A Still Life

This post was published August 18, 2008. At that point I’d completed a year-long interim position and was beginning to announce the news of expecting our daughter. Until I started work this week, I have been home with some of the questions first posed below. My thoughts more than two years later are, of course, more refined than what’s articulated here (I’d strongly clarify that this dilemma of having it all applies to both men and women but that I am speaking out of my experience as woman). But that’s the joy of keeping journals, right? I love that I’m still holding many of the same questions but with much less anxiety and old questions have birthed better questions . I am thankful for the luxury of time to make space for asking such questions and for seeking such balance.

I remember speaking with a work supervisor many years ago about babies.  I don’t know why we were talking, but someone offered the cliche, “Having a baby changes everything.”  The (childless-by-choice) supervisor was shockingly passionate about this and responded, almost with venom, “It doesn’t have to.  People just let it.”  At the time I think I was most surprised by the conviction in her voice, but from today’s vantage point I’m also struck by the fallacy of her response.

Having a child doesn’t have to change everything, people just let it.  I think that’s intimately connected with the more common belief that women can have it all and do it all.  Hear me out on this.  The logic of both is that we can fill our days to overflowing with career and family and spouse and friends and workout and volunteerism and church and maybe even find time for self somewhere in there.  We can wear high heels and lipstick while we change that diaper, file that brief, run that errand, cash that paycheck, run that board meeting, and look good to all those around who are watching.

It’s not really about a feminist dream, either, though it’s often packaged and sold that way.  This is really the offer of the American dream.  So maybe women have felt they weren’t allowed to be part of that dream and for a few decades now have fought hard to participate.  But I don’t want to participate.  I don’t want that dream for myself.  I want a different dream.  (Scroll down and find the earlier link to an article in The Atlantic to read some great comments from a mom about her dream for herself and her family.  She’s mocked for it, but I love what she has to say.)

This summer has been full and rich, but not necessarily in the American-dream-you-can-have-it-all kind of way.  I preached a lot and loved it, but that gig sure isn’t about money.  I painted with my son on the front porch and created an art gallery for him on the staircase, we played at the beach as a family, we grew tomatoes and herbs and wildflowers in the yard, and we talked in the street with new neighbors.  It doesn’t fill up spots on my resume; if anything, it creates gaps.  This life is constantly calling me to slow down, to live with less, to be present in the moment.  It’s calling me to reconsider the potential and fallacy in saying, “I can have it all.”  What can I really have?  What do I want to create?  What dreams am I holding that I need to release?  How or will I respond to hurried sisters around who want me to hurry with them?  How can I welcome abundance and simplicity simultaneously?  Is that the real offer to have it all?

As I continue to reflect on what feels like a monumental shift in life balance, I am reading old words from my short mothering life. Before A Still Life, there was The Great Mother. (Here’s the first post about the blog’s name.) I kept that blog for about 18 months and started when The Boy was only 26-months-old. When my daughter was a few months old, I wrote about missing home, label confusion, and vocational longings. Below is the follow-up post that ran on May 20, 2009:

It’s been almost a month since I wrote of some in-between feelings that have been strong lately; feeling in-between callings, in-between physical homes, in-between identities.  I’m amazed by how much of my experience of motherhood has been this journey of identity–a steady revisiting of who I really am at my core, what makes me deeply happy, what ignites my vocational passions, and the truth that I am (we are) whole without packaged labels of profession.

I do miss home, the Gulf Coast home in Alabama with pecan trees in the backyard, jumbo lump and Gulf shrimp waiting in the freezer, 19th century house with wide-plank hardwood floors, cheese straws and sweet tea at the ready for unexpected guests, oak trees bowing to meet me over the street whose name my daughter now bears.  That home is in me even if I never get to return.  (Deep breath.)  That home will live in the new home I have created with my husband.

But oh, oh, oh do I miss my mama.

And I still feel in-between in my vocational identity.  I don’t want that to matter as much, but it’s a nagging that doesn’t go away and that hasn’t gone away since middle school.  I was one of those kids that took church camps really seriously, and summer was always the rededication-recommitment-call-to-full-time-Christian-service time of year.  Maybe my decade of youth ministry has trained my body to anticipate some increased sense of calling or renewal as summer approaches.  For almost twenty years I have felt that my life would be about, to paraphrase Buechner, my passions and the world’s needs meeting.  That is not to say that motherhood isn’t “enough” for me or that witnessing my children’s lives isn’t calling.  I hope and pray that my husband and I have such a home that our children will become partners in caring for a world in need.

But I still can’t figure out how the passions and words and desire to make change fits with who I am both as a mother and, according to my seminary degree, a Master of Divinity.  It leaves something fidgeting and wrestling in me.  At times I think I need to learn to breathe and move differently, release some of that busyness.  Right now I think this disquiet is a Holy Fidget (did I make that up?!)…a discomfort that precedes some new thing that will make sense of seemingly disparate pieces of my life.  I want to pay attention to the unsettled places in hopes that lessons are hidden there, paths are being carved out.  I want to pay attention in hopes that my mothering ways speak to my vocational longings and that my vocational ways inspire my home.  My disquiet, at its best, may continue this ongoing work of knowing my whole, true self.

I’ve taken a new job and am delighted. The journey to this quarter-time position has been an inward one that is taking me outward again. I plan to elaborate on that in the coming week or so and want to try to articulate it well, though much of the process has been learning to sit with myself, know myself, and understand how vocation is more about being the person I am called be than about doing particular things. The doing part comes out of the being part, and I know I didn’t get that at first. I wrote about some of this recently on another blog: here. I hope you’ll go read those thoughts, too.

Fred Rogers is one of my heroes, and I don’t take kindly to folks who joke about his integrity. He was a kind and wise man, and his wife has published a number of his kind, wise sayings in some sweet little collections. His words encourage me so. He has this to offer to us parents (in my culture, particularly to us mothers) about carving out room for self amidst the duties of raising children.

If you like to make things out of wood, or sew, or dance, or style people’s hair, or dream up stories and act them out, or play the trumpet, or jump rope, or whatever you really love to do, and you love that in front of your children, that’s going to be a far more important gift than anything you could ever give them wrapped up in a box with ribbons. And what’s more: The last thing in the world you have to be is perfect at it. It’s the spirit that gives that kind of gift its wings.

What do you love? What inspires and excites you? How can you embrace those old parts of your self in new ways? As I think aloud about some of these questions, I’d love to hear what my typically silent readers have to say.

I wrote this opinion piece for The Associated Baptist Press. Their web site has been hacked, so the piece is being released on Facebook and via ABP email list. Until their stronger web presence returns, I thought I’d also post here. To comment please follow to the ABP facebook post.

(ABP) — Reading about Al Mohler’s embarrassment that he once advocated for female clergy brought to mind the great Anne Lamott story about shopping with her friend. Pam had cancer and just three weeks to live when the two went shopping to find a new outfit for Anne. Anne walked out of the dressing room and asked her best friend, “Does this outfit make me look fat?” To which Pam replied: “Oh, Anne. We don’t have time for that.”

As a daughter of the moderate Baptist movement born while Mohler was a student at my alma mater, Samford University, the only narrative I have ever known about my calling and the moderate Baptist body with which I affiliate is that those other Baptist folks over there do not support me.

Last week’s reminder of Mohler’s position is not really about those other Baptist folks but is about the story I have inherited and the reframing it requires. It is easy to allow the naysayers to shape my own story. After all, I was told by a Southern Baptist pastor as a 17-year-old high-school senior that I should be aware that the devil might try to convince me to preach.

The reality, however, is that no matter our calling or career path someone will always disapprove of what we do and how we do it. When we give too much credence to voices that dismiss our calling from God, we begin to focus on those voices instead of the need to reshape the story we have inherited for  the 21st century

While Al Mohler was scouring the books in the library at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, baby girls were being born. Those girls are now old enough to attend moderate Baptist seminaries and divinity schools and stand in pulpits around the world. How should we reframe the narrative for them? How do we shift the story from one of opposition to one of affirmation?

Young women who are now preparing for and entering into ministry need more than a pat on the back of vague affirmation. We must respond with intention. Setting up scholarships for women entering seminary and offering them encouragement along the way is a first step. But the next step is to put them to work. Invite them to lead retreats, welcome them as guests in pulpits and call them to be your pastors.

The story is no longer about who should and should not serve, but about the stories that merge together and unite us in the daily tasks of ministry. We no longer have time for that other story because:

– Mandy is standing at the center of the labyrinth holding the bread and the cup.

– Suzanne is lighting a candle with a mother who held her son as he died.

– Helms is living simply, loving generously and welcoming us into the way of Christ.

– Suzanah is advocating for the safety of mothers around the world who are preparing to give birth.

– Sarah Jane is loving those who never thought they would meet one another over the communion table.

– Lindsay is walking children home from school who are afraid of the kidnappers who wish to sell them into the sex trade.

– Erin is inviting seekers and doubters, people of deep faith and sometimes no faith, to sit together with big questions.

– Nancy and Lynn are walking the prison halls to visit, to bless and to listen.

Letting go of that old story will require us to better know ourselves and give words to the ways God is moving among us. It will require us to bless the past and embrace hope for the future. It will require us to let go of a decades-old paralysis of spirit and pay attention to the life-affirming movement of God’s Spirit at work among us. We don’t have time for any other way forward, because there is Kingdom work to be done.

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In my continued thoughts on social justice, I have kicked around so many attempts at blog posts as follow-ups to this one, but I am struggling to articulate my dilemma. My husband and I bought our house in a diverse neighborhood for a couple of reasons. Honestly, it is the most house for the money we had if we wanted to continue living in the City; we did. Another reason, and one of the reasons we want to live in the City, is that we want to raise our children in community with folks who are different from us: racially, ethnically, socio-economically, educationally. I expected some drug issues, blighted buildings, and the occasional evidence of sex work.

What I didn’t expect was my reaction to having a dramatically poor family move across the street from me. If I were really to go into all of it, this post would be longer than anyone would read. Short version: 1400 sq. ft. home with 12-14 people living in it; 8 children (youngest belongs to a young adolescent); evidence of physical abuse and suspicion of sexual abuse; witnessed animal abuse; social behavior that is deviant from the dominant culture; physical destruction of the property in which they live. And that’s the short version.

For me, this is not about my interaction with people of a different race; I do not believe anything that goes on in that house is because of their race. The trigger for me is my reaction when those for whom I would theoretically have compassion move 50 yards from my front door. After a neighbor posed some questions today on that same social justice post, it prompted this reply from me:

If I encountered them as clergy on a church staff, my instant reaction would be some desire to “help” (as St. Philip’s [a neighborhood church] has). But as one who is living closely (I feel I don’t warrant the title “neighbor” here), I don’t want to see them or know them. I don’t want to get involved. I want the whole situation to disappear. For me, that reaction is deeply problematic because it is so opposed to what I claim to believe.

So I’ve been thinking quite a lot about the contradictions in the language of social justice within my Christian tradition. If we are comfortable suburbanites who never see the ugly, complex nature of poverty because we live in beautiful places yet we profess to care for the poor…is that problematic? Similarly, if we choose to live in places where we will live in relationship with folks who are different from us, what does that really ask of our lives? What do we give up and what do we take on? I don’t have answers but keep refining my questions.

My faith tells me to walk across the street, introduce myself, and attempt to sow kindness and love. Instead, I am angry that this tragic, neglected, unhealthy family is living on my street. And I am angry that so many people of faith choose to live in clean, “safe” neighborhoods where “those people” could never live. For people of faith who claim to prioritize justice, is caring for the poor simply about running some programs in a church and giving money to important causes? Or is it about a transformed life that mandates change in the lives of the wealthy as well as for the sake of the poor?

Again, I’m still refining questions.

Psst, here’s a little private insight into my soul: I don’t always please people. I am not always lovely and pleasant. I don’t always do the right thing. I hurt people’s feelings. I make people angry. I disappoint people. Not always, mind you, but sometimes. Of that terrible litany, I wonder most what to do when my actions or inactions disappoint others.

My Southern, good girl reflex is to apologize. I’m genuinely sorry when people are disappointed in me, but I’m not always sorry for my actions. I am getting better and better at owning my words and my actions and living with their consequences. I make choices in response to the way I’m compelled to live. For example: I’m compelled to live slowly, so I agree to do less and say “no” more. I’m compelled to be present to my family, so I don’t hang out solo with friends in steady ways like I did before kids. I’m compelled to speak out against ways and institutions that foster injustice, and some people don’t like to hear that.

And even now someone is annoyed by those words, wants to argue back, or perceives judgment. As an extrovert-leaning gal who likes to write or stand up before large crowds and talk about thing that matter, I have to make peace with what elements of who I am and what I express can be controlled by me and what responses by others are simply beyond my control.

Ugh. There’s still that instinct to respond with reflex apology, retraction, and hurried repair work. But I am diligently making room in my life for the wisdom that compels me to hush, breathe, and be still. I desire to let go of my ever-present concern with the way I am perceived and the anxious desire to offer remedy to whatever the situation may be. There are times when good, healthy communication is necessary and open dialogue will teach me something new of myself, some better ways to communicate, and lessons on how I can participate well in community. Hard conversations can create better relationships and clearer selves.

But there are other times when I simply realize I can’t control the disappointment. I don’t want to shirk the responsibility of growing as a communicator and maturing as a person, I just know that not everyone will like me. Not everyone will agree with me. I cannot control how I am perceived, I cannot control how I am heard, and I cannot control whether or not I am understood.

Why am I even writing this rambling post? No, it’s not directly in response to a conflict I’ve had with some reader out there. There are elements of each of you in there, but really it was hearing a popular evangelical author recently that got me thinking. I didn’t like some of the things he said and actually took issue quite seriously with a few of his major points.

You see, I can’t shake this nagging desire to write more, to preach and teach more. When I respond well to the desire, the call, there are moments of centeredness I cannot describe. I just feel so smack dab in the middle of where I am supposed to be when I’m crafting thoughts and attempting to communicate ideas well to others. The more I do that, the greater the chance I will disappoint and anger and frustrate someone. Not everyone will like me or agree with me. Some will call me insightful while others call me a fake, some will say I’m humble with others claim I’m arrogant. I can hear some of those remarks and let them go, I can receive others to communicate more effectively or as a mirror in which to better see myself, but that’s about all I can do.

Seems like a sloppy end, but that’s where I am today. I can’t control it all, can’t claim it all, can’t fix it all. I can be open, I can learn, I can better myself and my craft. When I get it right, I can rest in knowing I have been true.

1. Our year began with excited anticipation, and our family’s life shifted about three weeks into 2009. January 20 was a momentous day for three reasons: George W. Bush left the White House, Barack Obama moved into the White House, and our daughter was born. Obama’s beautiful, historic inauguration narrated much of my labor, though his address coincided with a transition into harder labor, and I had to go back and read it later. Despite any frustrations with his administration almost one year later, that day was undeniably marked with great hope for our world, our nation, our family, and the sweet baby girl who was working hard with me to join us.

2. I put the old blog to sleep and began this new creative outlet for continued writing and retreat resources for churches. At times I have wondered if it was a waste of money or energy as the resource part of A Still Life has yet to leave my Idea stack. But the ideas are still simmering, and I feel certain that the discernment process which led me to this new site will hold a space for creativity I’ve not yet realized. I leave those empty links open because I trust they will be filled, and I will certainly celebrate and spread the word when their time comes.

3. I took on a freelance project that, for most working folks, should have been a nice challenge but not earth-shattering. Being the primary caregiver for our two children, however, made for major shifts in the way my husband and I prioritize time and share parenting duties. I have attempted to balance vocation and motherhood with one child, but this was my first real attempt with two. I think someone was sick in this house almost every week for over three months. A simple writing project brought up conversations about calling, balance, family size, and justice. It felt good to write and study and carve out space for my thoughts, and I want to do more of that. I want for my children to see me do more of that, too. Woefully unprepared was I for the reverberations of Isaiah’s words of justice and comfort for my present, mothering life.

4. I am well aware of my natural inclination toward anxious ways and worrying about the future, but those fears are well-tempered by an abiding hope for what the new year brings. I feel steady in our family life, excited to find a new balance with career and home, and remain unwavering in my hope that the One who calls and sends is also the One who sustains.

I should have started here back in August but finally remembered today to direct the old blog to the new blog. In doing so, I briefly reflected on how the name came to be.

Sat down with pen and paper. Computer left at home.

No save function.

No internet procrastination. Real life in front of me.

Thoughts, observations, words.

No other author’s texts to distract or intimidate.

Only an inspired voice within me reminding me of my story, still unfolding.

I have been waiting for today for at least six weeks (though the unarticulated, ever-present longing has been in my gut for much longer). Today The Boy returned to preschool after a four-month summer, and The Girl went for her first trip to our favorite friends for love and care. One of the paradoxes of my mothering life (can’t speak for the other mothers) is that I often feel this restlessness of wanting to slip away for a while and live out some of my thoughts and dreams. But then when the time comes to slip away, I don’t want to leave the presence of  the soft skin and big blue eyes.  

A theme among mother-friends is discerning the balance between work and home. Do we stay home? Not stay home? How much? How little? What’s right? A lovely friend recently shared some powerfully honest emotions with me as she expressed guilt over feeling that her staying-home-ness was not enough. For me, as I have continually wondered aloud about my sense of calling, I have attempted to learn what my life is teaching me.  

What does it mean to want to be both there and here? I don’t do either well when I’m thinking about the other. So, I am thankful today to carve out little 2-3 hour pockets of time to write, study, and share. It’s hard for me to even claim that time for myself, but I am excited about it! I am excited to work on new retreat packages soon-to-be available right here at AStillLife.com. I am excited to listen to Handel’s Messiah as I begin writing a month of Bible Studies on God’s comfort in Isaiah for Smyth & Helwys. And I am excited to scoop up the soft skin and blue eyes and whisk them back home after this brief time apart.

As this new routine begins, I feel a stillness I’ve not felt in some time. I feel I am responding well to the many places God is calling me. My hope is that I will be more present there and here thanks to the new routine of Autumn.