A few days ago, we completed our 7th annual Christmas caroling event. We had a quick runthrough with my mum on the piano at the house, with instructions to "sing the first and last verse of every carol," then out into the neighborhood we tromped. We sang in daylight hours this year to avoid the hazards of "the witching hour" (having young children out past their bedtime). We looked a bit peculiar carring lit candles in broad daylight, but it added to the ambiance. Note to self, skipping verses might lead to strangely construed messages; singing "we wont go until we get some" without the figgy-pudding context is a little embarassing. Anyhow, we returned home for some lentil soup and cider, and to string popcorn by the fire.
As the years have gone by, our caroling has evolved. The first year we did it, there was just three of us; my husband on guitar, my brother on the african drum, and me on the flute. That is the first and only year where traditional carols took on a calypso feel. It was a little weird- sounding, and despite parading up and down our entire street, we had only a few who were willing to open the door to us, and several doors slammed in our faces.
For some reason, the second year we tried again. This time, we caroled with my whole family, my dad leading the way. Little Emmanuel was just a few days old. We bundled him up, and he came too. That year, we were even invited into our neighbors' homes for hot drinks and to use their piano for accompaniment. It was a robust four-part harmony that year. Also that year, we happened to stop by two homes where grief was deep. One home, a mother had died. Another home, a miscarriage had taken place. Both neighbors were visibly moved by our presence, and the words of hope. One neighbor reminds me to this day how much that few minutes of caroling by her door step meant.
Another year, we happened to sing for a family who had recently moved from the self-described "dallas ghetto" (inner-city) to our neighborhood in far north dallas. "We're really in the 'burbs now!" he announced to his wife with wide-eyed surprise.
We've made some progress since those first novice attempts. The year we ended up in DC for Christmas with my parents, we had several homes offer us money (which of course we refused!)
Last year, the pinacle of all years, I compiled carol folders for 30, had the kids make shakers, and added the carol-by-candlelight element. Which was a good addition to make us look less like a mob as we paraded down the street with such a large group. We followed it up with a reading of the Christmas story, and the making of pipe-cleaner ornaments for our barren tree.
When I look back at what "started it all," I distinctly remember as a teenager piling into the back of our car with brass instruments pressed to the roof, driving about the neighborhood to friend's houses, filing hadpazardly out of the car and into someone's house, my dad leading the way with a hearty "Merry Christmas!"
Later, another significant "peg" in my caroling memory was hearing of the Christmas my parents were alone. They single-handedly organized a neighborhood-wide caroling event outside their house, where 300 people were gathered, and carols were projected on the side of their house. The Salvation Army brass band accompanied, and even my mother's Wicken neighbor prepared a Christmas carol on her harp. My mother served up a feast in open-house style to neighbors yet complete strangers. I was truly in awe of my parents and the scope of this grass-roots event. They knew carols weren't just meant for church. People outside the church were hungry for Christ. My parents went to great efforts to leave no one in the neighborhood uninvited to hear songs of this Christ, the newborn King.
At our house, each year has turned out slightly different from the last, but each has a distinct memory of its own. This year, what is most significant to me, is that it is the first year without my dad, the pioneer of our family's tradition. It's the first year where I have a weighty sense of responsibility for passing down a family tradition he began. The beauty of God's timing is that over the years of married life and a blossoming family, I barely noticed that this tradition has truly become ours. It is no longer me trying to recreate something I did as a kid and teen, but rather a tradition that is uniquely our own, with a rich legacy that came before. Perhaps I'll never have a caroling year as grandios as the one my parents arranged, but it is something to aspire to!
Friday, December 24, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
full hands, full heart
Not a day goes by without me being the recipient of the "You've got your hands full" comment. I might be quietly window shopping in complete serenity while my perfect children obediently lap at my ankles . . .or they might be running circles around me. Regardless, the unsolicited comments are a guaranteed addition to any public outing we take. Today at the mall, for example, I received no less than three You've got your hands full, all before I met up with my quad-stroller-pushing-mother-of-4-under-4 friend. By the time we met, she'd already received a few of her own. I am still caught off guard by these comments, whether they be cruel or sympathetic in nature; I just don't consider three children a large family, and I just don't consider that statement a compliment. Therefore, I feel genuinely surprised and a little annoyed.
You've got your hands full.
After thinking it over for some time now, it seems to me that the statement insinuates, "Why do you have such an abnormally large family? A person who lives in control over nature, a responsible, pro-choice person, would, afterall, not let that happen."
"Don't you know Europe's dying because they won't make babies? Don't you know I'm busy saving civilization right now?" (I feel like piously responding, but instead smile sheepishly and keep to myself.) Ask my husband, proponent of the right-wing book America Alone. It contains all the evidence and statistics needed to comprehend the big picture of a culture that's at stake, Christianity in decline. And it all starts in the family, with having children.
Do I have my hands full? Yes. But my heart is full also. For all those commentators out there, I would recommend a gentler statement like "You are truly blessed." This is the way God sees it, afterall, and He recommends a quiverful.
You've got your hands full.
After thinking it over for some time now, it seems to me that the statement insinuates, "Why do you have such an abnormally large family? A person who lives in control over nature, a responsible, pro-choice person, would, afterall, not let that happen."
"Don't you know Europe's dying because they won't make babies? Don't you know I'm busy saving civilization right now?" (I feel like piously responding, but instead smile sheepishly and keep to myself.) Ask my husband, proponent of the right-wing book America Alone. It contains all the evidence and statistics needed to comprehend the big picture of a culture that's at stake, Christianity in decline. And it all starts in the family, with having children.
Do I have my hands full? Yes. But my heart is full also. For all those commentators out there, I would recommend a gentler statement like "You are truly blessed." This is the way God sees it, afterall, and He recommends a quiverful.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
the dreaded christmas letter
I'm having a bit of trouble with the annual Christmas letter this year. Normally, I have a short list of "events" with running commentary. This year, a letter like that might just seem a bit dramatic (short list: baby born, dad died, pregnant again) or trite (since how exactly do you "quantify" life-altering events like these in a few simple sentences?)
I think I'm also starting to feel the pressure (self-inflicted, of course) to have my letter mean something, emote something, or be something more than it is (a family update). I have exhausted my anecdotes and cute little Jesus stories of past years. Even my husband tonight suggested I play off of the Rent song "Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes" (How do you measure a year? In love). Great idea, except that I did that last year. So, here I am, at the last minute as usual, procrastinating by posting a blog about my unwritten christmas letter!
Perhaps at the root of it all is that I have yet to spend some personal time of contemplation and prayer, thanking God for the blessings and trials of the past year, and seeking meaning from Him. It's my consolation that if words fail me, at least recipients will get a handsome Christmas photo of the family and be spared the dirty details (of Eden's potty training and the like!).
I think I'm also starting to feel the pressure (self-inflicted, of course) to have my letter mean something, emote something, or be something more than it is (a family update). I have exhausted my anecdotes and cute little Jesus stories of past years. Even my husband tonight suggested I play off of the Rent song "Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes" (How do you measure a year? In love). Great idea, except that I did that last year. So, here I am, at the last minute as usual, procrastinating by posting a blog about my unwritten christmas letter!
Perhaps at the root of it all is that I have yet to spend some personal time of contemplation and prayer, thanking God for the blessings and trials of the past year, and seeking meaning from Him. It's my consolation that if words fail me, at least recipients will get a handsome Christmas photo of the family and be spared the dirty details (of Eden's potty training and the like!).
the annual christmas photo - from merry to mad
It has become a tradition now to take a family picture once a year in November for the Christmas card release in December. As our family expands (or at least I do), it becomes more and more challenging to get us all in one clump for the click. Never mind looking at the camera, and forget smiling.
The first year we became a family of four, and our budget shrank too small to do a "studio portrait," we had my father-in-love meet us at the greenbelt by our house. The only problem was my dear father-in-love just can't bear to take a picture unless all persons within his sight are frozen to perfection. With zesty little critters hippity-hopping every which way, there just wasn't a practical way to "wait" for the perfect shot! In the end, we got some lovely photos that year, it just took quite a long time!
Last year, my best friend's husband took about 200 photos in about 30 minutes. His strategy: just follow us a round in our "natural habitat." Even with his fabulous camera work and editing capabilities, there were just a few that were up for release to the public. (This, of course, really means that mama looked good . . .just kidding). All we needed; just one or two keepers for the family archives. And how those three or four pictures were complimented by the masses!
So this year, I somehow managed to coerce him into doing it again. This time, though, there were five of us to clump and click. Forget posing, forget looking at the camera, just get us altogether in one shot without too much torture. And miraculously, he did!
My sister has this thing about receiving Christmas cards with just the kids. She prefers to have the whole family. So even though I had a clear favorite which included only the kids (which I will post here), I went ahead and picked a lesser-of-evils family favorite to appease my sister and humble myself (mama don't look so good in this one!) . Though this one goes in the family Christmas card (what is a family Christmas card without a family photo?), my favorite, the one that goes in the memory books, is the one of just the kids. So tender, so sweet. A between-brawls moment in time that was captured just so perfectly. And just to give you a bit more perspective on my Dr. Jackle-Mr. Hyde children, I'll post the moment immediately following . . .
Will he do it again next year, when there is six of us?? I think I'll have to start paying him!
Thanks, 'Albert'!
Monday, November 29, 2010
baby i'm thankful
I arrived at Thanksgiving this year confused by my own feelings:
sorrow, uncertainty, joy, frustration, embarassment, anger, disappointment, hope.
So many things had just taken place, and I didn't know how to feel. Worse still, how could I summarize all this confusing emotion into a ball of fluffy, easy-to-swallow thankfulness with only 30 seconds on the clock?
For me, Thanksgiving with the in-laws usually involves let-down. I have unrealistic expectations to "go deep" with a father-in-law who has a stop-watch on the thanksgiving toasts, counting down the minutes to the football game, and a mother-in-law who has social "sensitivities" that can't be disciphered even by her own son.
A few days before T-day, we had shared the joy of our news with them: in place of the sorrow of my dad's death, we had been given a great joy of new life. Blessing number 4. This news was not greeted with the same exuberance we hoped for. Instead, the tiny baby growing within me was rejected, at best ignored. . . Silence followed, and then a change of subject, and that was it. That was how the news went over.
Returning just a few days later to "celebrate life's blessings" had my stomach in knots. The maternal instinct is strong, and like a mother bird, I was already feeling protective over my defenseless baby. As I entered, I tried to act as socially normal as possible. Luckily, there were 'rando's' present, so we had to keep things upbeat and perky. No "going deep" allowed.
I do admittedly have a knack for stiring things up and rocking the boat, so I can't thank my husband enough from saving me from myself, and giving a most glorious, beautiful speech about our newfound joy amidst sorrow. Particularly in the shaddow of death, what else is there to be thankful for than life itself?
(I, as usual, rambled on and on over my 30-second quota yet didn't say really anything I wanted to say or meant to say, and ended up saying pretty much nothing at all of great worth or importance. But that's okay; God knows!).
As for the rest of the day, it exceeded my expectations. Pictionary, followed by a lively political debate. We ended up staying up til 2:30am engaged in conversation until we talked ourselves hoarse.
In the end, I decided that sometimes "going deep" is overrated. Sometimes, there is nothing like a brainless game or lighthearted conversation to keep all that "deepness" and confusing emotion in check! Thanks be to God!
sorrow, uncertainty, joy, frustration, embarassment, anger, disappointment, hope.
So many things had just taken place, and I didn't know how to feel. Worse still, how could I summarize all this confusing emotion into a ball of fluffy, easy-to-swallow thankfulness with only 30 seconds on the clock?
For me, Thanksgiving with the in-laws usually involves let-down. I have unrealistic expectations to "go deep" with a father-in-law who has a stop-watch on the thanksgiving toasts, counting down the minutes to the football game, and a mother-in-law who has social "sensitivities" that can't be disciphered even by her own son.
A few days before T-day, we had shared the joy of our news with them: in place of the sorrow of my dad's death, we had been given a great joy of new life. Blessing number 4. This news was not greeted with the same exuberance we hoped for. Instead, the tiny baby growing within me was rejected, at best ignored. . . Silence followed, and then a change of subject, and that was it. That was how the news went over.
Returning just a few days later to "celebrate life's blessings" had my stomach in knots. The maternal instinct is strong, and like a mother bird, I was already feeling protective over my defenseless baby. As I entered, I tried to act as socially normal as possible. Luckily, there were 'rando's' present, so we had to keep things upbeat and perky. No "going deep" allowed.
I do admittedly have a knack for stiring things up and rocking the boat, so I can't thank my husband enough from saving me from myself, and giving a most glorious, beautiful speech about our newfound joy amidst sorrow. Particularly in the shaddow of death, what else is there to be thankful for than life itself?
(I, as usual, rambled on and on over my 30-second quota yet didn't say really anything I wanted to say or meant to say, and ended up saying pretty much nothing at all of great worth or importance. But that's okay; God knows!).
As for the rest of the day, it exceeded my expectations. Pictionary, followed by a lively political debate. We ended up staying up til 2:30am engaged in conversation until we talked ourselves hoarse.
In the end, I decided that sometimes "going deep" is overrated. Sometimes, there is nothing like a brainless game or lighthearted conversation to keep all that "deepness" and confusing emotion in check! Thanks be to God!
Friday, October 15, 2010
vacation to the infirmary
It's not every day that a mom gets a vacation. For me, it only happens when I'm sick. That's right, apparently, I get the full all-inclusive-resort treatment when my resources are exhausted (only wish I'd discovered this sooner - I'd have stopped taking vitamin C so vigilantly long ago, and let nature take it's course).
As I rest in bed all day, my four year old comes to "take away my trash" (since I was border-line delusional, I'm not actually sure what he was trashing, bills, hopefully:)), bring me water, kiss my forehead, and speak sweetly in a quiet voice (the same one he can never seem to find when I'm well). My husband takes a day off work, runs me a bubble bath, brings me literature to read, and assumes my roles as best he can (short of breastfeeding our 6 month old). At the end of the day, just as I'm starting to feel a bit better (after changing a total of zero diapers, cruising through a novel and a half, and actually getting to nap to my hearts content during the daylight hours), my husband tells me he's wiped out, and slumps into bed at 8pm saying "Gosh, Lois, do you feel like this every day?" I nod truthfully and smile gently, relieved that he didn't outdo me, and content that he recognizes motherhood for the hard work it is.
As I rest in bed all day, my four year old comes to "take away my trash" (since I was border-line delusional, I'm not actually sure what he was trashing, bills, hopefully:)), bring me water, kiss my forehead, and speak sweetly in a quiet voice (the same one he can never seem to find when I'm well). My husband takes a day off work, runs me a bubble bath, brings me literature to read, and assumes my roles as best he can (short of breastfeeding our 6 month old). At the end of the day, just as I'm starting to feel a bit better (after changing a total of zero diapers, cruising through a novel and a half, and actually getting to nap to my hearts content during the daylight hours), my husband tells me he's wiped out, and slumps into bed at 8pm saying "Gosh, Lois, do you feel like this every day?" I nod truthfully and smile gently, relieved that he didn't outdo me, and content that he recognizes motherhood for the hard work it is.
are you having fun yet?
Did you have any fun?” I ask zealously, on the way home from xyz activity.
I'm in good company. After all, Dr. Seuss's super fun cat also likes to ask this question.
However, when Emmanuel recently took to protesting “I'm not having any fun” during a spanking, I began questioning the question.
“The purpose of life isn't to have fun” I go on to explain (just before taking him to the park, exhorting him to “Have fun!”).
It is hard in our culture of perpetual fun to see the problem that “having fun” affords.
Growing up, I never remember my dad asking me the question that now dominates my parenthood. Instead, upon my return from xyz activity, he asked “Were you good?”
As a teenager, this exhortation to “be good” urked me. My fun-loving self didn't very much want to be bogged down by the command of virtue. But those haunting words followed me during my teen years from this activity to that one, and in essence, kept me good.
Now, as a parent, I think there is no greater question to be asked. No greater exhortation.
So, after a raucous flying of kites in the house, the central question marking my motherhood shall not be “Did you have any fun?” but rather, “Were you good?”
Now, what would you say if your mother asked you?!
I'm in good company. After all, Dr. Seuss's super fun cat also likes to ask this question.
However, when Emmanuel recently took to protesting “I'm not having any fun” during a spanking, I began questioning the question.
“The purpose of life isn't to have fun” I go on to explain (just before taking him to the park, exhorting him to “Have fun!”).
It is hard in our culture of perpetual fun to see the problem that “having fun” affords.
Growing up, I never remember my dad asking me the question that now dominates my parenthood. Instead, upon my return from xyz activity, he asked “Were you good?”
As a teenager, this exhortation to “be good” urked me. My fun-loving self didn't very much want to be bogged down by the command of virtue. But those haunting words followed me during my teen years from this activity to that one, and in essence, kept me good.
Now, as a parent, I think there is no greater question to be asked. No greater exhortation.
So, after a raucous flying of kites in the house, the central question marking my motherhood shall not be “Did you have any fun?” but rather, “Were you good?”
Now, what would you say if your mother asked you?!
feminine loveliness
At a recent conference, I stumbled across a book with this title, and i have since vowed to make it part of my vocabulary as a woman and mother to two girls; Feminine Loveliness. In light of the push for women to “become the men they always wanted,” it may indeed be one of the most important virtues I could possibly teach my daughters.
So, this Sunday, as we were rushing out the door to church, I topped my scrag-a-muffin bun with a satin ribbon. At least three times my husband whispered ”I like your bow,” kissing me on the cheek and twirling the ribbon playfully in his fingers. He really was quite taken.
I used to downplay make-up and dresses. I used to think these things made a little girl superficial and self-absorbed. But as time goes by, and I see how society educates women, (to dress like men and work like men), I am compelled to nurture femininity in all its forms. Why not wear bows and pretty dresses? Why not encourage my daughters to love everything about being woman?
Once, one of my nieces, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, (and said “a mommy,” as all little girls do), was ”redirected” by her aunt to think about “higher things” like being a doctor or a lawyer. It is in these subtle ways that we betray our own kind.
Not long ago in Time magazine, there was an article about women in the military. There were telling statistics showing how, for example, women are more prone to suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder than men. Reading the article, I couldn’t help wondering what women are doing in the military to begin with. Why can’t we as a culture accept that God wired men for combat, while creating us for other purposes. Wearing camo and holding a gun just like men doesn’t make us men.
So I’m starting a campaign. In my home. With my audience of two. To bring back feminine loveliness. And if Eden wants to wrestle with her brother in a dress, or turn her baby dolls arm into a gun and shoot me, fine. But at least let her do it with bows in her hair.
So, this Sunday, as we were rushing out the door to church, I topped my scrag-a-muffin bun with a satin ribbon. At least three times my husband whispered ”I like your bow,” kissing me on the cheek and twirling the ribbon playfully in his fingers. He really was quite taken.
I used to downplay make-up and dresses. I used to think these things made a little girl superficial and self-absorbed. But as time goes by, and I see how society educates women, (to dress like men and work like men), I am compelled to nurture femininity in all its forms. Why not wear bows and pretty dresses? Why not encourage my daughters to love everything about being woman?
Once, one of my nieces, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, (and said “a mommy,” as all little girls do), was ”redirected” by her aunt to think about “higher things” like being a doctor or a lawyer. It is in these subtle ways that we betray our own kind.
Not long ago in Time magazine, there was an article about women in the military. There were telling statistics showing how, for example, women are more prone to suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder than men. Reading the article, I couldn’t help wondering what women are doing in the military to begin with. Why can’t we as a culture accept that God wired men for combat, while creating us for other purposes. Wearing camo and holding a gun just like men doesn’t make us men.
So I’m starting a campaign. In my home. With my audience of two. To bring back feminine loveliness. And if Eden wants to wrestle with her brother in a dress, or turn her baby dolls arm into a gun and shoot me, fine. But at least let her do it with bows in her hair.
home is school
My son turns 5 in December, a crazy realization. When he was two, Ben and I first started talking about school. It seemed far away then. Now, it’s just around the corner. In a way, it seems our ever-evolving conversation actually hasn’t gone far. It hasn’t really left the house, infact.
When the two of us public school teachers became parents, we began the school conversation with what we didn’t want for our children: public school. Then, before having discovered the limitations of a single-income, moved to our ideal: private classical Christian school. Now, it seems we may be about to settle somewhere in the middle: home school.
When our conversation first began, as I said, we began with what we knew we didn’t want: public school. Let me say that Ben and I are both products of the public school system. We both had positive experiences, and have few regrets about our education. However, becoming teachers in this same system messed with our psyche. We see things differently; things are more political, ambiguously humanistic, agenda-driven. There is the book that Ben picked up from one of his students, so gruesome in content, he tried to get it banned from the middle school library to no avail. There is the ever expanding tangle of testing to the lowest common denominator, and the corresponding “teaching to the test” (meanwhile kids and teachers alike are bored stiff). The complete lack of a framework from which to teach morality, substituted with mumbo-jumbo “character education” fluff. And all in the greatest district in the state, and possibly nation (no I am not being hyperbolic).
Having washed our hands of the “filth” of public school, we set our sights on our ideal, the classical Christian school. We were willing to sell our house, live in an apartment, go into debt, eat Ramen for the next decade, you name it, to get our child into this school for the “academically advanced”. We attended an open house where a class of third-graders sang “This is my Father’s World” from memory, and we were teary-eyed with destiny. This school was counter-cultural, and not ashamed to say so. They valued the classics, and they valued the purity of childhood. Pop culture wasn’t just copied or ignored, it was fought hard against with virtue. This was our dream school. There was just one catch; money. Ten thousand dollars a year for the course of 10 years . . .and this doesn’t include college or other children . . .sigh. We worked our meager budget this way and that, trying to squeeze pennies into dollar bills. We maintained that we wanted to give our child the best education, no matter the cost, but cost seemed to be an unavoidable stumbling block.
Then one day, we had an epiphany. What if “good enough” was good enough? What if giving them a slightly flawed education was better than a perfect one? We began to look into other options.
A growing part of our school discussion had to do with “lifestyle”. Ben kept asking me what kind of lifestyle we wanted to live. For example, I have always loathed the idea of the soccer mom. I would never want the carpool lifestyle associated with soccer, or any other after-school activity for that matter, because I don’t want to be rushing from one thing to another, disjointed, fragmented, and never together in one place as a family. “Busy” is not a word I need to feel important. Part of the reason I love my church so much is the lifestyle it promotes. We worship together as a family, and the cycle of services make our faith a part of our family’s daily life. So, in the context of schooling, what kind of lifestyle do I want for our family? I want us to be together. I want our home to be the center of activity, the place where our kids look forward to being. Not “out there” but “in here”. Practically, that means we will be spending a lot of time at home. Now, don’t get me wrong, I pride myself on being able to get out the door faster, more efficiently, and more frequently with my three children than most mothers of one can. But, whether out or in, the home is where the heart is, so to speak.
A few weeks past, I attended my first homeschool conference. It was a big step for me, as I have not until recently considered homeschooling. Obviously, I’m aware that people do it. I just have never considered it for myself. And this is the reason: I have a picture in my head of the flustered, overworked mother of octuplets, who never gets a break or a shower, and really needs both. Some of the “arguments” against homeschooling - like the socialization myth - are not problematic for me (I’m a socially strong individual!). But this image of the frazzled homeschooling mother is very problematic. A scary conclusion I’m coming to is that I’m going to have to get over myself. I’m beginning to believe that the single most important thing I can do is to nourish the life of my children’s souls. “In places where widespread unbelief or invasive secularism makes real religious growth practically impossible, then the church of the home remains the one place where children can receive authentic religious instruction. Thus there cannot be too great an effort on the part of Christian parents to prepare for this ministry of being their own children’s catechists and carry it out with tireless zeal” ( Pope John Paul II). My children are born into this world, but they are not born for this world. It is my fundamental duty (not the government nor private agencies) to prepare them for the “real world” to come.
When the two of us public school teachers became parents, we began the school conversation with what we didn’t want for our children: public school. Then, before having discovered the limitations of a single-income, moved to our ideal: private classical Christian school. Now, it seems we may be about to settle somewhere in the middle: home school.
When our conversation first began, as I said, we began with what we knew we didn’t want: public school. Let me say that Ben and I are both products of the public school system. We both had positive experiences, and have few regrets about our education. However, becoming teachers in this same system messed with our psyche. We see things differently; things are more political, ambiguously humanistic, agenda-driven. There is the book that Ben picked up from one of his students, so gruesome in content, he tried to get it banned from the middle school library to no avail. There is the ever expanding tangle of testing to the lowest common denominator, and the corresponding “teaching to the test” (meanwhile kids and teachers alike are bored stiff). The complete lack of a framework from which to teach morality, substituted with mumbo-jumbo “character education” fluff. And all in the greatest district in the state, and possibly nation (no I am not being hyperbolic).
Having washed our hands of the “filth” of public school, we set our sights on our ideal, the classical Christian school. We were willing to sell our house, live in an apartment, go into debt, eat Ramen for the next decade, you name it, to get our child into this school for the “academically advanced”. We attended an open house where a class of third-graders sang “This is my Father’s World” from memory, and we were teary-eyed with destiny. This school was counter-cultural, and not ashamed to say so. They valued the classics, and they valued the purity of childhood. Pop culture wasn’t just copied or ignored, it was fought hard against with virtue. This was our dream school. There was just one catch; money. Ten thousand dollars a year for the course of 10 years . . .and this doesn’t include college or other children . . .sigh. We worked our meager budget this way and that, trying to squeeze pennies into dollar bills. We maintained that we wanted to give our child the best education, no matter the cost, but cost seemed to be an unavoidable stumbling block.
Then one day, we had an epiphany. What if “good enough” was good enough? What if giving them a slightly flawed education was better than a perfect one? We began to look into other options.
A growing part of our school discussion had to do with “lifestyle”. Ben kept asking me what kind of lifestyle we wanted to live. For example, I have always loathed the idea of the soccer mom. I would never want the carpool lifestyle associated with soccer, or any other after-school activity for that matter, because I don’t want to be rushing from one thing to another, disjointed, fragmented, and never together in one place as a family. “Busy” is not a word I need to feel important. Part of the reason I love my church so much is the lifestyle it promotes. We worship together as a family, and the cycle of services make our faith a part of our family’s daily life. So, in the context of schooling, what kind of lifestyle do I want for our family? I want us to be together. I want our home to be the center of activity, the place where our kids look forward to being. Not “out there” but “in here”. Practically, that means we will be spending a lot of time at home. Now, don’t get me wrong, I pride myself on being able to get out the door faster, more efficiently, and more frequently with my three children than most mothers of one can. But, whether out or in, the home is where the heart is, so to speak.
A few weeks past, I attended my first homeschool conference. It was a big step for me, as I have not until recently considered homeschooling. Obviously, I’m aware that people do it. I just have never considered it for myself. And this is the reason: I have a picture in my head of the flustered, overworked mother of octuplets, who never gets a break or a shower, and really needs both. Some of the “arguments” against homeschooling - like the socialization myth - are not problematic for me (I’m a socially strong individual!). But this image of the frazzled homeschooling mother is very problematic. A scary conclusion I’m coming to is that I’m going to have to get over myself. I’m beginning to believe that the single most important thing I can do is to nourish the life of my children’s souls. “In places where widespread unbelief or invasive secularism makes real religious growth practically impossible, then the church of the home remains the one place where children can receive authentic religious instruction. Thus there cannot be too great an effort on the part of Christian parents to prepare for this ministry of being their own children’s catechists and carry it out with tireless zeal” ( Pope John Paul II). My children are born into this world, but they are not born for this world. It is my fundamental duty (not the government nor private agencies) to prepare them for the “real world” to come.
purpose
I am currently reading a phenomenal book, The Purpose of Boys, and recommend this book to anyone trying to raise a son in this generation.
The theme of purpose has been dug up a new for me, third time a mom, as time for my own ambitions (whatever they may be) are zero to none. A holy man once said, “of all holy works, the upbringing of children is the most holy.” I have tried to let these words soak in, to believe this with all my heart that there is no greater calling that motherhood. Yet every so often, I am brought back to face my fear of being without purpose in the world, wasting away on house cleaning, and menial tasks, and a generally purposeless existence lost in the day-to-day. Perhaps it is just the reverberations of my turning a chapter in the age department. Now 30, I am feeling the pull to, like Jesus, start doing something significant. And while all my God-given biological make-up points to motherhood, I often slip into doubt, and wonder if there is “something more” that I should be doing with myself.
A great gift to me on my birthday was a collection of letters compiled by my husband, and written by those I love, answering the question “my best memory of you”. One of them was written by my father. His most outstanding memory of me was my talent for the flute, and my giving up that talent “for some inexplicable reason”. He wrote ”what a shame to not have continued with this outstanding talent.” I abandoned a serious pursuit of music half my life ago. But my dad’s words have struck deep, speaking to that inner fear of having no purpose, no “one thing” worth pursuing. Every so often, especially in recent years, my dad has asked me why I quit the flute, and I’ve stuttered to answer. At first, the question surprised me, then I realized I didn’t fully know the answer. But now I realize even in my foolish adolescent striving for attention and uniqueness, at 15, I needed to know that my purpose was not defined by what I do, but by who I am. It is no different at 30. Now entering the third decade of my life, I am under no illusions of so-called talent. But I still want more than anything to have purpose.
Purpose is all around me. My husband has just finished graduate school, and his next project is to publish fiction. Meanwhile, my 4-year-old son is a super hero fighting for good, who wants to be “a hospital man” when he grows up. And here I am on the sidelines, cheering them on (while breastfeeding my newborn), yet secretly jelous of their confidence in and certainty of purpose, and all the while questioning my own.
The theme of purpose has been dug up a new for me, third time a mom, as time for my own ambitions (whatever they may be) are zero to none. A holy man once said, “of all holy works, the upbringing of children is the most holy.” I have tried to let these words soak in, to believe this with all my heart that there is no greater calling that motherhood. Yet every so often, I am brought back to face my fear of being without purpose in the world, wasting away on house cleaning, and menial tasks, and a generally purposeless existence lost in the day-to-day. Perhaps it is just the reverberations of my turning a chapter in the age department. Now 30, I am feeling the pull to, like Jesus, start doing something significant. And while all my God-given biological make-up points to motherhood, I often slip into doubt, and wonder if there is “something more” that I should be doing with myself.
A great gift to me on my birthday was a collection of letters compiled by my husband, and written by those I love, answering the question “my best memory of you”. One of them was written by my father. His most outstanding memory of me was my talent for the flute, and my giving up that talent “for some inexplicable reason”. He wrote ”what a shame to not have continued with this outstanding talent.” I abandoned a serious pursuit of music half my life ago. But my dad’s words have struck deep, speaking to that inner fear of having no purpose, no “one thing” worth pursuing. Every so often, especially in recent years, my dad has asked me why I quit the flute, and I’ve stuttered to answer. At first, the question surprised me, then I realized I didn’t fully know the answer. But now I realize even in my foolish adolescent striving for attention and uniqueness, at 15, I needed to know that my purpose was not defined by what I do, but by who I am. It is no different at 30. Now entering the third decade of my life, I am under no illusions of so-called talent. But I still want more than anything to have purpose.
Purpose is all around me. My husband has just finished graduate school, and his next project is to publish fiction. Meanwhile, my 4-year-old son is a super hero fighting for good, who wants to be “a hospital man” when he grows up. And here I am on the sidelines, cheering them on (while breastfeeding my newborn), yet secretly jelous of their confidence in and certainty of purpose, and all the while questioning my own.
post partum
It’s Week 3. My husband the graduate student is out of touch. Real life has hit home. The hormones have plummeted. I find myself having a very post-partum conversation with my absentee husband as we cross paths at 2am (me on my way out of bed to nurse, him on his way in from studying): “This might be a bad time to tell you that I misread my sylabus and next week’s not my last week.” he says, getting straight to the point as he slides into bed. Silence, followed by this tearful threat from the crazy, needy, sleep-deprived wife: “If you don’t take tomorrow off, either I will die or one of your children will die.” Talk about dramatic. At least by the third child I am not anticipating that my husband tune in between pillow-subdued snores to mysubtle sniffling. Stunned silence follows. Then a quick phonecall to the subfinder is made. Later, he tells me he remembers me to have said ” . . .or our marriage is over,” which I am quite sure I never said, but evidently the emotive message was strongly conveyed.
After a good sleep - a few hours of childcare relief and breakfast in bed - I don’t feel quite so despairing. I even take a shower, ridding myself of my really obnoxious nursing-mom BO and sour milk smell, and put on some maternity jeans. Since it is now one day closer to Friday, I am feeling more optimistic about life. I might actually live to the weekend.
After a good sleep - a few hours of childcare relief and breakfast in bed - I don’t feel quite so despairing. I even take a shower, ridding myself of my really obnoxious nursing-mom BO and sour milk smell, and put on some maternity jeans. Since it is now one day closer to Friday, I am feeling more optimistic about life. I might actually live to the weekend.
valley of the shaddow
a birth. a death. and i am in the waiting room. knowing not which will happen first.
the day i was born, my dad had to call his father-in-law to let him know that he had gained a grandchild, and lost his father. i’ve heard that story many times, and only now am beginning to comprehend that kind of double portioned serving of life’s banquet table - birth and death.
my dad has been valiantly fighting stage 4 cancer for 18 months. along the way, many miracles of soul and body have taken place. now, the cancer creeps in closer still, seeping into vital organs, bones, blood. raging, unstoppable to even the sharpest lazer, the most agressive treatment . now my dad lies unable to resist the principles of mortality, his physical reminder that the end is near; even pain killers can’t kill this kind of pain.
St. John of Kronstadt writes, “The life of man on earth is a gradual daily dying. . .Therefore, if our body is continually wasted, and visibly approaches its end, let us despise it as transient, and care with all our strength for the immortal soul. the body is a faithless, fleeting friend.” if he has any strength at all, it cannot come from the security he once found in his flesh. It can only come from vitality of soul. and it does. He is glorifying God in his body, though frail and slain by cancer.
Here I am now, 38 weeks pregnant and feeling it a drudgery. I complain, I whine, I’m short tempered due to my “condition”. It is a daily struggle for me to get out of bed, to dress myself, to move as I am used to. I feel aged from excessive weight gain and tormented from lack of sleep. Yet inside of me is life! how shameful for me to liken my physical suffering to my dads. while his body is dying, he is giving glory to God. while my body is creating life, I am dishonoring God’s goodness.
for both my dad and I, the battle is a spiritual one. without knowing, we can both choose to wait on the Lord for his peace and rest, come what may. “Come to me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” This is what my dad has chosen. Now it is up to me.
Lord grant me the strength of soul when my body is weak.
the day i was born, my dad had to call his father-in-law to let him know that he had gained a grandchild, and lost his father. i’ve heard that story many times, and only now am beginning to comprehend that kind of double portioned serving of life’s banquet table - birth and death.
my dad has been valiantly fighting stage 4 cancer for 18 months. along the way, many miracles of soul and body have taken place. now, the cancer creeps in closer still, seeping into vital organs, bones, blood. raging, unstoppable to even the sharpest lazer, the most agressive treatment . now my dad lies unable to resist the principles of mortality, his physical reminder that the end is near; even pain killers can’t kill this kind of pain.
St. John of Kronstadt writes, “The life of man on earth is a gradual daily dying. . .Therefore, if our body is continually wasted, and visibly approaches its end, let us despise it as transient, and care with all our strength for the immortal soul. the body is a faithless, fleeting friend.” if he has any strength at all, it cannot come from the security he once found in his flesh. It can only come from vitality of soul. and it does. He is glorifying God in his body, though frail and slain by cancer.
Here I am now, 38 weeks pregnant and feeling it a drudgery. I complain, I whine, I’m short tempered due to my “condition”. It is a daily struggle for me to get out of bed, to dress myself, to move as I am used to. I feel aged from excessive weight gain and tormented from lack of sleep. Yet inside of me is life! how shameful for me to liken my physical suffering to my dads. while his body is dying, he is giving glory to God. while my body is creating life, I am dishonoring God’s goodness.
for both my dad and I, the battle is a spiritual one. without knowing, we can both choose to wait on the Lord for his peace and rest, come what may. “Come to me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” This is what my dad has chosen. Now it is up to me.
Lord grant me the strength of soul when my body is weak.
the devil's eggs
Coffee hour duty is spiritual warfare for me.
Those Sundays, I am like an inactive soldier reporting for boot camp. When that one weekend a month arrives, I am in for a serious kick in the pants.
For me, cooking for 50+ people is not a delectable desire, it is a duty that usually ends with a culinary death, and leads to spiritual suicide. Truly, coffee hour duty has been one disaster after another. Whenever that Sunday approaches I moan, I stress, I panic. I start cooking, boiling, steaming. . . hormonally speaking. The night before, the verbal battery begins when I spout off all the reasons my coffee hour offering will be doomed. For example, last time I made beans, in my dimented state of mind, the congregants had already complained about them being bland and crunchy before they’d even made it in the crock pot. Another time, I was so fired up about getting my fruit salad to the church on time, I put the china dish on top of the roof and drove off full speed.
So this time, I prayed a special “coffee hour duty” prayer as I boiled the eggs the night before. Piece of cake, I thought, as I climbed into bed. Just peel, scoop, and mash in the morning.
At 8am the peeling process wasn’t as easy as I had imagined. The whites were gluey and stuck to the shell, making my so-called hard boiled’s look like mutilated poached eggs.
“They don’t look cooked all the way” said my observing husband, 15 minutes before our scheduled departure, as I’m standing at the sink with my robe still on estimating my losses, and wondering how a seemingly simple task has come to this. So I frantically reboil them, as my hormones also begin boiling. It doesn’t take but a few minutes, and I see that eggs have started to crack and ooze. Subsequently, my emotions also begin cracking and oozing. Soon, my spirit is completely scrambled.
For 30 minutes, I cry, & declare I can’t possibly go to church in this forlorn state with such forlorn looking eggs. Then I drink a coke for consolation as I nurse my emotional battle wounds on the couch.
But then it occurs to me how important it is that I not let my temperamental emotions and temperamental eggs spoil my day and my meager offering to God’s people. So I peel myself off the couch and pull myself together. Later than usual, we make it to church along with 50% of the eggs, paprika and all.
Silly as it may sound, as I reflect on the morning’s mahem, I am convinced that this was a war waged by the Evil One. The battlefield, my mind (and the kitchen); the assailant, my thoughts (and the devil’s eggs). He used the culinary comotion to ruin my spiritual appetite. In the end, did I devil the eggs, or did they bedevil me?
Those Sundays, I am like an inactive soldier reporting for boot camp. When that one weekend a month arrives, I am in for a serious kick in the pants.
For me, cooking for 50+ people is not a delectable desire, it is a duty that usually ends with a culinary death, and leads to spiritual suicide. Truly, coffee hour duty has been one disaster after another. Whenever that Sunday approaches I moan, I stress, I panic. I start cooking, boiling, steaming. . . hormonally speaking. The night before, the verbal battery begins when I spout off all the reasons my coffee hour offering will be doomed. For example, last time I made beans, in my dimented state of mind, the congregants had already complained about them being bland and crunchy before they’d even made it in the crock pot. Another time, I was so fired up about getting my fruit salad to the church on time, I put the china dish on top of the roof and drove off full speed.
So this time, I prayed a special “coffee hour duty” prayer as I boiled the eggs the night before. Piece of cake, I thought, as I climbed into bed. Just peel, scoop, and mash in the morning.
At 8am the peeling process wasn’t as easy as I had imagined. The whites were gluey and stuck to the shell, making my so-called hard boiled’s look like mutilated poached eggs.
“They don’t look cooked all the way” said my observing husband, 15 minutes before our scheduled departure, as I’m standing at the sink with my robe still on estimating my losses, and wondering how a seemingly simple task has come to this. So I frantically reboil them, as my hormones also begin boiling. It doesn’t take but a few minutes, and I see that eggs have started to crack and ooze. Subsequently, my emotions also begin cracking and oozing. Soon, my spirit is completely scrambled.
For 30 minutes, I cry, & declare I can’t possibly go to church in this forlorn state with such forlorn looking eggs. Then I drink a coke for consolation as I nurse my emotional battle wounds on the couch.
But then it occurs to me how important it is that I not let my temperamental emotions and temperamental eggs spoil my day and my meager offering to God’s people. So I peel myself off the couch and pull myself together. Later than usual, we make it to church along with 50% of the eggs, paprika and all.
Silly as it may sound, as I reflect on the morning’s mahem, I am convinced that this was a war waged by the Evil One. The battlefield, my mind (and the kitchen); the assailant, my thoughts (and the devil’s eggs). He used the culinary comotion to ruin my spiritual appetite. In the end, did I devil the eggs, or did they bedevil me?
children in church
One of the things that bothers me about Sunday worship is the break down of the family. And it’s not just parents from their children; siblings are quarantined off by narrow age margins of as little as six months. And while the adults can enjoy the service without shushing or pointing a disciplinary finger, what are their children doing? Certainly, they are being bred for worship. But are they learning to be true worshipers, or are they learning to be the center of their own worship?
Let me explain. In most churchest I have visited, there is a multi-colored “kid zone” that alarmingly resembles a McDonalds playland. Equiped with slides, toys galore, maybe even french fries and a coke. . . does the children’s church resemble “church” in anyway? The children have fun, for sure, but do they learn anything about how to worship? At best my son might scribble over the words “Jesus loves me” with a crayon (an activity that might take him a total of 10 seconds), but since he can’t read, did he learn anything about what worship looks like? Instead, for two hours, with all his needs catered to, wildest fun guaranteed, he is taught how to be a consumer of stuff, a lover of pleasure, a worshiper of self.
When our first-born was a few weeks old, we ventured out to a large church down the road. I wasn’t about to place my newborn into the hands of a stranger in a room already teeming with helpless babes, so I brought him into the sanctuary with me. I felt like I was sneaking him in; we sat in the back to “hide him”, as if I was breaking the rules by wanting to worship with my new baby rather than without. Within minutes my feelings were validated, as an announcement was made: “There is excellent child care for a reason - please use it.” A thousand preying eyes pounced on me. Embarrassed, I relocated to the nursing mom’s room, and watched the rest of the service on the TV monitor, separated from my husband and the worshipping community. It was a very isolating experience, church sponsored motherhood aparthied.
When we first came to the Orthodox church, one of the things that attracted me was the sound of a crying baby, the shushing of a mother to her child, the sound of childrens voices mixed with mature ones. It was refreshing to see kids and parents worship together, approach the challice for communion as a family, raise united voices in love for God. It was heavenly.
Even now after two years, I keep expecting kids to be discharged, but they never are. A two hour liturgy doesn’t deter them from zealously attending church school after the service while the adults fellowship and break the fast together. It is a suppliment, not a replacement for the worship service. During this time, bible stories are taught, the liturgy explained, hymns practiced, bible verses memorized. And this is why they call it “church school”; preparing, training, educating, growing children to be worshippers.
Now that I have two toddlers, I faintly lament the loss of “dropping the kids off” in the morning. It certainly would be much easier. But I do not think it would be better, for them or for me. It is my primary job (not the church’s) to raise my children to be worshippers of the living God; to be reverent; to be prayerful; to stand in awe of Him; to bow with humility before His throne; to be attentive to the Word of God. As the saying goes, children “Do as I do, not as I say.” It still remains that the best way for my children to learn how to worship is to watch me.
What will become of our children if we let our churches spoon feed our children when they need solid food for spiritual growth? If they spend the first seventeen years of their church life being catered to, playing games and having fun, they will never transition into “adult” worship. Instead, they will become a generation who is disenchanted with the Church because it doesn’t meet their needs. A generation who thinks the world revolves around them. A generation with no respect for authority and no self-discipline. I don’t want to see my son drinking out of a spiritual sippy cup at seventeen, do you?
Let me explain. In most churchest I have visited, there is a multi-colored “kid zone” that alarmingly resembles a McDonalds playland. Equiped with slides, toys galore, maybe even french fries and a coke. . . does the children’s church resemble “church” in anyway? The children have fun, for sure, but do they learn anything about how to worship? At best my son might scribble over the words “Jesus loves me” with a crayon (an activity that might take him a total of 10 seconds), but since he can’t read, did he learn anything about what worship looks like? Instead, for two hours, with all his needs catered to, wildest fun guaranteed, he is taught how to be a consumer of stuff, a lover of pleasure, a worshiper of self.
When our first-born was a few weeks old, we ventured out to a large church down the road. I wasn’t about to place my newborn into the hands of a stranger in a room already teeming with helpless babes, so I brought him into the sanctuary with me. I felt like I was sneaking him in; we sat in the back to “hide him”, as if I was breaking the rules by wanting to worship with my new baby rather than without. Within minutes my feelings were validated, as an announcement was made: “There is excellent child care for a reason - please use it.” A thousand preying eyes pounced on me. Embarrassed, I relocated to the nursing mom’s room, and watched the rest of the service on the TV monitor, separated from my husband and the worshipping community. It was a very isolating experience, church sponsored motherhood aparthied.
When we first came to the Orthodox church, one of the things that attracted me was the sound of a crying baby, the shushing of a mother to her child, the sound of childrens voices mixed with mature ones. It was refreshing to see kids and parents worship together, approach the challice for communion as a family, raise united voices in love for God. It was heavenly.
Even now after two years, I keep expecting kids to be discharged, but they never are. A two hour liturgy doesn’t deter them from zealously attending church school after the service while the adults fellowship and break the fast together. It is a suppliment, not a replacement for the worship service. During this time, bible stories are taught, the liturgy explained, hymns practiced, bible verses memorized. And this is why they call it “church school”; preparing, training, educating, growing children to be worshippers.
Now that I have two toddlers, I faintly lament the loss of “dropping the kids off” in the morning. It certainly would be much easier. But I do not think it would be better, for them or for me. It is my primary job (not the church’s) to raise my children to be worshippers of the living God; to be reverent; to be prayerful; to stand in awe of Him; to bow with humility before His throne; to be attentive to the Word of God. As the saying goes, children “Do as I do, not as I say.” It still remains that the best way for my children to learn how to worship is to watch me.
What will become of our children if we let our churches spoon feed our children when they need solid food for spiritual growth? If they spend the first seventeen years of their church life being catered to, playing games and having fun, they will never transition into “adult” worship. Instead, they will become a generation who is disenchanted with the Church because it doesn’t meet their needs. A generation who thinks the world revolves around them. A generation with no respect for authority and no self-discipline. I don’t want to see my son drinking out of a spiritual sippy cup at seventeen, do you?
yo ho yo ho a bloggers life for me
I've turned 29 and turned the pages of modernity from private journaling to public blogging. After blogging a few entries on our family website, it just seemed more fitting to have my own cyber “pages” to type thoughts that are purely mine, not necessarily a reflection of our family as a whole. So, i tried to come up with some creative name for my personal blog; “mummylyda” or “sophiadawning” (my christian name) or “chronicles of motherhood”. In the course of picking a title, I decided that i didn’t necessarily want to limit my blog to motherhood, but that in a way, becoming a mother (of the full-time kind), is what compelled me to start blogging in the first place. After Eden was born, writing became not only a secret ambition, but a secret sanity. Somehow, her birth enabled me, (though burdened by sin, time, weariness, and vocabulary deprivation) to enter into this public journal writing stuff fully aware of my imperfections yet able to say "what the heck, there will never be a perfect post", and be okay with someone else potentially reading my raw, heart-felt thoughts.
While motherhood this is the most consuming aspect of my life at present, it may not always be the most central theme of my blogging. Perhaps I may write more about other topics, marriage, writing, orthodoxy, or perhaps the blog will assume a purpose beyond my current imaginings. As of now, I simply want an avenue to write where the art of writing itself doesn’ t have to be such an introverted and lonely pursuit. It is my hope that in the course of googling, someone might stumble upon my blog who shares a similar experience with me. While I am new at this, it is my intention to be as honest and real as possible, even at the risk of embarassment and blushing. Wish me well in my new venture! More to come soon . . .
While motherhood this is the most consuming aspect of my life at present, it may not always be the most central theme of my blogging. Perhaps I may write more about other topics, marriage, writing, orthodoxy, or perhaps the blog will assume a purpose beyond my current imaginings. As of now, I simply want an avenue to write where the art of writing itself doesn’ t have to be such an introverted and lonely pursuit. It is my hope that in the course of googling, someone might stumble upon my blog who shares a similar experience with me. While I am new at this, it is my intention to be as honest and real as possible, even at the risk of embarassment and blushing. Wish me well in my new venture! More to come soon . . .
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