Emily, at Think.Laugh.Weep.Worship put up another great post today.
Check it out.
http://thinklaughweepworship.blogspot.com/2009/09/theology-of-stretch-marks.html
Sex and Seminary March 11, 2009
I decided to do something bold tonight and attend class in a formal dress, high heels, with make-up on and hair curled. I was curious to see what kind of response I would get, because my usual attire is frumpy, non-gender-specific clothing (sweatshirt, T-shirt, jeans, sneakers). I was surprised to discover that the men of my cohort were very intentional about NOT reacting to my new look. Even my male seminary friends outside of my cohort had to be prompted before they would talk about it. I asked some of the older men why this was… why say nothing, why avert your eyes, why pretend that I wasn’t dressed up at all instead of complimenting me or at least acknowledging that I looked different? He replied that it was fear—fear of being misinterpreted and then accused of harassment, fear that I would take it as condescension and be offended. While this makes sense to me on one level, could it really be so after three years of classes together? Are they afraid of me as a woman? Really? That saddens me. I would have hoped that we would be beyond such surface tensions by now.
Then again, perhaps they aren’t the only ones feeling some fear. I present myself in a certain way to this group, every single week. While I do not do it entirely consciously, my habitual appearance is decidedly un-feminine. I cloak and cover all the parts of my body that could be construed as sexual… large shirts that hide my chest, long shirts that cover my hips, low heels that do not accentuate my legs, no make-up, my hair often uncombed and thrown together haphazardly (some of this is due to my day-job as mommy of preschoolers, but I don’t think that’s all of it). Not conscious, but very interesting… am I trying to pretend I am not a woman? Being a woman in this setting is clearly difficult. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t… sometimes I forget I am when we’re in the midst of an intense discussion (I’m just one of the guys, right?).
One of my cohort-mates remarked on the sexier outfit I brought with me but did not wear: “What is that doing in your closet, Kris Anne?” He was half-kidding, I know, but it was an honest question. In our Christian sub-culture, there are definite rules about what is and is not appropriate for women to wear. This is not often discussed, however, except in the homes of adolescent girls as parents forbid certain items of clothing to be worn outside the house. And the reasons given? It’s immodest, too revealing, too distracting to the men and boys. There’s a definite air of shame around these conversations, even as the poor girl is just beginning to get used to her womanly figure. She hasn’t even had time to appreciate its beauty, and she’s being told that it’s only there to be covered properly.
I am certainly not one to argue against modesty or privacy. And I do understand that men are visual creatures; I would never want to knowingly manipulate their thoughts in a sexual manner. I would never want my daughter to place so much value on her body and its sexuality that she places her self-worth in how men respond to it, and then does everything she can to attract attention to it. She has a powerful mind and spirit and so much to offer this world, apart from her sexuality! I hope I raise her to appreciate all of who she is and treat all parts with respect and care. That said, I am concerned about the sense of shame we place on young girls and the way we label their bodies.
I wonder about the sense of shame I carry into seminary every night. Why do I hide who I am? I’m accepted more easily by myself and my brothers when my femininity is thoroughly covered and hidden away. It’s termed a distraction when it’s highlighted or accented. The very fact that my brothers were afraid to talk to me about the way I appeared tonight reveals the Christian label we place on women’s bodies: DANGER. Is that a burden I should rightly bear; is it my problem to manage? Or does the real problem lay elsewhere, since according to scripture, my female body bears the image of Almighty God and is named “good” by God Himself?
She’s Wearing my Shoes February 19, 2009
I was down on my hands and knees the other day, fishing around for something that was lost under the refridgerator. Suddenly, I heard Heidi saying something to Ben. She had taken his hand and was bending over, looking into his eyes as she was speaking. “Ben, I know you don’t really want to go, but it’s time for school so you need to get your shoes on now. Let’s go. Come on, honey.” I looked up and said, “Heidi, what are you doing, why are you talking to him like that?” To which she replied: “Look, mom, I’m wearing your shoes!”
First, let me just say, that I’m glad the first words out of her mouth, as she was pretending to be me, were NOT “Stop that! Come here now! Listen to me for once- I am your mother!!” etc., etc. 
But secondly, I wonder what it is about shoes that define the person, in the eyes of children. Maybe it’s just that they are the easiest articles of clothing to find lying around. But why not my coat or my sweater? What is it about shoes that are so fascinating? Well, whatever it was that prompted her little charade, it has me pondering imitation. Heidi longs for time with me, longs for my attention. She uses my words and tone… even my facial expressions sometimes. She constantly talks about being a mommy someday and having a daughter. Imitation comes naturally to her. It’s how she learns.
I also learn best by imitation. When I’m learning a new melody line, rather than sitting in front of pages of music, I play the song on my computer over and over again, singing and playing along– trying to get the notes, rhythm, mood, and tone of the song exactly right. I also noticed that I write in a style similar to my favorite authors (though I’m obviously not anywhere close to being as talented as they are)… I use their vocabulary, imagery, sometimes even their writing rhythm. This is not really a conscious thing, but the repetition of reading the same authors’ writings over time has imprinted their style on my brain, I think.
So here is what I am currently wondering… As a Christ-follower, how do I learn best? Currently, I spend a lot of time sitting in a classroom, talking about theology and leadership and church history (or reading textbooks and writing papers)– but do I adore my Lord so much that I strive to imitate Him? Am I learning from Him the way I learn a new song, with repetition and detailed observation– in one sense, “singing His Song” along with Him? Am I beginning to think and talk and the way He does, because I have heard His Words so many times that I don’t even realize they have become part of me? I realize I’m probably not saying anything new here, but it hit me again when I saw my little girl wearing my shoes.
“Anyone who claims to be in Christ must walk as Jesus did.” 1 John 2:6
Of liquid poop, birdseed and gravy boats November 30, 2008
So here it is, my Thanksgiving post. It’s a few days late and actually, I wasn’t going to post anything about Thanksgiving. To be honest, I don’t find the typical Thanksgiving blog post interesting (“all the things I’m thankful for….”). I really don’t mean to criticize– it’s wonderful to remind ourselves of the countless things we have to be thankful for. But after I read about 5 Thanksgiving blog posts, they all start to sound the same. And if you know me at all, you know I tend to buck the status quo… for better or worse, that’s me. But after my family gathered for a belated Thanksgiving meal Saturday night, I just HAD to make my list! After you hear this story, you’ll understand.
My day started out very peacefully. I was rinsing the dust off my good dishes, getting out my punch bowl, had the turkey in the oven at 1:30… everything was going as planned. My kids were a little cranky, given that they didn’t have my undivided attention, but that’s to be expected on a day when one has a big meal to prepare. My father and step-mother arrived around 2:00 and she helped me with some odds and ends. I was pleased with how smoothly all the preparations were going. At one point we discovered that I owned no gravy boat, and we chuckled over the fact that I decided to use one of my ceramic pitchers as a substitute– hey, we can just pour the gravy then… no spoon needed. Haha! I thought I was being rather clever (see me pat myself on the back).
My sister’s family arrived at 5:00, and we pulled the rest of the Thanksgiving side-dishes together and got everyone settled in their places. It was a lovely and delicious meal, thanks to Edith’s gravy, Jenn’s oyster stuffing and green beans and cranberry sauce, Dad’s mashed potatoes and my punch, cheeseball and crackers, turkey, corn and desserts (purchased of course!). We shared stories and laughter and giggled about my gravy boat (it sure is unconventional, but it works beautifully!). As often happens with big meals, the kids were finished first and ran in all directions in the house to play. At one point, while we adults were clearing dishes, I noticed that both of my children were in the downstairs bathroom while my niece was using the upstairs bathroom… hmmmmm… “oh well,” I thought, “Heidi will probably help Ben go potty when she’s finished. That will work out nicely. Then I can keep working in the kitchen.” Haha, mommy, think again! Not five minutes later I hear Heidi, “Um, mommy, i don’t really want to tell you this, but… um… Ben pooped NOT in the potty.” Noooooooo…………. but, alas……… yes, yes he did! Apparently he couldn’t hold it until Heidi was finished. And this wasn’t chunky, semi-solid poop. No, this was runny, semi-diarrhea, liquid poop. Amid my lovely gagging sounds and Ben’s whining, we somehow survived the next fifteen minutes and sat down for dessert– not sure my stomach was really ready to handle that transition, but I deserved some pumpkin pie, darn it!
After some clean-up, my sister’s family was ready to head home. As the kids were gathering up their coats and shoes, I noticed my niece pull a bag of birdseed out of her coat pocket. “Hmmmm,” I wondered, “what is she going to do with that?” No sooner had the thought resounded in my mind, that her brother gave the ziplock bag a good squeeze– yep, you guessed it, a shower of tiny seeds rains down on our feet. If you aren’t familiar with a traditional birdseed mix, some of those seeds are as tiny as a pin head. Seriously. Now here is something to be thankful for– we were on a hard floor, right beside the front door. I got a broom and we swept the little seeds right out the door and then off the porch and into the grass! Problem solved. I’ll take birdseed over liquid poop ANY DAY and twice on Sundays.
With the help of my dad and step-mom, we had the house back in order before 8:30. Amazing. So here is my Thanksgiving list for 2008:
1. I am thankful for windows that open when there is uncontained poop in my bathroom.
2. I am thankful that I can breathe through my mouth instead of my nose when I need to.
3. I am thankful for the person who invited wet wipes. I would kiss them if I knew who they were!
4. I am thankful also for the person who invented brooms- what a genius!
5. I am thankful that my children will not always be preschoolers who cannot handle their own waste issues.
6. I am thankful for improvisation… including improvised gravy boats!
But mostly, this year, I am so very thankful for my family– who embraces my quirks and my intense personality, and helps me laugh through my stressed-out tears. You all “go right with my gravy boat” (inside joke) and that’s a GREAT thing!
Bedtime Prayers November 10, 2008
When it’s my turn to put Heidi and Ben to bed at night, I say the same closing prayer, after we pray for friends and family (and dolls and stuffed animals and leaf collections and bikes and trikes, etc.) of course. I’m not exactly sure how this prayer came to be… except that it’s my hope and dream for both of my children. The theology behind this prayer is very intentional. It’s holisitc; it’s all-encompassing– mind, heart and body. The faith I’m praying for involves their inner world and their outer world– belief and practice, saying and doing, agreeing to and acting on.
Ben has started to say this prayer with me now, which is such a blessing! Hopefully the theology will sink so deeply into his soul that he won’t be able to forget it! I don’t want my children to grow up thinking that saying they believe in Jesus is enough. Faith without praxis is no faith at all. Faith expressing itself in love is EVERYTHING.
On that note, for whatever it’s worth, here’s my little closing prayer:
Lord, may Heidi grow up to KNOW you and LOVE you and SERVE you, with her WHOLE HEART and her WHOLE LIFE. Amen.
Heidi’s Prayer September 8, 2008
Since Heidi was about 1 1/2 years old, we’ve always had bedtime prayers. Jon and I alternate who puts the kids to bed at night, and this past Saturday night, it was my turn. We read a story, and I let her chat for a minute or two (this girl’s always got something to say!! I’m pretty sure she gets that from me, although Jon’s parents have commented that he used to get chatty at bedtime when he was a kid, too). So we talked about dolls and friends and school, and then I said, “Okay, let’s pray.”
Now, I always encourage her to pray, but for some reason she usually says, “No, you pray, mom.” And not just at bedtime; she’s been hesitant to pray at dinnertime, too. I’ve wondered why… does she think she’s too little to talk to God? Is she afraid of God? Does she just not know what to say? Does she think she needs to pray “right” for God to hear her? Or maybe it’s the out-loud thing that freaks her out. When I ask her why she doesn’t want to pray she says, “I don’t know. I just don’t want to.” So I gladly do it, and I wait for those rare momens when she says, “Okay, mom, I’ll pray!” Well, Saturday night was one of those times! She wanted to pray out loud, and I was so glad. I could not wait to hear what she would say.
So here it is– in all its simplicity and profundity. The prayer for a four (almost five!) year old: “And God, make the bad people good, and please, do it right now!”
In these days and weeks of amazingly confusing politics and intense national emotion… in these days of storms that have taken people’s homes and lives… in these days– the normal ones, the crazy ones, the tragic ones and stressful ones, my daughter has reminded me of God’s power to redeem people and situations. God can change hearts! He can change circumstances! And He can do it right now! I choose to have faith. Thanks, Heidi. Once again, you’ve been my teacher.
A trip to the ER June 20, 2008
Today was a day of the unexpected, unplanned and unpleasant… which is prone to happen when you’re a parent. Heidi fell while she was running outside today and there was enough blood that we decided to take her directly to the ER. It turned out that they needed to put her under general anesthesia to put in the stitches.
Before we even knew the diagnosis, Heidi was terrified of the thought of needles, to the point of refusing to go into the car, into the building, into the exam room. She would stiffen up and repeat, “No, mommy, no! I’m not going! I can’t stand it! It’s going to hurt. I don’t want it, I’m not going. No, no, no!”
For my part, I was almost as frightened as her. Before the doctor finally came into the room and looked at her injuries and told us the plan, I kept wondering what was happening… afraid for my daughter, afraid for all of us if this ended up being something more serious than just a few stitches (her injury was pretty bizarre, but I won’t go into details here, to protect Heidi’s privacy). The amount of blood alone was enough to make me feel nauseous. Those are very lonely moments as a parent, when there is no one to hold you and comfort you during your child’s crisis.
Considering Heidi’s almost-hysteria, I found myself caught between my own sense of panic and trying to be cheerful and supportive for my daughter. At one point I admited to her that I was scared, too, but that I also believed that God was with us and knew how frightened we were and would help us face whatever happened next.
The most traumatic part of our little hospital excursion was when they put the IV needle in her hand, in preparation for surgery. She stiffened up and started to panic. One nurse had to hold her arm still while the other put the needle in the vein on top of her hand. She was screaming and crying, but I got down in front of her and held her other hand and said (through my own tears), “Heidi, look at me. Look at my eyes. Don’t watch what they’re doing, look at me, honey! That’s it. Let’s sing our song. I’ll start— Jesus loves me, this I know…” And my beautiful girl sang through her tears and sobs. She kept looking at me and singing her song even though she hated every minute of what was happening to her and didn’t want to do it. She still sang. She kept looking at her mama’s eyes.
I remember many days when I have sung through my pain– when I didn’t believe the words I was singing, but sang anyway. I would do my best to keep my Savior’s loving gaze, even when I hated what was happening to me and blamed him for it. Stubborn determination. Stubborn faith in the midst of chaos and the unknown.
You’re a beautiful, brave girl, Heidi. Mama’s proud.
Why mothering? March 12, 2008
I am not a traditional mom. I’m not an outstanding cook; I hate shopping; I don’t do crafts unless I have to; and I’m a full-time seminary student. This is not typical in Mennonite circles. People often look at me a little side-ways when I describe my life as a “stay-at-home” mom. And it’s not unusual for me to feel like I don’t quite belong when I get together with other young Christian moms.
So, if I’m not drawn to the normal mom stuff, why did I choose to have children? And why am I staying at home with them? Some days, I’m not sure, to be honest. I don’t really feel like I’m good at this mom stuff a lot of the time. I had no strong inner urging to have children. I kinda liked my independence, really. On top of that, I often wondered about all the children around the world who needed love and were not receiving it— why bring more children into the world and not share our love with children who are already here? We could always adopt one of them, right?
But we were getting close to 30, and having kids seemed like the right thing to do at that point in life. So we did it… and not without some effort. It took us a year to get pregnant with our daughter, Heidi. Ben came a little easier, two years later. And I would do the same thing over again, were I given the chance. I still have a conviction about all the unloved children in our world. Perhaps someday I will be able to act on that conviction… but these two children, of my flesh and bone, are a gift beyond measure, not only to me and Jon… to the world.
I have discovered that mothering is a crucible. God is refining me and purifying me in ways that I never imagined, and that I often resist. I want to be left alone. I don’t want to have to look at my failings every day– my short temper, my desire for control, my impatience and self-centeredness. I don’t want to give until my spirit feels empty and my body is exhausted. I don’t want to change another diaper, get another meal on the table, do the laundry for the millionth time or clean the house again. I don’t want to take my daughter to every birthday party or put on the CD for Ben for the twentieth time today so he can dance around the family room. I don’t want to go shopping again because the kids’ clothes are too small. I want to read my books, write my blog posts and talk to my friends. I want to preach and lead worship. I want to go on retreat with my friends and think profound thoughts. I want to play the piano or enjoy a cup of coffee without being interrupted. I want.
God wants. I’m being purified. I love teenagers… preschoolers, on the other hand, I could take or leave. I used to find them mostly annoying, but now I’m seeing the wisdom of children. God’s wisdom. My fast-paced me-centered world is being deconstructed. My kids slow me down, show me joy, introduce me to new experiences and people, and they make me look in the mirror. Mothering makes me face myself, and all I can do is fall down in front of Jesus and beg for healing. The crucible of motherhood shows me my beauty and ugliness all at once, and I know my own helplessness. It brings me to my knees before God, and I know I need to stay here… until I’m pure. Until I die, or my Lord comes back to take me home and I’m made new.
My daughter and son. Mine. But not mine. A gift from God. The mark they will make with their lives will be unique because they are of me and my husband… I hope and pray my wounded and imperfect mothering will bring them to Christ and not drive them farther from His Love. God’s will be done in their lives, on earth as it is in Heaven.
John 3:1-17 March 4, 2008
Birth. It’s a frightening, beautiful, painful, wonderful, messy thing… for both the one being born and the one doing the birthing. I remember anticipating the birth of both of my children, waiting for that day. I wanted it to happen, but part of me wished we could skip the birthing part and go right to the moment when I could hold my baby in my arms. Couldn’t they born without all that work and pain, that whole awful process?
As I read through this conversation between Nicodemus and Jesus, it occurred to me that the one being born doesn’t do a blessed thing! They are curled up, all warm and cozy in the womb, being fed and held in the darkness. And then they are pushed out, forced out into this cold, scary new world. They didn’t decide to come out; they didn’t walk out or crawl out. Mom pushed them out! The little baby has no control or say in the process. It’s a good thing, to be born, but it’s not easy or comfortable for anyone involved. It means leaving the old and familiar behind, and beginning something new, a life filled with possibility (and also danger). No wonder we cry (I’m talking about mother and baby here)!
So what exactly is going on here, as Jesus talks about being re-born from above? Being re-born is not something Nicodemus can do, even he knows that. What is Jesus asking of him? Jesus speaks of wind and water, things invisible and visible, images from creation and from Israel’s history with God. He speaks of healing and light. I remember the importance of breath in labor. I remember when my water broke, and we knew it was time to go to the hospital. I remember my babies’ eyes squinting as they got used to all the lights in the hospital. I remember the instant sense of relief when labor was over.
What if we thought about God’s work in the world as labor and birth? God birthed the world at creation. God birthed the people of Israel at the Exodus. And since sin entered the world, God has been laboring to save all of creation. In Jesus, through the Holy Spirit, God gives us birth again. From darkness to light. Through no work of our own, no strength of our own, we are born again. It’s not something we can do. God labors, God pushes, God breathes, God works to remake us and give us new life. Perhaps it even causes God great pain to do this work of extraordinary sacrificial love.
But again, what is Jesus asking of Nicodemus? Perhaps he’s asking Nicodemus (and us) to submit to the process, to welcome the light, to let God do God’s work in us. How can we as individuals submit to God’s work today? And how can we as a church continue to submit to God’s work?
