In Praise of Women

"Remember when we went to Chuck E. Cheese's, Mama? You smiled a lot that day," Clementine remarks.

I think: we went to Chuck E. Cheese's for Clementine's birthday, in February. Have I not smiled since February? And then I think: really, I can't believe I smiled enough, in February, that she remembers; I'd only stopped miscarrying a month earlier.

When I--an extreme extrovert--can't bear to be around others, when I don't want to talk to anyone on the phone, when I rage at people I can't avoid (i.e., my husband and children), I know I'm unwell. I consider all that's happened and will happen, soon, but--even when I peer deliberately through a veil of grace--I know: something's not adding up. I can't justify the misery I feel.

I'm tired of requesting prayer, of feeling needy. I'm tired of praying when I don't trust God like I did before the miscarriage. I'm tired of teaching Sunday school, and I'd feel like a fraud for doing it (seeing as how I seem to have misplaced every fruit of the Spirit), but I know we're going directly to Scripture, and I know I need it. I'm tired of feeling unable to write the book I've been called to write. I'm tired of blogging in (and through, and out of) anger. I'm tired of being tired.

But then, in one day, the walls come tumbling down. It's like Jericho, but the people marching around my heart are women. Not one of them suggests I might be crazy. Talk to your doctor, they say. We'll pray for you, they say, and two of them do: right then and there. We're here to help, they say: whatever you need. Can we watch the girls? Help you clean, help you organize? And one of them says, essentially: I am in the middle of this, and I don't have all the answers, but these particular things are helping me. And she passes me her sword and shield. She arms me.

They make me proud to be a woman: how--without judgment--they fight battles from ordinary places like living rooms and parking lots. I remember the power in service not because I've served, but because I've been served. And the only beauty of brokenness, I think, lies there: in realizing we can't do life alone and shouldn't try. We're each of us weak, but together we're strong. And God in us is strongest of all.

Charleigh and Me, Last Week. Photo by Rachel Huff.

What I've Learned

I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it.

-William Faulkner 

My Newest ATC

A week after its passing, I hadn't been quite able to name it or figure out from whence (or W/whom) it came...until I tried to write about it.

I was writing to tell you: it had felt like in-over-my-head sandwiched between two slices of anxiety slathered with sin, impending gotchas, and consequences. I'd been edgy like a teenager about to get busted...unfortunate, because I hadn't known what I'd done wrong.

I'd stepped away from some of the noise and tried to determine from whom I should seek forgiveness. One person had come to mind, and I'd sent an e-mail.

I'd prayed, requested prayer, and read my Bible. I'd made careful (and sound, I think) decisions about to which human voices I should listen, and I'd listened hard.

The bad feeling had persisted, anyway (and for days), until I'd knelt in front of my couch and begged God: "If the bad feeling is coming from You, Father, please make it go away, or reveal to me what I can do to make things better. If the bad feeling is coming from the enemy, please make him get behind me."

After my prayer, I'd felt pretty much like my old self but still hadn't understood what I'd experienced, and I was writing to convince you: while I'm prone to feeling deeply, I'm nearly always in touch with the source of my emotions. To feel troubled and not know why? Not so much like me.

I was writing about a planning period in the middle of the year I taught sixth grade. This lovely, retired teacher (the New Teachers' Mentor, or some such) had come in and asked how I was doing; I'd burst into tears; and she'd recommended prescription medication. Weeping, I'd looked at her and said: "I don't need medication; I need a new job."

It's very Brandee to understand why I feel the way I do and to own both my emotions and the source of them.

But as I was writing this to you, I remembered having--about 12.5 years ago--an experience very similar to this recent one. I'd been completely overwhelmed and anxious then, too.

I'd just learned I was pregnant. I'd planned my pregnancy and wanted my baby, but I'd felt completely unworthy of the gift of him, also very insecure. I hadn't felt ill-equipped, per se; I'd known I could mother him. I just hadn't known if I could mother him as well as my heart wanted. The responsibility had felt crushing, and I'd felt half crazy with self-doubt and even--to a certain extent--self-loathing.

My ex-husband hadn't known what to do with me, so he'd flown me to my brother and sister-in-law in Hawaii: an incredible gift, but watching these beloved young people parent, beautifully, my older nephew (not quite a year old, at the time) had compounded my problems to a certain extent. I just hadn't known if I could prove myself worthy of my baby.

Since I didn't struggle in this way with either of my other pregnancies, it had been a long time since I'd thought back to my early pregnancy with Cade. I've learned so much since then. I've learned that, indeed, I can very rarely mother anybody as well as my heart wants, but it's ok: I have my great moments, and God redeems the rest. He's given me children for reasons that, probably, have as much to do with my weaknesses as with my strengths. I grow and progress slowly, right along with my babies. And it's alright.

The source of my recent misery was neither God nor the enemy. That trouble--I understand, suddenly--bubbled out of me, alone. And the reason for it? I'm pregnant with a book, and I've never been pregnant with a book, before. I feel unworthy of the God-given gift of it and frightened by the God-given responsibility of it. I don't doubt my ability to write my friends' story; I doubt my ability to write it as well as my heart wants.

I'm just going to have to trust: I will have my great moments, and God will redeem the rest. He's given me this project for reasons that, probably, have as much to do with my weaknesses as with my strengths, and He plans to grow me.

I will read aloud to my friends, tomorrow, Chapter One. And they will tell me what I need to know in order to write Chapter Two.

On Writing a Book

I can't stop thinking about them, this couple I know. I think about them as I brush my teeth, fill the girls' cups with milk, and switch laundry from the washer to the dryer. I think about them as I wash the skillet and tidy the living room floor. Why can't I stop thinking about them?

I admit, with shame: it takes a couple hours, but, finally, I pray. What is it? I ask.

And the answer I get feels like: Record their story.

I'm thinking along blog-post lines.

I send her a message: it's ok if you think I'm crazy. It's ok if you say, "No." Don't say anything right now. Talk to him, and pray; if you end up thinking it's a bad idea, maybe I have my signals crossed.

Later, they call me on the phone, together. I can tell: they don't think I'm crazy. We circle a date on our calendars. I ask my husband if he'll watch the girls, so I can interview. He doesn't laugh. I tell my prayer group about my plans. They don't laugh, either. Someone covers, aloud, with prayer.

The day of the interview, I pull my scarcely-used, big green journal off the shelf. I run my hand along its velvety surface; open its cover to read the inscription, inside; flip pages to the last entry: 11/12/05.

It's only my second or third time in their house. I enter it excited: not anxious, not nervous. I sit down. We hold hands and pray. I kick off my flip-flops and criss-cross-applesauce on their sofa. I open my big, green journal.

They talk for almost five hours, but it feels like, maybe?, one. I write 11.5 pages of notes.

Just before I leave, I tell them: I don't know what this is, but it's not a blog post. I think it might be a book. We promise to keep praying.

When I wake up, in the morning, I see layouts. I see their story as a book, and I see it as a screenplay. I know exactly where to go from here.

At some point in the day, I sit across from my husband and cry. I feel overwhelmed, excited, called. I realize I'm processing both responsibility and blessing.

I write a blog post, but not to tell their story; you won't read it, here. I write a blog post to beg your prayers.