Judge Not Please

I really think that I could be a less judgmental person if I avoided public places.  But no.  Museums, the zoo, playgrounds, the grocery store… my current season of life is lived among concentrations of strangers, and especially among kids and their caregivers.

Just the other day, I was pushing my girls on the swings of a foreign playground (i.e. a playground in one of those other neighborhoods), and an enthusiastic dad next to us was using his toddler’s swing experience as an educational platform.  He explained potential and kinetic energy in a high and bouncy voice.   He introduced ‘his little rocket ship’ to various nebula and used the word catawampus at least fifty times as he incessantly chatted throughout the known universe.

Even describing him makes my blood pressure rise a little.

I wasn’t trying to be judgmental, but really, he was egging me on.  After about five minutes of this, my thoughts turned ugly. “Yeah, I bet he’s so enthusiastic because he only sees his daughter for about five hours a week.  He is probably one of those work-a-holics in the Carnegie Mellon robot labs or maybe Google or something like that, and now he’s got an hour with his little rocket scientist and he just needs to introduce her to advanced vocabulary so that she can grow up to be a brainiac like he is.  Poor kid.  Imagine what he’ll be like when she’s a bit older.”

Ugh.  Sorry everyone.  I am not proud of myself.  He is probably just a really smart guy who likes to spend time with his daughter.

But do you see how easy it is to go there?

****

I’m being painfully honest here because I don’t think that I’m the only one who does this.  The world of people, particularly the world of strangers, is ripe for judgment.  For example:

Have you ever noticed how mean people can be to one another on the internet?

My favorite story related to this involves one of my favorite authors, Ann Voskamp.  A couple of years ago her book, A Thousand Gifts, was published.  One of its most negative reviews came from Tim Challies, a blogger/book reviewer.  I’m not going to go into great specifics here; but he criticizes her style, picks apart her theology, and doesn’t recommend the book to his readers.

Okay.  So.  What’s the big deal?  After all, the man is a book reviewer.  And aren’t we all entitled to our opinions?

What is fascinating here is Ann’s response.  The day after the review came out, she sent Tim Challies an e-mail, inviting him and his family over for dinner (they are both from Ontario).  This was not a public invitation, and we wouldn’t even know that it had been given if Tim Challies hadn’t done something fascinating in return.  Even before they set up dinner, he posted a public apology.

In it, he doesn’t back down from his criticisms of the book.  He explains, “It bears saying as well that I feel no moral quandary about reviewing her book or any other and even warning of potential weaknesses. Any author who releases a book acknowledges that it is entering into the public sphere and may receive both praise and criticism. This is an inevitable component of making writing available to the public and it is one that authors welcome; it is an honor that other people consider your ideas worth discussing.”

He goes on.

“Having said all of that, something happened inside me when I saw Ann’s name in my inbox, and that’s what has compelled me to write this little article. Seeing her name brought a sudden and surprising realization and with it a twinge of guilt and remorse. It has happened to me before, this strange feeling that comes when I suddenly realize that the name on the front of the book–”Ann Voskamp” in this case–is not some cleverly programmed, unfeeling robot that spits out blog posts and magazine articles and books, but a person. A real person.”

Later he asks himself if his review would have been different–at least in tone–if he had known that they would soon be having dinner together.

This is a great question.

****

There is a saying-”familiarity breeds contempt”- and it is certainly true.  I am sometimes stunned by my ability to be really nasty to those who are closest to me (with specific apologies to my husband, my parents and my brothers).  However, I would like to propose that the reverse is also true, that unfamiliarity can also breed contempt.

As a city-dweller and a semi-frequent internet user, I interact with an overwhelming number of strangers each day.  And when we are confronted with an overwhelming amount of information, what do we do?  We sort.  We label.  We put things into categories.  Granola mom.  Welfare mom.  Delinquent teenager.  Spoiled brat.  Workaholic.  High-maintenance.  Hard-working.  Obsessed with technology.  Hopelessly outdated.

On and on and on.

With each label comes our own personal script, which can be positive or negative.  For example, a few years ago I realized that I was stereotyping the elderly black men of my community as automatically trustworthy.  My unconscious reasoning was that they were pillars of the community because they had survived (thus rising above) the often volatile circumstances of growing up male and black in the city.  One day a good friend (who was young, male, black and extremely gracious) set me straight.  ”Not necessarily Jen” he said, “some were just tough and lucky.  You should hear the things that some of your ‘pillars of the community’ brag about.”

Look at that–elderly black men are individuals.  Imagine.

But while I’m on a roll here, let me make one more sweeping generalization, and I’ll stick by this one:

People are always, always, always complicated.  All of them.  All the time.  From our closest friends to absolute strangers–complicated.    Full of motives and stories and contradictions and beauty and pain.  Complicated beyond our understanding, even beyond our imagining.

Complicated.  And this is the reason why we should be careful to judge.  Unfamiliarity can only breed contempt if we fail to remind ourselves that strangers are people.  That the enthusiastic ‘rocket scientist dad’ is just as much of a real, complicated person as this long-winded ‘blogging mom.’

It makes me wonder what could have happened if I had looked his way and said, “What does catawampus mean, anyway?”

Time to Heal

Do you know anyone who is limping right now?

I do.   A handful of friends, first-time marathoners who charged or chugged up Pittsburgh’s hillsides just three days ago.  We watched the runners between miles 20 and 21 and yelled encouragement.

“You’re awesome!”  ”You’re doing it!”  ”Almost there!”

As the river of people passed, the pain on their faces increased.  By the time some of the stragglers reached us, they had been running for FIVE HOURS.  Running.  For five hours.  I find driving for five hours exhausting.  And they still had five miles to go.

We kept yelling.

****

Three days later, some of those who limped to the finish line are still limping.  But I am not worried about them.  They will take it slow, take a break, ice this and heat that, and some will even get a massage.  They will take care of themselves, and they will heal.  Healing happens one step at a time, just like training for a marathon.  And they will do it.

“After all”, they will believe, “I deserve a break now.  I just ran a marathon.”

****

My concern is elsewhere, with friends who have not run physical marathons, but who have recently endured relational, emotional, psychological, and spiritual seasons of strain.  It was a long winter, a long year, for many people I know.  They have run marathons too. Some are still running.  And some are limping.

Will they allow themselves to heal?

I suppose it should come as no surprise that it is easier for us to recognize and respond to our physical injuries.  They are (generally) clear-cut, able to be diagnosed, and often respond to cause-and-effect treatment.  Also, they are rarely our fault, and therefore don’t carry the extra baggage of shame.

Relational, emotional, psychological and spiritual burdens seem far more complicated.  Messier.  And they build under the surface for a long time while we say things like, “Oh, life is just stressful.”  But sometimes this is what I wish we would say:

“I deserve a break now.  I just ran a marathon.”

****

I am sitting in a coffee shop as I type, and the May sunshine in streaming in.  It is a good season for healing.  And as I type, I wonder what that could look like for you and for me.   Perhaps we could call a friend, or a therapist.  Perhaps we could remember the silly artistic or athletic things that we like to do, and allow ourselves to play.  Perhaps we could walk in the woods, or get tickets for a concert, or buy a box of colored pencils, or sign up for a class, or clean our bedroom, or write a story or…

Whatever it is for you, may I make a suggestion?

Plan to heal.  When it happens, as it happens, it will be a gift, but it will not happen accidentally.  It will not happen quickly.  No one expects a twisted knee to be better in a week.  Expect your own rehabilitation to take some work, and some time.

And remember:  It’s worth it because you are worth it, and all the people who love you would agree.

Questions from the Air

On Monday I was annoyed, but on Saturday; heartbroken.

On Monday, our flight from Los Angeles to Pittsburgh was delayed, canceled, and rescheduled for the next morning. The airline cited ‘weather’ as the reason, but frustrated passengers muttered ‘sequester’ and ‘furloughed air traffic controllers’ as we found places to stay for an extra night.  My husband and I crashed on our (angelic) friends’ air mattress and returned the next day.

All last week travelers endured similar delays.  Why?  When my daughter asked me why we had returned a day late, I explained, “There just weren’t enough people working who could watch our plane in the sky.”  ”Why, mama?”  ”There isn’t the money to pay them honey.”  ”Why, mama?”  ”Uh… umm… the grown-ups are still trying to figure that out.”

By Friday, the grown-ups figured it out.  Our collective airport frustrations reached the ears of legislators who, through an almost unimaginable act of bipartisanship, fixed the problem swiftly.

Now you ask, why is that heartbreaking?

****

I first heard the news over the radio.  Saturday morning, coffee in hand.  No more excessive airport delays.  Great.  I won’t be flying anytime soon, but I do not wish extra annoyance on business travelers, parents traveling with small children, or anyone else.

However.

As a part of the report, a question came over the airwaves, right to me and my coffee cup.  But what about the cuts to programs like Headstart and Meals on Wheels?  Why has the loudest cry come from the airport lounges?  

Now, before I continue, I would like to say that, yes I know that airline delays have financial consequences.  Yes, I know that ‘entitlement programs’ carry more baggage than you could check under a plane.  Yes I know, it’s all very complicated.

Here’s something else I know:  I cared much more about my delayed flight than I do about cuts to Meals on Wheels.

It is difficult to care passionately about things that don’t affect me personally.

And given the legislative events of the past week, I don’t think that I’m the only one.

Why Preschool is my Friend

“Mama, can we paint?”

The correct answer to this question is no.  I said yes.

About an hour later, I was recovering.  Diego was conducting my children’s daily Spanish lessons.  And then, from the very depths of my maternal soul, came a thought so true and so obvious that I spoke it into an empty room.

“This is why I send my children to preschool.”

*****

Yes, I am a bad mother.  I am also a good one.  And I am better with preschool at my side.

And so, with all respect for the homeschooling parents (and hoping that the feeling is mutual), I present a short list of reasons why I am grateful to drop my children off at a small brick building for a few hours each day.  Only one is specific to our very own preschool, and so I will get it out of the way first.

1.  Mr. Rogers once worked with children there, and his child development mentor was the original director.  Really.  Mr. Fred Rogers.  He is my hero.

2.  The teachers are more well-rested than myself and my husband.  This makes them much nicer to our children.

3.  Educational toys galore that I don’t have to buy.  Or store.  Or trip over and threaten to hide in a bin for a month if they don’t Put Them Away Right Now.

4.  Other parents in the same young child boat to commiserate with.  Groaning about the effects of daylight savings time (non-sleepy kids at night who can’t get up in the morning) or a pink-eye epidemic or kindergarten lotteries with people who understand them for the tragedies that they are.

5.  A flat area for tricycles, bookshelves full of colorful and appropriate books,and potties that are just their size.  It’s like someone designed the room just for, well, preschoolers.

6.  Relationships with child development professionals who know my particular kids, and who don’t mind lots of questions.

7.  Supervised small group interactions that I don’t have to supervise.  Good for them, good for me.

8.  Driving away in the car without first strapping someone into the car seat.  Going to the bathroom by my stinkin self.  Drinking the entire cup of coffee without having to heat it again in the microwave.  Freedom!

9.  Paint, glue and even GLITTER that I don’t have to find, get out, become stressed out by, or clean up.

10.  Two lovely little girls who run down the sidewalk towards preschool and then greet their teachers with hugs.  Most days.  And even when I deliver them kicking and screaming, the teachers don’t seem to mind.

My Prayer for Boston

I googled tentatively, warned by my husband that the photos were graphic.  One keystroke in the search bar, “B”, and the whole mess spilled across the screen.  I covered the pictures and read the words.  It didn’t help.  My imagination went right to work.

I am still a bit stunned, so forgive me if I can’t find the words.  But already I search for them, mostly because I want to pray but don’t know how.  So later, now, while my husband puts the kids to bed, I pull open the computer again, and try to talk to the sky:

*****

Really?  Again, Lord, what the…  Aren’t you a little sick and tired of giving evil so much power?  One person, one hundred people behind this, I don’t know, but limbs flew.  Human limbs blasted off, flew.  You and I have talked about this before.  Can’t you just have a car hit the guy who is about to shoot up an elementary school?  Can’t you just stop the rapists, the demi-god dictators, the soldiers who recruit children?  Can’t you just… Do Something?

Yeah, I’m angry.  But you can take it.  I just get tired of hearing the latest tragedy… the latest incident that my housemates can’t tell me about until the kids are out of earshot.  And then twenty minutes after I find out, I am holding my own daughter–safe, snuggling, beloved limbs intact–on the couch, reading the kid’s version of Little House on the Prairie, all the while trying not to think about it.  But I do.  And I tremble as I hold her.

Do I just beg you to please please please never let such horror come close to me and the ones I love?  This is what I feel: not me, not here, not my own.  Just keep it at arms length, just pretend that I am different, protected, somehow.

But that’s not true.  Because I know that they are like me, those who are suffering as I sit here and blog.  They are like me, those who are afraid that the loved one won’t make it though the night.  They are like me, those who ran a marathon but won’t walk away from the hospital.  They are like me, those who won’t sleep tonight because their minds will reply again and again whatever it was they wish they hadn’t seen.

They are like me, so what do I ask you for us all?  No more bombings, shootings, child abuse, genocides?  This seems futile.  It just doesn’t fit with the only world I know.  We suffer here, and none if us can keep it away.  But you.  I know you too.  You have done something, you are doing something, and you will do more: but you’re not just a fix-it God.

You are here.  Here.  It may just be your main attribute.  Here.  This I know firsthand.  I have never suffered alone.

And so tonight, tonight the request part of my prayer is just two words: Be there.  Be there in hospitals and hotel rooms.  Be there at 2 a.m. and at 4, you who are near to the brokenhearted.  Be there at funerals, be there as we all mourn together.  Be there… do I even need to ask?  Be there.  Please.  Because we’re all so sad and afraid.

Amen.

A Small Poem for New Life

This poem is written and posted in honor of my cousin Melissa, her husband Tim, and the baby boy who came into the world just before noon on Thursday.

*****

Sometimes,

after a long, hard night,

three births take place

simultaneously.

 

Mother.

Father.

Baby.

 

Each new life is fragile,

already exhausted

from the work of being born,

the casting out

of every familiar womb.

 

Each new life is born strong,

woven with the thick thread

of miracle

as stunning as one body grown inside another,

fierce and resilient as love.

*****

Welcome to the world, all three of you.

Waiting, the Most Annoying Way to Build Character

“You have to learn to wait.”

How many times have I said this to my children?  Life, after all, is full of waiting.  Waiting in line, waiting for your turn, waiting for something to be over, waiting for something to begin.  Life is full of waiting, and so we include it in the kid-life-curriculum.  Be patient, honey.  You have to learn to wait.

But… umm… grown-ups?  Have you got this lesson down?

*****

Part One:  Highland Ave.

The bridge is under construction.  The bridge, the main bridge, the one that connects the area of My House to the area of Places I Need to Go.  Last week, on Friday afternoon, I attempted to come home.  With tired children in the backseat, I tried the alternate route.  It was gridlocked for miles.  I had been out all afternoon.  So I tried the alternative to the alternate.  There was traffic on streets where traffic has never been before.

And there was nothing to do but sit in it.  And inch forward.  And wait.

So I waited.  ”Mama, she hit me!”  ”No I didn’t!”  ”Yes, she did!”  ”Arghargheeeee!”  I kept inching.

And waiting.

I was one mile from my house and it took me a half hour to get home.

And I did.  But…

Anyone who considers themselves a patient person should try out this situation.  Let me know how it goes for you.

*****

Part Two: Advanced Waiting

Several of my friends are in the final weeks of pregnancy.  As I think about and pray for them, I remember what it was like to have nothing to do but wait.  Well, nothing to do and everything to do.  There are preparations  of course, seemingly endless preparations.  But there is no direct correlation between the work of preparing and the timing of the baby’s arrival.

Fix up the nursery?  Don’t fix up the nursery?  Doesn’t matter–the baby won’t come one day earlier or one day later.  You just have to wait.  Take a long walk?  Well, it’s worth a try, but there are no guarantees.  Keep waiting.  Make plans to go away for the weekend before the baby’s due date?  Well, the average for first-time birth is a week and a day after the due date, but that’s just an average.  Better be ready.  Or not.

The life-changing event is coming, but no one knows when.

If you have to learn to wait,  the last weeks of pregnancy are like getting a doctorate.

*****

Part Three:  Waiting Well

Of course, traffic and pregnancy aren’t the only, um, opportunities to practice the skill of waiting.  We wait for the potential employer to set up the interview, and then we wait for the call.  We wait for the test results.  We wait for the house to close, for the right car to show up on Craig’s List, for the acceptance-or-rejection letter.  We wait to see how our careers will unfold or how our children will turn out.  We do what we can, but then…

The question is not ‘will we wait?’ but ‘how will we wait?’

And the problem with waiting is that it implies we are not completely in control.  Many of us do not like this one bit, and we equate waiting with being passive, and being passive with something like laziness or lack of ambition.  ”I just need to work harder” we tell ourselves, “I can fix this.”  And if we can’t, like being stuck in $#@^&% traffic, our frustration with ourselves, with the situation, or with somebody-who-is-to-blame just grows and grows.

It can make us not very nice to be around.  Just ask my children.

There is a great freedom to be found in learning to wait well.  If waiting implies not being in control, then waiting well implies trust.  Like a frustrated child who looks into the eyes of a loving parent and thinks, “Okay, if she says that it’s almost my turn, it must be.  I’ll wait.”  Of course, this implies that the one running the universe is on our side, and even some of us who say we believe this get a little nervous sometimes.  The evidence, after all, is mixed.  Really beautiful and really bad things happen to us on a semi-regular basis.

If I wait, if I attempt to trust, how do I know that it will be okay?  I have no easy answer to this question.  However, I do have a good answer to this one:  If I work and worry myself into the ground, will it be okay?

Nope.