Where We Stand

When Violet wakes up in the middle of the night, she doesn’t waste any time testing the waters.  She goes from sound asleep to full-blown “I’m HUNGRY!  WHERE-ON-EARTH-ARE-YOU-WHY-ARE-YOU-TAKING-SO-LONG?????” screams in a matter of seconds.  I get it.  When you’re only nine months old, the 45 seconds it takes your mom to roll out of bed, stub her toe on the dresser, lose her balance and bump into the door frame, and finally get to your crib seem like they might be an eternity.  But I love her dearly and I know she’ll be OK until I get there; I feed her at regular intervals all day long, and she is truly OK for a few minutes at night.  (In fact, I worry more about her brothers and her dad, who get to wake up to her screaming as well.)  There’s a profound difference between what I know and what she feels, and I don’t want her to feel scared or abandoned. I try to call out to her, to reassure her that I’m on my way.  Sometimes it just takes a minute of preparation to make sure she has a relaxed and comfortable nighttime feeding. 

                Frankly, the boys are the same way.  Eli followed me around for twenty minutes last night, begging me to open his kids’ meal toy.  “Toy, Mommy.  Mommy, my toy.  Mommy, are you going to open my toy?  MOMMMY!  DO YOU HEAR ME?”  I heard you the first time dear.  And every one of the next thirty-seven times.  But there are things that have to happen before you get that toy. Sometimes I am so impatient with their impatience, but I’m no different, really.  I walked away from teaching in January.  I had big hopes and big expectations; frankly, I knew some miracles had to happen in order for my husband to agree to making this change permanent.  Those miracles have yet to happen.  In fact, they seem more impossible than ever.  While we’ve both (sort of, depending on the night) agreed that I really need to stay at home, the nitty gritty of that just doesn’t seem possible. 

                I can’t help but feel abandoned.  Our savings will be gone by the time school starts in August.  The promotions James was hoping for just keep getting pushed back: now they’re saying August and/or October.  Starting a writing business is a full-time job, it turns out, and lately the voice of reason has been loud and clear that I am not qualified to do it.  My husband doesn’t believe in me either.  “You want to be a writer?  What?  Should I just quit my job to be an actor?”  My resume on Monster turns out no leads, my networking has taken me to wonderful people, but nothing has panned out.  July 10 is fast approaching, and I feel like I should let my school district know if I’m leaving or not by that point.  The reality of paying a nanny and even finding one that can fit with our family seems impossible, and frankly, the thought of going back to teaching makes me a sort of sad that’s all wrapped up in despair and anger.  For me, it is bigger than the unhealthy schedule and missing out on my kids; it comes down to whether I heard God right and whether I can trust Him.  I can’t help but question whether I did something wrong.  Am I not working hard enough?  Am I not being obedient?  What am I supposed to do next?

                Discouragement is not a strong enough word.  I constantly feel the lump tightening in my throat and the tears welling in my eyes.  My soul is downcast within me, and there is no hope.  The promises in the word, the praises I’ve sung, seem to return to me void. 

                If God is the sort of parent I would like to be, I know he is working in ways I can’t see.  He’s getting everything just right.  It’s just been a long time since I got any sort of sign or promise that I’m taking the right steps, and I’m starting to think that I’m not.  And human ways have deadlines, and bank accounts have balances, and bills have to be paid, and husbands do not believe.  I feel like I’m asking for the same thing over and over and my prayers are either bouncing off the ceiling or maybe God is stubbing his toe.  Either way, it isn’t very encouraging. I'm not even sure why I share this, expect that maybe I hope God will show up and I'll be able to point to this, to where we were before.  I hope.

What Remains

          On Father’s Day 2009, I wrapped up a shirt from Eddie Bauer and a Hallmark book about grandparents with the inscription “Baby Simon due February 13, 2010” inside the front cover.  My dad pulled out the book and stared at it.  And my mom stared at it.  There was a moment of total confusion and then realization lit up their faces.  “February 13.”  My dad smiled.  “That’s almost my birthday.”  His reaction was quiet because my dad was quiet.  My husband asked me later if I thought he was happy about the news at all.  “Oh, he’s happy,” I told him.  “My dad doesn’t squeal or jump or scream, but that doesn’t make him any less elated.  He loves babies, and it is finally his turn to be a grandpa.”  When I called a few months later to tell him that baby was a boy, his enthusiasm seemed a little more tempered.  I wonder now if he had some inkling of what was coming. '

On Father’s Day 2010, I brought my four-month-old Eli to a small country cemetery outside Enon, OH because it was the closest I could get to introducing him to his grandpa.  My dad died from an aggressive form of leukemia just four weeks before his first grandchild was born.  I haven’t been back to the cemetery since, and not just because it takes almost two hours to drive there.  Sometimes I feel a little sheepish because it seems like a good daughter should honor her father by visiting his remains.  But as years have crept by and my own little family has grown, I’ve come to realize that what remains of my dad on earth isn’t contained in that plot of dirt.  Let me tell you where it is.

               

              First and foremost, there’s these three faces.  Yes, they look a lot like their dad, but I can find the McLaughlin genes in there, too.  Eli inherited his grandpa’s name, his love for running, and apparently his clumsiness, too.  And all of his orneriness.  My dad, a relentless prankster, used to hide things when we visited other people’s houses.  He hid a dinner roll on top of my aunt’s ceiling fan one Thanksgiving; when she found it around Easter, it took her some time to figure out what it had once been, but she knew exactly who to blame.  Through the years, my grandma’s picture frames were turned sideways and upside down, an empty Mountain Dew bottle hid in one of her fake plants for several weeks, and once, I opened my lunch at school to find a cicada shell staring up at me.  (I handled that well.  Or not.)  So when I returned to teaching after spring break, just after Eli had turned a year old, and discovered ants swarming the computer bag I’d put on the floor, I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Further investigation revealed that Eli had “hidden” a banana in the front pocket, probably sometime before spring break.  The banana and the computer bag were considerably past caring.  I could almost hear my dad laughing.  Like grandpa, like grandson, right?  Dad’s pranks were always the right kind: they made us laugh and they made us feel loved.  I’m so glad to see his humor in my own kids.

                Other men like to fish, hunt, and play golf.  My dad liked to garden, and he did it with all the enthusiasm our suburban yard could handle.  His garden was larger than my first house, and it yielded enough to feed an entire neighborhood.  Once, a friend dropped me off after swim team practice and was shocked to see tomatoes lining the whole driveway, piled in produce baskets and laundry baskets and anything else that could hold them.  “What is he going to do with all of those tomatoes?” my friend asked.   

“He’ll can lots of juice and lots of sauce.  And he’ll give a bunch away,” I replied.  My friend went home with a bushel of tomatoes.  Years later when dad tilled the ground and staked the fence and helped me plan my own first garden, he didn’t bat an eye when I planted fourteen tomato plants. (Those of you who garden just gasped.) It turns out that a single girl cannot possibly eat that many tomatoes, no matter how creative she is in the kitchen.  So I gave them away.   My dad taught me to always go overboard so you have something to share, and not just with tomatoes.  Through the years, he and my mom were faithful to quietly help families, friends, and organizations in need, even when that meant going without the flashy lifestyle their peers enjoyed.  I noticed.  And I learned.  His green thumb (or maybe his creativity in combating garden pests) might have skipped me, but I know how to live a generous life.

My dad never failed to sacrifice for my well-being.  He got up early and stayed up (sort of) late.  He spent days of his life working as a volunteer referee at my swim meets just to be a part of something I cared about.  If my computer broke in college, he was there that day.  He supported me when I wanted to switch schools, even though it meant taking some heat from his peers.  If I’d let him be there, he was there.  And when I let him down (I’d tell you about my freshman year of college, but you don’t want to know) he didn’t hold his sacrifice over my head.  He gave me grace and a second chance, and ultimately I pulled myself together because I didn’t want to disappoint him.  He rarely yelled, but he didn’t need to.  His disappointment was my worst punishment.  He gave me the start to the life I have, and he modeled a healthy parent/child relationship for me.  His example is present on my best parenting days, and it spurs me on during my worst. 

It has been five Father’s Days without my dad now, and I’m finally mulling the possibility of taking the kids to his grave.  But thank goodness, that is only a marker.  What remains of my precious dad is alive and well in the legacy he left on this earth.  I am blessed to be called his daughter. 

What If?

I just can't figure it out.  Do I need to work harder or wait for God to show up?  How can He give us rest and ask us to 'go forth' at the same time?  Is nothing opening up for our family because I'm on the wrong path or because God is busy working behind the scenes?
I'm exhausted.  I'm frustrated.  I'm discouraged.  I'm lost.
This dichotomy.  What is from God and what comes from the world?
What is my next step?
What if I'm too tired to take it?

Black Cats

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.”                                            1 Timothy 1:7

                Four thirty-six years now, fear has been a strong underlying current in my life.  It kept me up at night as a kid, it transformed movies into nightmares, it kept me at home when I wanted to go out, it nearly shut down my college search, it paralyzed my choice of professions.  It made me less than in everything I did.  I am afraid of tornadoes.  Spiders.  Losing someone I love dearly.  Failing.  Financial disaster.  Car accidents.  Seeing my children suffer.  Embarrassment.  Job losses. Being wrong.  Lightning.  Carbon Monoxide.  Fire.  I could keep going.  You get the point.

                Perhaps the greatest stronghold of fear in my life is my faith.  I am constantly afraid of being let down.  I’m afraid that if I step out in faith, God will yank the net out from underneath me.  I hear God saying that he loves me, but I’m afraid I’m wrong.

                On my way home from work today, a huge black cat bounded across the road in front of me, and fear fought up from my chest into my throat.  The same thing happened shortly after my dad was diagnosed with cancer, and we all know how that turned out.  I wouldn’t call myself superstitious; my rational mind says I am being ridiculous, that the world of a believer is not ruled by old wives’ tales, but still.  Black cat + car = fear.  Today, as fear fought upward, the words in 1 Timothy came to mind.  God did not give us a spirit of fear.  So that spirit of fear I’m feeling?  It’s not from God.  I fought that spirit of fear today and I prayed.  Prayed for God to show me He is greater than a superstition.  For His protection.  For his power.

                Then I got to thinking about the fears that are keeping me up at night.  First, there’s the whole how are we going to pay our bills if I quit my job?  fear.  That one seems pretty legitimate, but surely if God is leading me this way, He has a plan, right?  But what if He doesn’t?  It surely hasn’t shown up yet. There’s the fear that I’ll immediately regret my decision if I quit.  Or that I’ll regret it in twenty years.  There’s the fear that James will not be happy if I’m not working full time.  Or that he won’t be able to respect the work that I do.  (Totally rational, that one, because it is rooted in experience.)   Or that we’ll have a major financial need and it will cripple us forever.  I am truly legitimately worried that I will end up destitute, talking about how I had it all and I made the wrong decision. 

                Fear tells me that the moment I resign my job, James will lose his.  And what then?  We’ve always had my job to rely on, even if it killed me.  Fear tells me to hold onto the bird in hand; it is logical, I’ve worked a long time to be where I am, and why would I give it up?  Fear says James will find someone younger, skinnier, and with more energy and then I’ll be the fool who trusted him.  Fear tells me we’ll never take another vacation, and I’ll never get to buy clothes that fit, that the dangerous railing on the back porch will never get fixed, and that the rotting siding will just keep rotting.  We need my contribution to the finances to keep this old boat floating.  The bottom line is this: I believe God has called me to step away from my profession and focus on building into our family and a writing career.  But I’m afraid I’m wrong.  The only thing binding me to my old job is fear.  Not desire.  Not passion.  Not conviction.  Fear.  And God did not give us a spirit of fear.

On Bumble Bees and Poop

Five minutes after I sent them outside, I was summoned to the family room because “Mommy, we really need you.”  I doubted that, and the laundry and dishes aren’t doing themselves, but I went. 

                “Mommy, there’s bumble bees out here, and they are HUGE.”  Eli opened his arms to show me that bumble bees are, in fact, two feet long.

                “Just ignore them, sweet pea.  They don’t want to hurt you.”

                “But they tried to sting us!  They have a stinger.” 

                “Bumble bees don’s sting us, honey.  They look scary, but they can’t do much.”

                Caleb chimed in.  “But the wittle ones can sting us.  And the bumble bees, they….they…they poop on our heads.”  He gestured toward the top of his head with such sincerity, I wanted to believe him.  After all, something so big and awful must do something equally awful. 

                “No, buddy, they don’t poop on your head—“

                “But one pooped on MY head!”  Eli interrupted.

                “Where?  I demand that you show me.”  Surprisingly, no evidence was to be found.  “It is a gorgeous day, and you are going to miss it worrying about bumble bees.  Go.  Play.  Enjoy.  Get dirty.  If you see a bumble bee, run.  It’ll be good exercise.  But don’t come inside.”

                (If you see a snake, however, let’s chat.  Some things are worth missing pretty days for.)

                I wonder, what are my bumblebees?  What keeps me from enjoying the joy God has given me because it looks just big and scary enough to ruin everything?  What does it mean for me to soar in the swing and fly down the slide and let the bumble bee do its thing?  I wonder.

Because We Can

Lately, I've been spending most of my writing time on pieces for the Cincinnati Moms Blog.  If you're a mom (or a grandma), please check it out!  There are some talented writers offering perspective, advice, and helpful tips.  Check out my most recent post here.

Musing

Our physical and mental health is clearly entwined, and I would go so far as to say our spiritual lives factor in as well. This year, I just seem to get more and more exhausted.  It is all I can do to put away laundry or get dressed or go for a walk.  It isn't laziness; it is all-over mind-numbing fatigue.  I almost fell asleep in church today; I haven't done that in years.  Of course I realize that getting up with the kids 7-10 times a night factors in, but something else occurred to me while I was doing the dishes after church.  The first time fatigue took over my life was my senior year of high school.  I was a coming off my most successful swimming season ever, and suddenly I couldn't get out of bed.  I ran fevers frequently, and sometimes slept twenty hours a day.  Blood test after blood test found nothing; the vague diagnosis was Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  Finally, after battling the inevitable for a semester (and spending a lot of my parents money), I quit swimming.  You know.  My first love.  Walked away.  And I started to feel better; holding on to that thing I needed to let go of had sapped my spirit and my energy.  With my time and my life opening up, God began to pour new good things into me: some permanent, some for a season.  I hadn't been able to imagine my life without my sport, but when I found it, it was amazing.  And healthy.

Fast forward to my junior year of college.  Same fatigue.  Same sickness.  Crippling depression.  An uneasy knot rolling around in my stomach.  I don't remember a whole lot, so extreme was my overload.  I was leading Young Life...doing undeniably good work.  And finally, after many semesters of bad news, I was figuring out my academic calling.  But that nudge was there; I confessed to my mentor that I felt like God was saying Young Life was not my place anymore.  I wanted it to be my place, but I couldn't shake the feeling.  She cried too, said she hated to lose me, and then gave me the grace to walk away.  I felt so empty; again, Young Life was my whole life.  It was the good in me.  And it was gone.  And again, life opened up.  God gave me new experiences and new perspectives, and the following year He showed me how teaching could be my new path.  I was blessed.

Several years later, I was dating a guy.  A good guy.  The sort of guy there was no good reason to break up with.  He wanted to get married.  So did I, although I now realize I wanted to get married, but not to him.  The feeling returned.  My body would tingle.  My heart would race.  A panic attack put me in the hospital.  I was tired all the time again.  I found another counselor for my anxiety and depression.  I almost broke up with him, but logic spoke too loudly.  God gave me women who told me about failed first marriages, who spoke of walking down the aisle thinking they were making the worst mistake of their lives.  One told me point blank: "If your heart is making you this unsettled, you need to get yourself out, girl."  Still, I stayed in that relationship for TWO YEARS before I let it go.  Two years of emotional anguish, and then a painful break-up when he finally realized the same thing I'd been feeling all along.  The emptiness gutted me again.   Who was I?  How could I start over?  It turns out starting over was healthy, and energizing, and God met me there in ways I never expected.  A little over a year later, I had a new home and a new marriage and a new path in life.

Which brings me to now, and this depression/exhaustion/stress THING that has me in knots.  Again.  Looking back on my past experience, there are a few things that stand out.  One is that I had to let something go before I had space for something new.  And I didn't let it go gracefully.  Ever.  My situation now is much harder because there are five people involved, and I can't walk away from more than half our income without my husband being enthusiastically on board.  So I am waiting for that and praying for that, but I'm not brave enough to step out without him.

Also, the thing I've had to give up has always been, on the surface, a good thing.  A good sport.  A good volunteer organization.  A good guy.  None of those were bad things, but they weren't good for me anymore.  God's purposing for all of us is unique, and just because I see other people thriving doesn't mean I have to thrive the same way.  Teaching has been a good fit for me for many years.  I did a lot of good in the classroom, but that doesn't mean God wants me to stay there for fifteen more years.

Finally, there were almost always two stressor points, and I once I let go of the right thing, the other stressor fell into line.  When I let go of Young Life, school was a source of joy and not stress.  When I let go of Trevor, teaching became something I excelled at.  What does that mean now?  Will letting go of my job help iron out the wrinkles in our marriage?  Because our marriage is the biggest reason I'm afraid to let go of teaching.

I think I know what I need to do.  What I will ultimately do.  I just don't know how to get from here to there.