Patience Walks

“Hold on, Mom,” she says, dismounting from her pink bicycle again. She crouches down, her face inches from the ground. “This is important,” she tells me. 

We’re on one of our walks through the neighborhood, and already we’ve paused like this many times. We’ve examined pill bugs and spider webs, smooth black rocks and purple-flowered weeds, cracks in the sidewalk and one neighbor’s coral-colored roses. I feel the impatience begin to rise in my throat, the impulse to tell her, “Charlotte, get back on your bike. We need to keep going.” But at four years into this motherhood gig, I’ve finally started to learn to push that restlessness down. We don’t have to keep walking. We’re not here to move forward, after all. We’re here to do exactly what my oldest daughter does so well: engage in, watch, and pay attention to the world around us. 

——— 

Ten years ago, I was known as a fast-walker with a tongue to match my gait. I’d chosen a life in political action as a self-assured and overly confident 18-year-old, poised to change the world. I spent part of my eighteenth summer in Washington, D.C. 

I loved Washington. I drank in the hum of the city, the power and importance and history you could feel pulsing through its streets. When I used the metro, I admired how D.C. dwellers kept their travels business-like and straightforward, just the way I liked it. Gone were the backstreet meanderings of my small-town Idaho upbringing and the aimless, slow movement of farmers’ daughters with no place in particular to be. Everyone in D.C. had an urgent errand to dispatch and no time or need to interact with fellow passengers or take in the scenery. Eyes on Blackberries (yes, this was pre-iPhone), they walked with purposeful strides: slow-movers to the right, rushers to the left. It was orderly and controlled and swift. 

It wasn’t long before I learned to stop smiling at strangers like a wide-eyed Idahoan—it only confused people while they watched my hands nervously, expecting me to offer them an unwanted pamphlet or petition. I stopped noticing the hungry squirrels with their twitching noses that occupied sidewalks or the pigeons cooing beside bus stop benches. I stopped making eye contact and didn’t mind one bit. I felt D.C. and its residents understood me: they were willing to keep moving at my breakneck pace for 60-hour weeks rather than forcing me to tailgate their tractors on the highway like back home. 

———

Is it cliche to say my life didn’t end up how I thought it would? Maybe. Maybe it’s only cliche because so many of us have been rescued from the life we thought we wanted when we were 18 years old. 

The particulars aren’t relevant, but my fast-moving life in politics was pulled out from under me with little ceremony and less warning when my boss lost his re-election bid. My 10-year plan crumbled, my hopes died, and I felt (with all my teenage fervor) crushed. 

The next ten years brought college, a rediscovered affection for writing, marriage, a hodgepodge of jobs, and finally, two curly-haired daughters. Each year, circumstances slowed down my natural pace, sometimes maddeningly, like when I fought my physical limitations while pregnant or experienced the paralysis of anxiety. But nothing—absolutely nothing—has taught me to take a beat and practice some patience like motherhood. 

———

Mary Oliver’s Instructions for Living a Life commands: “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” 

My near-daily walks through our unremarkable, quaint neighborhood with my children look nothing like rushing through the metro tunnels of Washington, D.C. I haven’t moved forward—metaphorically and physically—at that pace in a long time. When my first daughter started biking, I could barely stand the painstakingly slow wandering and near-constant pauses for rocks, bugs, leaves, nuts, and flowers. Still stubbornly stuck in a point-A-to-point-B mindset, I’d chide my daughter and hurry her along. “We have to keep moving,” I’d say.

Until finally, I realized, who says? Is the point of life forward movement? Or am I missing out on paying attention? On being astonished at a stunningly yellow bumble bee or a fragrant lavender bush? On having something to tell about: missing out on the vibrant, beautiful, mundane moments that make a life?

I’ve started to call our neighborhood ambling my patience walks. When Charlotte stoops to pick a dandelion, I allow myself to breathe deeply and watch the wind play in the grass. The endless curiosity of my daughters’ childhood has given me an immense gift I don’t know I could have captured on my own—and it’s not only patience or a slower stride. It’s a sheer astonishment at the quotidian and deep pleasure in the mundane. Now when Charlotte tells me, “Stop Mom, this is important,” I agree. This is important. This is what we’re here to do. 

Originally written and published by Emily Fisk.

The Power of Gathering Around the Table: Beyond Hospitality

Gathering around the table: a once-almost sacred event, carefully guarded from distractions, is almost just a relic in American memory. Perhaps we have lost our understanding of its importance, consequently giving our allegiances to other activities which leave no time for the family dinner hour. Admittedly, we have begun to struggle with this as sports have monopolized our dinner time many days, giving us strong pause about our choices.

There are studies and research that provide astounding evidence to the benefits of gathering together around the table regularly, from lower rates of obesity to lower rates of drug use in youth. Importance of the Family Table (With a Look at Education Benefits) lists some of them.

The rhythm of gathering daily, the act of facing each other, poised to listen and be heard, partaking in a pleasurable activity together and enjoying the gifts of God that are recognized as such–these are life-giving things. It’s difficult to hold a grudge against someone with whom you are breaking bread and passing plates. Fellowship in inextricably intertwined with eating together. For that reason, we should guard our meal times religiously.

“The table is a place of memory where we…become aware of who we are and with whom we are. Around the table, all previous meals come together in every meal, in an endless succession of memories and associations. The table is the place where the family gathers, the symbol of solidarity, or indeed the backdrop to family rows and childhood tragedies. At the table the eater is tamed.” Why We Eat Together, The Atlantic

I’ve also been thinking about the biblical implications for the importance of table fellowship and it’s a beautiful thing to trace, encouraging us of even more meaningful reasons to make gathering a priority.

Jesus loved to tell stories using imagery of food. He called Himself the Bread of Life, promising to fulfill our insatiable appetites, and offering us the Drink that will cause us to never thirst again.

And in that life-changing Eucharist that points us to the cross over and over, until His return, He invites us to dine with Him over wine and bread. It’s an intimate fellowship at His table each time we gather so we make it a regular part of our worship, doing it in remembrance of Him.

The Eucharist should spill over to our own tables. And what does Eucharist mean? THANKSGIVING. Ultimately, when we come to table–the Lord’s table or our own, we join together in thanksgiving because we should. We have been given life and redemption, and abundance beyond that.

Do our children meet with us each day in Eucharist–thanksgiving? The older I get, and the more I see, the more I’m convinced that there is NO trait more important to cultivate in our homes than gratitude. I beg the Lord to keep my children from some of the self-absorbed, petty and destructive attitudes I see among so many young people I know.

And as our thanksgiving grows, it spills out onto those around us. Scripture encourages us to be hospitable–to those outside our homes as much as inside.

“A generous person will prosper; whoever refreshes others will be refreshed.” Proverbs 11:25

When we break bread with our neighbors, extended family or friends, there is an unspoken refreshment happening. We thank Him for our friends, and we thank Him for the hands and heart that, through ministry, labor to create a beautiful, tasty meal–even a simple one. Eucharist.

Let us strive to carve out, as often as possible, this time of gathering together, sharing a meal and sharing ourselves out of thanksgiving, leaving a powerful demonstration in our homes of what it means to live thankfully.

Originally written and published by Kelly Crawford. Used with permission.

Nina Lost Her "No" Button

Children’s children are a crown to the aged, and parents are the pride of their children. (Proverbs 17:6 NIV)

I used to know how to say “no” quite well. When our children were young, I felt the full weight of responsibility on my shoulders to help shape and mold them into productive, sweet, kind, loving, gracious Christian women. Parenting instructions at the time informed me that enabling them to attain all these marvelous attributes meant saying “no.” A lot. Being firm. Making sure they obeyed. Came when called. No getting away with bad behavior. Providing consequences. I could “no” with the best of them. Second slice of dessert? No. Jump on the bed and hurt yourself or the bed? No. Get out of bed for an extra hug? No. A third glass of water after lights out, please? No, again.

Now I’m a Nina. Four of my grandchildren are currently living with us. Of course, they are adorable, just like the two who don’t live with me. And somehow, I seem to have lost the ability to say “no.” Jump on the bed? Um. Well, be careful dears. Extra water? Of course, honey. Read another book … oh look you brought me seven books. Well, yes! I’ll read all seven. I’m a complete pushover for these darlings. What in the world has happened?

A number of things have transpired in the decades between then and now. First of all, I regret that I was harsher than I needed to be with my own dear girls. Sure, firmness was needed at times, but sometimes my firmness was to be in control and not because it was best for them. I’d like to not repeat that, thank you. Second, I realize that my time with my grandchildren is short. I have the privilege of living with four of them for a year, but normally they all live far away and visits are not frequent. I want to be remembered by them as one who showed kindness and grace—not temper and fussiness. Third, I’m (thankfully) no longer the one in charge. The primary duty of discipline and training is their parents’ responsibility, not mine. My job is to learn the standards the parents have set and enforce them as best I can. Both my girls are kinder than I was, and I love the way they love their children. I want to be like them in extending grace and patience.

Oh, how I agree with our verse above. My children’s children are a “crown” and a joy to this Nina! How I want the second part of that verse to be true as well, that my children would be proud of me and the way I grandparent. I want to honor their parenting decisions and be a blessing to them as best I can. And that means … I do need to find that “no” button. Really. [Sigh.] At times it’s still needed, and what a struggle it can be to say that little, two-letter word.

Lord, help us, no matter what stage of life we are in, to treat the children in our lives with love and tenderness, wisdom and understanding. May the children we love grow into adults who love You. In Jesus’ Name—the One who loved children so well! Amen.

Originally written by Sharon Gamble of Sweet Selah Ministries.

Early Intervention and the Good News of Jesus

A friend visited me this weekend and reminded me of a post I’ve been wanting to write for years that keeps getting pushed to the back burner. This friend teaches in an elementary school, and we talked about several students she has had over the years who have had some form of learning disability or special need. Every time we talk about this, I am reminded of my own son’s early issues, and my own inner turmoil that went along with it.

I had my eldest when I was 34. At the time, I felt accomplished in a lot of ways. I had a masters degree in math education and taught at the local community college. I was deacon of women’s theology and teaching at a megachurch in Seattle. But parenting my little guy challenged my view of myself in profound ways.

We brought our tiny little guy home from the hospital (5 lbs 10 oz), did our best to gently get him into a routine, and began the long marathon of parenting. He reached all of his early milestones slowly. He didn’t walk until he was nearly two, utter discernible words until well after two, or potty train until nearly 4. Though those things do not bother me AT ALL now, they bothered me greatly early on as a young, inexperienced mother. Consistently, when with peers his age, my son was behind them in development. He cried and threw things. And if we were ever in a group setting with other parents and kids his age, he consistently disrupted the group or entertained himself away from the group.

At age 2 ½, we started a hippie neighborhood preschool. At the time, I was hoping to build relationships to minister in my community. But the Lord instead used the preschool to minister to me as I struggled to understand and parent my son. One thing was clear from the first weeks of preschool – my son was not like other kids in his class. But his teachers were kind and compassionate. They talked with me about having him tested for learning disabilities, something that at first seemed terrifying. They knew this would initially feel threatening to me and worked to show me the value of early intervention in children with learning disabilities. I got him tested, and we began speech and occupational therapy. And, sure enough, a decade later, I can clearly see how this intervention helped him. He is delightfully quirky, but he is also loving and lovable. His developmental issues no longer hold him back or disrupt our family.

If this story sounds familiar to you and your family is still in the early stages of struggle, here are some things I learned the hard way.

1. It is not your fault that your child has some kind of disability or learning issue.

During my early years of parenting, I lived in Seattle, home base of the granola mom. Though I did more natural, healthy things than some moms, I did a great deal fewer than the best natural moms in my area. I felt a lot of guilt over this, concerned by the constant influx of information on types of diets and baby foods. But more than the food my son ate, I felt great guilt in particular for not teaching him baby sign language. For some reason, I became convinced that was the source of his language struggles. At least, it was something I could latch onto that I could have done that I didn’t. He did eventually learn to talk and is quite the conversationalist now. He also reads and writes well. But even if he didn’t, I no longer believe things like baby sign language make or break verbal development. In general, the amount of moralistic information pushed on moms of young kids is overwhelming. Lots of things are moderately helpful, but that does not make them absolutely necessary.

In both secular and religious mommy circles, there is always some way we can drop the ball, starting with the first feedings after birth. From the first moments my two were born, I started down the path of mommy guilt. I am a type 1 diabetic, and I could not get my newborns started on my breast right after birth because of their dropping blood sugar (which according to some was key to starting my newborns off right). Which led to guilt that I didn’t better control my blood sugars during my pregnancy. Which led to guilt that I developed type 1 diabetes in the first place. Which is IRRATIONAL. From the first moments my boys were born, I was on the irrational spinning wheel of guilt in which many, many moms like myself have existed. Praise God that the good news of Jesus gives us another way of thinking about such information, which leads to number 2.

2. Come what may, your identity is secure in Christ. And so is your child’s.

When I say your identity, I’m talking about the qualities that distinguish your value as a person. What makes you valuable? What makes your child valuable? How do you define your own worth to humanity? How do you define your child’s? The world projects onto us the need as parents to give our children every opportunity to be great in all of the things. But when we take that responsibility on ourselves, we project it onto our children as well. In that paradigm, their self-worth and self-identity will come from how well they measure up and move past classmates and peers. Trained by the pressures from their parents, they find their identity by how they COMPARE to others. But the Bible gives a sobering assessment of that mentality – “they that compare themselves among themselves, are not wise” (2 Cor. 10:12).

Self-worth by peer comparison IS NOT WISE. It’s not wise for parents, and it’s not wise for kids. This isn’t the hope Christ offers or the peace in which He equips us to live. Just as we are saved from condemnation for our failures by grace through faith in Christ (Romans 8:1), we are equipped for the good works God has prepared in advance for us the same way – by grace through faith in Christ (Ephesians 2:8-10). Your identity—your value—rests in Christ in you. And your good works (or your kids’) will only be good when they are the ones God prepared in advance for you that you accomplish by His grace at work in you.

Be at peace, stressed mother of an out-of-sync child. In Christ, you can rest from your attempts at good works, including trying to be the best mom of well rounded kids in your neighborhood, church, or school (Hebrews 4:10). Such peace through Christ enables us for point 3.

3. Do not feel threatened by a friend, family member, or educator suggesting intervention for your child.

I did feel threatened when the preschool teachers first mentioned testing to me. I wanted them to make me feel better by saying something like, “Oh, he will catch up quickly on his own. Just you wait.” Or, “Don’t worry about what you are seeing. You don’t need to do anything extra.” But instead, they told me about studies on early intervention, particularly around ages 0 to 5. They told me of the value of facing the developmental issues head on and doing what I could to support my son in these early years so he would be better adjusted for elementary school. It meant going in for a barrage of testing and then sifting through what I could and could not do in terms of recommended interventions. I opted for speech therapy and some occupational therapy. Then we got an IEP (individualized education plan) once my son hit elementary school. God was gracious to give us an elementary school with an awesome special education teacher. And after a few years, his teachers and I decided he no longer needed the IEP. In many ways, he remains out-of-sync with other kids, but it is no longer debilitating. His weaknesses are also his strengths, and I am learning to redirect them with an eye on how these quirks are part of his giftedness for the good works God has prepared for him.

The gospel equipped me to face my son’s difficulties head on without either he or I being defined by them. If I did drop the ball in his early years, there was no condemnation in Christ. And that freed me to help him in the ways that worked for our family and his teachers. I was not earning my righteousness by producing the ultimate well-adjusted child. I was freed from the mentality of having to try all the good things. Instead, I could prayerfully take the opportunities given to me that I could do and let go of the ones I couldn’t do.

Jesus says over the woman anointing his feet with oil in Mark 14, “She has done what she could.” At multiple points in my life, Jesus’ affirmation in those words has been a lighthouse beacon for me. I don’t have to do all the things. But prayerfully, in His name, I will do what I can according to how He leads me. The good news of Jesus changes everything, including our responses when our kids need help.

Originally written by Wendy Alsup of Practical Theology for Women.