Snapshots of my Mother
Today we returned from our weekend in Bend, and on my porch I found a tall, narrow green box. I recognized its type. Shaking my head and smiling I took it inside and pulled the cardboard tab that freed the contents: A snugly-packed dozen of breathtaking roses in yellow, ivory, pink, and red. They are perfection set against my scratched and well-worn kitchen table, and managed to elevate our rather humble dinner of microwaved quesadillas to a bountiful and elegant affair.
It is Mother’s Day, of course, and who were the roses from? None other than my own mother. In true motherly fashion, she gave more than she would ever receive. In fact, she also sent them to her daughter-in-law, and her mother-in-law. In true celebration of all the other mothers in her life, she honored them all, a gesture which was emblematic of who my mom is in all of life.
I’m in the middle of reading An American Childhood by Annie Dillard.(Remarkable! More on this book later.) In it she describes her own mother, and the blurry snapshots she remembers of her early childhood reached from the page and gripped me so intensely I wished with everything in me that I could meet this woman! It also made me recall some of my own disjointed early memories–my own snapshots of my mother that live with me and undoubtedly flavor the way I live and love and mother my own children. Here are several.
Scent is my strongest memory, and my mom’s was heaven. The soft dip of her skin right above her collarbone seemed to be the origin of this mom-scent, and to lay my head on her chest gave me the perfect position to close my eyes and breathe it in. It was safety, warmth, love all at once. It was everything all ok.
We were in Molalla Thriftway when the thought bubbled up in my mind and spilled out my mouth, the way thoughts do with kids. I was sitting in the front part of the cart, dangling my legs. Brach’s candy to my right, donuts to my left, we just passed the bacon–“Mommy, you should bottle up your smell and sell it to everyone because it’s the best smell in the world.” She smiled and kissed me. My heart soared.
I loved my mom. I adored her. She was the definition of beauty to me. Her fingernails were so long, so hard and thick! But she had a bad habit of picking at her hangnails, which I do now, and wholeheartedly blame her for, among other things, most of which have to do with my ankles. But of course now I am sympathetic to how irritating it must have been to have a little girl constantly following her around and incessantly investigating her body and asking embarrassingly candid questions. I very clearly remember asking my mom why her thighs made funny dimples when she sat down. Oh good grief; I’m never letting Heidi see my bare thighs. And I thought it was so strange that she always had slivers sticking out of her legs–I was convinced she must have spent our naptimes crawling around on the cedar deck.
She always played praise music. My dad played Elvis and sometimes I would cry at night because I was convinced that my dad would go to hell because he listened to Elvis. When my mom finally coaxed this admittance out of me she set my poor theologically-confused self straight and I could sleep again at night.
She was eternally patient with these night crying spells of mine. Often I would cry because I missed my Grandpa Zyp–whom I had never met. I thought of him often, wondered what he was like, wished I had known him before he’d died in 1976. He seemed so real to me I missed him terribly. She would sit on the edge of my bed, as though not a thing in the world were bidding for her time, and listen to me explain again that I missed him, and could she tell me again how funny he was and how he would have loved me.
She listened again, countless nights, as I cried because I could not understand eternity. This lasted a long time. Somehow not being able to comprehend eternity was seriously troubling to my little soul. I’d read and dream of heaven, wanting to be excited about the prospects of glory, but paralyzed by the fear of not understanding what eternity could possibly be like. Forever and then what? She’d listen, smile, pray with me.
I remember being proud as a peacock that my mom never left me with a babysitter. Other kids got left with babysitters all the time. Not me. They took us with them everywhere. I vividly remember mom and dad getting criticized for taking us with them on a romantic excursion that they’d been given by the church. We all stayed at a Bed & Breakfast near Mount Hood, and etched forever in my memory were the mornings Kris and I watched morning cartoons while stretched out on the lace and floral linens of the fancy beds. Knowing that they’d been criticized for it made me all the prouder that they took us with them. They’d chosen us! I knew they loved us more than most parents loved their kids. That was the secret I tucked in my heart–I was so loved.
Mom’s discipline was effective because she’d won our hearts. When we were naughty–let me rephrase that, my brother was never naughty–when I was naughty, she let me know it broke her heart. She was firm, consistent, letting me bear the brunt of the consequences, but somehow I was so convinced of her love for me that it almost seemed like being naughty was hurting her personally–the one thing I’d never want to do. I’m still not sure how she did it, but I pray, often, that God will enable me to do the same.
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And now, my mom is friend to me, Oma to my children, and still my constant source of wisdom, confidence, love. There is no one on earth to whom I’d rather go for a listening ear, wise council, godly perspective. In her presence I am me–without guard or guise.
And she has quickly won the hearts of my children as well. Oma is magic to them. Reading stories, teaching words, weaving tales. She educates with every breath. When I am blinded by behavior she somehow always sees the heart.
Thank you, Mom, for the years of sitting on my bed at night, listening. Thank you for letting me smell that special spot on your neck, and for taking me on that romantic excursion that should have been for you and dad. I don’t know why it mattered so much, but from that point on I knew nothing much could go wrong. Thank you for giving me the gift of security–the secret of knowing you loved us more than we could probably even imagine.
And thank you for roses. You, ever-giving. Happy Mother’s Day.
Can a She be a Pastor?
Many of the topics studied in seminary aren’t necessarily issues we deal with in our everyday lives. Very rarely am I stopped on the street and asked if I’m a premillennialist. In fact, I can’t remember a single time the grocery cashier has asked me about demon possession while scanning my coupons. Of course I believe these issues are important, just not as commonly interacting with the day-to-day happenings of life.
But one seminary topic seems to pop up everywhere I look: The role of gender in marriage, the church, and the world. The specific issue in seminary, of course, is Can a woman hold the office of Elder/Senior Pastor? But this is one small tip of an enormous iceberg that is Gender Roles & Equality, and how we interact with this issue will greatly affect how we interact with the gender issue at large.
I’ve written before, at length, about Why I’m a Complementarian. Believe me, I’ve tried not to be. Consider–I love to preach, teach, and be in charge. Hmm…all the things I supposedly cannot do. Tricky. But more than ever I am convinced that there is no better and more beautiful plan than God’s specially designed complementarian relationship between the male and female genders whom He created in His image. I’ve already noted the key scriptures and issues in the post above, so here are just a few more thoughts, in general, on the topic:
1. The Trinity. We would be in big trouble if the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit were all in a huge fight about who had to die on the cross. We know from all study of the godhead, that Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are all fully God. They exist in relationship with each other, making up the Almighty One God. Jesus cannot be the Father. The Holy Spirit could not die on the cross. They are all fully equal, yes distinct in person and purpose. To say that creating a distinction of role implies a hierarchy of value is contrary to the trinity.
2. The Body. Every time we read of the Body of Christ, and specifically spiritual gifts, Paul emphasizes over and over that just as we are not all eyes or noses or feet, we all are different parts of the Body and we all play different roles. Greater modesty is required for some parts of the body, and not all are particularly beautiful parts, but all are equally important and necessary. The most basic understanding of the body of Christ makes this clear. Therefore, to say that a distinction of role implies a hierarchy or value is contrary to the clear teachings of the Body of Christ.
3. The Creation Account. If it is true that God’s original intended plan were that there were “neither male nor female”, then why on earth did he create them male and female? Adam is created first, from dust. Eve is created second, from Adam. Adam names her. She is called his helper. Adam is given the responsibility of hearing and carrying out the mandates of God. Before the fall.
Responsibility
Here’s what I see missing in both side’s arguments. The key is responsibility. Just this past weekend, Joel’s message on marriage addressed the key to leadership: responsibility. And responsibility is key to this debate. Though Eve was the one who listened to the serpent, ate of the fruit, and influenced her husband to do the same, who is held responsible? Adam. Through Adam came the curse. Adam is responsible. This tells me that God has chosen the man as the one who bears the primary responsibility to carry out the mandates and directives of God.
But this word responsibility isn’t used much. Instead, we all toss around the world “authority” (because it’s used in 2 Timothy–Authentein). But while Authentein is important, true leadership isn’t about authority, it’s about responsibility. There is no authority without responsibility. The reason that I have authority as a parent is that I’m responsible as a parent. I choose to take the reins, without apology, with my children because I know without a shadow of a doubt that I am responsible for training up those precious children. God will hold me responsible, which means that with humility and confidence and great seriousness I assume the authoritative role in their lives.
What men and women are fighting over is authority. They’re fighting over authentein and what that means. No one is fighting over responsibility. When was the last time you heard someone insisting, “No, I want the responsibility! I want to take the blame!! I want to carry that load! I want to bear the brunt of that problem!” Hardly. No, we are fighting over who gets to tell the other what to do. (Now I understand that not everyone engaged in this debate is fighting over authority. I know a great many men and women of God, whom I love and admire who wholeheartedly embrace egalitarianism, and I respect them greatly. I’m speaking of the Battle-of-the-Sexes at large.)
I believe that God has laid the final and ultimate responsibility for the spiritual well-being, in the home and in the church, on the shoulders of men. I don’t envy that. Of course they aren’t responsible for the rest of us using our free will to go against their leadership. But there is a huge responsibility there. So many of the papers I read and grade (on this issue) simply talk about “who gets to have the highest level of authority in the church.” That’s not it! You’re missing the whole point! The issue isn’t the hightest level of authority, it’s who bears the greatest weight of responsibility. If men assumed their God-given responsibility, shouldered that burden with courage and humility, and if women took the role of helper in order to come up under those men and help them, encouraging, cheering for, strengthening, praising–imagine how much stronger we’d be! We’d actually lift some of these burdens instead of fighting over who gets to stand behind the podium.
Whew! Good thing I”m not allowed to be a preacher because I’d be too long-winded! Those are my thoughts and now naptime is over…
I just thought I’d tell you that at this moment Dutch is sitting on my lap tying a giant lobster around my neck. Someday I believe he’s going to be a mighty man of God–today, it’s lobsters around my neck.
The Sacredness of My Mundane
Today was mundane. Well, from 7:15am on it’s been mundane. From 6-7:15am I was at Morning Prayer, which was anything but mundane. We continue to be surprised and amazed at the way God is answering prayer in our lives and the lives of those around us. That was my spiritual shot of caffeine this cold and drizzly Monday morning.
And then it was home (which I love, thank you God for the honor of staying home!)–making oatmeal, pouring milk, brewing tea. It was practicing consistency (word, warning, back it up!) when Dutch wanted to get up before his magic morning-hour. It was nursing Heidi on the couch while warming Dutch’s feet under my legs. It was dishes, cleaning up Heidi’s high chair”artwork”, changing a diaper, dressing wiggly warm little bodies, kissing toes and nibbling fingers, practicing consistency with Dutch’s morning routine and chores. It was giving in to my tired body and brewing a cup of coffee.
Then it was gathering my “coupon-spree” stack and heading to Rite-Aid. Of course nothing was as I thought it would be, so then it was scouring the store for the best deal so I could use my $5 off $20 coupon that expires on Friday, while Heidi lunged toward the shelves from the front-pack and Dutch repeatedly said loudly and anxiously (but using his manners), “Mommy, can you please get me some makeup?”
Then it was playing trains, reading a dozen books, soothing tears. It was making sandwiches, steaming vegetables, monitoring the spoonfuls of peanut butter (his dad taught him that trick). It was reminding myself that I’m trying to eat healthy, choosing to grab the banana on the counter and not the Moosetracks in the freezer.
And now by some miracle they are both asleep (Dutch’s first nap in 6 months), and I am here.
All of this is likely familiar to you. Our days are filled with routine, mundane tasks. Carpools and grocery runs. Wiping counters, noses, bottoms.
What is it, then, that is sacred?
All of it. Most of us are familiar with 1 Corinthians 10:31, “So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” All of life is sacred. If anything matters, everything matters. Because we are eternal beings, infused with dignity and value by our God-given identity as image-bearers of God, everything we do has spiritual significance. Every physical action has spiritual significance. This does not mean, however, that we fret and obsess over details. This afternoon, when I needed a snack, I chose a banana over an apple. Pretty sure nothing shifted in the heavenlies over that one. But part of trusting Christ is believing that at all times God is doing infinitely more than we can see with our physical eyes. It is, quite simply, walking by faith and not sight.
So today I trust God that He is using my stay-at-home-mom status to raise up warriors for God’s kingdom, even though it tends toward monotony. Today Dutch and I read a dozen stories, the last of which was a series of myths about how a turtle got its shell. To my surprise, in a little Golden Book, stories were shared about the Greek god Hermes, and a Native American god named Uncle. Dutch and I got to have a long talk about why “pretend gods” make God sad. I was so thankful that I got to be the first person to talk to him about false gods. He will spend the rest of his life being confronted with them, and, I hope and pray, confronting them.
All of us live in the mundane, not just stay-at-home-moms. My encouragement for today is to remember that living the sacredness of the mundane is to live by faith. My encounter with the grumpy woman at the grocery store, my choices on how to spend our money, the way I greet my husband at the door after work–a million choices add up to my life. Will it be extraordinary or ordinary? If I’m the main character in this story, what’s the point? I may as well pack up and go home. But if I’m a seemingly insignificant, yet vital, extra in God’s story, then all my life is infused with importance because it all has to do with glorifying an extraordinary God. And this, this remembrance that God is the main character, keeps it all in perspective. My life, every mundane detail, is part of the sacred story of God. Rumor has it that in the end He saves the day. Not sure how my coupon-clipping contributes, but I’ll do it by faith just the same.
A Dose of Compassion
I’ve already carried on about the magical wonders of Riversong. The car is packed, and we’re leaving in 45 minutes. I’m beside myself with excitement to see my sweet husband. I’ve loved time away, of course, but home is where my man is, and no matter how soothing the sound of the rushing river is at night, I miss his warm self next to me. Besides, sharing a room with Heidi is no picnic, since she wakes at the slightest sound of me rolling over and moving my leg. And in my odd obsession with not overpacking, I’ve been wearing the same pair of pants all week and Heidi’s only had one sock since Wednesday. We’re all looking forward to home.
This week has been enormously encouraging in the area of parenting. Being around my parents all day, each day, provides excellent accountability. When I’m alone, I find myself much quicker to lose my patience, get frustrated, or ignore a misbehavior. And, because I”m usually going at it all alone, I just get so worn out sometimes I’m too tired to care. But here, with two extra pairs of arms, I have the rest and energy to be ultra-consistent.–not in a breathing-down-his-neck sort of way, but just in an always-there sort of way, ready to encourage, correct, praise, admonish. Also, while I’m here, I’m not distracted by dishes, laundry, email, and social and relational dramas. I’m just all here. I spend a lot of time just sitting and watching Dutch play. Yesterday we spent two hours just sitting down by the river throwing rocks. Today we spent the afternoon at Aunt Linda’s house, exploring the creek and eating fresh strawberries. And since my mom is a parenting and homeschooling guru, I find myself picking up books to read and then 2 hours later setting them down with a renewed passion to train my kids in the ways of the Lord. I picked up The Christian Homeschool, and am floored by it. Great stuff.
But the biggest thing I think I’m taking away from this week, from time with the kids, chats with the parents, and pages flipped in a number of books, is a dose of compassion for my little lambs God’s entrusted to my care. I admit, there are times I feel like Dutch’s beahvior is a ruthless personal attack on my sanity. I see him as something to conquer. I see the problems as reflections of my own failures and inadequacies (which has a bit of truth to it). But this week I just needed a big dose of this perspective: My kids are lost little sheep, who are desperately trying to figure out how to navigate this crazy, scary, sinful world. They are unregenerate, warped by sin even at their tender age. They are bent on self, they are uneqipped for life. They are frantically trying to understand boundaries, figure out behavior, and… let’s be honest, trying to figure out how to get their way at all cost. This afternoon I was having a talk with Dutch, and it was like I was giving him “secret advice” on life. And it was like, by some miracle, he really believed that if he just tried this secret advice, the situation would actually work out. He tried it. And it did.
I know it won’t always work out that easily, but I had to repent today of my selfishness with regard to child-rearing. I was looking for answers primarily so it wouldn’t be so hard for me. My primary interest, I really think, was still myself rather than my kids. This week I realized how selfish my motives have been. Deep down, my ugly motive was to “have good kids” rather than a motive of selfless love for them, wanting them to succeed, flourish, achieve. It was a subtley skewed perspective, but sinful nonetheless.
So thank you, Lord, for a dose of compassion for my kids. Bless them, they don’t have a clue. Thank you that you are compassionate toward us, as we don’t have a clue. Thank you that You love our children worlds more than we can ever imagine. Give us selfless love for them, a love that engulfs and destroys the garbage of our own egos, agendas, selfish priorities, pride. Help me help them, God. Thank you for making me their mommy. In Jesus’ name. Amen.
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* I apologize to all of you who had to read my headline typo! I could use “an dose” of editing!