On Being a Chaos Muppet
Richard Termine/PBS.org
This realization came when I discovered the concept of Muppet Theory a couple months ago A friend posted a link to this article, and since then, it has redefined my understanding of human interaction and heightened my awareness of myself. In short, Muppet Theory has changed my life.
Muppet Theory classifies individuals into two essential groups—Order Muppets (those controlled, steady, responsible characters like Bert and Kermit) and Chaos Muppets (their eclectic, unpredictable, cookie-crumbed counterparts in the likes of Gonzo and Grover). My husband is the classic definition of an Order Muppet, and I suppose, if I’m entirely honest with myself, I’m not so much Cookie Monster as Miss Piggy to his Kermit.
It has taken me a lifetime to understand and finally accept this about myself.
I’ve always been the messy one, easily inspired and just as easily distracted. Today I’m experiencing a type of karma as I live through my daughter’s same penchant for a messy bedroom that doubles as a gallery for half-completed projects. (I must confess that even as I write, I have a vintage dress--bought on a whim at Goodwill—waiting for me to remake the skirt so I can wear it to a wedding this weekend. Here’s betting that’s not going to happen.)
So growing up I always chafed when I heard people say that “God is a God of order.” I remember distinctly the discomfort that started at the top of my spine, ran the length of my body, and finally settled somewhere in the pit of my stomach. “God is a god of order. God is god of order. God is a god of order. And you, my dear, simply are not orderly.” The weight and judgement hung over me and rather than rejoice in this aspect of His character, I always found it a condemnation of mine.
You are a messy. You don’t measure up. You are a failure.
To resolve this conflict, I instead found comfort in being eccentric and reveled in poems like Robert Herrick's Delight in Disorder. After all, who wants perfect when you can have alluring? Why be on time when you can be interesting?
But a funny thing’s happened since my then, since living with my organized husband for eleven years, since having children and trying to run a household. I have come to love order. We moved recently and, in the process, lost all identifiable structure--believe it or nor, I’m going crazy. Today, I crave schedules and systems precisely because I know how much I need them.
In coming to understand the value of orderliness, I’ve also come to understand the value of a God who is orderly. Now instead of finding it a judgment, I find it a comfort. Because as much as His character calls me to be like Him, even more, it compensates for me when I am not. And so just like my husband takes care of me when it comes to paying bills and making sure that I’m in the right place at the right time; God’s orderliness takes care of me in a much more profound way.
Because there is no such thing as being misplaced by an orderly God. There is no such thing as His mercy showing up too late. And there’s no way He’s going start a project—like the remaking my soul—only to leave it lying around forgotten and undone.
He is a God of order, after all.
Learning to Trust Again
Like most summer storms, this one went as quickly as it came, but unlike most summer thunderstorms, this one left extensive damage. We were lucky though—none of our trees came down and we never lost power. Within hours, the children were home, tucked safely into bed, and seemed generally nonplussed by the whole event. The only thing my six-year-old had to say about it (in his typically understated way) was “It was very windy. I was a little bit scared.” And that was that.
Or so I thought.
Then suddenly that same six-year-old started asking me to check the weather each morning, and that same six-year-old started needing to see the hourly forecast before he went outside to play. Then he started watching the clock and coming in early if the forecast threatened rain. He started jumping at the slightest breeze and one day, with his chin quivering, doing his best to hold back tears, he asked to go home while we were visiting a mountain overlook. He didn’t like the wind. It all came to a head when at a Fourth of July picnic, this same nonchalant little boy clamped his hands over his ears and ran screaming inside when sky turned stormy.
And then I knew we had a problem.
Despite our attempts to console him, despite reasoning with him that mommy and daddy would protect him, despite praying with him and gaining his verbal affirmation that “God is bigger than the storm,” this little boy simply doesn’t trust the weather. And truthfully, I don’t blame him.
When you’ve experienced something traumatic—whether it’s a storm or an illness or a broken relationship—you know better than to let yourself ever get caught in that situation again. You’re smarter for it. You learn to guard your heart. You learn to scan the sky and look for the warning signs. And you consider yourself, not so much living in fear, as having become older and wiser.
Until your caution turns into fear Until your “wisdom” starts to look a lot like paranoia Until you let your experience cloud everything else your life.
Then you know you have a problem.
Because as much as I understand my son’s fear, another part of me worries that as long as he lives in that fear, he’ll never be able to experience the joy of an ocean breeze whipping around him or the majesty of a summer thunderstorm. And as long as any of the rest of us continue to live in our fears—no matter how justified they are—we’ll miss the joy of so many things too. Family, community, church, friends, life. Sometimes even God Himself.
So now I’m trying to figure out how do I help him learn to trust again? How do any of us learn to trust again? How do you learn to feel the breeze without panicking? How do you stand on the mountain overlook, drinking in the winds that carry the hawk and eagle without wanting to go home? How do you face the vast ocean and delight in its mighty winds when at six you were evacuated to the bottom of a baseball stadium and the lights went out?
And maybe more to the point for the rest of us, how do you learn to love again when your heart has been broken? How do you learn to let down your guard when you’ve been hurt? How do you move past being cynical to being sensitive once again? How, like for me, do you learn to stop jumping to conclusions when everything in you wants to run screaming into the building to get away from the storm?
I’m not certain of the exact process, but I know it takes time. Not time by itself, but time for God to work. Time to let Him to rebuild the brokenness. Time to let Him heal you. Time to let Him to lead you one hesitant, terrifying step at a time. Time for you to learn how to trust Him again.
Because maybe, what we all need to recognize is that rebuilding trust doesn't ultimately mean learning to trust the weather or our churches or even another person again. Rebuilding trust means learning to trust Him. It means believing that when the storms do return, He will be right there to wait them out with you. Even if it's in the belly of a minor league baseball stadium.
Now We Are Six
This is the child who…
measures the circumference of his drinking glass to make sure there is enough room to dunk his Oreo (graham cracker, sandwich, carrots, whatever) into his milk.
assures me that he has two different sides to his belly--one side for good food and one side for dessert and that the side for good food is already filled up.
when the visiting preacher has us bow our heads in a moment of spiritual reflection and asks for people to raise their hands, lies with on his back on the pew and raises his… foot.
has an uncanny resemblance--both in attitude and propensity to danger--to Bill Waterson’s Calvin.
can barely contain himself during a movie when one of the characters asks whether you would pick between animals and people and blurts out “Animals!”
He also the child who confuses me the most.
When I was younger (read:naïve), I always thought I wanted a whole passel of boys because they “were easier to understand than girls.” But ever since this little man entered my world, he has done nothing but stymie me. Despite our distinct physical resemblance, we are nothing alike. He is quiet, shy, and reserved. He is happiest at home and needs very few people in this life but needs them to love him unreservedly and forever. He also never seems quite comfortable expressing his pleasure and only lets you know he’s thrilled by that ever so slightly turned-up corner of his mouth.
It makes my heart ache just thinking of it.
And yet, as each year passes, I find myself having to let go of who I thought he should be and learning to love who God has made him to be. To embrace the quirks and challenges along with the blessings and trust that in the Heavenly Father’s wisdom, they are all well within His plan. To ask, not that my dreams for him, but that His dreams for him will come true. And to pray that even now He might be crafting the perfect little girl—a girl who knows how to make blackberry pie and likes animals and loves to cuddle—to love him when I finally can’t.
Southern Living
Now I’m a northern girl, but I’m no stranger to the South. I was actually born in South Carolina and spent several years there as a college student and newlywed. And having also done my fair share of traveling, I was pretty sure this move would be a fairly easy one. Still there are some things that I’ve noticed since my arrival, and while I wouldn’t say that I’m experiencing culture shock per se, I think it’s safe to say that I might be going through “heightened cultural awareness.”
So here are some things I've observed in the last two weeks. Let’s just file them under “You know you’re in the South when…”
- Within ten miles of crossing the state line, you see a homemade poster board sign that says simply “Civil War” and has an arrow pointing in the appropriate direction.
- Your local grocery store stocks Cheerwine popsicles in the freezer section.
- Your children, who only have memories of the North and Midwest, think that that the dirt is “ground up bricks.”
- The seller on Craigslist gives you a 50% discount on a couch when he discovers that your husband is a Baptist pastor and assures you that “it’s just the right thing to do.”
- Every lady in the church over the age of 65 is name Granny.
- Your six-year-old son wants to know why you don’t have a southern “accident.”
- Your seven-year-old daughter, when trying to describe the bug that was crawling on her clothes, can draw an accurate sketch of a tick.
- The first church supper includes fried chicken, poke salad, and sweet tea (with no rigatoni or pierogies in sight.)
- Your husband can preach in a linen suit and nobody bats an eye.
- The suspicious looking holes in your beautiful hardwood floors are precisely what you think they are. (Yes, it’s old damage and no, I don’t want to talk about it.)
All in all though, it’s been a pretty successful move and we’re loving the chance to live in a new area, be closer to family, and finally start to put down roots. And at the risk of stereotyping, all I have to say now is “Ya’ll come visit us sometime real soon.”
My Take: Doubt, Faith, and Sibling Rivalry
Still stranger was that I found myself wanting to have doubted. I felt like I needed it as credibility somehow. Because if Christian liberty has become the new legalism, doubt has become the new “faith.” In this post-modern generation, if you haven’t doubted, you haven’t believed. If you haven’t walked away from church, you really don’t know what it is about. If you haven’t done something that flies in the face of religious convention, you are still its pawn.
And then I started thinking about all those of us who aren’t Thomases. It’s not that we don’t have our problems and it’s not that we don’t honestly investigate what we believe. It’s just that we don’t stumble over faith the way some do. In many cases, we never ran away from home--or at least we only went as far as the next conservative church. And we end up taking as much of security in this as our doubting brothers take in their ability to question.
This tension, this need to one-up each other either by our faith or our doubt, reminded me a lot of my children and their tendency toward sibling rivalry. It also reminded me of that classic story of sibling rivalry that Jesus told: the story of the prodigal son. Because if those who doubt are the younger brother who ran away from home, those who don’t are the older brother who stayed and are easily tempted to pass judgment.
Still, today’s story has a twist. In our post-modern paradigm, doubt has been enshrined, almost made a virtue, and this ultimately makes it hard for prodigals to “come to their senses” and honestly coming home in humility. Because their doubt has been affirmed, they feel comfortable with it and even demand that the father fix the things that made them angry enough to leave in the first place. But the thing about doubt (no matter what post-modernism says) is that Scripture never frames it in a positive light. Whenever someone questions God--think Job, Gideon, Zacharias, Thomas--even when their doubt is completely understandable, Scripture portrays it as weakness.
But the glorious thing about God is this: with Him, weakness is not a liability.
Because ultimately this is the grace of doubt—not how wonderfully insightful and reflective it makes us appear--but how generous and patient it reveals God to be. In our doubt, we become the foil to display His faithfulness. And through our doubt, we learn how weak we were not to believe and how much we needed Him in the first place. In this sense, doubt can be very spiritual if it leads to faith--if in our weaknesses we cry out, “Lord, I believe--help my unbelief.”
But paradoxically, those of us who haven’t experienced strong doubt can be just as weak. Because we are the older son who finds security and pride—not in our Father—but in our certainty. We stayed after all. And we all too quickly identify ourselves as the “blessed” who haven’t seen but believe and we forget that not questioning the status quo is not the same as believing the truth.
Because faith that has faith as its object is not the same as faith in the Father.
Faith that is founded on tradition or religion or simply staying put doesn’t make us anymore faithful than those who doubt. And it doesn’t make us love our Father any more than the older brother’s remaining at home made him love his father more. After all, the reward he was looking for wasn’t the joy of a relationship with him; it was the approval he expected to gain from being the “good son.”
So in the end, this is what we must seek by staying home: not the Father’s approval because of our faithfulness but the joy of being with Him. The joy of days and weeks and years of fellowship that the younger brother missed out on because of his doubt and wandering. By staying home, we have the opportunity to forge memories, create a shared history, and enjoy a lifetime of discovering, not our own faithfulness, but His.
Because what both sons were missing in it all of it—what, if we’re not careful, we’ll miss too either by our doubt or our faithfulness--is the goodness of the Father. The goodness that allows for our questions and welcomes us home once we come to our senses. And the goodness that kindly and gently reproves us when we think we have been faithful enough to earn his love. In the end, what we must not believe is that the prodigal son was somehow better for his wandering. Or the older son better for his staying.
What we must believe is the goodness of the Father who loved them both.
On the Move
I have a friend who herself has survived multiple moves including several international ones, and she wisely assures me that “home” is wherever your family and your stuff is. Her wisdom mirrors another: that your heart lives where your treasure does. And since this is the case, when our treasure is somewhere other than here on this earth, when we choose to store it up in heaven, when we invest in the intangible, we shouldn't be surprised if we sometimes feel the same sense of displacement and disorientation that I've been experiencing of this last week. Because if I've learned anything in the moments of playing hide-and-seek with the kitchen utensils, it’s this: in this life, we are in transition. And more often than not, this life is simply a grand moving adventure in which we're gradually relocating our treasure, one box at a time, to our better more permanent home.
Home
Our second, a converted two-car garage that made the perfect newly-wed cottage… until baby made three which led us to…
Our third home, the rental house that my husband leased and moved in to one weekend while I was out of town for a wedding… without my knowing about it.
Our fourth home was a borrowed house in Hastings, New Zealand complete with an ancient pony, two dogs, and fields of neighboring sheep.
Our fifth, the townhouse we quickly rented on our return to the States when I was thirty-five weeks pregnant with #2 and we didn’t yet have a place to live.
Our sixth home was a parsonage we moved to with two weeks notice, a parsonage on the church’s property that had a three-thousand gallon coal-fired boiler in the basement…
And our latest home is the apartment we came to when we had to quickly leave aforementioned parsonage, the apartment in the town (three states away) that I had never even seen until we pulled up in our rented Penske moving truck.
And now nearly eleven years, seven moves, three states, and two countries later, we’re heading to our eighth home and our first house.
This week several friends have asked me how I’m coping with the moving and packing. Their question is usually accompanied by a compassionate empathy, the commiseration of a species who fundamentally hates to be uprooted and understands far too well the work and hassle of transplanting family. I simply reply that in all probability this will be our easiest move yet. Having actually seen this house and being familiar with the area, I feel well ahead of the game.
And yet, there’s a sadness about moving even when it’s on to bigger and better (and hopefully, more permanent) things. A sadness that comes from leaving new-found friends and leaving the house that sheltered my family, even if ever so briefly. For me, it’s saying good-bye to the walls that watched my children play, the windows that shined sunlight on their waking faces, and the rooms that were silent witnesses to the love and joy and pain of being family.
And I find I leave a bit of myself in each place.
**(The picture above is not our new house but isn't it lovely? Perhaps one day, when we're sixty-years married, my husband and I can nest there.)
Dinner Date
Now before you brand me the world’s worst mother, let me say a few things in my defense. I spend a tremendous amount of time with my children, homeschooled my daughter for two years, and even let her sneak into my bed while my husband’s out of town. But as far as dedicated, one-on-one time, I have to admit to being pretty delinquent.
I think it’s a combination of her being the oldest, the most competent, and quite frankly a girl--in a world where the squeaky wheel gets the grease, her brothers definitely get my attention. But when she “squeaks,” my first response is usually to want her to buck up, dig deep, and be a strong woman. At seven.
I suppose it’s also that I never was much of a girly girl myself, so I hadn’t thought to incorporate something like diner and shopping into our relationship. (For me, shopping carries overtones of Inquisitional torture. Forget the rack or burning at the stake, simply put me in a strip mall, with limited funds, and the need to find the perfect dress for a wedding. Yeah, the Spanish had no idea.)
But over the last few weeks, I began to notice that I was saying “no” to her more often than “yes.”
Her: Mommy, can we bake cookies? Me: Not right now, honey… Mommy’s busy. Her: Well, then can we watch a movie together? Me: Tonight’s a school night. Her: What about a craft? Me: It would be too messy.
Ad infinitum.
So with daddy out of town (and little brother with him), I decided I needed to finally make a date with my daughter. When I told her my plans, she melted and grinned from ear to ear in disbelief at her good fortune. I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t felt so guilty that it took so little to make her that happy.
So after school yesterday, we picked out our outfits, did our hair in hot rollers, and pulled out the Lip Smackers. Once we dropped littlest brother of at a friend’s house, we were on our way. Now, I completely left the agenda and restaurant choice up to her, but to be honest, I did try to guide her to something a little more elegant than McDonalds. After significant discussion about the pros and cons of fast food, dine-in restaurants, and buffets, she solved our dilemma with one question: “Where can I get a hot dog?”
We ended up at Steak ‘n Shake.
This wasn’t what I had in mind. I’d have preferred someplace where I could have at least entertained the thought of a nutritionally balanced meal—if not for her, for myself. I wouldn’t call myself a whole foods freak, but after a breakfast of greek yogurt, fresh mango, and tea; a lunch of European multi-grain bread slathered in homemade hummus, cantaloupe, and a handful of raw almonds, my psyche wasn't exactly prepared for a double steak burger with a side of fries. But this was her choice. So we went.
Once we got there, she ended up picking the macaroni and cheese plate, baked beans and a chocolate-chip cookie dough milkshake. I resigned myself to a burger, arguing to my thighs and stomach that they shouldn’t hold it against me because I was doing it for the right reasons. I also promised them that I would feel guilty the whole time.
But the funny thing is that I didn’t.
I don’t know exactly when it happened, the moment when I let go of my food insecurities. Maybe it was when she asked me to help her with number #2 of the crossword puzzle on her place mat. (“What do you use to carry water and sand at the beach?—Mommy, I can’t figure it out--the word “pail” doesn’t fit. The word has to have a “U” for the second letter.) Or maybe it was when the waitress brought our food and she dove into her (obviously boxed) macaroni and cheese, declaring it the best thing she had ever tasted (“Oh, Mommy, you have to taste this *reaching across the table to put a forkful up to my mouth*—it’s just sooooo good!”)
But somewhere along the way, I decided to put aside my nutritional angst and receive that burger and fries with thanksgiving. Not because they were healthy for me, but because they enabled me to be with her. All that salt and fat and carbs—even those sips that I stole from her milkshake—allowed me to sit and experience joy with her. And in those moments, I finally understood how a simple prayer of thanksgiving can sanctify any food. Because although it wasn't what I would have chosen, it was good for me. And it tasted good too--like love and joy and blessing. So I savored each bite the same way she savored her institutional mac and cheese.
Because it was just sooooo good.
Mothering
It took me a while to figure this out, but I don’t think I’m alone in this. On Sunday, after I had fed, dressed, and dragged three children to church--only to have one of them wildly run down the hallway screaming “NOOOOO!!!!” as I tried to deposit him in the nursery--I found myself talking with two friends who are also mothers of young children. I asked what they had planned for the day and the first said she was hoping that the ground beef had thawed out because she was going home to make dinner; the other had a sick husband and child, was juggling two other children, and trying to figure out how to attend a family funeral over two hours away.
But no on seemed to care. None of us seemed put out that our Mother’s Day was spent mothering.
Don’t get me wrong—we were all tired. We would have loved to have had breakfast in bed, a spa retreat, or even the day to ourselves. But somewhere on the road to becoming the mothers we were, we had learned something. As wonderful as those things are, they really aren’t the point. You don’t mother to be praised, you don’t mother to be rewarded, you don’t mother for the recognition. You mother because you love.
But unlike common wisdom, this love doesn’t magically appear when you hold your first child. No, becoming a mother that loves happens incrementally, it happens through the sleepless nights, the temper tantrums (yours and theirs), and shared joys. It happens through the daily grind, from changing out winter wardrobes for spring, and extracting chewing gum from baby-fine hair. And through it all, motherhood changes you—in the sacrifices, you become braver and in the loving, you become kinder.
My sister-in-law and I were talking about this a couple days ago—we’ve been friends since college, friends before husbands, friends before children. So we’ve seen a lot of changes in each others lives, and we definitively, undeniably agreed that being a mother has been the most excruciating, most productive spiritual exercise either of us had ever experienced.
I think it's because mothering forces you to recognize things about yourself that you’d rather not have known: your helplessness, your inconsistency, you selfishness. All in one typical day, you discover that you can't make the fever break, you can’t make this child obey you, you are feeding them chicken nuggets while reading the blog post telling you how terrible chicken nuggets are, and you routinely think about all the things you’d rather be doing than cleaning up poop.
And in these moments, you have to cry out for something bigger and better than your own ability to be a “good’ mother. You have to cry out to Him. You have to find His strength and His patience and His love. You have to have His courage and His determination in order to parent like He does.
And that is what changes you. He changes you. He uses this temporary relationship with your children to produce eternal and lasting joy. He uses it to make us like Himself. So that in the end, I don’t know if I can guarantee my children will be better people because of my mothering. But I do know this—mothering them has made me a better one.
The Best Is Yet to Be
It takes everything in me to not jump up and scream at the top of my lungs, “You have no idea what you’re doing!”
I’m a great advocate of marriage (see here and here) but married life holds a lot of surprises. It’s much harder than it looks, some days it’s more struggle than gift, and just like war, no amount of boot camp can properly prepare you for what happens in the field. And that’s a good thing, because if we really knew what we were getting in to, few of us would. At the same time, I also find myself quietly smiling when a bride or groom says things like “Today I marry my best friend.” And again, all I can think--this time with a gentle confidence—is, “You have no idea.”
On my wedding day, I thought I was marrying my best friend. And in one sense, I did. There was no one I liked spending time with more, there was no one I had invested so much emotion in, and there was no one who knew me as well as he did. But when I look back on that friendship--as it was the day that we gave our vows to each other--it seems paltry and immature compared to the friendship that we have now. True, nearly eleven years ago, I married my best friend.
But today we are better best friends.
And it’s the kind of friendship that can only be gained through laundry and bills and moving boxes. It’s the kind of friendship that is strengthened by arguments and flourishes in reconciliation. A friendship says I still love you when you mess up—and better yet, I still like you. And ultimately it’s the kind of friendship that only comes from committing to live life together.
Fifty years from now, I’ll probably look back on my thirty-something self and laugh at even my current naïveté. Because by the time we reach that milestone, by the time we have grown old together, maybe I will have finally learned that even the best is yet to be. So to myself and all my newly and soon-to-be married friends, I have just this word of advice: you have no idea what you’re getting into.
Hallelujah, you have no idea.
Of Boys and Men (and Mothers Too)
Yesterday my youngest son turned 3.
Our Peter has lived these last three years the same way he came into the world--bold, loud, and larger than life. He’s the family clown willing to do anything for a laugh. He refuses to let his age or size leave him out of what the rest of us are doing. And at three, he already knows two-column addition… as long as the answer is always “69”.
Peter: Mommy, let’s do numbers. Mommy: Okay, Peter, what is 5+64? Peter: 69! Mommy: Good! What is 33+36? Peter: 69! Mommy: What is 27+42? Peter: 69!
I have to admit, it’s pretty rewarding for everyone involved.
And while these last three years have often been tumultuous for us as a family, our Peter has always been a source of joy and comfort. Even in those moments of colic and RSV, he has forced us to take our attention away from external pressures and focus on what really mattered. And in these last three years, he’s stolen my heart just like his older brother did.
There’s a bond between mothers and sons that’s hard to codify. The closest I can get is the memory of breaking down and crying the day after my first son was born nearly six years ago. Blame it on hormones if you like, but I felt a distinct desolation at looking down into those blue, blue eyes and realizing that one day he would love another woman more than he loved me.
Then there’s what happened just a couple days before Peter’s birthday. A close friend got news that her son’s platoon serving in Afghanistan had just lost two guys--her son was okay, but he lost two strong, brave friends. And two mothers lost their strong, brave sons. When I initially heard, my heart was heavy for them but it completely broke in two when Peter came rushing into the kitchen a few moments later to retrieve a toy car he and his brother wanted to play with. In the moments that followed, all I could do was stand my kitchen bawling and thinking how only twenty-odd years earlier those sons had probably been doing the same thing.
People often say that if women ruled the world there would be fewer wars. That somehow our love for our families and our ability to talk through a problem would supersede the testosterone-laden response of military involvement. Apparently those people didn’t go through junior high. But I think this sentiment misses something else as well.
Women already rule the world.
We rule the world every time we love and correct our children. We rule the world every day as we guide them to who they will one day become. We rule the world when we teach them to love others and fight to protect the weak. We rule the world right from inside our own walls. And that’s why despite the politics and the questions surrounding this current war—trust me, I have plenty—I’m grateful for these kinds of moms. I’m grateful for mothers who have raised their boys, not to go looking for a fight, but to have the courage and fortitude to stand their ground when the fight comes. Mothers who have raised their boys to serve and not simply to be served. Mothers who have raised their boys to sacrifice for the good of others. Even if that means losing themselves in the process.
I don’t know what God has planned for my boys— at a three-year-old birthday party, I like to imagine a bright, pain-free future full of joy and dreams fulfilled. But realistically, it’s probably not going to be that way. Probably throughout their lives there will be many times that a sword will pierce my heart too. Especially if I’ve done my job well. Because if by God’s grace, these boys become strong, good men, they will chose to sacrifice themselves--both in little and great ways--for the benefit of those around them. They will stand up for the weak and suffer because of it. And they will serve others, not because they are forced to, but because they understand that this is what real men do.
And then, if our boys grow up to be men like that, we will have changed the world.
Five Ways to Harm Your Husband by Being a “Good” Wife
This is not a new problem for us humans. Whether it’s yelling at our kids to be quiet or speeding down the highway to avoid being late to an appointment, we regularly--although often unintentionally--conduct our lives under the assumption that the end justifies the means. Wendy’s post also got me to thinking about how this kind of pragmatism can invade our relationships, specifically our marriages.
Is it possible that in our attempts to reach an ideal, in our progress toward becoming “good” wives and husbands, we could actually be harming each other? I think it’s more than possible; I think it’s very common. And like so many areas of Christian living, the danger is not so much in what we’re doing, as what’s happening in our hearts and revealed through the process of doing them. And while I can’t speak for the men, here some problematic tendencies I’ve observed among Christian women—they are simply things I’ve heard, things I’ve seen, and truthfully, things I’ve done myself at times.
Let’s just file them under: “It’s a bad thing when…
1) You encourage your husband to be a leader… the same way you encourage good behavior in your child or pet. Many women I know are not truly satisfied with their husbands, but they are “gracious” enough to give them time and space to develop. Much like they are gracious enough to give their children time and space to mature. While waiting, they offer false praise or over-praise them for small acts of kindness or what they consider to be “growth.” This is dangerous for two reasons: First, it is fundamentally condescending. And second, people know when you are not being truthful. What your husband learns is the same thing that any of us learn once we realize praise is false or overinflated: he learns that he cannot fully trust you or worse, that you didn’t think he was capable of success in the first place.
2) You heap massive expectations on your husband to be the god-figure in your home… and then are disappointed when he isn’t perfect. Perhaps worse than underestimating a husband’s potential is over-estimating it. When a wife looks to her husband to provide what only God can, she sets him up for failure. And there is nothing more damaging to a man’s spirit than failure—especially failing those he loves. When you expect him to be what he in his humanity simply cannot, you set a trap for him. He never even has a chance. Instead recognize who your husband is and who he is not: he is your fellow traveler, your fellow sinner on this road to glory. Celebrate his strengths; accept his limitations. And love him regardless.
3) You don’t disagree with him… because privately you don’t believe he can handle it. On the surface keeping quiet when you don’t like what someone else is doing can pass for deference when in reality it can be arrogance. Some women don’t disagree with their husbands simply because they don’t really believe he can handle it. They see his manhood as fragile, so much so that he is in constant danger of emasculation. The irony of this is that refusing to disagree with him has less to with respecting him than it does with feeling superior to him. Of course there are ways to engage in debate that can belittle and harm another person—but that’s true regardless of gender or marital status. In the long run, disagreeing with your husband (with kindness and a keen sense of timing) may be the best way to respect him because it says that you see them as the mature human being that he is.
4) You pray for your husband to be a better a) father, b) husband, c) leader, d) all of the above… and ask others to pray as well. Now of course, you should pray for your husband, but there are ways of praying that are actually harmful. (Just ask the Pharisee and the publican.) If you pray for your husband out of a heart of discontentment, you are fundamentally praying a prayer of judgment. You are telling God (and anyone else who is praying with you) that your husband does not meet your expectations, that he is not performing well enough, that he is a disappointment. Instead your prayers for your husband should be like Christ’s prayers for you – prayers of unconditional love, protection, affirmation, and support. They should be prayers directed toward what GOD is doing in his life, not where HE needs to pick up slack. If you are really struggling with a behavior or habit of his, love him enough to actually talk to him about it. Love him enough to engage him instead of whispering behind his back—even if it’s only to God.
5) You don’t confront him when he sins… and then taking it personally when he fails. While wives must accept that their husbands are human, they must also accept that God has providentially placed them alongside them as helpmeets in their struggles. Sometimes when a husband sins, his wife won’t approach him out of fear that doing so will somehow usurp his spiritual headship. And so instead of being the first line of defense against spiritual attack, she stands by and watches as her husband gets pummeled. Worse, she takes it personally and feels like he is somehow failing her. But our husbands are just as much flesh and blood as we are, and we are best their helpers when we actually…. help them. This is something of what Solomon was referring to in Ecclesiastes 4:
Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up... And if one can overpower him who is alone, two can resist him.
Ultimately, we have to remember that simply aiming to be a “good” wife will never accomplish all that God has ordained for us in marriage. It will never make us more unified, it will never make us more sanctified, it will never make us one. That road is a lot harder and there are simply no shortcuts. And it is a road we walk--one day at a time--through honest communication, unconditional love, and large doses of grace.
Spoiled Daughters
Big, brown, eager, expectant eyes. Eyes that melt a daddy’s heart.
Now, I wouldn’t say that my husband plays favorites, but that--just like any daddy who loves his daughter--he has a particular weakness toward her and those brown eyes. And she, as a result, has a particular confidence and boldness that comes, not from being spoiled, but from knowing his love.
This confidence is a beautifully engaging thing. She comes to him, climbs into his lap at no invitation, and draws him into her world of fairy princesses and delightful impossibilities. She knows no fear, no boundaries, no limits to his acceptance. And why should she? Isn’t this the man who comforts her, carries her on his strong shoulders, and works to fulfill her needs? Isn’t this the man who rescues her from bugs, big dogs, her brothers, and thunderstorms? Even his correction confirms that she belongs to him.
But I’ve seen others who do not have this confidence. Girls and women who are sometimes shy and awkward and other times angry and defensive--often an inscrutable mix of both. Women whose girlish eyes never moved their daddies’ hearts, whose pleading eyes made no difference, whose tears one day simply ran dry--emptied, drained, exhausted. Women who would give anything in the world to have the kind of eyes my daughter does.
But then maybe they do. Maybe we all do.
While it’s easy for us to focus on the roles we play, we must not forget that none of us ever became wife, sister, aunt, teacher, mother or confidante without first being a daughter.Without first being His daughter. I don’t mean this in a primarily academic, theological way. I mean it the way C.H. Spurgeon did when teased his wife Susannah after she had received something she had been secretly praying for. He said, “I think you are one of your Heavenly Father’s spoiled children, and He just gives you whatever you ask for.”
What if you could know, believe, and embrace that reality? The reality that the Father has drawn you to Himself, wrapped His arms around you, looked deeply into your eyes and said, “I love you.” That your Father has chosen you to be His daughter and has moved heaven and earth to make that a reality. That He is a good loving Father who can’t ignore your pleading eyes.
Few of us can imagine this. Fewer of us are crazy enough to believe it. But for those of us who do, this father-love births a deeply rooted, flourishing confidence that comes when you know you’re loved. It’s a confidence that lets you climb into your daddy’s lap uninvited and share your dreams. It’s a confidence that lets you pursue those dream with Him as your guide. And it’s a confidence that explodes when you realize that your daddy is as delighted in your fairy princess kingdom as you are.
Hometown Wisdom
In the end, the judge in the case, a dog lover himself who had brought his new Jack Russell puppy to court that day because he was “too young to be left alone;” decided to extend mercy to these delinquent canines on the grounds that they behaved themselves for the next year.
But Floyd’s also home to an earthier set and has been a gathering place for clean living, free loving, mystical creative-types for the last several decades. The town’s streets, once populated by professional offices, are now lined with alternative shops, art galleries, and music venues. And so one morning while we were there, my husband and I took advantage of that lovely phenomenon called “grandparents” to slip out to a local coffee house run by a high school classmate. It’s an unusual blend of rustic and groovy with the service and atmosphere as smooth as the coffee.
I was getting in touch with my inner seventies, when I strolled over to the bulletin board. Like the town, the notices were a mix of the practical (For Rent: 3br, 2 bath mobile home on 1 acre) and prophetic (Yoga classes, eastern remedies, and progressive schools).Then I saw it--stuck among the fliers and cards was an 8 ½ x11 sheet of paper typed with the simple words:
“Try forgiveness: renew somebody else, regain yourself.”
For some reason, placed as it was alongside an advertisement for meditation classes, I got the sense that it hadn’t been posted by the local Baptist church.
Still, as I read it, something about the power of forgiveness rang true and I couldn’t help but recognize that all of us—no matter what creed or background—long for the certainty that our wrongs have been made right. It’s a drive so deep, so fundamental, so human that we can’t be at peace until the person we’ve wronged sets us free. And the need to forgive is so equally powerful that if we don’t, we end up enslaving ourselves.
Left at that, few of us would argue. From AA to the local synagogue, we all acknowledge that bitterness over past wrongs can consume us and turn us into one dimensional people, ever driven, ever absorbed by them. But is that enough? Is it enough to embrace the power of forgiveness, to know that it is worth pursuing? Is it that we need to be convinced of its value--or is it that we need to be empowered to actually forgive? Because the reality is, how am I--a broken person herself in need of renewal--going to find the inner strength to forgive another broken person also in need of renewal?
It has to start someplace other than me.
And this is where Christianity turns all other philosophy on its head. While other religions may express truth (see above), Christianity says that Christ Himself is Truth, that His life and death embody it all. So when it comes to forgiveness, it is His perfect life and self-less death that renews us, releases us, and enables us to do the same for others. It is His forgiveness that makes all other forgiveness possible. It is through Him that we are no longer defined by sin, and it is through Him that we are new and we are free.
So yes, by all means, please take the advice of a flier in a hippie coffee shop: do “try” forgiveness because really, there is life-changing power in it, just like there is deep magic in redemption. But know this—hope in this—because it doesn’t start with us, it won’t end with us either.
Love and Marriage (without the Horse and Carriage)
My husband and I were having coffee with friends, sharing our spiritual highs and lows of the previous week when he saw the warning signs. It was subtle: a rise of my shoulders, an intake of air, leaning forward, my mouth beginning to open, and he knew. He knew what I was thinking and what I was about to say. He knew that I was prepping myself to be argumentative and to say something unnecessarily controversial.
So he nudged me under the table. Just once.
In full disclosure, we’re not the stereotypical conservative couple—we simply don’t fit the personality paradigm. He’s type B; I’m type A. He’s quiet; I’m outspoken. He actually enjoys cleaning and after ten years, I think I finally believe him. (He says he likes bringing order to chaos, which on further reflection shines significant light on why he fell for me in the first place.) But there in that moment when he expressed his disapproval with the slightest nudge of his big toe, I immediately stopped.
Most conservatives would hail this as a great victory, that this is exactly how marriages should function. Husband directs, wife obeys. But I have to admit, my response to him in that moment had little to do with an immediate understanding of headship and hierarchy. It wasn’t mapped out by a complementarian flow-chart. It wasn’t because of a role.
It was because I love him.
Over the last couple of decades, there’s been a strong push to recover a Biblical understanding of roles in marriage. But somewhere on that path, we’ve started taking short-cuts. Short-cuts around the gospel and right into legalism. And these short cuts have led us to think that obedience to the roles, that our ability to have perfect families and properly ordered homes, will show Christ to the world. So we end up talking more about paradigms and less about people, more about rules and less about Spirit.
Maybe it’s time we remembered what it’s all about in the first place. The truth is that we were never made for roles; we were made for relationships. And just as Christ had to remind the first-century Jews that man was not made for the Sabbath but the Sabbath for man, we have to remember that marriage was not made for roles but roles for the benefit of the marriage. That the relationship, the one flesh unity, the loving communion is what is of greatest significance. That this, the love we have for one another, is what will show the world that we are His disciples.
And if you think about it, the differences in marriage are one of the greatest opportunities to do just that. Because here you have two sinful human beings--so diverse that even their molecular composition is different--who must learn to live in loving, daily communion. Not temporarily, but for a lifetime. And we learn that as we fail each other, as we selfishly demand our own way, and as we run to Christ for mercy. For only there do we experience true love and only there will we learn to extend that same love to each other. We will never learn it by simply conforming to roles.
So in that moment, when my husband nudged me, my deferring to him had less to do with performing my role as his wife than it did with loving him already. And quite frankly, why would I have done anything else? Why would I have chosen to barge ahead knowing that the man I loved didn’t want me to? Why would I have insisted on my own way when I knew it would make him uncomfortable? What wisdom, what convoluted sense of liberation would have led me to do something that he thought was unwise?
And so I didn’t.
As quickly as he had understood what I as about to do, I understood his objection. We looked each other in the eye and smiled that knowing smile that comes only from living and loving together. I settled back into my chair and comfortably nestled my head against his shoulder as if to tell him, “Yes, dear, of course I won’t.”
Stormy Weather
A lot of it has to do with the weather. The official forecast is a high of 52 degrees with steady rain showers throughout the day.
And the delicious truth is that I. love. it. I love bad weather—from dreary, damp, bone-chilling days to flash summer thunderstorms to fierce nor’easters that blanket the countryside white---I revel in them all.
I think it’s mostly because bad weather has the remarkable ability to force us slow down, to be still, to rest. And true, not everyone has the luxury of staying in today; my own husband had to head out to work this morning, and as he did called out over his shoulder, “Hey, do we own an umbrella?” (yes, we’re that sort of family). But for the rest of us, bad weather interrupts our plans and forces us to remember Who’s really in charge. Almost as if God Himself were saying, “For heaven’s sake, would you just please slow down? Would you just please be still? Would you just trust ME to take care of things for a bit?”
So in the slug and the slosh of muddy, drizzling days, I’m happy to let Him. And will always consider them one of His finest gifts.
The Favorite Child
Today is the last day of the first week of school for my daughter. And while it’s been a successful first week, it’s not been without its challenges. Truthfully it’s been an adjustment for all of us. We’d been homeschooling for the last two years and a lot of our family rhythms were built around that. But with changing family dynamics, new opportunities, and a budding social personality, it was clear that, at least for now, it was time for her to head to second grade in a traditional setting.
...and neither are these.
And suddenly, just like my five-year-old in the absence of an older sister to compete with, I was at peace, calm and content. There was no need to fight, there was no need to agitate, and there was no need to try to get my Father’s attention.
I already had it.
I’m sure that as my son matures and begins to understand our love and God’s love for him, there’ll be less and less rivalry with his sister. In turn, he himself will be able to love her more fully. But until then, I’m just going to enjoy these fleeting years and do my best to make sure that each of my children at least thinks he's the favorite.
Tell Me What You Did
My father is not a violent or angry man; he is excruciatingly patient and self-possessed. Unlike many fathers, he never roared, strutted, or flaunted his authority. He didn’t yell or belittle me. When I failed, he didn’t condemn.In fact, my most uncomfortable childhood memories are of sitting across from him after he had caught me doing something I shouldn’t have. Silent, he would simply look at me. My conscience, on the other hand, would be screaming, Just punish me – get it over with! But I dare not say anything either. One thing I had learned through these encounters was to keep my mouth shut. Talking only got me into trouble.
He would break the silence after several minutes by simply saying “Tell me what you did.”
This was my cue. Predictably I began with “I didn’t do anything.” Then I’d confidently rehearse my version of events and, more often than not, conclude with an out-right lie. He’d listen, sit silently for another few minutes, and then simply repeat “Tell me what you did.”
So for a second time, I’d tell my story, perhaps revise a few facts, and add a detail of truth, hoping to convince him. But he was too smart for that. He’d listen and again merely say, “Tell me what you did.” Usually, by this point I’d begin to get frustrated. Was he deaf? I’d just told him twice what had happened. What more could I say? This was getting us nowhere. But I had no choice, so I’d repeat my hopeless excuse for a third time.
And still all he would say was “Tell me what you did.”
Quickly frustration would turn to anger. How dare he sit there so passively, so silently! If he doesn’t believe me, he should at least say so, get angry, and threaten me. We both know I’m guilty; we both know I deserve to be punished -- why doesn’t he just do something! I don’t remember how long we would sit there, him listening patiently while I talked myself in circles, but I do remember that the truth always cycled its way out of the lie--sometimes purposefully, often not--and eventually my own lips would condemn me.
Then--and only then--would my father speak.
And while he would speak words of correction and discipline, my quiet father mostly spoke of his own past failures and of forgiveness. Of forgiveness that until then I hadn’t even realized I needed. This was the power of my father’s gentle self-possession--his patience forced me to wrestle with my own guilt, and in doing so, prepared me to receive mercy that I couldn't have only moments before.
I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t the same with our heavenly Father.
We often expect Him to deal with our sin immediately—to rant and rave and hurl down condemnation—only to find that He is longsuffering and patient. He calmly waits and uses many different means to allow us to come face to face with our guilt. And once we’ve worked through our reserve of excuses, when they are finally depleted and we finally realize that we need Him, He stands ready to overwhelm us with grace and forgiveness.
Today with my own children, I usually fail to mirror my father’s composure. More often, I become angry and accusing. But even in those times, when I need it most, I remember how both my fathers have treated me, and I simply hear a voice saying “Tell me what you did.”
Hideko
But before she was my aunt, she was Hideko.
Born on a small island in the Pacific, she was a toddler when WWII invaded her tropical home and turned it into a major battlefield of the war. To escape the firestorm, her family and neighbors fled to isolated caves where provisions and medical care were scarce. When she contracted an infection, there was nothing to do but move her to a separate part of the cave, administer meager doses of black-market drugs, and endure the shunning of the other refugees.
She survived and eventually the war ended. But the lush paradise she once knew had been destroyed and rebuilt and repopulated by US military bases with an ever revolving collection of American GIs. By her early twenties, she had adapted to this new normal and caught the eye of a young Marine far from his home in rural Pennsylvania. One whirlwind romance later, they were married and welcoming a daughter with the same dark eyes and black hair as her mother. Eventually he was discharged and hoping to find a quiet life as a family, they left her Pacific paradise for his home in the States
But what she found there were the wintry hills of Pennsylvania, trees stripped naked of all green life, fields of mud crusted with ice, and skies that never cleared but forever changed from gray to black to gray again. Instead of pots of rice and freshly caught fish, she found rice mixed with greasy ground meats wrapped in boiled cabbage leaves. Fish was strange frozen rectangle coated in yellow batter and plunged in hot oil. And yet, she blossomed. She soon had a son and despite her limited English, quickly learned to navigate the continuous cycle of doctor’s visits, bus schedules, PTA meetings, and after-school practices. She became a faithful member of a church, mastered the pot-luck, and saw her husband become a deacon.
All this, seven thousand miles from where she had been born.
After her death, my uncle confessed his misgivings about bringing his bride to such a foreign place. Early in their marriage, he had opened a bank account in her name and deposited $1,800 in it. He told her that if she ever found her new life too overwhelming, too lonely, or if she simply wanted to return to her family, she was to use the money and go.
She never did.
Instead she stayed and chose to be part of our family. She left her own mother, father, brothers, and sisters and embraced her husband’s mother, father, brothers, and sisters. She left her own nieces and nephews and embraced me and my cousins. She traded life on a Pacific island for life in rural America with the man she loved. Growing up, it seemed pretty unremarkable to me that Hideko was my uncle’s wife, my aunt.
Today it does not.
Fears Within
Of course after several weeks of this, my justifiable fears, kicked in. Had he had a bad experience recently? Was he fearful of someone in particular? Had he been harmed and we didn’t know it? So one day, after yet another battle to enter a crowded room, my husband and I decided to talk with him, our own hearts equally terrified by what he might tell us.
The conversation went something like this:
Why didn’t you want to go into the room, honey?
There might be a bad guy in there.
*sharp fear, remain calm*
Well… what would he look like?
I don’t know. Big.
*more fear, this time accompanied by stomach churning*
Have you ever seen a bad guy in that room before?
No. But he might be there.
*yep, still fear, breathe deeply*
What would this bad guy do if he was there… (*small voice* ) would he hurt you?
No, he would steal the money and run away.
*?!?! what?!!?!*
The money?
Yeah, like on Superman. Are we done? Can I go play the Wii?
So for now, we’re putting away the Batman and the Superman and the video games until his overachieving imagination can distinguish between fantasy and reality.
But all this has only reminded me how powerfully controlling fear is. How it can paralyze us and make even the most everyday occurrences absolutely terrifying. How, in a very real way, we can get sucked into a vortex of emotion and possibility and even begin to fear fear itself. And as if our own minds weren’t predatory enough, how other people can manipulate our fears and use them to intimidate and oppress us.
Each one of us has our own set of “bad guys in the room.” For me, it’s worrying whether my children will grow up well, whether we’ll ever settle down in one place, whether people will like and approve of me. Some days I’m the courageous warrior leading her small army onto victory; other days I just want to hide behind my mother and retreat from the world.
And when I let my fears dictate my choices, I end up doing just that – retreating from situations that are uncomfortable, from people I don’t know, and from opportunities that are uncertain. I end up retreating from life in all its glorious, messy complexity. And in the end, I teach my children to do the same.
But I’m also discovering that there is something tremendously empowering, something unexpectedly emboldening about faith. Because when you believe that there is a God in heaven, there is purpose and meaning to this life, and there is joy in loving other people, suddenly instead of retreating from the world, you can take it on. When you believe that all things work together for good, that He has plans for your future, and that He loves you with an everlasting love, you can risk finding out what that future is.
And when you believe that He is the everlasting, almighty, just judge of the universe, you realize that even if there are bad guys in the room, they won’t be there for long.