Worth the Hurt?--My Messy Beautiful

Compassion sucks.

OK, not so much the whole concept, but actually living it…that’s a pain in the you-know-what.

If you can watch Hallmark movies, Sarah McLachlan commercials, and YouTube videos of soldiers meeting their babies for the first time without crying, stop reading right now because this does not apply to you.

But weepy people—listen up! This is for you. If you’ve ever given money you didn’t have to spare because the person asking really believed in the cause, you know what I mean.  If you’ve ever taken the time to ask a frazzled-looking service employee how her day is going (and listened to the answer), you know what I mean. If you’ve ever laid awake in anxious prayer for someone else’s precious child, you know what I mean.

Compassion hurts. It literally means to suffer along with someone. And while tearing up at a cheesy commercial may not be a big deal, feeling deeply for the pain of others is incredibly exhausting. I know because I’m one of those weepy people and sometimes, I get tired of it. I wish, for just a little while, that I could JUST NOT CARE. That I could let other people’s problems actually only be THEIR problems, because clearly I have enough problems of my own, thankyouverymuch.

In the nonprofit world, there’s actually a term called “compassion fatigue.” It means there’s only so much that donors can take before they simply shut down and can’t stomach one more appeal for donations, no matter how urgent the need or how worthy the cause. It’s like when the fourth Girl Scout comes knocking at your door and your freezer still has Thin Mints from last year (ok I know that’s a ridiculous example, but I’ve heard that some people actually don’t eat them all the first week. Whatever.)

When we lived in Ohio while my husband Mike was in seminary, I worked in fundraising for an international health and development organization. The mission of our U.S. office was to connect people and congregations in the States with the work of our partners in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. It was good work, and hard work, and holy work. And sometimes, it was downright miserable work. Not the “endless hours in a sweatshop” kind of misery, but the “sweet Lord Jesus, if I hold one more baby who has HIV and TB today, my heart is going to break into a million tiny pieces” kind of misery. When donations were slow or we ran into roadblocks in our work, my coworkers and I were doubly frustrated because not only were we failing at our jobs, but we were hurting along with these people dammit and why can’t we just get the money/supplies/medicine/love where it needs to be, when it needs to be there, is that too much to ask?!?!?! We knew the work was not about us, but sometimes the feet of the ones who walk alongside get tired too.

So many of you know this kind of misery, and you know how much it hurts. But you also know that the broken-openness of that kind of hurting is both excruciating and liberating. When your heart is shattered by overwhelming love, you get the chance to put it back together again in a new way. In the very same moment you are weeping for that sick baby in your arms, you are rejoicing because he just smiled the most dazzling smile and it was JUST FOR YOU. There is beauty in the brokenness. You are continually rewriting your own story with bits of pieces of truth from those you’ve connected with. You are made, and re-made, with increasing capacities for love, and that kindness you give away comes back to you a thousand times over.

In the Christian faith, we remember today as Good Friday, the day Jesus was crucified.  Our God, the one who ACTUALLY UNDERSTANDS HOW THE WORLD WORKS, was broken open, pierced through, and humbled to the point of death. This was the way God found to connect with his broken, messed-up people.

When we take time to sit with this story and allow it to break our hearts all over again, we receive a gift: our own story—everything we take to the cross—becomes God’s story. God’s story becomes our story. This is not new news--Mike’s been preaching it ever since the great storyteller Walt Wangerin crafted that beautiful phrasing--but it’s good news.  And that’s enough to make it worth the hurt for me.

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

There Is No Spoon

I’m crying because we’re out of spoons.

OK, I’m actually crying because my kids and husband have been sick all week, I’ve been trying to take care of them all at the same time, and I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop and my own illness to appear. I’m crying because my house, which was fairly respectable a week ago, has descended into utter chaos. I’m crying because I thought I was made of tough enough stuff to be a Nebraskan, but I keep having to beg favors from friends and back out of commitments because my family has been sick TWELVE TIMES since the beginning of the school year. And I’m crying because we’re out of spoons, which is the proverbial straw that breaks this mama’s back whenever it happens, because it means the dishes, the laundry, the papers on the kitchen table, and every other thing that can pile up has done so.

I know you have a spoon problem, too--maybe it’s not spoons, but it’s something. No clean underwear, no milk in the fridge, no white space on the calendar...everybody has a trigger for their breaking point, and when that fourth horseman rides into town, whoever’s in the vicinity better clear out, because it ain’t gonna be pretty.

I remember when I was seventeen and my grandmother died. She had struggled with Alzheimer’s for years and finally died from an infection that the doctors had a hard time pinpointing. I took the news of her death pretty calmly, because my initial emotion was actually relief and gratitude that she was no longer suffering. But a few days later, in the hotel room where we were staying before the funeral, I had a knock-down, drag-out screaming match with my brother over who had to sleep on the rollaway bed. Guess what...it was not about the bed. My sweet, gentle grandma, with fascinating cabinets of home-canned goods and a nurse’s heart for caring for others--she was really, truly gone. And that was worth crying over.

At the end of the day, I know no one is holding it against me that I can’t keep a perfect house while trying to take care of my family and keep myself vaguely together and functional. But when we run out of spoons, it’s right about the same time I’ve run totally out of patience and turn into a person I don’t like to be: a screaming, frazzled, psycho-mommy who makes her toddler burst into tears because of the way she’s yelling at her preschooler. No one else may be holding it against me, but I’m holding it against myself.

So tonight, at the end of this day, I had to let it go. (Sadly, I haven’t seen Frozen, but that song is incredible, as everyone else in the world already knows). Bedtime was not going well, and I was opening my mouth to whisper-scream (you know, the scary kind you do when you don’t want to wake the child that’s already sleeping) at Noah, who was throwing a fit over something ridiculous, and I just stopped. Took a breath. Turned his light out and laid down next to him. Breathed and put a hand on him while he finished his tantrum. Breathed and waited. Breathed and prayed.

And a verse (a voice?) came into my head: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me.”

I breathed peace onto my sweet son’s head. I rubbed his back and stroked his hair. I said I was sorry for yelling so much today and asked his forgiveness. I let it go.

Everything is not all better. There are still no spoons. But Mike came home, and he brought me a donut (which, unlike ice cream, requires no spoon.) I think we’re going to be ok.

Breathing peace to you,

Alison

Feeling the Love

Ahh, Valentines Day. Love is in the air! Or...not. It's easy to find reasons not to love Valentine’s Day. Single people don’t like being reminded of their relationship status. Couples are frustrated by overpriced gifts and perhaps their partner’s unrealistic expectations for the day. Kids get hyped up on sugar and lose their, shall we say, natural sweetness.

For a long time, I was pretty ambivalent about it as well. Sure, it was nice to get candy and cards, but the romantic side of things always felt a little forced. Are you giving me gifts because you want to show your love for me, or because you’re expected to because Hallmark says so? Now, as a parent of two kids with food allergies, there’s the added stress of having to sort through the candy in their treat boxes and toss what’s not safe for them to eat.

But this year I decided that I would broaden the kind of love I celebrate on Valentine’s Day. You see, as a long time Greek geek, I’m can tell you that Biblical Greek has three different words for love: philos--friendship love, eros--romantic love, and agape--self-giving love. I don’t see why the holiday can’t celebrate all these kinds of love.

Culturally, Valentine’s Day is for lovers, but this year, I say we make it about loving one another--as spouses, as parents, and as beloved children of God.

I teach upper elementary Sunday School at Immanuel Zion, and our lesson this week served as a perfect complement to my V-Day love revolution. The theme was "You are the light of the world." After the Bible lesson, the kids read a story about a girl whose recycling suggestion impacted her entire school (and the planet) for the better. Because of her courage to speak up and act on her beliefs, she sparked a major change.

As we discussed how each of us can make a difference in the world, one boy pointed to the candle I had brought, which happened to have 3 wicks, and shouted, "Those two are joining together!" He had noticed that as the wax pooled between two of the wicks, the flames joined together and burned more brightly.

I love it when the kids make the points of the lesson for me! Together, we shine brighter--whether it’s in a marriage, in the acts of love we do for our kids, or in the ways we support and share laughter with our friends. If you don’t have a significant other, that doesn’t mean Valentine’s isn’t for you. There are plenty of ways to show love that don’t involve flowers, candy, or wine. No matter what, though, it should involve chocolate!

If you’re less than excited about the upcoming holiday, try to find an unconventional way to show agape love for someone, like paying for a stranger’s coffee or doing a chore another family member dislikes. You might just find yourself feeling the love on Valentine’s Day after all.

Love to you all!

~Alison

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Beware the Ides of January

Today is the Ides of January...otherwise known as the 15th of the month, for those of you who aren’t up on your Roman calendar references (have you hugged an English and Classics major today? I’m available!)

I’m going to go out on a limb and say this is quite possibly the worst time of the year. It feels to me like everything from the weather (hello, Polar Vortex) to the millions of vicious viruses circulating freely (hello, stomach flu) are conspiring to make us collectively miserable.

To top it off, most of us have already fallen off the wagon of whatever New Year’s Resolutions we passionately committed to on January 1st, when the world lay before us like a blanket of fresh, not-at-all-vortex-like snow. Diet plan? Derailed. Exercise daily? But it’s sooooo coooold, and my bed is soooo warm! Give thanks in all circumstances? That one was mine, and I was not so much finding my attitude of gratitude a few days ago during my second round of stomach flu in two months.

Most of all, I dread the Ides of January because I always feel like a failure this time of year. As a card-carrying member of the Overachievers Club, I reeeeeeally hate to fail. I suck at sucking at stuff. So much that I would rather not even try something than risk looking bad at it. One possible exception is dancing in front of my children in order to make them stop crying...just ask the Fed Ex man who saw me breaking it down to Justin Beiber’s “Baby” to make Noah laugh a few years ago. This is why we can’t have neighbors. Anyway, I digress.

My solace in the midst of this miserable month has been listening to Brene Brown’s talks from The Power of Vulnerability. I’m forever indebted to Keri Brugger and my fabulous Bible study girls for introducing me to Brene. If you’ve never heard of her, try her Ted Talk or read Daring Greatly...she has so much to say that is so wonderful, but the part that I’m holding onto right now is this: when you’re in the midst of shame (feeling like you are not good enough, unworthy, a failure, etc), the first step to getting out of that hole is to talk to yourself the way you’d talk to someone else.

Many of us are kind people...to everyone except ourselves. How often do we look in the mirror and say, “Holy SMOKES you are a DISASTER!! What is that THING on your cheek??? And how long has it been since you flossed? I think there are small colonies of extraterrestrials living on your tongue. The hair...don’t get me started on THAT mess. How can you possibly go out in public today?” Yet we wouldn’t dream of talking to someone else in that way.

Usually when we talk about how Jesus calls us to love our neighbors as ourselves, we focus on the neighbor part--and rightly so. But friends, in this cold and cruel month, let us not forget to be kind to ourselves too. As my dear friend Jenni recently posted much more eloquently, God don’t make junk, and if he finds you beautiful, so can you!

Peace,

Alison

Happy Holy Days

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to volunteer in Noah's preschool class. As you can imagine, twenty excited kids the week before Christmas break can get a little crazy. At one point, as they were lining up for recess in a less-than-orderly fashion, the teacher said, "Remember who's watching you?!" as she pointed toward the classroom "Elf on a Shelf" perched above the circle area. "The elf!" said some kids. "Santa!" said others. But one little boy looked decidedly skeptical. "Elves aren't real!" he said with determination. "God is always watching us."

Boom! How do you answer THAT (in a public school classroom, no less?)  The teacher rolled with it, though, and quickly affirmed, "Yes, you're right, God is always watching, but right now we're trying to be extra good so the elves give a good report to Santa."

It's a fine line we walk at Christmastime, we who hold young hearts and minds in our hands. Before Noah was born, Mike and I debated over whether we would even do the Santa thing. He thought we should just focus on giving gifts to each other, but I couldn’t imagine Christmas without the magic and wonder of St. Nick making an appearance during the night.

As that moment at preschool illustrates, the conflation of cultural, commercial, and church traditions can make Christmas really confusing for kids. But it's not just the kids who are confused. There's quite a bit of media attention right now regarding the "War on Christmas" and how we can celebrate this time-honored religious holiday in an increasingly diverse and pluralistic society.

It all hints at complicated questions that reach far beyond Christmas and into the year-long issue of how to raise faithful children in a world where spirituality takes many forms and sometimes seems utterly absent. It’s a parenting struggle Mike and I have wrestled with from the beginning and I’m sure will be dealing with for many years to come.

I was thinking about this issue this morning as Sarah and I played with our Christmas play sets. For Noah's first Christmas, we got him a Fisher Price Little People Nativity Set. It was a lovely way to make the Christmas story accessible and fun for him (OK he was two months old at the time, but you know, we had high hopes that in the future it would be lovely). And indeed it is lovely and fun and a great way to talk and teach about the story of the first Christmas with little ones.

Then along came Sarah, (alas, poor second child!) and we were at a loss for that perfect first Christmas gift. We wanted to get her a special Christmas toy similar to the Nativity set, but there was nothing else especially religious we could find, so we went with the "Tree Lighting in Discovery Park" play set, which has a musical Christmas tree and little figures that can ice skate, sled and take carriage rides through the park.

This year, we got out both sets and put them next to each other in the playroom. It's not uncommon to see Baby Jesus going for a carriage ride or a snowman chatting up a camel or a Wise Man hitting the slopes on the little toboggan.

The happy mixing of the figurines is a good example of how we are creating Christmas traditions in our family. First and foremost, Christmas is about celebrating the birth of Jesus. But can there be joy in the secular traditions--Santa, elves, red-nosed reindeer, talking snowmen, etc--that have come to be part of the Christmas season too?

I think for our family, the answer is yes. I'm still working out how to walk that line between teaching our kids that the Elf on the Shelf does not have the same omniscient power as God while still leveraging the Santa card to encourage good behavior during December. But as I learned in preschool yesterday, maybe the key is to use those Christmas traditions, both secular and sacred, to remind our kids (and ourselves) why we celebrate this time of year.

Maybe the best I can do for right now is let the Wise Men go sledding.

In our house, we'll watch some of the classic Christmas specials, but we'll also watch the Veggie Tales St. Nicholas special about joyful giving. We'll buy gifts for each other, but try not to go overboard, and to focus on finding things our family will truly enjoy. We'll sing "Deck the Halls" (because you've gotta hear Sarah do the "fa la las," it's fantastic), but we'll also sing "Silent Night." We'll try our best to make these days both happy and holy, because that’s what the holidays--holy days--are all about.

Advent Confessional

Most of you know I’m a Lutheran pastor’s wife. I have a diverse, though entirely Protestant, faith history: My United Church of Christ mom and Berean Bible Church dad raised us in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) and now worship with an American Baptist church. Four years at Valparaiso University gradually transformed me from a reluctant Lutheran to a wholehearted liturgy-lover. But there’s one side of my faith life I’ve been keeping secret...until now.

I love Mary. There, I said it. Most of the year, I can keep it under wraps, but this Advent, I have to give Mary her due. I mean, she was definitely not your MTV-style Teen Mom. I’ve always been amazed at her (apparently) calm response to the angel: “I’m having a baby? He’s the Son of God? Yeah, ok, sounds good.” Kinda makes me wonder what else she said that didn’t quite make the cut...but regardless, I’ve admired this girl ever since I was a child myself.

There was a dear, sweet, lady named Rita who lived across the street from us when I was a child. She was my first babysitter after my parents moved to Kansas City from Indiana when I was 11 months old. As my brother and I grew, we spent a lot of time over at Rita’s house, which was right along our walk to and from school. She had a cherry tree in her backyard that we could climb, and one of those houses that is fascinating in the way old people’s houses are fascinating to children, worlds apart from the Fisher Price and playdoh that covered our playroom floor. There were cuckoo clocks and floral furniture and lots and lots of breakable things (we probably broke a few over the years). Her refreshments--diet soda and sugar-free lemon cookies--left a little to be desired to my 8-year-old self. But the best part about going to Rita’s house was playing the organ.

Rita was the organist at St. Ann’s, the Catholic church that bordered the park in our neighborhood. She had a small electric organ in her living room that was a source of endless delight for my brother and me. I don’t actually recall hearing her play the organ much, but I know she would always let us noodle around on it when we came over. Music was a big part of her life and her faith story, and she loved to share that with us.

I don’t recall exactly how old I was when Rita died, middle school maybe, but there’s one thing that I hold in my heart from that time. When she became ill, my mom was getting ready to visit her in the hospital. I’d been playing cello for a few years, and mom asked me if I’d do something special for Rita. She found the sheet music for the Schubert Ave Maria, helped me learn it, and tape recorded me playing it (remember cassette tapes??) so she could take it along for Rita to listen to.

I hadn’t taken Latin yet, or even met Jackie, my dear friend and source for all things Catholic in high school, so the words “Ave Maria” didn’t mean anything to me then. But the music--the language of the soul--that, I understood. To this day, I love to hear the Ave Maria sung, or play it on my cello, especially during the Christmas season.

That’s the time of year when, in the Protestant traditions, we tend to trot out Mary on her little donkey along with our Nativity scenes as we begin the Advent journey. She has her important (but interestingly, often silent) role in the Christmas pageant. Then there’s the Magnificat and its many beautiful arrangements to be sung in those 4 blue weeks of the church year. But once the Wise Men show up, Mary gets packed away and forgotten about, making a few brief appearances here and there, but mostly in the background of our Sunday morning stories.

The Roman Catholic church, on the other hand--well, I dare you to walk into one of those and try to forget about the Blessed Mother. She is not just part of the Christmas story. For many Catholics, honoring Mary is a part of their daily walk with God. And I get that. As a mother, I can especially relate to her and how she must have felt to be wiping Jesus’ blessed little bum a thousand times, and kissing his sacred scraped knees, and being terrified when he ran off in the crowd (In my version of the Bible, “Didn’t you know I would be in my father’s house?” is followed by Mary saying,“No, Jesus, I DIDN’T KNOW THAT, or else I wouldn’t have been tearing my HAIR OUT all this time LOOKING FOR YOU!!!”) Because, you know, she was a real mom and real moms yell, even at the Son of God. Or I’d like to think so, anyway.

The point being, I love Mary because I can wrap myself in her ubiquitous blue robe and just understand and feel and know the kind of love she experienced for Jesus, and through that, I can begin to understand a tiny bit the kind of love God feels for us. Overwhelming love of a newborn on your chest after a long, hard journey. Frustrated love when your child goes astray. Proud love when your child becomes the man you knew he could be. Heartbroken love when your baby is taken away too soon. Mary’s love is a mother’s love, and there’s nothing else in my life that has brought me closer to God than motherhood.

Don’t get me wrong--I love my Lutheran identity and all that it brings with it: churchy things like God’s unconditional grace, and everyday things like really amazing casseroles, quilts, and baked goods (and the church ladies behind them!) But if there’s one thing I think Catholics do really well, it is to dwell in the mysteries of faith.

Mysteries. Like how a poor teenage girl could be worthy to bear the savior of the world. Like how a piece of music on a scratchy cassette tape could bring comfort to a dying woman. Like how the incredible Love that is Jesus could and can and will break forth in our hearts in spite of our brokenness. Mysteries.

May you live in the Mystery this Advent season. Peace.

Wardrobe Malfunction

So I almost went to church without a shirt on yesterday.

OK technically I was wearing a tank top. But not exactly what you would consider "Sunday best."

Let me explain. Sunday mornings, I'm a single parent. My kids still have a wonderful, loving, and involved father, but being a pastor, he's just very much otherwise occupied with churchy things. So it's my job to get all of us ready, pack diaper/entertainment bags, prep for Sunday School or playing piano some weeks...you get the picture. Our house is about as Sabbath-like as LaGuardia on Sunday mornings.

Yesterday, I wanted to wear a sweater that I had just rescued from its summer home, neatly wrapped in tissue in my cedar chest. Or maybe it was wadded up on the top shelf of my closet since last February. One or the other. Anyway, it needed a little freshening up, so I tossed it in the dryer and proceeded to dress our barn cats in sweaters for a Christmas card picture. Just kidding, that would be easy. Really I was subjecting the kids to a unique form of torture that involved getting DRESSED. In actual CLOTHES. With BUTTONS. Evil, aren't I???

I made it as far as shoes before the first crisis. "They're too TIIIIIIIGHT!! Make it LOOSER!!! Noooooooo not like that, like the OTHER ONE!!! LOOSER!!!" We finally compromised with barely attached Velcro and moved on to Sarah's coat. Picture wrestling a 23-pound trout into an adorable purple puffy coat, only the trout has SHOES. And TEETH.

So that's done (never speak of it again!) I slide my shoes on, grab my coat...and realize I'm missing that elusive article of clothing, the aforementioned sweater. In the time it takes me to grab it from the dryer, Sarah poops (WHY did I put tights on her???) and Noah tries repeatedly to take himself to church (we live next door, so it's not like he stole the car keys, but still!)

We made it. In one piece. And dressed, more or less. As for surviving worship services with two small children...that's a post for another day, especially since I got off easy and pawned them off on kindhearted church members so I could play the piano yesterday. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to put pants on and go to play group. Have a great day :-)