Christmas tears

It was the week before Christmas in the middle of a well-prepared and beautiful Sunday School lesson… our teacher passed out bags with the symbols of Christmas and we talked about our traditions, etc. I loved having a different sort of lesson, it just felt appropriate to do something special, something seasonal, and I love participating in talk of celebratation ideas.

At one point she asked us what we do to serve as a family at Christmastime. Immediately and without warning, just as quickly as hands raised, tears began forming at the sides of my eyes and cascaded down my cheeks. I have always dreaded this question.

The father of a young friend found me after church, addressed me by name, and asked if I was just touched during the class or if I was ok. Which released them all over again.

I confessed what I just told you, that I hate that question. I told him the truth, that I feel like a failure every time we have to talk about what we do to serve as families. I have a dear friend, my mentor and role model just a few years further down the road, who is brilliant at this, who has a binder-head full of ideas to pull from. She has truly engaged her kids, from taking them to assisted living places to sing and play games to taking them to visit various kinds of people in their congregations. I can’t help but think of her whenever this kind of conversation comes up. She is so good at it, she made the effort to include her kids in any kind of service she happened to be doing. I feel like I missed the chance to teach my kids; they’re grown, I should’ve figured out how to fit it in. I wonder if I already felt too overwhelmed just getting through the days when they were little, maybe I just never got traction in that way. And it’s not that we’re opposed to serving, but it’s one thing to do things while they’re at school, we all do that. I just don’t feel like I did enough to orchestrate formal service as a family. We’ve never made it a tradition to step foot inside any group living situation and sing or play games like she did. We’ve never gone caroling as a family. We’ve never packed food boxes altogether. We’re not even that great at doing things for the families we’re assigned to at church, and we haven’t done neighbor gifts forever. So that Sunday, when a mom is already tender from all she’s been trying to do to make Christmas be everything to everyone, it all came to a head. I have one nearly grown kid left. What was I doing all those years when I had them all still at home? Why didn’t I make the effort to teach them, to show them, to take them out into the community, among the needy? You know how your thoughts have a way of multiplying themselves… the more I thought about what I hadn’t done and what that meant, the sadder I became. With all the symbols we were discussing and all the good ideas my classmates had, I felt like I had missed the whole point of Christmas.

And yet, I don’t know if I would do things much differently if I were to begin again. There’s no way I could convince Todd or any of the kids to go inside where old people live and sing or play games, none of us is that brave. Todd works till 6:30… too late to serve dinner to the homeless people downtown. And for some reason, it never crossed my mind to do it on the weekend. Why didn’t we serve meals or sort clothes or build houses or work on community gardens as a family? I’ve always pushed the whole issue aside, ashamed that I didn’t coordinate projects for us. I think service in the ways I had in my mind overwhelmed me. None of it seemed to fit with our introverted family culture, and I’ve always felt that I’ve pushed too many of my good ideas on my family already; I think I sort of gave up on the idea of that being us, I dreaded hearing excuses or feeling rejected. Every once in a blue moon we’d do some kind of activity that had that kind of ring to it, helping at the food bank or doing yard work… but not so much as a family and always super randomly and sporadically. Just last week I was with two sets of parents at the Salvation Army with their whole families in tow including 2-year-old twins, and I couldn’t help but feel we could’ve done more.

And so that’s a sad place for my head and heart to be on the Sunday before Christmas. All my regrets bubbled up, and I wondered again where my priorities had been, why I didn’t make room for that kind of thing as a family.

It wasn’t till much later that day, maybe even the next, I don’t know, that slowly images started filtering into my mind. And they’ve continued to trickle in.

I thought of my college-aged son who showed up with a pot of homemade potato soup for his sick sister a few weeks back.

I thought back to so many conversations where my kids have been hesitant to share something about their friends, uncomfortable about engaging in any sort of inappropriate talk, reminding me, “I don’t want to gossip.”

I thought about all the homemade gifts they’ve all made for us over the years, watercolors, cutting boards, notes… and the ones they’ve so thoughtfully chosen… they’re so good at listening and paying attention to what people mention in passing.

I thought of our daughter who carved out time in the middle of finals and moving and saying goodbye to her life last week to buy gifts for our almost-like other kids who would be all alone for Christmas.

I thought of our daughter and son who drove to spend an afternoon with their great aunt and uncle who are 89 and 92 and how much I loved hearing all about it from both sides.

I thought of them singing in our church choir and encouraging other kids to come to our house to practice. I thought of them singing in small groups, which isn’t comfortable for them but they’ve done it.

I thought about all the loaves of bread they’ve brought home to give to various people as thank yous or just for fun.

I thought about the random texts I’ve gotten from moms who tell me about one of our kids being nice to their kids who have needed a friend.

I thought about them making food for their friends and hosting parties and gatherings. I love when they reach outside their usual friend group and when they’re inclusive. I thought about one of my sons having friends over for a Christmas party, another who made Norweigan food for 30, and my daughter and her Friendsgiving festivities… it all warms my heart so much that they’ve learned to cook and that they love to share.

I thought about the gifts they’ve bought for their friends over the years. I love that they remember birthdays and that they’ll make the effort to find just the right thing. I love that they buy each other gifts as siblings.

I thought about them giving each other rides to the airport. And paying for gas without me having to remind them.

I thought of them waiting up for each other as we've all gotten older.

I thought about our son in high school who’d drive late at night to a friend to give a hug or get fast food when there’s been sadness and a need.

I thought about our son who came up with a plan to travel by bus, train, and plane in the wee morning hours to surprise his aunt whose been dealing with cancer and a million other stresses.

I thought about him wearing pink every day in October in her honor, collecting money for her foundation.

I thought about all the ways I’ve seen our married kids cook and clean and care for each other. I love how devoted and thoughtful and kind they are to one another and to us when we’re together. I love the men they’ve grown up to be, and I love our bonus daughters to the moon.

I thought of the thank you note from a daughter I found on my pillow thanking us for her Christmas gifts.

I thought of the handwritten love notes on the backs of watercolor painting bookmarks, the time and thought that went into them, how I treasure them so much.

I thought about the times I’ve come home from the temple or other commitments to dishes being done without having to ask.

I thought of our daughter who goes over to visit her nana without ever mentioning it to me, who is kind and patient with her as she’s aging.

I thought about the times they’d already written thank you notes when I think to remind them.

I thought about how they all decided to take a night to cook this vacation without any consultation from me.

I thought about how close they all are, that they have their own chats, that they send funny things to each other, that they hug and laugh and sing and dance and hang out together, that they’re such good friends, that they go do things together, that they double date and have girls nights. I thought about our Sunday calls and how they still keep showing up after all this time.

They keep coming, I keep noticing. I feel like I’ve been given glimpses like these ever since that Sunday. And my heart is filling up. I feel so humbled as I consider the ways our kids have somehow learned to serve despite my lack of planning and executing concrete family service projects. I’m so touched by their sensitivity, their perception, their kind hearts, their generosity and their genuine friendship astuteness that they seem to have just innately come with. I think every parent has access to a similar list; all of us have kids who are kind and loving and who are making the world happier and softer in a million different ways.

I’m thinking that these specific memories are coming to me on purpose. That they’re to help settle my heart, to soften the feelings of regret I felt that day. I think I might not be alone, that maybe there are other parents who wish they could’ve or would’ve done things differently in some part of their parenting. I’m not saying it was all a mess or that we missed the boat completely. We’re like all of you and made an honest and valiant effort; we did the best we could with the energy, time, backgrounds and tools we had at the time. What I’m leaning toward is the idea that maybe our kids can learn what they need to despite what we don’t intentionally and formally teach. Maybe their classroom is just the world. Maybe they pick things up from other grown-ups and friends and families they mingle with, maybe they just have good hearts that they grow into, maybe they can learn to serve in places other than St. Vincent de Paul, maybe they just figure out how to love on their own terms and in their own natural ways. Maybe we don’t have to sign up to serve, maybe we don’t have to wait for a project, and maybe we don’t even have to do something super uncomfortable. Maybe our kids are the real teachers in all of this, and maybe this Christmas they’ve given me the best gift of all, reminding me through their examples and all their acts of kindness and love that it’s in the small and simple ways that we truly serve and share love. As a parent, what better gift could I wish for than kids who have learned—and who live—this.

Ready for Christmas

I just don’t feel like this is a question Todd ever gets. Moms, women, on the other hand, this is our seasonal greeting to which there is no appropriate affirmative reply. How could there be? How can she be? I’m thinking what we’re being asked is, Have you finished your shopping, do you have your menus thought out, are the beds made for out-of-town guests, have you mailed your cards and packages, is your decorating where you like it, have you made and taken neighbor gifts, are you organized and have you finished The List? If that’s the criteria, who can do anything but shrug and shake her head? Every now and then I bet there’s one out there who’s got it all handled, like she does the rest of her life, everything ordered, delivered, prepared, thought out, done and wrapped with a bow.

But then there’s me, gracing Target sometimes daily the week before Christmas, constantly trying to balance the stocking scales, wracking my brain and checking my lists to ascertain the equality of it all. I thought we were done with pjs, got disappointed reactions, and the quest began; at this point, all they have left is rust in xs and xxl that will arrive January 9th. I’ll suddenly recall someone in my sleep I should’ve remembered but forgot. It’s like having to give a speech and reworking it over and over and over till you finally just have to give it. Christmas for a mom is akin to the anticipation of waiting to have grades posted.

So if someone asks if I’m ready for Christmas and I’m thinking in technicalities, the answer will always and forever be a gracious version of Are you kidding me? I’m like all of you: I try to be organized, to start early, to rely heavily on my spreadsheet, to use lists and checkmarks. I simplify in every way possible, have given up making ornaments and crafts and delivering neighbor treats and taking family pictures. As I age, I’m learning to not waste seasonal energy on tasks that don’t bring us joy. But even with an October head start, I’m still not anywhere close to the finish line.

But am I ready for Christmas? For sure. Emphatically yes. I’ve been ready since fall but officially since November 1st when Christmas music premiers in our house.

After an intense summer and fall working the grounds, traveling, and harvesting, I’m always ready for the sun to turn in a little earlier, for the crisp days to visit for a while, to try on my sweaters and jeans again, to watch some shows. I’m ready for the first snowflakes and our tree hunt with lunch on the mountain. I’m ready for The Stroll, for snowy music-filled streets with shops open late, beckoning us in with festive treats and the hottest of hot chocolates.

I’m ready to pull out my nature-themed wrapping paper and to set out votive trios on our window sills. I’m ready for the traditional dinners and gatherings with friends, a slowed pace in which to puzzle, the smells of gingerbread and wassail, the delicacies we spoil ourselves with but once a year. I’m ready to make flavored pretzels and sticky toffee pudding and poppy seed potatoes and sugar cookies. I’m ready to bring random treats if we feel like it. I’m ready to let go of obligations.

I’m ready to open holiday cards from far-off family friends, to try to reconcile the now-grown people in the pictures with the kids I once babysat. I’m ready to sit down and review the year and create our own memory letter. I’m ready to make my list of people to shop for, to gather ideas to go with their interests. I’m ready to think about what my kids want and need. I’m ready to shop for our extended families and others we love.

I’m ready for the music that follows us throughout the house and our rooms and into our cars, everything from traditional carols to the newer stuff, there’s hardly a song we don’t like. I’m ready for concerts, bands, choirs, plays and music programs of all kinds. I’m ready to see the tiny twinkles on the houses and businesses and at the zoo. I’m ready to turn off all the big overheads at home and sit by the fire with just the ones on the tree and above our cabinets. I’m ready for even our bathrooms to share their little lights mixed in with holiday garland and berries. I’m ready to come inside and be home for long spells when it’s cold and dark. I’m ready for more family time, for cozy hygge. I’m ready to welcome family and friends in, to cook and coddle them, for comfortable conversation and quiet afternoons for reading alone.

I'm ready for the world to settle down, to call an armistice, a time out for peace. I’m ready for the unity I know I always feel a little more of at this time of year. I’m ready to bow out of the materialism and make a homemade Christmas. I’m ready to bring in the boughs and to add Christmas ribbons to all my flat surfaces. I’m ready to gather pinecones and to hang wreaths. I’m ready to breathe in the cinnamon, clove, nutmeg scent of my simmering oranges. I’m ready for family time, reflection, a little more attention to serving. I’m ready for the stories from the olden days that we read aloud at night by the tree. I’m ready for my naps with Finn curled up beside me and then waking up to snow and frost-covered limbs right outside our picture windows.

I’m ready to give. To express gratitude. To notice all that we have. To find ways to pay it all forward. I’m ready to slow down, to think of what this all means, to be mindful about how we spend our time and our resources, and to align ourselves with what matters the very most to us.

When I think of all the opportunities this season offers us, I can’t help but be delighted that it’s finally here! Yes, there are traditions we want to execute. And yes, we want those around us and those far away to know we’re thinking of them, that we love them. Of course. Anything of consequence takes effort and thought, but when we’re more concerned with sharing ourselves and being present, that’s Christmas.

So who knows what the answer should be when all people are really doing is making small talk. I suppose I’ll never be quite ready in the traditional sense. There will always be a gift I’ve forgotten, a food that flops, lights that quit working, cards that get returned, disappointment that someone is not here, a little regret that I couldn’t or didn’t do more for those in need. But I’m ready to embrace the season, its beauty and magic, the traditions and memories, the togetherness and tenderness, the calm and the joy. When I think of Christmas within this context, I wonder if we’re all more ready for it than we think. ;)

Lunch lady

I remember when one of the kids was heading out into the cold and I was helping zip a coat. Maybe kindergarten, possibly first grade. Todd called me out on it and asked what was happening. We weren’t the kind of parents who coddled or did anything for our kids that they could possibly do for themselves. I sheepishly responded that I was just helping him, it was such a cold day. An isolated instance, we figured they could do it themselves, ask for help, or be uncomfortable. Same with even bringing a coat in the first place. We’ve always been the kind to allow and push our kids to do things on their own and for themselves; for the most part, we figure they can handle their stuff.

But this year I regressed. The kids were supposed to leave ideally by 6:20 to make it to their early-morning class by 6:30, but as the year stretched on, they wouldn’t leave till 6:45 or later. Like a lot of parents, we were flummoxed. The kids can do it. They wake up on time for jobs, hunting, trips, school, all sorts of things. We told them how disrespectful it was. We told them a few minutes of extra sleep really doesn’t make that much of a difference. We told them ways they could prepare better. I berated myself for not having taught them better manners or how to be more responsible. I had no solution and went in circles with it all.

Until I thought, I’m up at 5:30 anyway, I can totally make them breakfast and lunch. In fact, it’s the least I could do. When I thought about it in that light, I berated myself for being so self-centered all these years and just exercising when I could’ve been helping my kids out!

So I started making them breakfasts: egg, ham, and cheese sandwiches, cream of wheat, leftovers from dinner, breakfast casserole, smoothies, oatmeal, toast, breakfast burritos, yogurt parfaits, muffins, bagels, whatever I could find. Lunches were the same: pb and jam sandwiches, maybe turkey and cheese, vegetables with tiny containers of dip, cut up apples, energy balls, homemade fruit leather, chips or crackers, little baggies of raisins and peanuts and pretzels, salads with croutons separate, along with little containers of dressing, cookies and brownies, string cheese, pasta salad, yogurt, soup or chili in thermoses, muffins, granola bars, nothing fancy, just regular mom kind of lunch food.

I spent from 6-6:30 every weekday doing breakfasts, loading water bottles with water and piles of ice, starting the truck in frigid negative temps, and packing lunches. Even on Tuesdays when I would leave at 5, I’d pack their lunches the night before and make their sandwiches fresh before I left. And when he’d have a meet, I’d pack extra, making two sandwiches and a big batch of cookies for the road. It was fine, it became the routine, I had it in me, I just listened to my podcasts and got things handled. It was early, so I knew better than to expect any sort of acknowledgment or conversation, but we always had a prayer before they left, and that was just the way it went. For months.

Todd was always against it. And I knew our philosophy, of course, for sure, I was totally on board. But this was different, I thought. I hated that weren’t there for their teachers, and so if there was anything I could do, I would give up my value of teaching them independence in lieu of teaching them to be on time and to be respectful of their teachers’ time.

I don’t even know what the trigger was that made me want to end it all. Most likely I finally heard what Todd had been trying to tell me. And I realized all my assistance had been for nought. Nothing had changed. They were consistently late no matter what I did. So I just told them I was done. Dad and I would be on our walk in the mornings (mostly so I didn’t have to watch it) and they were on their own.

So here we are, the school year is over, and as I look back on our experiment, I still don’t know if there is a right or a wrong to it all. I think what happened was my values clashed. I wanted them to have healthy food, balanced meals. I wanted them to get to their class on time and not have to waste more of their precious morning time doing something I could easily help them with. I wanted them to have warm cars to drive to school in since we all have to park outside and so many winter mornings it’s below zero when they leave. I’m a stay-at-home mom, I have all day to do my things, this was the smallest of sacrifices, I wanted to help. I loved my reasons. And I still do. But Todd and I decided from the very beginning—even as we encouraged our babies to hold their own bottles and our toddlers to wipe and use knives safely—that we wanted to raise our kids to be able to leave us. We wanted them to be confident and capable on their own, and nearly every decision we’ve made in our parenting supports that one axiom.

So I met them halfway and bought all sorts of food that went against my values of homemade and minimal packaging and health. But they started doing their own lunches. I’d see Callum with his pre-packaged foods and cooler laid out the night before. I’d see B making a sandwich and gathering her granola bar and crackers. I have no idea what they ate for breakfast and we did away with saying a prayer. Todd and I just left with the dogs and they figured it out or went hungry or spent their money eating out, I have no idea. I just think this is better.  I could see an immediate change. We're back to being roommates, which is what feels best at this stage.  They're simply too old to be doted on like that.  Subconsciously, I think it feels empowering to be independent even though most kids' default is to want to take the easy way. 

So I guess what I learned is that I should’ve stuck with what we decided on long ago and that we had done with our other three. Maybe. I’m to the point in my mothering where I can pause take a look back and wonder what I would’ve done differently. I wonder if I should’ve been more nurturing, if I should’ve coddled more, if I should’ve done more for them. I wonder if they would’ve felt more loved and cared for. Did they feel like I didn’t care or that I was just lazy? Did I choose the right values to focus on? Should I have made exceptions? I have no idea. I can only look at where they are now and how they’re living as young adults. If I have a brave moment, I might ask them if they felt like it worked out ok or if we did it all wrong. For now, we are still muddling through, just trying to make the best decisions we can based on our hopes for their futures. I just hope that one day they’ll be in a place to understand why we did it the way we did and know that everything we did was out of love and to teach them how to be adults of their own someday.

Play ball!

An outgoing and persuasive girlfriend asked me to join her for pickleball one evening last month. I’ve been invited to sleepovers and themed parties as an adult that have pushed me right out of my comfort zone, but never to this extent. Everyone I know knows me better.

But I agreed. Because I’d actually played an impromptu game with our older neighbors one evening. And because I’ve wanted to take up tennis again. And because I/we need hobbies. And friends. And because I want to be the kind of person who says yes to invitations whenever possible. But I honestly had no context for what it would be like, moms getting together in an athletic setting? What would it feel like, how would this work, how bad would I be, how awkward would this all end up?

I realized I had no idea what people wear to activities like this. Back in the day it would’ve been short tennis shorts or sweats pushed up to our knees. I ended up with a painting shirt, leggings, and old beat-up running shoes, a far cry from a tennis skirt and cute polo and tennis shoes. But I was saying yes, I was showing up, I was venturing out of my comfort zone. I know that sounds dramatic, but this really was completely new territory for me, playing like this with other women.

I couldn’t get jr. high p.e. out of my head. I hated our uniforms. And how pale I was. We were always sharing lotion in the locker room, the least I could do for my scaly white skin, but it was still bad. Just like my skill level in every single sport we had to try. The idea was to expose us to all sorts of sports: softball, soccer, basketball, running. I have a girl’s words etched in my memory as I was assigned to her basketball team, “Why do you have to be on our team?” Every p.e. period was honestly a nightmare, and it was even worse when we combined with the boys. The only thing I was good at was running the fire lane back to the locker room and getting a check mark for having walked through the showers.

High school was no better. More of the same, except we added swimming in the outdoor pools to the mix. Refusing to dive and swim across the pool, I was relegated to the small shallow pool with a blond cheerleader/swimmer as my personal trainer. I thought jr. high was bad, but this really was the worst. As a sophomore I finally had a choice; and even now, I count the decision to do racquet sports as one of the best of my life. I abandoned any hope of hanging out with the cool kids at the gym and followed my own inclination. I didn’t know any other kids in the class, but I loved learning racquetball, badminton, and tennis and even played with friends on the weekends and in the evenings both in high school and college. I never became any good, but I’m still so glad I did it.

Fast forward to finding myself with a racquet in hand after all those years. Some of the moms were like me, but some had played before and some are just naturally athletic. I tried to focus on the rules as she explained them and took a deep breath. I couldn’t back out, there wasn’t a big enough group, they needed all of us.

And I was bad. Of course I was bad. I wonder if being teased when I was younger and telling myself I’m not athletic played into it.

But the watercolored summer evening was enchanting. I felt at home on the court and with these women. Sure, we’d socialized and served together for years, but this was different. And so refreshing, moms taking some time away from our usual duties to do something just for ourselves, with our only goal being to have some fun.

Surprising my family, I ordered my own pickleball racquets after that. When the package came, I had an almost reverent feeling undoing the tape; this was something of my very own. Clean yellow whiffle balls. Brand new racquets wrapped in plastic. The perfect black zippered bag to hold everything, reminding me of my ballet box from elementary school. I took it to my room, but I had no context for it. Our garage sale badminton and tennis racquets live in the shop, but this was special. New. Just mine. I didn’t want it to get dusty and full of cobwebs. So it just sat against the bedroom wall all week, waiting for a place. As I left the next week (this time in cut-off sweats), I grabbed it as if I’ve always had an athletic bag, feeling slightly like a fraud. I’m not an athlete by any definition. But I liked carrying it. My very own, brand new hobby equipment. Because it symbolized something for me. Independence. Being proactive. Courage even. I’m proud of myself for saying yes. And saying yes again. For sticking with it even though I’ve got no natural inclination for sports whatsoever. I’m grateful for friends who will laugh with me and who accept me and who, despite my being a weak link, continue to include me.

We all know that play is one of the best connectors. Which is why businesses have retreats and Escape Room parties and rope courses. I remember cross country skiing a couple years back as a family and how awkward it was at first but how it was a fertile ground for creating closeness. Same thing when we’ve played Spike Ball, croquet, or badminton as a family. Games around the table are common for us, but the ones outside where we’re using our bodies and moving and jumping and laughing together feel even better. As much as I love conversation, even I will admit there is nothing better to make connections than play.

So as I’ve spent these evenings on the courts, I’ve realized how much I enjoy being outside moving in a way I haven’t really since I was just a kid myself. It’s still a little uncomfortable, I don’t like being watched or letting my team down. But I didn’t know I could be this kind of person. I thought I’d lost that part of my personality, that I was destined to be a serious church mom, dusty, structured, and boring. But it’s awakened a latent side of me, challenging me to deepen friendships, to try something new, and to be more than what I’ve always told myself I am.

Bathed

I can’t even remember when the last time was. Honestly. I was tempted in a VRBO we were staying in for my son’s wedding a couple years back, but I don’t remember if I actually did or not. If not then, it had been at least six years or more I’ll bet. But we just finished remodeling our bathrooms and added a tub to ours. Our son has used it to ease his aching muscles from track, but I still hadn’t. Until last night. Another son and his wife had sent me a basket of scented items to use for Mother’s Day, Todd was in a long meeting downstairs, and so I was kind of just in my room. I’d worked in the yard all day and wanted to clean up anyway, plus there was my book I was halfway through. I expected to last maybe ten minutes. But I hadn’t anticipated how warm the water would stay. I’m used to porcelain tubs; this one is acrylic and holds the heat way better than anything in my past. I was there for at least an hour. I’d kind of chuckled with my friend a couple weeks back who confessed she saves her HGTV and People magazines for her baths, which she takes all the time. Fascinating, I thought. But here I was. On the same page.

But here’s what I also didn’t anticipate. What being unclothed would feel like. Being alone with myself in this state for an extended stretch of time.

Probably always, but especially since I had my surgery seven years ago and as I’ve aged, I’ve just avoided looking at my body. I don’t have my contacts in early in the morning, so it’s easy to miss myself as I get out of the shower and discretely put on a robe. I don’t really come back till I’m brushing my teeth at night, so there’s no reason to really hang out in front of the mirror or to spend time lamenting how things have changed.

But here I was, faced with myself in the tub with my book. And I did the only natural thing; I found a washcloth, ostensibly to keep myself warm, but knowing I mostly just wanted to cover up. It was still slightly uncomfortable being alone with myself in this vulnerable way, and that surprised me and made me think…

That I believe we’re all a little uncomfortable with our nakedness. Not our bare skin nakedness, but being vulnerable and exposed—definitely with others, but even when we find ourselves alone, just us.

I know people who fall asleep to tv or audio books or sound machines. I’m like that too, listening to music and reading a book till I’m too tired to think anymore. Most teens and perhaps most adults drive listening to something, whether it’s a book, podcast, news, or music. Most people I see out are on their phones or have their earbuds in. Some older people I know have the tv or radio on even when they’re resting. We’ve essentially always got someone with us and are rarely alone with ourselves.

I wonder why that is and tend to think it’s mostly habitual, nearly unconscious. But I think it would be a hard tendency to change. Because what would that feel like to have to face our thoughts and what’s really going on for us? What would come up? Would we feel comfortable acknowledging our insecurities, questions, regrets, and fears? We might have to ask ourselves what we’re living for, what do we value, and are those two answers congruent? What do we believe about people and the future, are we unsettled, searching, pretending, hoping? What do we want, and is the direction we’re heading getting us there? Are we the kind of people we’d want to be a friend with? Are we living true to who we are and what we believe about ourselves? Are we avoiding making amends or taking a risk?

It’s not easy to come up with answers that are authentic and true; it takes courage to be honest with ourselves. It’s brave to turn off the world and contemplate some of the weightier matters. I’m like all of you, and most of the time would rather not deal with the heavy stuff. I’ve always liked to keep busy and plugged in (under the guise of “educating” myself). And yet, the older I get, the more comfortable I am tuning into myself and feeling the quiet. I notice myself carving out time when I refrain from inviting outside voices to have an opinion about my life. I’m recognizing I do want connection. Yes, with others, but also with my own soul and with divinity. But I’ve still got some reservations, I’m holding back in a way I didn’t recognize until last night when the bubbles dissipated. But the sensation of such warm water wrapped around me was soothingly intoxicating. I eventually melted into my nakedness and felt bathed in calm acceptance of where and what and who I am. When I finally emerged, I felt oddly out of sorts. My routine was shaken, I would normally be doing the dishes and streaming a show with Todd, reading with the kids, an everyday evening like all the others. But this zen-like experience had rewarded me with a refreshing and invigorating energy, peace, and perspective I had been missing recently and gratefully accepted. For most, it probably won’t be in a tub, but there will likely be points in life when we’ll unexpectedly find ourselves in some similar way. Will we slink from the opportunity without really seeing what’s in the mirror? Will we quickly clothe in our protective raiment and move on to everyday comfort and routine, hoping no one saw us so vulnerable? Or will we maybe lean back into the warm water and linger a bit, acclimating and eventually succumbing to the sensation of just being?

Only you

Our college-aged daughter has been home for just a spell before she heads back out.  With a  sporadic and flexible work schedule, she took the opportunity to go skiing for the day.  The other kids were in school, dad had work, I don’t ski, all her friends have moved away… it was just a day on her own.  Turned out that while she had a pleasant enough time, she returned home a bit early.  “It got a little lonely.”

As a young mom, I remember packing up the van, loading in the kids, and prepping with snacks and rain gear for all kinds of sporting events.  But we’re down to our last two kids in school and there are only a handful of times they have meets here in town each season.  When I go watch my son pole vault, all the families are kind of squished together in their chairs near the pit, so it feels like we’re all there together.  And same thing when I’ve watched cross country at the river.  But last season we were at a park half an hour from home with the race wide open, the course strewn all across the acreage.  Families weren’t all huddled near the finish line because in this scenario it was easy to move about the park and catch your child from different angles.  And also in this scenario it was easy to feel alone.  Most moms and dads had either each other or several kids with them.  Some parents had fellow mom friends from school or the team.  I felt exposed in the wide-open fields, noticeably on my own. Which was fine. But unsettling.  I wondered who I knew, who I would feel comfortable enough with, who wouldn’t mind me tagging along.  I found one friend with her daughter, but she left to follow her son.  I didn’t feel comfortable following her; surely she would’ve indicated if she had wanted that.  I felt excused and isolated in the middle of a crowded park.

It was a late summer evening last year.  A weekend night.  A time when others would have each other.  I’m used to my kids and husband flitting around on weeknights with their activities and meetings, but this felt different.  I imagined families gathered, friends over, people I knew celebrating the lingering summer light.  And almost always, that’s us. We love having friends with us, eating together on the back deck under our twinkly lights, a dreamy and familiar scene.  And if not friends, at least I almost always have Todd to be with.  On this night I was just puttering in the yard and even though I knew the night was arranged, a late work meeting, kids off with their friends, I anticipated their arrival, hoping it would be sooner than expected.  As the light began to fade, I remember noticing how alone in the world I felt.  We have a bit of land around our property, a couple of pastures, large gardens; I felt both cocooned within my fence and swallowed up in the expansiveness of it all: lonely and decidedly longing for company.

These experiences turn out to be so fleeting.  We can take ourselves home off the ski hill.  The race eventually ends and everyone goes back to their houses.  At some point, the family members return and we’re reunited.

Except when we can’t or they don’t.  When it’s more of an everyday reality.

The night in the garden turned my thoughts to my single friends.  I contemplated what it might feel like to always be the one to turn on the outside lights as dusk approaches, to entertain myself day after day, to cook for one, to wonder what everyone else is doing, to want to be invited but to not feel fun enough to be the host, to hear the sounds of the road and neighboring yards but only quiet within my head.  I wondered if they were used to it to the point it had become no big deal.

And yet I know there’s nothing wrong with being alone.  Most of the world might be.  But it’s only been very recently that I’ve started experiencing it firsthand.  I always lived with my growing up family, then roommates, then a husband, and shortly thereafter we started bringing kids in.  It’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve spent the majority of my days and weeks all on my own, many times 12 or 13 hours a day.  Which really is fine.  I lean introvert and can’t fathom being bored.  I love puttering and having my days to myself.  But every now and then I feel it more poignantly, not just the aloneness, but the loneliness.  While the more I’m alone, the more normal it feels, and at the same time, the more I long for association.  “I realize, for the first time, how very lonely I've been in the arena. How comforting the presence of another human being can be” (Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games).

These tiny experiences have stayed with me over the past several months, I believe, in an attempt to remind me to not take my people and joys for granted.  They continue to inspire me to reach out beyond myself and the contrived plans I make for my days to notice those on their own.  While I’m only vaguely aware of how many of my friends live, I find myself wanting to make more of an effort to both honor their independence and to join with them. I feel myself awakening to the idea that many around us, even those in the center of the arena, might feel as I have on occasion.  I’ve come to a new understanding of what that might be like and how simply extending myself as a companion can soothe and aid a lonely heart.

You too?

Just a simple interchange, I was getting my feet done for the upcoming wedding. I actually love and hate pedicures with equal strength. Love it all because of the warm water, the gentle scrubbing, getting rid of the hard parts, knowing that things are being handled, sort of the choosing a color part even though it’s kind of stressful, the leg and toes massage, being wrapped up in little plastic wrap shields, the smells, the chair that gently pokes at parts of me I didn’t know needed a little nod, a professional paint job that doesn’t end up all over my cuticles, one that lasts over a week, the Vietnamese decor reminding me of my best friend from 4th grade… what’s not to love? I guess the only things I really hate are the money—I have a problem paying for things I can do myself—and the part where it looks like I’m a princess and someone is serving me like I’m some pampered fancy upscale lady who does this every week, although I guess they can tell by looking at me that I’m not. I just like being on equal footing with people, I want them to know I know how to get my hands dirty (well they’d know that too if I ever went over to the manicure section), that I don’t see myself as “above” them, that this is such a highlight of my life, one of like 4 times I’ve ever had it done and it’s only because my daughter begged for us both to go and I love her and want to respect the quality-time people in my family that I’m here. I want them to know how much I appreciate their art, their travels to a new country, their work ethic, the quality and efficiency they exhibit. I am inspired by them. But a lot of that is lost in translation. And in my throat. I don’t know how to say all that. So I just make small talk and ask how long they’ve been here, what their family is like (even though I can see them all around us), what their aspirations are; I try for a bit until even I run out of things to ask. In preparation for the big day, I remember hearing that we shouldn’t shave our legs right before because there’s a chance of bacteria getting into the tiny cuts. As a result, even though I shave almost every day of my life, I held off today. And so I told my helper I was embarrassed because my legs were poky.

And this is the part that made me love the experience even more and that totally leveled the playing field, “Mine too.”

Isn’t that the truth? She was somewhere around my age, I’m sure she’s like most women and doesn’t always get around to shaving; she’s likely got a million things swimming around in her head and has a full schedule. I always choose to believe we have so much more in common than not, and here it was. This has stayed with me for weeks, I’m still thinking about it.

While I’m not legitimate in the way it was meant, back when we were supposed to write Me too in our feed, and I’ll admit I haven’t experienced the devastation that prompted the movement, I feel the power behind the expression and celebrate the ensuing validation and sisterhood. I felt that connection in this everyday woman’s simple words.

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: What! You too? I thought I was the only one” (CS Lewis).

I was at lunch with two girlfriends earlier this week, and they were talking about their older kids. We always seem to end up at the part where we get wistful and nostalgic over it all. At one point one of them mentioned how they’re not into journaling/recording things. I, on the other hand, feel like journaling has saved me and mentioned how I’m regularly getting out my old ones as I share some little anecdotes with my kids in a weekly email. I admitted how fun it is to remember all the cute things they said and all the adventures we had, but I hate it because it reminds me of how mean I was. The one mom brushed it off, “We all were.” No, I told her, I was really mean. Like especially mean. She refused to accept it as anything out of the ordinary. “We all were,” she repeated. “We didn’t know what we were doing, we were so tired, we were overwhelmed, we had no idea how to be moms.”

I was skeptical. She didn’t know me then. The mean me. But the thought of it lingered. Could that possibly be the case?

I had never considered that maybe others felt the same way I did as a young mom. Everyone I was around seemed completely competent and composed. Never did I suspect that these women I hold in such high esteem could ever have had the same rocky start I did. And yet here were two of my most honest, say-it-like-it-is friends; I knew she was telling me the truth.

I know we know this. But here’s me. I easily assume we’re all just doing our best. But from my vantage point, it feels like some have a much higher best than I do. I sometimes wonder if I’m the only one in a world of frenetic, productive energy who feels the way I do.

Are other women my age struggling to know what their purpose is, what’s next? Everyone around me seems to have direction, their something figured out.

Do other women feel lonely and wonder what everyone else is flitting about doing?

Do other women wonder what God would say if they could just figure out how he talks to them? I feel like I’m the only 50 year old still trying to learn his language.  But I'd jump at any suggestion he'd give me... if only I could hear it.

Does anyone else feel she’s done irreparable damage to her kids, wondering how she can ever make amends, begging for a do-over while at the same time wanting to sweep all the ugly parts completely away and forget about it all?

Do they wonder what the balance is between self-care and selflessness, between serving our families and serving out there? Should we be doing more with our days or continue to be intentional with the quiet we carve out for ourselves? Are we using our resources in productive ways or are we just coasting? Does anyone ever have conversations like these with themselves or is it just me?

And while of course, the specifics vary a bit, the more time I spend engaging with women, the deeper my awareness is that we’re all struggling with and sorting through very similar questions and issues. All the lunches and visits, the walks and the talks, the quieter times one-on-one or within tiny intimate groups, they’ve all reminded me that I’m not alone in any of this. I feel myself calmly exhaling the second someone affirms that she’s felt the same, validated the minute she utters the magic words, Me too.

More questions than answers

My daughter just got home after being gone for several months and faced the herculean task of paring down her closet contents. She brought home two enormous suitcases and enlisted their powerful zippers to expand mightily, allowing room for all her wares. She also had a box shipped, in addition to the one we picked up this summer. Her methodology was straightforward: put everything on the bed, creating a teetering tower of color, pattern, texture, and mood, and then make cuts. It was a fabulous site and a daunting task: decide what to keep, what to purge, and what to think about awhile longer. She lined our stairs with shoes of all kinds streaming into the living room: sandals and hiking boots, dressy shoes from other decades and yesteryear formals, patterned platforms and so many Docs, snow boots and river wading shoes, running shoes and strappy heels. Fascinating how the blend of footwear, bags, clothing, and accessories spelled out her personality with clarity. I was intrigued by what she decided to let go of. But mostly by what she—minimally and very uncharacteristically—decided to keep.

We’ve had a bit of time to talk about not only how her style is morphing but how her thoughts and feelings from the past few months have changed and how she sees things now compared to when she was in high school. I love that we can share what we’ve both been learning throughout the time we’ve been apart. There are so few people we feel we can be especially vulnerable with and with whom we can share our innermost leanings. Absolutely love it.

One thing I told her is how free I feel these days: light and open and at peace. At the same time, I have more questions than I ever have. I think that’s how it usually works, the more we learn, the more we realize how much there is to know. I feel like those earthquake-proof buildings, anchored yet flexible, with my anchor being Christ. He is my rock. My foundation. My one absolute. My truth. My Savior.

I have a firm conviction of the love He, my Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother have for me. These three are my lifelines. My everything.

A few years back I was like Avery and her bed of clothing. I went through a time when I felt like I needed to know what to do with all the stuff I’d both been given and bought into over a lifetime of collecting. So many different perspectives to consider, I questioned everything I thought I was sure about. And so I laid it all out, wondering what—if anything—I’d decide to keep.

I pared way down. Like those minimalist wardrobes they talk about. Keep a few key pieces and work with those.

I took Christ, God the Father, and God the Mother immediately.

And to be honest, that’s about it. I’m firm, secure, and certain they are real. Regardless of the talk around me, I’ve had too many experiences with them personally to deny their existence and their investment in my life. I know they are aware of me, care for me, and are guiding me. I feel their soft spirits, their strength, their love. I feel my identity in relation to them keenly, guiding every decision I make.

I know Christ came and lived here among people a lot like us, that he died and lives again. He is my one true friend who I count on for everything. I look to Him as my mentor, my safe place, my one ally who understands all the feelings of my heart. He is my go-to, my one sure thing.

As a result, I do believe he taught some things while he lived among his people. I believe he showed us a higher way to live. I believe there is a purpose to my life and to that end, true joy is my ultimate aim. I believe that although I declare that I know him and love him, I show my devotion best by following him.

As for all the other stuff, I have no idea. I have some leanings, I have some beliefs, yet I’m pretty wide open to other perspectives. I could be wrong about all sorts of things. I’m ok with that.

I have pages at the ends of my journals with questions. Every now and then I’ll go back and see if I can fill in any of the blanks. Sometimes I’ll have studied or learned something new in the interim and feel like I have some ideas to add, while at the same time acknowledging even these additional insights or “answers” could possibly change or be wrong.

But most of these questions just sit quietly unanswered, blank, waiting, unruffled, patient. And I’m not bothered in the least.

Because it doesn’t matter how many questions I think I need to have answers for. I will never, ever, ever have enough answers to satisfy me if I neglect to ask the right questions.

Did Christ live on the earth? Did he die and does he live? Is he the Son of God? Am I also a child of Heavenly Parents who love me? Does my life have meaning and purpose?

That’s it. Because when I’ve asked with an open heart, I know. And what I do with the answers to these questions makes all the difference in how I view and interact with the world.