Eighth Day - My New Philosophy

Another day of non-fun writing. I really wish every school district, job website and placement agency would combine so that it is not necessary to write 20 subtly different answers to what amounts to the same questions. The next form that asks me about my "philosophy", I'm going to insert a sound file with this song.

So, since my goal here is to write something honest, I can honestly say I fell asleep on my computer  and this is all I wrote. Unless you have a compelling urge to read a paragraph on my personal weaknesses and how I overcome them, this is it for the night.

And that's my new philosophy.

Seventh Day - The Reason

Some days are just a slog, hard to wake up, hard to keep moving. It's easy to be overwhelmed by the pain in the world, from across the sea to within my own heart. I remember a time in my life when those days would pull me under, when all I had to keep me going was me and sometimes that wasn't quite enough.

Then six years ago, something completely unexpected happened. Some guy told me that he had been put in my life by God, so that I "wouldn't give up". My initial reaction of course was to look for the nearest exit. I must have gotten distracted along the way because nine months later I married him. When we exchanged rings he gave the best, simplest and hardest promise to me, "I will never stop trying". And he never has. No matter what the challenge, no matter what misunderstandings and frustrations fill the moment, in the end he is always there, still there, still trying.

It was nearly untoppable, until he gave me the only thing better than himself and that was our son. When he was born my first words were "He's perfect" and "He is so worth it". Still the most appropriate words about him, five years later. Like any mom I could go on and on (and usually do) about the cute things he says and does, but what I want to write about today is the way he looks at me.

I'm not sure it is describable, but there is this moment that stops my heart every time. When I've dropped him off for preschool, we've put away his things, had our hugs and kisses and I'm out the door, I take one look back through the glass window. If it is late enough in the morning, the children will be circling on the carpet to start their day. He is always there, sitting up and watching me, eyes right on me, smiling, with such a look of love that I could never earn, not in a million years. Sometimes he blows a kiss, sometimes he waves, but always he is looking, with an expression of trust and adoration that humbles me to the bone.

These are my reasons, the man who won't stop trying and the boy who loves me beyond my worth. These are the reasons I will never go under, I will never stop fighting. When I think of all the people hurting across the world, whether from war, natural disaster or their own secret pain, this is my prayer. I pray that even in the midst of suffering, particularly in the midst of their suffering, that they be blessed as I have, each in their own way, with reasons to go on.

Sixth Day - Mama Don't Play

When I worked at a church in New York, I assisted with the children's choir. It was a great job, but it was also barely organized mayhem from time to time. If you've ever tried to organize turtles duct taped to tumbleweeds you might have an idea. This was my crucible of learning when it comes to disciplining children in large groups. What I found was the absolute bottom line was consistency. Didn't matter what I did, I just had to do the same thing, every time and not let anyone get by, no matter what. We had one particularly rambunctious six year old who was always one of the last ones to get quiet, often earning her shushes and dirty looks from her fellow choristers who wanted to get to the fun stuff.

One day we had a new little boy in the group. All the children had taken their places and were waiting to sing, while this little dude was poking his neighbor and giggling and making faces. I just stood quietly and waited--that's my gig, and it always works. Except this time. I was wondering to do next when my little squirrel girl leaned over to this little boy, fixed him with the hairy eyeball and said "You'd better be quiet. Because TEACHER. DON'T. PLAY."

Of course, some part of me was horrified, I "play"! I'm fun! We're all here to have a good time!!! Pleeeeezeeee like meeeeeee!  But the truth is, no, I don't play. I believe discipline is important and that you can't enjoy a chaotic good time unless you also know how to control yourself.  Otherwise, what is energy, what is your creative force without discipline? It's like water without a container. Whether it is a creek bed or a clay pot, without some kind of vessel to shape it, water runs into the sand and is lost.

Which is why I am sitting here, writing a blog, while my four year old raises holy hell in the next room. He has pushed the envelope at bedtime more than once. I told him where the line was, he deliberately crossed it and now I've enforced it. And now the neighbors are probably going to call child protective services because my child is wailing with all the drama that only a son of mine could produce.

It has been a long day, I'm tired and part of me wants to just go in there and wail with him. But he needs to know I mean what I say.

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It was at the point I was called away by a screeching voice in the bathroom proclaiming "I'M GONNA SPIT OUT!" I arrived just in time to see my red faced pride and joy shove his fist down his throat and let forth a stream of vomit that would give a frat boy pause.

Yeah. My kid can make himself throw up when he's really pissed. I'm not entirely sure what to make of that particular skill, but he's been like that ever since about 18 months. Which is why we do what we can to use constructive discipline that heads things off before we get to the puking stage.

So, um, what was I talking about? Yes, the importance of discipline. Now, I appear to have three choices. 1) Erase the whole blog and start over.  2) Erase the last two paragraphs and write a good, inspirational whopping lie for the conclusion 3) Admit that I am tired and that this round, the kid won.

Yeah, we're going with door number three. So discipline is a clay pot. Sometimes it holds the water of creativity and self-control. Sometimes it holds vomit.

Fifth Day - Necessary Grief?

I'm a little burnt out on writing today, I had to put in 2-3 hours on mundane work-like or please let this get me work-like writing. You'll have to take my word for it, as it is all too boring to post here.

I did want to share something from yesterday's reading of Reliving The Passion.

What causes joy?
What transfigures you, you flaming disciple, you burning witness, with such a fusion of joy in the encounter?
This: not just that the Lord was dead, but that you grieved his death.

Wangerin contends that "it is the experience of genuine grief that prepares for joy" and that our experience of Easter cannot be complete if we begin with resurrection and work our way backward. Rather we must begin with the Passion of Christ, with all it's horror and pain, before we can truly inherit the joy of what is to come.

This goes back to some of my first musings--are we deliberately tried, are we purposefully made sorrowful? And is this the reason why? So that we can leave our grief to be more joyful than if we had never felt pain?  I have trouble with this. It makes me think of something my father would often say, "it's like hitting  yourself in the head with a hammer because it feels so good when you stop." Does this make sense as a way to live?

My little boy is just four, a truly delightful age, but in the mold of his parents he is probably too smart for his own good and has a will of iron. We went for a bike ride this weekend, or rather, a brisk walk for mom while the boy continued to master his balance bike. I decided we would try a mile long loop, his longest ride to date, and dangled the prospect of a path through the woods with a playground at the end as incentive for this adventure. I knew he would probably complain at some point about the length of the trip (he did) and that there would be at least a couple major wipeouts (there were), but I wanted him to learn that he could go the distance, learn to push hard and glide further than he had gone before. I also wanted to reinforce that he has to pay attention if he wants to avoid crashing his bike, but that if he does crash, it is not the end of the world.

Part of the problem I have with the Passion of Christ is that I can't imagine a loving father persecuting his son in such a way. But then if I believe that a scraped knee or a bruised arm is a worthwhile price for self-reliance, persistence and the will to get up and try again, then what is the worthwhile price for the salvation of the world?

I have a feeling this thread will run through my thoughts for some time in the coming weeks.