Culminations. Ruminations.

I was sick as a dog, Saturday, but Charleigh had been working toward that trophy since September. What's a mama to do but buck up, Little Camper? And I'm so glad I did.

The Kindercise program in which Charleigh is enrolled is evidently the oldest of its kind in the nation. It's a well-oiled machine; I'll tell you that. Charleigh attends class during the week, and I don't think I've ever seen her class exceed, say, six kids. Three or four is typical, and their teacher Miss Olga leads them, together, from station to station during their hour-long class.

It's been fun to watch Charleigh progress in her jumping, rolling, climbing, hanging, swinging, balancing, etc. At the start of the year, she couldn't move into a headstand (against a mat) by herself; now, she can.

The hour-long awards ceremony was set up much like class in that the children moved from station to station to demonstrate their skills. Every child was occupied at pretty much all times: brilliant! The last fifteen minutes were dedicated to awards, and every child had his or her moment on the podium. The smile on Charleigh's face says it all; doesn't it?

Miss Olga and Charleigh

Meanwhile, Clementine is working toward her dance recital. She has one practice left before dress rehearsal. Here's a photo of her class, Monday night; hopefully, I'll have recital photos, soon.

Clementine is in the back, on the far left.

Last night, Clementine, Charleigh, and I attended Cade's spring concert. He plays bass clarinet. I take my camera to every concert, but at this point, I have no idea why. I can see Cade walk in and out, but after he sits, I really can't see what he's doing, at all.

Having said that, the 8th-grade band sounded great. Cade said they earned a superior rating and third place when they played at Busch Gardens last week. He decided recently to participate in the high-school marching band, next year. As a former band kid who's heard only the very best things about the high-school band, I couldn't be more thrilled.

But the other thing I want to tell you about last night is that--after the concert, as the girls are I were walking down the hall to leave--I ran into a friend. "Did you have a sister here, tonight?" she asked. "I saw you sitting with someone who looks a lot like you."

"Oh!" I said. "That was Cade's stepmother!" And I could tell I caught her off guard, but what she doesn't know is this: the moment of her question was, hands-down, the best moment of my week, so far.

Imagine what she saw: two dark-haired, glasses-wearing women sitting side-by-side in the audience, nudging one another...laughing, chatting, even whispering! like sisters. My little girls were sitting beside Tabitha: between her, actually, and a man: Cade's dad Jason, my ex-husband. None of it was contrived or for show; we are family.

This is an important part of my story. This is doing divorce well. (And for the record, at any given moment, we're far from the only ones doing it.) This is about redemption. This is the work of the Lord. He's so, so much bigger than every statistic and every stereotype.

Thoughts on Feminism

Oh, the ongoing uproar on the subject of feminism.

First, my story: I was raised in a household in which my dad functioned as head. I followed his rules for the most part, and I was motivated to do so because I loved and respected him and didn't want to disappoint him, but also because I didn't want to suffer the consequences of disobeying or embarrassing him: i.e., he had a long, black belt. All of the above is true for the years we were and the years we were not a church-going family.

I've always found myself attracted to men like my dad: broad-shouldered with a commanding presence. My ex-husband doesn't fall into that category at all, and I'd tell you I don't know how I ended up with him, but that would be a lie because, in fact, I do and just don't want to get into it right now. 

At any rate, my ex-husband had been raised primarily by his divorced mother, who was and is a strong and God-fearing woman, and my ex-husband seemed perfectly comfortable and content with the idea of a true and equal partnership between us. 

Problem was, I didn't know how to function within that sort of construct. I couldn't be trusted. I ran amok. He wasn't a saint, either, and our marriage fell apart.

So, now: Jim. Jim is much more like dear old Dad than my ex-husband. I consider him the head of the household, and under his leadership, I walk much more closely with the Lord than ever before. I feel fairly comfortable with the way our marriage works, although we've had to hash a lot of it out, and some of it with a professional. 

Jim holds the purse strings for real and will absolutely put his foot down in other areas, as well, but I can honestly say: I've never come to Jim regarding a Jesus calling that he hasn't backed me 100%. (I take that back: he's still not on board with the idea of our adopting a baby girl from China, but I trust that--if it's a true calling--he'll get there.) One of my favorite things about Jim is his desire to delight me. He reads and supports my writing; he surprised me with my camera and supports all my dabbling in the realm of photography; he supported me through my season of excessive cookie baking; and probably most importantly, he supports my every effort to do God's work.

Now, who's to say how screwed up I am or my marriage is, and why should anyone care, really, so long as I love the Lord and do His work...so long as I love and please the husband God's given me...so long as we're happy together (or working on it)?

And when the rubber meets the road, the feminists and non-feminists alike pluck my nerves because everyone's trying to convince everyone else of something, and I don't give much of a big, fat hairy crap about any of it.

Who am I to say whether or not some chick's been called to preach? I grew up in an Independent Fundamental Missionary Baptist church, and a female preacher works for me to about the same extent as a female gynecologist, which is to say, hello, not at all, but I'll readily admit: 1) I'm probably totally screwed up; 2) I have zero interest in messing with God's anointed; 3) a female preacher may well work beautifully for someone else; and 4) I don't know how to get around Galations 3:28. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus. Amen.

Please, Lord, don't ever call me to preach because my sad, little zit of a brain would just pop.

In terms of our marriages, though, Lord have mercy! Why must we feel the need to tell one another how to be married? I say: Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths (Proverbs 3:5-6, KJV, again: I told you: Independent Fundamental Missionary Baptist upbringing).

If anyone cares...if anyone's listening...my best advice for your marriage is simply this: make it your God-centered marriage. Get down on your hands and knees. Get up in the Word. Pray. Pray with your spouse! If the Lord's truly calling you to speak into other people's marriages, that's one thing, but be sure. Be careful! I suspect that most of you would do well to concentrate on your own person and your own marriage because...well, because...you're nothing but a hot mess like the rest of us, and you're not changing anyone's mind about anything, anyway.

What I Want You to Know about My Sordid Past

Photo by My Anjelina (Anjie Kay)

I read a Forbes article, the other day, on our biggest regrets. I relate really well to #21, about failing to live in a health-conscious sort of way, also to #23, about failing to visit a friend before his or her death.

#12, though, about failing to save a marriage, isn't among my personal regrets.

My life would have been easier had it not included divorce. That was a painful, little chapter, although not as painful as the marriage that preceded it, okay? I in nowise mean to write ill of my ex-husband, either; it was just a poor match of immature people.

The hardest thing about divorce, for me, was experiencing the hurt and disappointment of others. Our son was very young (four) and has always seemed to handle the situation well, but I knew I was letting my parents and grandma down. One aunt seemed particularly sad, which made me sad.

My parents are still married; my grandparents were married until parted by death; even my little brother and his wife are still married: sixteen years, now, in fact. I just never pictured myself the divorced one in the family. So there's that.

At the time of my divorce, I didn't (couldn't? wouldn't?) see or accept my responsibility for it. Many years after the fact, after I'd rededicated my life to Christ and remarried, I came to see and accept just how responsible I was--more responsible, in fact, than my ex-husband--and ask God's forgiveness for specific failures on my part. It was a painful process.

My life would be easier, today, if I were not divorced. First of all, there's the sharing thing. My ex-husband and I share custody of our son, and we share beautifully. Still hard. My family doesn't feel complete without my oldest darling in the mix, and he's very often gone. When I'm missing him, I know I'm experiencing a natural consequence of my failure and sin. I've been forgiven, yes, but consequences remain.

Another painful consequence comes in the form of other people's judgment of me as a divorced person. I can't even say how much is real vs. imagined, and in the end, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I allow the enemy to mess with my head over it. For example, when I feel as though my words are being dismissed by another Christian, my go-to thought place is: oh, (s)he doesn't respect my words because I'm divorced. That hurts, and every time.

My greatest regrets revolve around my being unkind to others, including my ex-husband. But you understand, surely: I can't regret marrying or lying down with either of my husbands without regretting one or more of my children. I would do any of it, all of it--in the same sinful ways, if necessary--all over again to get my four children exactly as they are: each so much of the best of his or her dad. I have produced the first (and, so far, only) male heir for two different families: beautiful, strong boys; how can I not hold my head up high?

Don't pity me for any reason (history, situation, or mentality).

And here's another thing I want to get off my chest, a truth so precious to me: I am not jealous of you. I would not trade places with you for a second or even entertain the thought. It makes no nevermind to me who you are or what you have or how perfectly or righteously you've acquired it. 

God bless you, Friend, and I mean that with sincerity. I don't think I'm better than you by any stretch of the imagination, but I'll take it: I'll take my life, my story, my testimony, my children, my consequences.

I'll take my own, personal and extravagant redemption through the blood sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Without hesitation, I will.

Love Wins

Oh, Man. My head is swimming with all the things I haven't said and need to say; in fact, I just interrupted my own blogging to make a list of things I want to write. But the thing I want to write most has to do with my own rebellion, a time during which I fell out of fellowship with God, and how He drew me back to Himself.

I should preface the whole thing by saying: I can hardly stand for someone to tell me what to do. I love a good story. I'm fascinated by facts and passionate about scripture. If the spirit's right, I don't mind a hint or suggestion. Sometimes (again, if the spirit's right), I can tolerate unsolicited advice.

But I'm very sensitive to approach. The minute someone tells me what I must do or must think, I shut down. I despise feeling patronized, judged, or labeled. I can get stuck for a long time over a feeling and have been known to argue with people in my mind for years.

Having said all that, there was a point in time after my divorce that I longed to reconnect with God. I was entrenched in sin, though, and unprepared to follow all of God's commandments (which I knew well, having been raised in the church) in any sort of wholehearted manner. I knew I needed ministry. I also knew I wasn't ready for a return to the traditional church. I wanted to ease back in: to feel accepted for (or despite) who and where I was.

I found a church that met my needs and--in that no-pressure environment--started talking and listening to God again. It took awhile, but over time, I managed (through the power of the Holy Spirit) to start untangling myself from the most binding of my sin problems. Some years after that, I felt relatively free of that sin problem and ready to return to the traditional church.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to photograph one of my dearest friends and her family. I'd wondered if I'd become emotional, photographing them, but truth is: they're an exceedingly playful bunch, and I was far too entertained for tears. As I studied images of my friend later, though, I was overcome thinking about our eleven-year friendship.

As I've written before, Christy's been mature, responsible, and settled over the course of our entire relationship, but I floundered spiritually for much of it. She loved me, anyway, and more than that: she did life with me. It made all the difference. It made every difference.

She'll read this and want to downplay what I'm saying, but I'm asking her to hear me. I'm asking you to hear me. Love won me. Not clever, intellectual, or even scriptural arguments. Not admonition, shaming, judgment, correction, or reproof. Love. The love of that one friend--coupled with the acceptance I found in a non-traditional church--won me back to Jesus.

I'm asking you: think of me before you bash a non-traditional church and its acceptance of those on the fringe. Before you talk about how dangerous it is to consort with those who walk openly in sin, think of me. Think of how one Christian was brave enough to walk with me through darkness and how one church was bold enough to fling wide its doors and say: "Come to Jesus where you are." And consider: because of this bravery and boldness, in the end, I'm probably pretty close to exactly where you think I should be.

I know I can't be the only rebel out there.

My Beautiful Christy and Her Family

Prayer Meeting of the Blogosphere (2)

Welcome to the second, old-fashioned prayer meeting in this space. I'm so glad you're here! I didn't know what would happen when I called an impromptu prayer meeting, last week. I was deeply encouraged by the response.

 
I want to update you, first of all, regarding my last prayer request. My brother and dad made it home safely. My brother went to church on Sunday and has worked some, this week. Thank you for praying for him. God heard your prayers and continues to answer them.

I believe with all my heart in the power of prayer.

This week, I'd like to request prayer for my son Cade's stepmom. I don't want to go into a lot of details but don't think she'll mind my sharing: she sustained an injury at work back around the holidays, and she hasn't yet recovered fully. 

Dear Heavenly Father, thank You for Tabitha and her kind heart. She's been so good to Cade; thank You, and thank You for the example she's been to all of us during the long months since her injury: so patient, Father. I ask, now, for her healing: whether instantaneous or through the wisdom and work of her doctors. I ask that she'll soon be able to live her life more fully. Please grant her, Jason, and Cade a safe trip home from vacation.

I lift up anyone reading this right now, Father, who struggles in living peaceably with someone else. Some relationships are dangerous, toxic, and best avoided; others are healthy but maybe a little uncomfortable or unconventional. Give us the wisdom, Father, to know the difference. Thank You for Tabitha's and my genuine love for one another. What a wonderful and constant reminder to me that You can redeem any situation into which I invite You; thank You for being the Great Redeemer! In Your Son's name I pray, amen.

Now it's your turn! Would you like to participate in an old-fashioned prayer meeting of the blogosphere? Here are some ideas:

• You can pray about my prayer request.
• You can share a prayer request by means of a comment.
• You can share a prayer request on your personal blog and direct me to your post by means of a comment.
• You can pray about a participant's prayer request.
• You can write a prayer about my, your, or someone else's prayer request (in comments hither or yon, on your blog, etc.). If your prayer is somewhere other than this place, please direct me as you can and will.
• You can join in praying my or someone else's prayer.
• You can share an update regarding a prayer request you've made here, in the past.

Thank you so much for being here! I hope to see you for next Friday's prayer meeting, if not before. (As our family preacher Rob would say: I'll see you here, there, or in the air!)

Family Vacation 2013: Chicago Land, Pt. 3

Here's a fact you may (or may not) find interesting: aside from How the Grinch Stole Christmas on tv, every year, I didn't grow up with Dr. Seuss. Not to throw anyone under the bus (cough, cough), but my mom isn't a fan. My ex-husband, on the other hand, grew up with Dr. Seuss and loves him, so I think my kids have every Dr. Seuss book known to man. I'd left right many of them behind when I moved out, but a year ago or three, my ex-husband came over with a box of books so big and heavy he could barely carry it.

"Cade's outgrown these," he said, trying to catch his breath. "I want his sisters to have them."

So Dr. Seuss is well known and loved in this house, and I wanted to take the kids to see some of his characters while we were near Naperville.

 

The Cat in the Hat statue is in the gorgeous, downtown part of the city. I look at my photos and feel happy all over again thinking what a beautiful evening we had together on the Riverwalk. Even Cade exclaimed over and over again how cool he thought it was: how he'd like to live there.

 

Charleigh was completely enamored with this statue and told us she was going to stay with her.

 

The nine of us enjoyed frozen yogurt at Red Mango, and then--after our families parted ways--I asked Jim to take me to Superdawg in Chicago. "What the heck," he said. "We're on vacation." And so it was that--of the five restaurant meals (counting the one at McDonald's) we ate in eight days--two were in the same, second half of the same day.

We each went for a classic Superdawg: a "pure beef hot dog (no pork, no veal, no cereal, no filler), formally dressed with all the trimmings, escorted by [...] often imitated, but never equaled, Superfries™. Served with all the trimmings - golden mustard, tangy piccalilli, kosher dill pickle, chopped Spanish onions and a memorable hot pepper."

And it was pretty good, but--while I'm not necessarily a connoisseur of hotdogs--I think I'd just as soon have a Skeeter-dog, myself.

***

Do tell: where do you get your favorite hot dog? And while you're talking to me, which is your favorite Dr. Seuss book?

The Powhatan Antique Power Show

We were mostly without Internet, this week, and I missed you. I turned toward Carson McCullers, again, in my loneliness, surely as I turn always toward Andre Dubus for regret. Both of them help only in the way listening to sad songs or rubbing sore gums helps, but better than nothing; I'll always take it.

I wasn't blogging, but I was living.

Last Saturday, we spent the day at the Powhatan Antique Power Show. It's a big deal, here, year after year; without trying, we ran into a big chunk of our small group. The girls rode horses; rode in barrel cars; played in corn kernels; ate fair-type food.

The sweet woman who painted the girls' faces is the same one who painted Cade's ten years ago. (He was with us, by the way, but only until he spotted his curly-headed friend; then he was gone.)

I took a ton of photos. I couldn't help wanting to freeze the moment; everything about it felt so right to me: running into neighbors and friends; marveling at Charleigh's newfound bravery on horseback; feeling the sun beat down on my neck; singing along to some band's "Are You Washed in the Blood?"

I was thinking the other day: I don't reckon I've ever lived anywhere as long as I've lived here. Funny how I came to land here (my ex-husband's job). Funny how I've come to stay here (joint-custodial arrangement). But this place must be as good as--if not better than--any other, and I love how, even as things change, so many things, here, stay just the same. Sometimes I almost feel folded in, tucked in, as though at last I belong.

Cade, TEN YEARS AGO, at the Power Show

The Keys, Pt. 2

Picture me looking through the shoe bucket, the camera bag, for my keys. I'm looking under the table, the couch cushions, Cade's bed. I'm searching pockets and diaper bags and my little girls' purses. I'm digging through the clothes I bagged up for my neighbor.

I'm moving from house to minivan to house to minivan; the kids are buckled and waiting in the minivan.

I'm calling my husband at work and my thirteen-year-old at his other house: "Did you happen to see...?" I'm forcing myself to remain calm and kind. I'm texting my girlfriend with the new baby: "I can't find my keys. I'll drive over as soon as Jim gets home, if not before. Please pray."

Can you see me leaning against the counter, talking aloud to God? "What am I supposed to be learning?" I ask Him. "And why am I supposed to be learning it?" I feel so defeated, so hurt. I'm trying to feed people, for crying out loud.

((I recall other humbling experiences in delivering food: running over a free-standing basketball goal, dropping off the wrong (half-eaten) box of brownies.))

Jim pulls in at the same time as half our small group. He helps me transfer (most of) my stuff from the minivan to his truck. I take his keys and Baby Chip but leave the girls with their dad. I forget the baby gift. I shake my head as I drive east, passing my friends' road by accident. I turn around, shaking my head some more.

But when I take Baby Aubrie in my arms, she looks straight at me, and I remember again the miracle: how the doctor recommended a D & C because the pregnancy didn't appear to be viable. But she's here, praise the Lord, and she's beautiful, praise the Lord, and doctors don't know everything, praise the Lord. "I'll love you all my life," I gush tearfully to Baby Aubrie,"because I prayed so hard for you to get here."

Next stop: Cade's other family's, and I set down the food (barely warm, now) and tell my ex-husband, his wife, and our young man about all the events of the day. We laugh and laugh.

A few minutes later, I'm barreling down our driveway when here comes Uncle Rob from small group. We wind down our windows. "Where are you going?" I ask.

"Look, I hate to tell you," he says, "but Baby Hurley just struck at your house," and he proceeds to tell me how his son just projectile vomited. If I thought we were good friends before (having scrubbed my toilet in front of him), I'll be pleased to know, he says, smiling: we're even closer, now, because he just cleaned my entire bathroom.

"You know what this is, right, Uncle Rob?" I ask him.

"The devil?" he guesses.

"Spiritual warfare," I tell him, and back at the house, I enter the tail-end of a deep discussion over God's Word. I have wet spots on (and crushed up Cheez-Its in) my carpet, and the kids run amok until the end, but the newest member of our group bends over, hugs me, and says: "I'm so glad to be in small group with you guys."

Later, I stare toward the ceiling and pray. What does it all mean, Lord? I ask. Speak to my heart! And where are my keys? Show me! Give me a little something! Just a little something!

Crickets.

From small group, last night.

(To Be Continued...)

One Foot in Front of the Other

From the situations in Boston and Texas to the Gosnell trial, I haven't much known what to say, this week, and I've pretty much decided that's ok, because so many others are talking. I've avoided their words, for the most part, and just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

I'm learning: I don't handle hot topics well, especially when they're at their hottest. I wish I did, in a way, because I think people long for someone to make sense of what causes them pain. In the past, I've allowed others to speak into my disappointment and hurt over the hot topics and walked away feeling even heavier. I've engaged in too many arguments with them, even just within the confines of my own head.

I'm learning, too: it's ok not to have answers. It's ok not to engage. It's ok not to pursue anything but a healthy something that makes me feel better. For all these reasons, I can't recommend any more highly this post from JoAnn Hallum. I had the sense, while I was reading, that she was rubbing my shoulder. Maybe even my tender, banged-up and bruised heart. I love her so.

You know, I look back over my week, and I experienced real beauty. God answered some of my prayers; my loved ones helped celebrate my birthday. But I've had easier weeks, lighter weeks.

Charleigh and I have been going at it head-to-head, and if I'm honest, she's often getting the better of me. Also, Jim and I have found ourselves at an impasse on a few issues and are working with a counselor: mostly because we're absolutely crazy about each other and want our "ever after" to go as happily as possible. But still.

My ex-husband called awhile ago to tell me his wife's back in the hospital and ask me to pick up Cade. We talked for a long time; he brainstormed with me about Charleigh and listened when I shared: my new counselor works two doors down from the one I saw nine or ten years ago, before my first marriage ended. I feel heavy and sad, I told him, walking past that other door, even being in that same building.

I told him: I feel sometimes like I'm making progress as a human, like I'm really growing in the Lord, and then, suddenly, I'm just not sure: seems like I might be as sorry and weak as I've ever been. He proceeded to affirm who I am, today, and the marriage I have, today. He encouraged me in every respect. It was a strange and beautiful moment.

I don't even know what I want to say, here. Part of me would like to be at a writers' conference, but here I am on the sofa, breastfeeding and blogging. I try to look beyond this day and feel instantly overwhelmed. I knew with more certainty what the rest of my life would look like, when I was ten, than I do at almost forty. Often, I don't know how to share my heart with my husband, let alone people I've never met in person. I don't know how to make my home a pretty and peaceful place, let alone the country, the world.

But when I look to Jesus, He says:

Steep your life in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions. Don’t worry about missing out. You’ll find all your everyday human concerns will be met. Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes (from the end of Matthew 6, MSG).

So I just keep putting one foot in front of the other. I just keep trying to make sense of this moment, with the people just in front of me. I just keep going. I just keep trying.