Sojourner

The process of adjusting here has been a lot more complex and prolonged than I expected. During the first six months or so, I was mostly taken by all this area has to offer and the thrill of finally having settled, but this past month, I’ve been consumed more by what I would call adaptation fatigue and situational dysthymia. The logistical hurdles, the flush of introductions, the initial wonder at available resources have passed, and now I am faced with day-to-day life in a place where I don’t quite feel like I belong yet. I feel oddly tired of introducing myself to new people, of forever putting myself out there without feeling truly understood. I feel blanketed at times with a heavy sense of loneliness or displacement. I find myself withdrawing or becoming easily judgmental of others.

Part of the challenge is finding sufficient space to process this all, I’m finding. Space to breathe in it. I’m constantly on the verge of burn-out from childcare: to my bitter discovery, living near my parents in Virginia meant not only more breaks from childcare than I had fully realized, but also a level of support in the practical and spiritual parenting of our kids that I now shoulder largely on my own. Secondly, this process has been different for me than for Dave, who is a native returning to his closest friends—it is still a process for him, but instead of naturally bringing us together, it tends to bring out our differences, in values, personality and upbringing. Lastly, if possible I tend to disregard my emotions in favor of function and appearances; in reality, I haven’t chosen to give my emotions space as much as felt, rather frustratingly, that I can’t escape them.

In this space, there are two truths that are seeping into my consciousness. One, we will always be creatures who long to belong and are shaped by where we live. I thought before the move, “well, places are less important to me than to Dave; I care more about just being settled inside our own home”—but the reality is, while it’s true that I never wanted to live in Virginia forever and don’t necessarily want to move back now, I am apparently very much a product of the culture in which I have lived most of my life. This is inescapable. I am adapting in superficially functional ways—I now expect bikers and pedestrians at every stop sign, only “landfill” if it can’t be composted or recycled, own yoga pants and hiking sneakers, have upgraded Mac products, can push my way through the constant crowds of Asians at Costco—but in deeper ways I still feel like I’m swimming against the tide. I choose following Jesus over ideologies that value self-determinism, personal freedom or total inclusivity above all else. I tend to feel that chinos or jeans equal casual wear. I value common civility, maybe even a tad of Southern gentility, in public. I feel wary of the pervasive stress and busyness, the sense that success can be maneuvered into with the right kinds of programs and activities.

So I am more of a southern Virginian than perhaps I had appreciated, and it is no wonder that I feel more displaced than I had anticipated. There is a kind of grieving that must happen, a kind of loneliness that must be walked through, a kind of reconstruction of self that must grow out of this space. I don’t want to lose some of the good things about growing up and starting my family in the south, but I want to be willing to be challenged in some of it. I don’t want to lose sight of some of the more insular aspects of this place or take too much for granted. More than anything, I need to stay humble in all of it, not to fall into disengagement or judgement, so that I can receive what I need to grow how I need. I suppose any major life change—a death, a loss of relationship, a change in life stage—is like this.

Second, in this space I feel more keenly aware of the truth that I will never fully belong. Not really, not anywhere. Reading through chunks of the early Old Testament, I see a sweeping pilgrim narrative. Why did God choose his people, only to ask them constantly to leave—Abraham from his hometown, the people from their lands for Egypt, then from Egypt for the wilderness? Throughout the law, God values the sojourner: don’t forget, he says, that you wandered in tents; provide for the outsider because you once were one too. Remember that your forever-home is ultimately not here. The narrative is not of earthly belonging as much as God’s presence in the journey. There was never Eden again, but there was the cloud, there was the tent, there was the temple, there was Jesus, there is the Holy Spirit. The deepest part of me will always be sojourning, but it will always be with God present.

There is the temptation, particularly at this stage of our lives when we’re looking to settle in houses, kids, cars, jobs, geographies, to look to all that for belonging, but this instead is the truth which one day catches up to us all. We are sojourners. Life is full of goodbyes, and nothing we have do we grasp too tightly. Maybe one day I will feel like I completely belong here—maybe I never will. I don’t know. But in the not-yet, to be sustained by the I-Am: this is what it means to walk in this space.

Deep Friendships

I’ve been thinking lately about what it takes to make a deep friend. I don’t mean the kind of person you wave at in the school yard, or schedule the occasional coffee date with, or even have the rare long conversation over dinner with. I mean someone who checks in regularly to see how you are doing, who walks through your deepest struggles with you, who you can call if you really need to. Someone who will make their calendar open for you and for whom you would do the same. A keep-for-life friend.

Why are those so hard to find? I think for most people, those friends are born in the high school and college years, when it’s so easy to linger and live daily life together, to process formative experiences together—certainly that’s true for Dave. I really didn’t prioritize relationships at that stage in life, though, so most of my discovering deep community has come post-college. And that stage, the friends-after-thirty stage, is challenging. Relationships are transient with moves for school, training, early career development. Getting married and having kids is a threat on several levels: you have less time and energy for friendships at various stages of marriage and parenthood; the dynamic between your friend and your spouse has to be okay; and it can be harder to maintain friendships across different stages of life.

You enter a stage where deep friendships are more important than ever, yet are harder to find than ever. Sometimes it feels like friend-dating, gauging how much energy and time to invest into a potentially deeper friendship. Maybe first a coffee date, then a dinner date, then go over to each others’ houses? Is meeting with this person worth paying for childcare? Does this person communicate best by phone, text, email, or in person? How much is okay to share, how soon? Sometimes you’ll invest significant time and resources only to find the commitment level is not mutual, or the friendship is too full of gossip and negativity. Or the hurdles come earlier, because the person doesn’t have an opening in their schedule for two months.

For what it’s worth, I think these keep-for-life kind of friendships are rare. We live in an age where people have hundreds of Facebook “friends” and Twitter followers, where you make nice conversation during playdates and soccer practices, but how many truly deep friends do any of us have? I would say most people have a wide circle of acquaintances, maybe 5-10 mid-level friendships, but you’d be lucky to have one or two deep friendships.

What does it take to form these deep friendships? One NPR piece says: proximity; repeated, unplanned interactions; and a setting conducive to letting your guard down. My sister’s pastor says: tenacity, authenticity, and vulnerability.

When I was younger, I would have said common interests and values, like C. S. Lewis writes in The Four Loves: “Lovers are always talking to one another about their love; friends hardly ever about their friendship. Lovers are normally face to face, absorbed in each other; friends, side by side, absorbed in some common interest.” And I think that spark has to be there—an ability to communicate well, similar hobbies or values or experiences.

But the older I get, the more I feel like what it really takes is something much harder to come by: mutual, unwavering, unconditional commitment. I have moved into a land where it is not difficult to find other people like me. But it is just as hard (and may be harder) to find someone who is willing to commit.

And what is most mysterious and maddening about it all of course is that these types of friendships are impossible to orchestrate. They are often unpredictable and always take time. I think about the very few friends I have like this, and they each arose and evolved in an unexpected way. They each took different trajectories, took months or years to solidify. Those friendships are like gold to me now, and having experienced them, it’s hard to settle for less, hard not to compare what I don’t have yet here to what I had before, but that’s just the nature of moving—grieving or adjusting to the loss of old friendships while feeling out the new.

So for now, I am keeping my eyes open, orienting my life so I am open to what may develop, intentionally initiating when I feel prompted to. But in the waiting I am also trying to press in closer to God, choosing to believe he provides all I need, realizing to wait in the not-yet is still a form of worship. How much would I like to speed along the process! But then, how many of us long for a type of intimacy or relationship that we do not yet have? How many of us still choose to walk forward day-by-day in faith and contentment?

Birthday

I turn thirty-seven today.

I remember thinking once, if I could stay one age forever, it would be twenty-seven: old enough to know who I am and what I’m doing in life, young enough to be, well, still in my twenties. But my thirties have turned into a better decade than my twenties. I always felt happier married than single, but I know and love Dave more in our tenth year than our first. I’m somewhat less self-absorbed, probably as a consequence of being compelled into daily service. Other than a proliferation of facial nevi and the way nursing four babies has changed my chest, my body doesn’t feel that much older. I definitely couldn’t stay thirty-seven forever—I may have changed eight poopy diapers the other day—but overall I’d say it’s better than twenty-seven.

If anything, this is the year I’ve arrived. Growing up, I always felt like I was looking forward to the next thing to make me happy: passing the next test or step of training, getting married, having kids, owning a house, getting a job. Somewhere during the last six years, I realized I had gotten there: I’d passed the last test I had to take for a while; I was having the kids I wanted to have—but I wasn’t necessarily happier or a better person. That took me on a journey that eventually turned in the last year or two into my falling in love with Jesus in a fresh way.

And now, here I am, having actually arrived—moved for the last time; own our forever-house; more settled in career; finished having kids (and soon to get a pet). I suppose this is typically when a mid-life crisis would hit—I’d feel meaningless without the next thing to strive for, or trapped by my responsibilities—but instead I feel content and glad, in the way that you do when you realize none of this is your due, or even essential for your primary happiness, but extraordinary gifts from a God who loves you.

Maybe it’s more of a mid-life perspective: I’m nearing the point where my life may be half over. It’s clearer than ever that none of this lasts forever: I’m a steward of my children (in ten more years Ellie will move out!), of this house (which will probably be overtaken by the redwoods outside in a century), even of Dave (who will not be married to me in eternity). I think more about what it means to take care of those things for what matters, and to not lose out on being present in the process.

Those are two goals I’d like to set for my thirty-seventh year: one, to establish our lives in this new home and place in a way that reflects what really matters to us. And two, to enjoy it. To enjoy the way Ellie’s whole face lights up and she jumps up and down when she’s excited; the way Eric wraps me in spontaneous hugs and kisses; the way Elijah says “wot?” with big round eyes and sings “a whole new world” at the top of his lungs; the way Esme stumbles out of naps with unreasonable cheerfulness, declaring “I wake up!” (and the way her thighs are still super chubby). The way Dave reaches for my hand in the car. The redwood boughs rustling outside, the cool breezes, friends who bring over board games and yummy noodles, the mountains in the horizon.

I’m guessing this day will pass without much fanfare (and with four school runs). But this was always the best part: looking back, looking forward, thinking about my life, and this year, feeling particularly grateful. 

Longing For Home

What makes a place home? This house is amazing—after a year of extensive remodeling, it has lived up to our hopes and more. I love seeing redwoods through the many windows, the skylights in the cathedral ceilings, the cozy window seat, the concrete countertops and big island, the dark warm wood floors, and I could go on—but it’s not really home-home yet. A friend told me it usually takes eighteen months before a place feels like home.

For most of my life, home was the house I grew up in: the small 80’s ranch with dark wood walls, patterned wallpaper, and worn carpet. I remember intense periods of homesickness during college and medical school: I think what I missed then was a place where I could be myself, be taken care of, know I was unconditionally loved. I missed having someone cook for me, my old memorabilia. After moving back to live nearby for the past six years, I don’t miss that house the same way—I think I see I could never really live there again, and I see that one day, my parents will move on and sell everything and it will be gone.

Our last house, the first one we owned, was never one I fell in love with, but it was home because of the memories we made in it. We had three babies there, and it was the first place I learned how to take care of a house, and what life was like staying at home with the kids.

But now that house is gone too. I suppose there is an unavoidable period of time when one feels displaced with any major move: you’ve left the familiar behind, but the new place is not really home yet. We’ve settled in well here, but something will happen that throws me off: I meet up with a new friend at a coffeehouse but just feel sad missing my old friends, the way they would hug me and the way we could talk. I get lost again going somewhere. I think of something my parents would have loved to see or eat and realize they aren’t here.

I think for me, home is a place where I can be myself, a place where I deeply belong. I like the word “dwell”—it’s not a place where I’ve just made a living, or passed through, but a place where I have abided and lingered in long enough to know the place and people deeply, and to be known myself deeply.

This period, when I’m feeling the loss of a home, makes me read Revelation 21 and 22. One pastor at our church here pointed out that the story doesn’t end with the same garden it started with: it ends with a city, a place where we work and live together. I love that the word picture Jesus gives of heaven reminds me of coming home, to my own room. And when I feel lonely, I love that the story ends with, “He will dwell with them,” and in 22:4 with “they will see his face.” And that will be enough. All of this—my husband, each of my kids, this house with the redwoods—all of it is on loan to me, and as much as I love it, will be gone or changed one day. But I have this promise: this longing to belong is not in vain. One day, I will see his face, and I will live in a place that is home in every way, and that is a kind of comfort now.

Weather

So Bay Area weather is essentially all it’s touted to be. But my favorite thing about the weather here isn’t the perennially cloudless, sunny days, or better yet, the transformative lack of humidity and mosquitos—it’s the evenings. Every evening, the weather magically gets cooler and crisper. It makes me want to breathe deep and wander long. It reminds me of that first thrill of fall on the east coast, when months of oppressively muggy, hot days finally give way to a brisk coolness that makes you want to open windows and slip on long sleeves. Nearly every night here is like that. Dave used to go on and on about how he loved as a child to open his bedroom windows and sleep to a cool breeze, and I have to admit there is something to that.

One of the strangest things here is the lack of rain over the summer. It rained and thunderstormed aplenty in Virginia: we got used to radar-tracking storms to see how long thunder claps would keep the kids up from their naps or sleeping at night; a small tornado uprooted one of our trees a few months before we moved; we checked the weather app every day to figure out how to dress, or whether to bring rain jackets to school. Plenty of times, I’d forget to check in the rush to get the kids out the door, then groan when it starts to pour and I’m not wearing my wellies or raincoat. I haven’t checked my weather app once since moving here. Our chalk drawings stay on the sidewalk for months. We leave toys out on the deck. It’s all rather bizarre.

The first novel I’m reading since the move is The Three-Body Problem by Cixin Liu, a strange amalgam of science fiction, Chinese history, theoretical mathematics and astrophysics, philosophical treatise, and epic quest. My favorite part of it (spoiler alert) is considering what life would be like if a planet existed in a stellar system with three suns. Because of the mathematically unpredictable movement of the three suns, at times the planet can be drawn into the orbit of one of the suns (at which time the planet has regular day-night cycles and mild weather), and at other times it cycles irregularly between them (resulting in completely unpredictable cycles where nights can last for weeks, and deadly temperature extremes). The planet can be far from all three suns (extremely cold conditions where it snows water, then dry ice, then the atmosphere sort of congeals), can be exposed to all three together (every living thing erupts into flames and the surface of the entire planet becomes a lake of lava), can be affected by the gravitational pull of all three suns in one line (all things and the atmosphere itself gets sucked up into a vortex and pulled to the closest sun), or can collide with some or all of the suns (splitting the planet in half and forming various rings that later collapse, destroying all life).

The inhabitants have no control over these events or how long various periods last, and the extreme weather often wipes out a civilization with millions of years passing before another develops. Civilizations devote their energies to trying to predict the motions of the suns, before realizing it is impossible and deciding to leave their world altogether.

I don’t understand the mechanics behind why the weather in the bay area is always so mild and dry—why there are rarely ever clouds during the day, or why the evenings are always perfectly cool—but it’s interesting to mull on how completely it is all out of our control. One day I am going to stop remarking on how nice the weather is here; it will just seem normal, much less the fact that, well, I don’t have to worry about suddenly erupting into flames when my planet gets too close to a few suns. But for now, I’m going to sit in the mystery of it all a little bit, that of all places in the entire universe and galaxy, I have landed upon a place where I can open my windows every night to a cool breeze. 

Perfectionism and Enneagram Types

One thing reading this book about enneagram types has helped me with the most is understanding not myself so much as other people. In brief, it breaks people down into nine different personality types, which you self-identify, and for each type the book describes the healthy, average, and unhealthy versions of the type; the particular sin that type is prone to; how that type tends to be in childhood, work, and relationships; general characteristics of that type; and what spiritual growth of that type looks like, with a healing message for each. In general, enneagrams help most with understanding people’s motivations: two people may have the same behavior or outlook, but from very different motivations, and it’s helpful for me to see that what drives me may be completely different from what motivates, and thus will help heal or change, someone else.

For example, Ellie and I are both perfectionists, but our different enneagram types has helped me understand how differently it works for her (a type 1, the perfectionist) than for me (a type 3, the performer). On the surface, we’re similar: we both care a lot about excellence, about completing a task well and meeting high standards. In a way, this makes it easy for us to get along: she does great at school, just like I did; we enjoy painting or playing the piano or writing a book report or building a tent just right.

But as soon as something isn’t done perfectly right, we run into problems. My typical approach is to say, suck it up and try again! Focus on the task and get it right! When someone talks to me like that, it makes me more determined than ever to show them I can do it well. But when I talk to Ellie like that, she becomes completely paralyzed; she shuts down and starts crying and is unable to proceed.

What I’ve found is that we are perfectionists for very different reasons, with almost opposite effects. I’m driven by performance: I’m a perfectionist because I want to perform well in front of others; I want to look good, to achieve a lot, and I have an inherently strong sense of self and high self-confidence. External observation energizes me. If I make a mistake, I’m more liable to shrug and move on to something else I can do well, or just figure out a way to get over it; my focus is always on the task, the performance, rather than the relationship. As a result, I don’t really feel I want to understand others or bother with people who get in the way of performing the task well.

Ellie, on the other hand, is a perfectionist because she is driven by a high inner standard. She wants to do something perfectly because she genuinely wants to, not because she cares about performing for others. She is less motivated to do something if others are watching. And because this comes more internally, she has a constant inner critic in her head, a voice telling her that she is not doing it well enough, not measuring up: she is inherently more prone to insecurity than self-confidence. If she makes a mistake, she is more liable to beat herself up in her head about it, to let it affect her sense of self. Her focus is often more on relationships than the task itself: how the mistake is affecting her relationship with others and view of self. As a result, though, she is more naturally empathetic with others, more interested in understanding others.

Completely different! When I make a mistake, what I need to hear is: the perfect performance is not always the most important thing. It’s good to learn and move on in doing the task well, but don’t forget to see how this is affecting others and things that are more important than the outward image. Remember that God sees you for who you truly are, not just the image you project, and loves you.

Naturally, when Ellie makes a mistake or is crying because her brothers messed up her tent, my tendency is to respond with what I need to hear: to tell her, it’s okay if it’s not perfect. But I think the message she needs to hear is: you’ll make mistakes, and that’s okay, and God and I still love you. Because her sense of perfectionism is coming from a more internal place, the point is not to tear down this inner standard she will probably have anyway, but to separate that from a sense of shame or insecurity: to restore relational security and love, to consistently remind her that she is not defined by her mistakes, that mistakes happen and she is always loved regardless.

So when we’re playing piano and she forgets a note, or when we’re painting and she accidentally does a whole section in the wrong color: we both care, and we’re both frustrated. But now the first things I say are: it’s okay that you made a mistake. I still love you. I might expand on that or vary it by saying things like, I forget notes all the time too, or look, now we can mix in a new color that looks even better, or I love that you try so hard, or I love how you are always brave enough to practice very day, etc. And I see her face light up, instead of crumpling up into tears, and she seems energized to keep going, and then I can start talking about the actual task.

As a type 3, it feels sort of laborious and foreign, and sometimes when I’m tired I think why does she have to be so darn sensitive and emotional? or gee whiz, just move on and try again! but I know those things won’t motivate her, and don’t reflect a true understanding of who she is and how God has created her. And I see more and more that she has wonderful traits—empathy, kindness, integrity, true discipline—that come much more naturally to her than to me.

Efficiency vs. Productivity

One concept I’ve enjoyed thinking about lately is the idea of efficiency versus productivity, after a friend made the argument, after listening to a freakonomics podcast, that the two are related but not necessarily the same.

It’s been a challenging thing to think about because, as is probably obvious, efficiency is very important to me (apparently it’s a hallmark of being a “3” enneagram type—more about that later if anyone is interested). I live nearly every minute conscious of how to multi-task and prioritize such that tasks get completed using as little time and energy as possible. I was the kind of resident that had new orders in before we even finished rounding, that dictated clinic notes super quickly while the patient was still in the room so I didn’t have to stay late at the end of the day to finish. Inefficient meetings annoy me so much I try to avoid them; sometimes I find myself irritated if someone is sharing inconcisely.

But I do think that efficiency and productivity are two different things. Efficiency is simply a statement of how quickly something gets done: completing a task with as little waste of resources as possible. Productivity, though, includes something more: I would define it as reaching a goal by using resources as effectively as possible. Efficiency only looks at a task: productivity looks at the goal.

Efficiency almost always includes productivity: if you do things faster, you’ll have more time and energy to get more done. But productivity does not always include efficiency, and in fact they may be at odds with each other: some goals require being inefficient. If you want optimal small group dynamics, you have to allow for inefficient times of hanging out or icebreakers. If you want your child to share deeply, you likely have to allow for inefficient periods of doing other things before coming upon the right moment to talk. If you want to bond deeply with a friend, you may need to linger without time limits, or allow for messier or needier relationships.

The point is, when the goal is simply to get a task done, efficiency is good. But when the goal is about more than a task—and I suppose much of life is, actually—then efficiency may be harmful. I don’t particularly resonate with the word “productivity,” but I think the word “meaningful” works—this may not be efficient, but is it meaningful? Is it working towards achieving an important goal or outcome? If it is, then it is more important than being efficient.

Because in the end, while being outstandingly efficient is a sort of talent, it is a mindless one. To move with purpose, to use limited and available resources in the most strategic and meaningful way possible: that is more difficult, but more important.

Created

The weather is getting colder, so I’m dusting off my knitting again. Knitting exists nearly in the realm of something magical for me: how one strand of thread can be wound around itself continuously to create something like itself, yet utterly different. You never really look at a sweater the same again after you learn to knit.

When you first start, you’re clutching the pattern and counting every stitch off carefully in your head. But after a while, you come to understand the pattern, not because you’re reading it off the page, but because you can tell where you are by how the previous stitch is looped. You gain an intuitive, big-picture feel for how the rows work together, why something looks different on the right versus the wrong sides of the work. You learn how to read the signs.

You’re flying along, feeling pretty good about yourself—I’m an awesome knitter! After this, socks!—then you make a mistake. You drop a stitch, or realize you did the whole last two rows wrong. And you realize you never really understood the pattern at all, and only now, as you painstakingly work each stitch backwards, as you hook up the dropped loops, do you really grasp it.

I think of myself as creating when I make scarves out of yarn, but really only God can create, can make something out of nothing. No other living being can do that. God the Father spoke through the word that is Jesus, as the Spirit hovered, to bring everything we know into existence.

We don’t, I think, in our postmodernist mindsets, think of ourselves as created beings. We think of ourselves as dictating our own narratives, writing our own meanings, constructing our own identities. Our culture has plenty to say about self-fashioned identity: blame your parents if you don’t like the mask they gave you. Watch the ads to figure out what you should look like. You’ll seem perfect if you get the spouse or career you want. Figure out who you want to be and self-help your way there.

But as I knit, I think about how the person I give the scarf to will never really understand it the way I do, because while they use it, I’m the one who created it. I’m the one who sees exactly how the threads overlap to create the warmth for which it was made; who sees the beauty of the pattern’s workings because I fixed it when it fell apart. How much more does God, who created us, understand me? I’m realizing more and more that he asks me to know and follow him because he means it so much more fully for my good than even I initially comprehend, and not only that, he wants to reveal himself to me in how he created me and in all of his creation.

Because, of course, there’s a bit of me in the scarf I created: in its gauge and tension, in the aesthetics of the pattern I chose. God too has written himself into the story, so to speak: in infinite and undeniable ways, he calls to us if we have the eyes to see and the ears to hear. He tells us this life is the prelude to and preparation for the eternal reality of our love relationship with him, and the more fully I live the redeemed life he gives me, the more fully I understand that story. The more fully I understand myself.

Sabbath

I went on a girls’ trip this past weekend. We made a point of doing things we couldn’t normally do with kids (go on a strenuous, uphill hike; eat at a fancy restaurant; watch girl movies), but I think the part I enjoyed most were the leisurely mornings and conversations. It wasn’t until I was away from it that I realized how often I live at home with a sense of what must be done: chores, monitoring the kids, always a sense of multi-tasking and planning ahead.

I’ve been thinking for a while about this concept of the Sabbath. I like thinking of it as acting out our belief and trust in God as creator and sustainer. As William Willimon said, “Sabbath keeping is a publicly enacted sign of our trust that God keeps the world, therefore we do not have to. God welcomes our labors, but our contributions to the world have their limits. If even God trusted creation enough to be confident that the world would continue while God rested, so should we.”

I also like thinking of Sabbath in the context of our work-driven culture. We live in a world where work defines our value and identity; it’s all about productivity, efficiency, and doing it all. We bring work home through email, texts, and pagers. Those who work at home—take online classes, telecommute, parent—have an even harder time leaving work.

In our culture, we work until we’re burned out, then splurge on a vacation to get away from it all: but the Sabbath is not retreat so much as rhythm; as Eugene Peterson describes it, “entering into the rhythm of creation.” Even God, who is all-powerful, chose to rest for one of the seven days—to shabbat, which literally means to stop—and so we are created to do the same.

I also like thinking about what it means to make time holy. Marva Dawn brings this up in her book Keeping The Sabbath Wholly: how Abraham Heschel argues that we have a faith that aims at the sanctification of time, as opposed to Western civilization’s drive to conquer space. The first thing in the Bible that is designated as “holy” is not a place, but a time, the seventh day.

“Time,” insists Peter Forsyth, “is a sacrament of eternity.” When I set apart time to sabbath, I am acknowledging that time itself belongs to and is created by God, a God who is himself outside of time and will one day draw us outside of time as well. Time is not something I must control and bow down to and be driven by.

What does it mean for our family to observe a Sabbath? For me, since I can’t exactly stop being a mom one day a week?

Often a weekend day is when we stop our “regular” work (school, day jobs) so we can catch up on “other” work (yard work, errands, meal planning, laundry) and feel good about what we’ve done. But I think Sabbath is more about separating our identity from any work.

For me, even though I still am at home, it means I stop doing the kind of housework and parenting that feels like a chore—and instead enjoy. It might mean I cook something because I or the kids really love it, as a special feast. It might mean I don’t harangue Ellie about doing a math or piano lesson, but instead draw a story with her or go outside to collect snails—things that help us enjoy creation and how we are created. It might mean we hang out with friends. If Sunday is our sabbath, it means going to church with an attitude of special anticipation rather than as cultural obligation or drudgery.

To approach the Sabbath not legalistically, but intentionally, probably looks slightly different for everyone. But it should make us look different to everyone around us. In a work-harried, achievement-focused world, to stop, to rest and feast and enjoy creation, not just once in a while but every single week, is to spell out with our time what we’re living for in this life.

Imagination

“Imagination is more important than knowledge.” - Einstein

I’m finally starting to realize that I have an unusually vivid imagination. I not only love, but need stories. I am very empathetic. I get spooked easily in the dark. I process and retain information visually; I can remember the outfits and colors from significant events that happened years ago. I envision the future more easily in terms of my own projections than logical reality.

There are great things about imagination: it compels me to create, to sketch or play or write. It makes reading novels an acutely immersive pleasure: I inhabit the fictional world, speak the dialogue, picture the scenery and movements of characters in my mind. It’s a world that I can live in and go back to even while say, doing the dishes or supposedly-parenting my children. I enjoy colors—seeing what hues are trending, envisioning how I would redo a room’s décor, noting pairings in a good outfit. I’m easily awed by nature, in the grandiose or miniature. My career is visual: compared with other specialties, it’s based much more on what I see over what a patient tells me. One removes a cataract more by sight than feel.

And being highly imaginative makes parenting so much fun. I can invent silly rhymes (my latest one, after Eric got frustrated when Ellie tried to tell him he was wrong about something: “thank you for the education, I’ll use my imagination!”), spin any situation into a narrative, craft spontaneous things from a motley of items. If imagination is what connects our perceptions, what builds fantasy landscapes, what powers wonder, then kids live in the stuff, and being prone to it myself helps me connect with them.

But it’s not all good. In a talk on cultural imagination, David Brooks quoted someone as saying being alone with your imagination at night can be like opening a “drawer of knives.” It’s easy to be affected by fears. Sometimes I can’t stop picturing over and over how I should have done a particular step of a surgery differently. I’m seized with scenarios of my kids getting kidnapped and have a hard time letting them go outside unsupervised. I’m particularly affected by shows or books that are too frightening or sexually explicit. I don’t like reading about tragedy unless I know I have the space to process it. The only scary movie I ever let myself watch was “The Sixth Sense,” and I remember suffering from insomnia while backpacking through Europe years later because of it.

Part of discovering myself as an imaginative person—which, as a daughter of an engineer father and a no-nonsense mother, is coming to me rather later in life—is delighting in all the ways imagination helps me connect with my kids, create and enjoy creation, and moves me forward into the future with vision. But part of it is also discovering that I need an unusual kind of discipline: I need to be more intentional than most about my mental life. I must be careful of what I feed my mind and eyes, about what I let my thoughts stray to. What I think isn’t peripheral; it is the world I inhabit, and therefore how I am changed. In a way, it is what I worship and who I become.

Francis Parkman was an American historian who longed for the West as a young man. He later described his younger self: “His thoughts were always in the forest, whose features possessed his waking and sleeping dreams, filling him with vague cravings impossible to satisfy.” I live much of life with my thoughts in the forest of my imaginings—and, to follow the metaphor, if I feel I have never really arrived, it is because, as C. S. Lewis wrote, “all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so.” When one day we experience our bodies, our earth, our loved ones, and our God as it is meant to be, maybe we’ll find it was less about what we knew than what we imagined.

Running Up The Sunbeam

“This heavenly fruit is instantly redolent of the orchard where it grew. This sweet air whispers of the country from whence it blows. It is a message. We know we are being touched by a finger of that right hand at which there are pleasures for evermore. There need be no question of thanks or praise as a separate event, something done afterwards. To experience the tiny theophany is itself to adore.

“Gratitude exclaims, very properly, ‘How good of God to give me this.’ Adoration says, ‘What must be the quality of that Being whose far-off and momentary coruscations are like this!’ One’s mind runs back up the sunbeam to the sun.

"One could, if one practiced, hear simply a roar and not the roaring-of-the-wind. In the same way, only far too easily, one can concentrate on the pleasure as an event in one’s own nervous system—subjectify it—and ignore the smell of Diety that hangs about it.”

- C. S. Lewis, Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer

One really wonderful thing about kids is their sense of wonder. You don’t realize how much of that we’ve lost as adults until you start hanging out with kids all the time. Today Esme stood around watching Elijah bounce a small rubber ball in a plastic cup, and every time the ball bounced high enough to fall out of the cup she’d dissolve into peals of laughter. Today Eric pulled some weeds and thought the way he could see the roots winding through the dirt was exciting enough to call me out into the hot sun to see. Today Ellie shut herself in her room because she was so excited about reading a new book undisturbed. Today they marveled over the full moon, Lego creations, tater tots, a tent, cubes of cheese.

Of course there is a sense of presence and attention that kids have, to even the little things. But there is also a sense of admiration and awe. In its purest form, they aren’t trying to compare it to something else or get more of it for themselves (though there’s certainly plenty of that at times): they just delight and wonder. They adore.

I like how Lewis puts it: he says we automatically attach meaning to sensing. “When the wind roars I don’t just hear the roar; I ‘hear the wind.’” And in the same way, receiving a pleasure and recognizing its divine source ought to be a single experience. This is what separates gratitude from adoration: rather than thanking God for having something, we ask ourselves, what does this show me about God?

And in a way, it is like the analogy he gives of running your mind up the sunbeam to the sun. When you see a sunbeam, you see a ray of light and some dust motes: when you look at the sun, you burn your retina. You look from a beam of light to an orbit-inducing star 109 times the diameter of our planet. It’s not really comparable, yet it’s only by looking at the beam, and seeing everything else by it, that we begin to understand the sun at all.

I think doing this is a combination of intentional presence and practice. Everything we consume in our culture tells us to pursue pleasure for the sake of pleasure, and is designed to make us want more of it. To be content, to be present, to enjoy pleasure in light of the God it reveals—well, I think that actually enhances the pleasure. It allows us to delight within the context of purpose and promise. It deepens my adoration of God which in itself is one of the pleasures I am most designed for.

Ironically I was doing this about the sun the other day. It’s been oppressively hot, and I got to thinking about how in heaven we are promised that the sun shall not strike them, nor any scorching heat [Rev 7:16], not because there will be perfect 70-degree weather every day, but because there will be no sun: the glory of God gives it light, and its lamp is the Lamb” [Rev 21:23]. God will be our sun. The sun I experience now is just a foreshadowing of the glory of God that will literally be my light for eternity. Everything about the sun now—its ability to sustain life and affect climate, its stability, its size, even its weighty radiance that melts me into the ground with sweat and heat—points to God. It’s like a huge clue that’s always been there, but that I’m only just now picking up on. Receiving not just the pleasure of a sunny day, but how it reveals a quality of God I can adore him for.

Being Present

“For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence.” – Psalm 62:5

Two years ago, we came up with a family mission, vision, and values statement, and one of our values was peace. I was thinking today how I yell at the kids less than I used to. Yelling at kids is easy, especially when you have a lot of them: it’s the poor man’s method of crowd control.

In retrospect, two things have helped the most with that: one is making sure I have my kids’ attention when I communicate, and the second is having an expectation of first-time obedience. The latter has to do with realizing that if I have an issue with my kids’ compliance, the solution is not more yelling, but effective discipline. Yelling is just beating them over the head with verbal demands, which kids have an amazing ability to increasingly tune out; it’s an odd sort of auto-vaccinating process. Discipline addresses the heart of their behavior in a process that involves as much understanding as asking. Discipline takes a lot more time and work, but it saves you a whole lot of potential yelling down the road.

The former issue sounds pretty basic but was just as revolutionary: making sure my kids can hear me when I talk. Lots of times I’d get frustrated at them just to realize they couldn’t hear me calling up to the second floor, or even just across a room when they’re otherwise occupied. What we hear is a product of what our priorities are and how present we are—so yeah, I think getting somewhere on time is important and I’m pretty present to what needs to get done next to accomplish that, but my kids think their imaginary story is important and are more present to that than my asking them to get their shoes on. If I want my kids to be present for me, I have to be just as present to where they are in their worlds.

It makes me think about how present we are for people in general. Obviously we do have to get things done, but I can remember even as a kid wishing my mom would just sit down to ask me how I was doing, and listen. I think about how often I tell my kids to hurry up, or wait until I finish doing a chore to read to them, or think whew now I’ve got some time to get stuff done when they start playing well together instead of how can I join them and enjoy their play?

There are some practical ways we try to be present for the kids. Dave tries to sit down with each one of them alone at some point during the day to talk. We take turns taking each of them (well, the older three at this point) out on dates once a month. We try not to look at our phones too much in front of our kids—it’s amazing how much we tune out when we’re glued to our screens, and it sets a bad example if we expect our kids to be screen-free. We work on not interrupting each other so we can listen when someone talks.

But a lot of it is just a mindset. Do I wake up thinking, how can I be present for my kids today? How can I be present for Dave—for God? How often do we do the equivalent of yelling at God—this is what I want, this is how I feel—instead of waiting in silence? How often do we treat God like a consultant instead of the God that he is? And if we understood who he is, how could we be anything but present?

The Lost Art of Lingering

“[Friendship is] not about what someone can do for you, it’s who and what the two of you become in each other’s presence. .. The notion of doing nothing but spending time in each other’s company has, in a way, become a lost art,’ replaced by volleys of texts and tweets, Mr. Sharp said. ‘People are so eager to maximize efficiency of relationships that they have lost touch with what it is to be a friend.’ By his definition, friends are people you take the time to understand and allow to understand you.

- “Do Your FriendsActually Like You?” Sunday Review, New York Times

The first time I was aware of Dave’s existence was when I read a blog post he had written about the lost art of lingering. It struck a chord because I was efficient and task-focused to a fault: if hanging out with you doing something without aim wasn’t going to benefit my resume or what I needed to get done (and I could never see how it could), I didn’t see the point. An attitude which got me into a great grad school but into deeper and deeper isolation. Dave’s post found me around a time when I realized I may have gotten all the right things on the outside, but life on the inside was pretty lonely and unhealthy without true friends. Turning that around changed my life.

Now we’re in a different stage of life. Finding friends after thirty is tough: people have kids and disappear. They move around to follow careers or spouses or schooling. They hit the suburbs and get enclosed in enclaves—school groups, soccer leagues, church circles—that promote superficial connection and identity without pushing for anything deeper. Then there’s social media, which promotes friendship as image, self-gratifying connection, selective exposure. Pretty much the opposite of hanging out to hang out. Psychologist Robin Dunbar is quoted in the article as saying we only have five slots for high-quality friendships, which is a laughable contrast to the hundreds of “friends” folks have on Facebook.

The fact is, you have to be intentional about finding community when you have an absorbing career or family. Especially family—it’s easy to become so absorbed in your kids you feel you can never leave them, or not want to pay for childcare, but we’ve found it’s worth it. We leave the kids to go to small group, meet up with other couples; we arrange playdates when that’s not possible. All that structured community is okay, and necessary.

But I feel like the best friendships come not through planning or production, but something more natural and organic. They happen almost when you’re not looking: you’re just being. You’re looking at something else together. And in it, you’re revealing yourself, and understanding the other person.

So sometimes, it’s just about having space for the unexpected. Being open to being uncomfortably vulnerable. Being okay with mess or hassle. Being generous with your time. Being forgiving with faults. Enjoying instead of analyzing. Doing together instead of alone.

Have you ever noticed how kids are champion lingerers? We’re always telling them to hurry up, get their shoes on, finish eating, come on, come on—because they naturally linger. They ask follow-up questions even when it’s time to go. They stop to look at something interesting even when it’s not the point. They get excited about someone else’s ideas and doing stuff together.

I’ve loved that about this summer: it’s really been a golden summer, watching all four hang out together in a way they never have before. Unlike the school year, they get to do everything together—eat, play, do lessons, nap—without the usual hard timeline. In a way, they have a purer friendship now than they may ever have in the future. They’re changing each other, and bringing things out of each other no one else could have, without even realizing it. I still have to remind myself: linger with the kids instead of getting other stuff done! Hang out with Dave just to enjoy being with him. Set aside time to do that with other friends. With God. Somehow that instinct to linger gets bred out of us, but I look at them and see that without the time and margin to hang out that way with someone, I’m missing out.

Time And Beyond Time

“If you picture Time as a straight line along which we have to travel, then you must picture God as the whole page on which the line is drawn.” –C. S. Lewis

"He has put eternity into man’s heart.” –Ecclesiastes 3:11

It’s interesting how we have to grow into the concept of time. As far as I can tell, time for our one year-old exists in two dimensions: now or never. One or the other. No in-between. I think Esme believes with all her being that if I am not giving something to her immediately, she is never her whole life ever going to have it—the concept of “wait a minute” doesn’t exist, much less waiting until tomorrow. Thus the frantic, frenzied screams of utter despair if she doesn’t get something now.

In Revelation there are many references to God as being outside of time: he was, and is, and is to come; he is praised forever and ever. With him one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day (2 Peter 3:8). He is not slow to fulfill his promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you (2 Peter 3:9), which is eerily similar to how it feels when I’m trying to tell a screaming Esme that she has to wait so I can cut up her fruit before giving it to her.

Time even for us contracts and expands depending on our experiences and perspective, but God is beyond time itself. C. S. Lewis gives the example of how God is outside of time the way an author is outside of the timeline of the story he writes. He may put the book down and think about the character without it taking any time within the storyline of the book itself. Only, of course, God does not hop from one time-series to another; he is not in a time-series at all.

This means he can be infinitely with me in my now; that he is with me in my moment in a more infinite way than anyone in my own time-world could be. In a sense, he feels my momentary pains and joys forever, and thus he understands me, knows me more deeply and fully, than anyone else could.

On the other hand, he has the long view in mind. How can I explain the concept of years or decades to Esme? Yet that is how God sees us. How can you even quantify our earthly lives in the context of eternity? Is it a nanosecond, or less? Certainly significant, but almost relatively obsolete? Yet here we are, viewing our lives in hours or weeks or years, when what God is about is suiting us for eternity. We complain about not getting what we want, when God cares about changing us into who we will be; we feel that suffering is unbearably unending, when God sees the reward, the crown and glory, the new bodies, that will be ours forever. If we really understood that, what would not be worth going through?

We are born into an eternity of forever-nows. But I see how two year-old Elijah asks “after nap?” and four year-old Eric asks “tomorrow morning?” and six year-old Ellie can count down the five weeks of summer left. We become increasingly self-absorbed in our time-worlds until we cannot conceive of anything outside of it, yet God was, is, and is to come. He is the first and last, the source and end, the creator and consummator, he is all of our time-world and yet outside of it. He is forever with us in our moments, yet infinitely patient as only one outside of time can be.

Hope

"Sam struggled with his own weariness, and he took Frodo’s hand; and there he sat silent till deep night fell. Then at last, to keep himself awake, he crawled from the hiding-place and looked out. The land seemed full of creaking and cracking and sly noises, but there was no sound of voice or of foot. Far above the Ephel Duath in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the Tower had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master’s, ceased to trouble him. He crawled back into the brambles and laid himself by Frodo’s side, and putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep.”

- The Lord of the Rings, p. 922, J.R.R. Tolkien

I’ve been doing a study of the Holy Spirit recently to answer a question that came up in our small group, and I came across this reference in a sermon by Tim Keller. He was describing how being filled with the Holy Spirit is like and yet totally unlike being drunk. Alcohol fills us with joy, warmth and courage, but by knocking out reality. Being filled with the Holy Spirit shows us more of reality: it heightens our understanding of life; it is like truth shining. And if we have that reality and hope, what is there to worry about? He talked about how it was like Sam, traveling with Frodo through Mordor, and seeing beyond the darkness a beauty that smote his heart. Seeing that the Shadow was but a small and passing thing; having hope.

I’ve been thinking about hope lately, because we’ve been studying through Revelation with said small group, and I think so much about the book is to give its readers hope. It’s like that story about two people in prison, one told that his family and all he loved is gone, another told his family was alive and waiting for him, and how the first died but the second lived. Or about two people screwing widgets on in a tiny room all day, one told he would be paid ten dollars per day, the second ten million per day, and how the second lasted longer in the job than the first. Our hope in the future determines how we live today.

What determines our hope? I’ve been thinking about the difference between faith and hope—faith is what I believe in. It’s what I know. But hope is an emotive expectation: it is belief mixed with will and desire. As Luther wrote, “faith resteth in the understanding, hope in the will.” I have faith that my boss will pay me tomorrow; I have hope that with that money I can go on a road trip. I have to have faith in my boss to work at all, but it is my hope for the road trip that lets me stick through tough times at work.

That’s why hope in God and the future he reveals to us in Revelation is so great. Of course, the future is full of objective truth that all of us can put our faith in, but since God created me, and knows me better than anyone, he also better than anyone knows what it is I hope for. He knows my desires and feelings; what I delight in and what I suffer through, and the more I learn about the reality of who he is, where he dwells, and what he has in store, the more I find hope that puts daily things in perspective.

We all need hope to live. Maybe that’s why God calls himself a God of hope, and why being filled with the Holy Spirit causes us to “abound in hope” (Romans 15:13). I think of Proverbs 13:12—“hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life”—and I think of the literal tree of life, the one we forfeited in Eden but that will be waiting for us in eternity.

We visited an assisted living facility with the kids today to hand out daisies from our yard. The residents were parked in wheelchairs on either side along a hallway, just staring off into space. Some of the ones we handed flowers to brought them to their faces, but instead of smelling some tried to eat them, and that oddly reminded me of Esme, who had just done the same thing. Both ends of life, but one with bright eyes and squirmy skin stretched with fat; the other with glassy eyes and paper-thin, wrinkled stillness (“I didn’t know people could be so old,” Ellie said. “Really?” I said. “Yeah,” she replied, “I thought they died before they got that old”).

My hope in heaven now is hope in a place where there will be rest, fulfillment of all aspects of who I am and what I enjoy, and intimate understanding. Since, you know, I’m in a period of life full of unpredictable sleep, no me-time, and where it takes real effort to connect with adults. But I imagine when I’m at the end of life, I’ll be hoping in a new body, in eternal community instead of loneliness. I imagine it makes all the difference, and the greater the suffering, the more difference it makes. In the end, I don’t need to distract myself with leisure or fantasy: I need to sink my teeth into the reality of scripture, the source not of distraction or defiance, but real hope.

Arriving

One of the things I have the hardest time not believing is life will better when _______. Some of the things I have subconsciously filled in the blank with in the past include: I get married. I lose weight. I have kids. I have the right number of kids. I find the perfect house. I remodel my house. I get this outfit. I get this bag. I get a full nights’ sleep. I have this kind of sex life. I have these kinds of friends. I earn this much money. I acquire this reputation at work.

Obviously it’s okay to look forward to things, but I can get to a point where I hinge a certain portion of my thought life on arriving at a certain material or circumstantial place that has nothing to do with godliness. And it’s subtle, so subtle it’s nearly subconscious.

It probably has to do with the fact that so much of earlier life is about arriving somewhere: passing a test, getting into a school, passing another test, getting into another school, etc. And it probably relates to the world of constant advertising we indwell, in which it’s easy for a healthy material anticipation to edge into obsession or relative discontent.

It’s the world’s paradigm, that we should always be looking for more, looking for what’s next, to be happier. But the gospel shifts that paradigm completely. It says both that we can be completely content in our current circumstances, and that we ultimately anticipate and work towards eternity, which could come at any point. Nowhere does it say, life will be so much better when you design the perfect house. In fact, from an external perspective, Jesus didn’t “arrive” much of anywhere: he was never married, never had kids. Never got a degree. Probably didn’t own a house or earn much of a salary.

Part of this is reminding myself that my life should reflect what is most important now, and not put off working on things until I arrive at this or that landmark—for example, waiting to work on marriage until we have more time. Part of it is enjoying where I am now, not looking to the grass being always greener in the next stage of life or parenting. I think God created us to anticipate—and we’ll probably always anticipate and hunger to some degree until we get to heaven—but this is a good reminder to me to not base too much on the future.

Physical Health

Our church is going through Rick Warren’s Transformed campaign, and this week we are studying physical health. It’s interesting to reflect on physical health not as some fitness regimen, but as a spiritual discipline.

If I had to make a list of what the world tells me about my body, it would look something like this: my body belongs to me. It exists to serve me: I can push it as much as I need to get what I want done. Its appetites are meant to be filled as much as I want, for the purpose of giving myself as much pleasure as I want. It exists to make me appear good so I have value before others. Aging and sickness are to be feared and dreaded. In short, the purpose of my body is self-worship in the pursuit of image, youth, pleasure, and self-achievement.

If I had to make a list of what God tells me about my body, it would look something like this: my body belongs to God (1 Cor 6:15, 19-20). It is a temple (2 Cor 6:19) and therefore its primary purpose is to allow me to worship God. I should not be dominated by any one appetite (1 Cor 6:12). Aging and sickness are not the end as one day our bodies will be restored in glory (Phil 3:21). In short, the purpose of my body is to worship God (Ro 12:1).

What does it look like to worship God with my body? I prioritize health so I have full energy to do what God wants me to do. I attentively care for my body as I would steward anything else God has given me. I do not idolize my appearance, but see that God values not the outward man but the heart. I see God’s character, image and glory in the many good things my body can enjoy. I identify with Christ when bodily suffering occurs for a moment or period of time.

I think the point is not physical abnegation or excess for our own purposes, but pursuing God in our bodies, which is quite a counter-cultural paradigm shift. And I think as we get older, whether we live out the world’s or God’s beliefs about our body becomes more obvious. As a mid-thirty-something just starting to feel my body aging, I look ahead to folks 20-30 years ahead of me and think about those who have aged well, who are fit with energy to serve God, who attract me to God because of their physical testimony. I want to be like one of those people. I want to be even better now at honoring God in my body than I ever was in my life, and I want to pass on that mindset and lifestyle habits to my children. 

Connecting with Jesus

If I've been hearing God saying anything to me lately, it's been to plug in more regularly with him. With Jesus. I heard a talk recently about spiritual pathways, the seven to nine different ways (depending on who you read) that people can connect with God. It wasn't hard to identify myself as a contemplator and an intellectual: I experience God most when I am thinking and reflecting, usually involving journaling and solitude, and when I discover a new concept or learn something I didn't know, usually through exegetical sermons or Bible study. It wasn't difficult to identify Dave as a naturalist: he always feel close to God in nature. The last moment I can think of where we were both awed by nature together was on high sand dunes in a park in the outer banks, and it was as memorable spiritually as it was aesthetically.

But knowing how important it is to connect with God, and even how to do it, it's amazing how little we do. We hear about him, sing about him, read about the Bible more than we actually read the Bible and personally encounter him each day. We pray as if we're talking to ourselves more than spend time in true listening dialogue. If we transcribed our prayers, we'd probably be astonished at how self-centered, rote, or devoid of sincere meaning they sometimes are.

I heard about a study that found that people who read their Bibles less than four times a week had outward lives that were indistinguishable from non-believers. The magic number appeared to be four or more times a week. How often do you read? Are you following Jesus, or your notion of Jesus? Are you growing closer to him every day, or do you not think about him at all most days? Do you ever ask him where he wants you to go in life this day, or two decades from now, or do you pretty much make those decisions on your own and get nominal approval from him?

Sometimes we can get through life seemingly fine without being aware of our relationship with Jesus at all. Then sometimes we have difficult experiences that make it obvious where we stand with Jesus. I find parenting to be one of those experiences-- it is, as a friend once pointed out, a spiritually formative experience. You are going to know where you stand with Jesus whether you want to or not. You can't get by in the end on your own strength of will, or intellectual knowledge: you'll get broken down eventually--it might be the fifth tantrum, or the seventh sleepless night, or the same daily battle to get your kids to eat or dress, but eventually it will become obvious whether you've been coasting on your own powers or are bearing true spiritual fruit.

I think we as caregivers can forget that we need to relate with Jesus. Just for his sake, just for our sake, not for the sake of anyone else. When I experience his love, when I connect with him, when I read the Bible, I have something to draw on through the day. I have this mental image of a garden, where I have to go if I want to bear any fruit. Most of the gardens in the Bible are fruit gardens. I was reminded last week that Judas knew where to find Jesus because that garden was a place he had often gone to before—a place Jesus went to connect with his Father. And of course, when he rose, Mary first walks with him in a garden. How do you most naturally connect with God? What has he been saying to you today?

The Little Things

One thing you learn pretty quickly living in little-kid world is that small things matter. Her headbands must be worn with the bow or flower on a particular side. Making sure Bunny has his blanket tucked in tight is more important than being on time for school. The blue sippy cup, purple spoon, and orange bowl go to Ellie; the green sippy cup, yellow spoon, and butterfly bowl go to Eric. He likes his sandwiches without the crust and his food no warmer than room temperature. She was really touched that I remembered to pack a Kleenex (not a napkin, mind you) into her lunch box.

Kids have this odd attention to detail that would be considered inconvenient at best and dysfunctional at worst in adult terms, but sometimes it can be a refreshing reminder to rethink what is most important. There are definitely plenty of quirky preferences I hope they grow out of, but when I get into their heads, I am reminded that to them what is relational and speaks love is always more important than some task or something more convenient, and that can be good. It is very important to show Nana, their stuffed dog, that we love her by making a house for her and tucking her in properly. It is very important to finish the drawing we are making as a gift for Daddy, even if it means dinner starts late. It is very important to closely examine each other’s (nonexistent) boo-boo’s immediately.

Rick Bass writes that whenever he is confronted with a difficult task or struggle, he thinks about glaciers. A glacier forms from the accumulation of snow that hardens into ice, over years, and once it starts moving, nothing can stop it. He writes that “glaciers get built or not built, simply, miraculously, because the earth is canting a single one-trillionth of a degree in this direction for a long period of time, rather than in that direction.” And then, “When I am alone in the woods, and the struggle seems insignificant or futile… I tell myself that little things matter—and I believe they do. I believe that even if your heart leans just a few degrees to the left or the right of center, that with enough resolve.. and enough time.. the ice will begin to form.. then one day—it must—the ice will begin to slide.”

Kids notice the little things. God notices the little things. The little things matter. The struggle I win over not saying out loud the selfish thought I have in my head. The determination to avoid the source of an unhealthy fantasy. Deciding to wake up with grace towards my kids instead of grumpiness. Listening to a patient for a few more moments instead of rushing out the door. Deciding I’m going to be vulnerable even though I’m scared. The little things are usually unseen, rarely lauded, often unscheduled, but I think they are where life happens. They are what life is. They are the difference between living life in asynchrony and living life with integrity; they are what make us who we are in the end.

Sabbath

“How do we live so that the wonder and astonishment that so often comes to us unbidden and spontaneously isn’t dissipated in trivial pursuits?

“Albert Borgmann has given us the phrase ‘focal practice’ to guide us into an engagement with life—the way we ‘take up the world’ is his phrase—that doesn’t reduce the complexities into something meager, that doesn’t abstract them into something lifeless, that doesn’t manipulate them into something self-serving. A focal practice enables us to stay personally engaged and socially responsible in a culture that is increasingly depersonalized and alarmingly fragmented. The focal practice that enables us to take up with creation is Sabbath-keeping.  …

“Sabbath is a deliberate act of interference, an interruption of our work each week, a decree of no-work so that we are able to notice, to attend, to listen, to assimilate this comprehensive and majestic work of God, to orient our work in the work of God.  …

“ ‘Time,’ insisted Peter Forsyth, ‘is the sacrament of eternity.’ Sabbath is a workshop for the practice of eternity. … When we remember the Sabbath and rest on it we enter into and maintain the rhythm of creation. We keep time with God. Sabbath-keeping preserves and honors time as God’s gift of holy rest: it erects a weekly bastion against the commodification of time, against reducing time to money, reducing time to what we can get out of it, against leaving no time for God or beauty or anything that cannot be used or purchased. It is a defense against the hurry that desecrates time.” - Eugene Peterson, Christ Plays In Ten Thousand Places

The main frustrating thing about my meditative life these days is that I have to take it in sound bytes. I remember, when I first started blogging, I had entire days to do nothing but sit around and think (well, I was supposed to be studying). Now, I have little chunks of time: the thirty-minute commute to work, ten minutes here and there between seeing patients. Twenty minutes while nursing. An hour in the afternoon or at night, with the constant possibility of interruption by a crying baby or a kid that won’t stay in bed. Sometimes a good idea is just starting to take hold when I have to go make up a story with Lego’s, or wash more grapes, or mediate a dispute.

I’ve been enjoying the above book: it’s meaty enough to make me think, and satisfyingly lyrical. I like thinking about the Sabbath as a way to enter into the “rhythm of Creation,” as a way to participate in and enter into a world and existence bigger than the narrowness of our business. To understand that God is bigger than time, the way time has come to mean for all of us (time as money, as goals, as tasks; time as a means to get somewhere or keep from getting somewhere). To constantly redefine our perspective of work. To love our neighbor, allow for social justice (the Deuteronomy reason for the Sabbath command).

There are a lot of ways we can teach this to our kids. We sometimes have a quiet time, a break in the middle of the morning’s activities where the children can each lie quietly on blankets on the floor and think, or play quietly with toys. Ellie still lies in bed for her daily quiet time even though she doesn’t nap. We get into the habit of going to church and treating it as something we prepare for and enjoy. We can take Sundays as a time to do nothing but rest around the house, or plan some outing where we can enjoy the outdoors.

But this is hard too. It’s easy to rest from my out-of-home job. Three days a week, I see patients and operate, then I leave and come home. But how do you rest from the constant work of parenting? I guess in one sense, I take my Sabbaths in sound bytes. We get childcare so we can get away from the kids for a bit—and spending money, or relocating near parents, to do that is okay. I take bits here and there while the kids sleep or during the work commute. I have to create my Sabbaths, or they don’t happen.

But in another sense, don’t children point us to Creation, to wonder, to this idea of attentiveness and adoration, more than anything else? They are always asking to play—what is that, if not wonder in action? Or, as Peterson puts it, “the exuberance and freedom that mark life when it is lived beyond necessity, beyond mere survival.” They are always asking what’s that?—because they are looking; they see, and they wonder. They are always talking in exclamation marks—my favorite color! oh, buh-bee, so-cute-buh-bee!—because they adore.

So yes, parenting is work, and I never really get fully away from my work. I take my Sabbaths as I can, and I feel lucky we have as much support with childcare as we do, but the rest of the time, I let the spirit of the Sabbath inform my mothering-work as much as possible. Sometimes it’s just a messy, tiring trek from one nap to the next, but that sense of resting in creation, of mercy in community, is there too, and learning how to look for and cultivate it is probably as important in teaching my kids and myself about the Sabbath as anything else.