays, we go to church. We’re home by 10:30. And then it’s play time. Or shop time. Or clean the house because folks are coming for dinner time. It is rarely ever rest time.

And am I joy-full on Sundays? As I’m playing or shopping or cleaning and cooking, am I mindful of God and His day?

Sometimes, like when we head straight down to the beach after Mass, and have a lovely day playing in God’s ocean. On those days there is always a time when I utter a prayer of thanksgiving for the weather and the sun and the salty sea water.

Sometimes, like last Sunday, when I sit next to my dad and watch my kids play with their grandma in the pool. On those days I am filled with the joy of loving family and memory-making.

And sometimes, when I have managed to get every single chore done by Saturday so that Shea can lay on the couch and watch his Bills in peace and quiet while I write or read or watch a movie with the kids, I am joyfully grateful for the rest.

But those Sabbaths happen far too infrequently. Too many Sundays are spent at the mall, where I can score $100 worth of clothes for $60. I feel victory and satisfaction, but not joy. And I am certainly not mindful of God while I am bargain hunting.

Then I realized this: every car we have bought as a couple has been purchased on a Sunday, which means we have haggled and hassled and played good cop-bad cop on the Sabbath. I’m trying to screw you before you can screw me mode is neither joyful nor restful, and it’s impossible at those times to be mindful of anyone but your own self.

So the truth is, too many of our Sabbaths have been rushed and crammed and cranky and mindless.

My spirit is itchy, which means we are out of Alignment and need a change.

I want to be better at honoring this Commandment. What can we do in our family to both honor the Commandment and instill in our kids the wonderful knowledge that God, in His wisdom and love, has commanded us to rest and be joyful.

I want Heaven to be an endless day on the beach at Coronado. Not endless hours of haggling with a used car salesman.

So if you’ve got thoughts, I’ve got ears. How do you keep and bless this day in your homes?

Nightclub Lighting ~ Jen

There’s no better lighting in the world than in a nightclub: shadowy, mysterious, forgiving. It is no mistake that nightclub lighting is a thing, because everyone looks good in nightclub lighting.

But then there’s this: you hit the darkened ladies room at the club, where you see that your hair and make-up look great after hours of dancing. Woohoo, I look like a rock star!

An hour later you get a good look at yourself in the bathroom mirror at home. In bright light, your smoky eyes look raccoonish, you’re wearing your friend’s orangey shade of lipstick by mistake and half your hair fell out of your ‘doo. Dang, why didn’t anyone tell me I looked like a mess?

Life can be like this too.

I lived my entire 20s in nightclub lighting, both real and figurative, so I know. I wanted to be shadowy and mysterious. No one really knew me. Including me. Lots of unanswered questions.

Eventually I realized two things: no one wants to marry a mystery and God wanted me to be my best real self. And yes, it was in that order. But whatever—I got there, is the point. I knew Nightclub lighting was not doing it for me if I wanted the things I wanted. I needed real, honest to goodness light. No shadows, no mystery.

I was 28 when I stepped out into the light. It wasn’t pretty. Tired eyes, wrinkles and extra pounds, both physical and spiritual. For a while, the light I stood in was harsh and unrelenting. Plenty of times, I wanted to look down or cover my eyes. But I knew that if I was going to be real, I had to face it. All of it. Not “my truth”. The Truth.

If I had tried to do this without God, I don’t know what would have happened. I guess I could have been a boat bobbing on the sea of self-help, searching for a philosophical port of call. I get why people do this. It’s the Wizard of Oz syndrome: If I make a lot of noise over here—on my social media, to my colleagues, in my relationships—then perhaps no will pay any attention to the real me behind the curtain. Including me.

But I was raised with God, so I went home to God, like the prodigal daughter that I was. I knew that God wanted me to be happy. I knew God wanted me to be married and a mom. It hadn’t happened because I wasn’t ready yet, and God is wise.

I stood in that bright light and looked at what parts needed work. I was rough, angry, loud. I was a big fish at work and it was making me cocky and disrespectful. I drank too much. I ate too much. I was complacent.

So I went back to Church. I started keeping a journal. I stopped drinking as much and started exercising more.

I changed jobs, which was humbling and knocked me out of my comfort zone. I needed that. It was a challenge.

I started a master’s program.

I tried to be more well-rounded. I stopped living at work, said no to unnecessary projects and didn’t feel guilty about it. I traveled more. I got a 403b and life insurance.

I acted like a grown up child of God. And slowly, the harsh light turned warm.

It didn’t happen overnight. I did my part. I worked hard. I didn’t become a perfect person—I still have sharp edges and motherhood has made me loud once again. But I know it now. I don’t run for the shadows to hide who and what I am. No matter how hard it is, I know what to do.

Stay with God. Stay with the Truth. Stand in the light.

Dance for God ~ Jen

I never wanted Kate to dance.

I want her to smash volleyballs down the line and laugh.

I’m not kidding. Because that girl who uses her height and strength to pound a ball into the floor—that girl will not get pushed around in this world. That girl will never be a crumpled heap in a corner because of what the world did to her.

But Kate doesn’t like balls. Or smashing anything. Kate wants to dance.

So last summer, I found a dance studio in town and signed her up. It was disorganized and a bit silly, but that was ok with me because I wasn’t too serious anyhow.

I sat in the waiting room, watching my daughter on a tiny tv, listening to the other moms. They were much as I expected: catty, gossipy, whispery. Overly concerned with how big or small their daughters were in comparison with the others. The hip-hop music coming out of the big practice room was questionable. We won’t be doing hip-hop, ever I thought. One day we got an email reminding us that if our small children were a nuisance in the waiting room, we were expected to leave. I heard from a friend that some moms actually ran a dad and his toddler out the door one night.

I felt uncomfortable, but at the Christmas recital, Kate nailed it and had a wonderful time. “I LOVE dance!” she told me. We stayed.

Then in late January, the recital costumes were posted. I needed to pay $90 for something that I did not feel was appropriate for my 5 year old. I looked at what the older girls were expected to wear and saw my future—it had less and less material with every passing year. If she wanted to be serious about dance, this was not a place I was willing to make that happen.

I went home and Googled “Christian dance studio” out of desperation. I didn’t even know if such a thing existed. But it does, and right down the road from our town.

We made the switch. At the first class, I sat in front of a giant window with my daughter just on the other side. Her teacher had the girls sit in a circle and hold hands.

Then they started class with a prayer.

God sent me more Grace than I knew I needed. I wanted her in a place where modesty and grace were important. I got a place where moms and teenagers study the Bible at the studio; I’ve seen beautiful dancing to Christian music and watched kind young ladies and men mentor the little ones around them. My toddler is welcome here, with her sticky fingers and her wobbling walk. People just move around her, patting her head as they go by. The peaceful moms have smiles for every child, not just their own. I don’t sense competition, only the commitment to hold each other up. Conversations center around home school and church groups and praise choirs.

They are serious about their dance at this place, too. All the instructors are professionals, and they use the American Ballet Theater National Training Curriculum. I don’t know what that means, but there are dancers on pointe. The music is clean and Christian, even the hip-hop, and the dancers work very, very hard in their classes.

This last weekend was the recital. I knew it was going to be great. I told everyone they were going to see some beautiful dancing to great Christian music. A visual feast.

I wasn’t wrong. But I was far away from right. That’s not what happened in that theater. It wasn’t dancing.

It was worship.

The little kids were adorable in their costumes, stumbling through their dances while trying to wave at their parents.

But the older dancers, they knew what they were there for. They didn’t just dance to the songs, they felt the songs. They praised God with their arms and their legs and their spirits. They weren’t dancing for us. They were dancing for Him. And they lifted us up with them in praise and joy.

This is light years away from “Dance Moms” and mean girls.

This is about growing the gifts that God gave Kate in a way that glorifies God. This is learning that being on stage is not for her or about her, but for others, a service, a witness. This is about working for God and not for applause.

And because they were dancing for God and not themselves, they were calm, confident, spiritual.

Now I want Kate to dance with all my soul. Or at least stay with this studio long enough to learn that whatever gift she has came from God and should be offered back to Him in service and witness.

Because it’s not winning that will hold the evils of the world at bay. It’s not physical aggression that will stop her from being a crumpled heap in the corner.

That’s not what kept me safe, either.

It’s God. She has to keep her eyes on God.

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