Loud Praise

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Loud Praise

On the 6-hour drive from my dorm room to my parents' house, I used to scream-sing Wicked, and upon arriving home, could barely greet my parents because, well, that note at the end of Defying Gravity wasn't going to scream itself and I'd taken a real good whack at it, on repeat. Six hours of this kind of behavior certainly takes a toll on your ability to talk, and I may or may not have gotten a speeding ticket as a result of my commitment to my role as every single cast member. I also attempted to paint my face green "just to see if I'd look as good as Idina” and, along with a few of my equally obsessed sorority sisters, died my hair black, which was definitely a mistake. 

My collegiate Elphaba obsession is not really the point here. The point is that even though scream-singing is strictly reserved for solo road trips, I’ve always been a naturally loud singer. I’ve been told to pipe down about a million times, and I’ve heard it enough that I learned to be embarrassed when someone could hear me (hence the glorious treasure of a long car ride with the soundtrack of my musical obsession du jour). During many church services, my insides have wrestled between desperately wanting to participate as fully as a full voice can, and desperately not wanting to bother anyone. It sends our souls into a dark place when we realize we’ve been annoying people. “Annoying” cuts deeper than a lot of other descriptors because it's dismissive, callus, demeaning of our worth, equating our humanity with a buzzing fly you can shoo away. So I spent a lot of years avoiding that descriptor, avoiding being a bother, avoiding being noticed.

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Helmet of Salvation

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Helmet of Salvation

A trainer recently asked me if I had any goals for my new gym membership. The truth is no, I don’t. It’s glaringly true at this point in my life that the shape of my body does not endanger me, but the shape of my mind? This is the true threat.

I think everyone knows motherhood messes with your body, and that’s another post entirely, but I’ve never heard much talk about how it messes with your mind. In other roles I’ve had in my life (teacher, assistant, journalist, etc.), my mind has always been occupied on the task at hand. But staying at home with kids, that’s a different kind of job. I imagine it’s similar to being a trucker—miles of work ahead but the mind is free to wander. Also there are frequent caffeine stops and the ever-present threat of someone barging in when you’re trying to shower.

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Frogs and Falling

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Frogs and Falling

There’s a cruel and inescapable phenomenon in which the universe heaps embarrassment on people who are not safely surrounded by the friends who know them well enough to laugh together about it. This is very uncool, Universe, and for the record, we don't love it. NO WE DO NOT.

How many of us have fallen on our faces when we are surrounded by people but NOT ANY PEOPLE WE KNOW? Have mercy, this is a cruel world.

See, Adelaide has a bath toy that's a frog who is wearing a crown. A frog king, one might say. And it's innocent enough, to call a frog with a crown a "frog king," except when that person is three and drops her Rs. Just pause for a moment and run that one through the ol’ noggin again. 

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No Mom Guilt

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No Mom Guilt

I just decided two things: 1. I am not going to fold that pile of laundry over there even though it is glaring at me, and 2. I am banning the phrases “mom guilt” and “mom fail” from my life. Both the laundry and the words have been oppressing me, and I am not interested in being oppressed by anything, especially an inanimate pile of clothes and an inanimate pile of letters. 

When I was a teacher, I did not suffer under “teacher guilt” or say something was a “teacher fail.” When I was a student, I did not have “student guilt” or say something was a “student fail.” I have never said the phrases “wife guilt” or called something a “wife fail,” and I don’t think I’ve ever heard my husband say “dad guilt” or “dad fail.” Maybe it’s just an issue of semantics (although the words we use matter, don’t they?), or maybe it’s something a lot deeper. Maybe the mom role is uniquely guilt-laden.

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Why the Resurrection Matters

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Why the Resurrection Matters

It’s another terrifying story of a mother’s worst nightmare, and it makes my heart stop. “God, NO. This is enough. Please let there never be another story like this one!” I bang my fists on the counter, looking at my own children and cannot fathom how I could ever endure the loss of them. Sometimes the fear smothers me. My faithless heart screams, “God, you say you are the Comforter, but how could there ever be enough comfort for this? How will you ever comfort her?” My kids scream for more juice, and I find myself grateful for their screams, desperate for them to always be around to scream.

I’ve never been in a place where my faith has to hold up under the weight of something this heavy, but oh, how I have railed at God on behalf of those who have.

Just the night before, a dear friend of mine was in an unusual position, watching her brother play the part of Jesus in a local Passion Play. She said it was startling, overwhelming, to watch someone you know and love, someone you laugh with, be beaten, nailed to a cross. It was a reenactment of course, but a powerful one, and my friend noted, “It’s just so crazy to remember that it actually happened.”

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