How Today Is Different

I spent my fifth-grade year in Alva, Oklahoma. It was the worst year of my life, but I did come away from it with one good friend. Her name was Gina, and although she was a year older and we went to different schools, our moms were good friends and we "clicked" right away. We've written letters over the years and seen each other a few times as adults. Later this week, under the worst of circumstances, I'll see Gina again. 

Her best friend in the world moved from Houston to Colorado Springs seven months ago. Gina was heartbroken to lose daily contact with a friend who was more like a sister, but they managed to juggle their schedules and still spend hours on the phone each week. As mothers of boys, they liked to joke about how they would be mothers-in-law some day and how they would vent their frustrations only to each other while being extra kind and helpful to their daughters-in-law. (My best friend Kendra and I have had this same conversation.) They were looking forward to going through all the stages of life together. 

Gina's friend Jena, along with the rest of her family, got the flu last week, like so many other people I know. Gina talked to Jena on Friday, and although Jena had laryngitis and felt miserable, she was planning to meet with one of her son's teachers later that day. Instead, Jena came down with pneumonia. On Saturday, she was admitted to the hospital. On Sunday, she went on life support. Monday morning at 5 a.m., this 36-year-old mother of four boys died. Just like that. 

My friend Gina is flying out today to stay with the boys and their dad for a week. She's devastated herself, but she's more concerned about them. The boys range in age from 7 to 17; the oldest is actually Jena's brother, who she has raised since their mother died seven years ago. I don't know any of them personally. They live on the opposite side of town and they haven't been here long enough to make connections, though Gina probably would have connected us at some point. She's connecting us now, but not in a way she intended.

People die all the time. Moms die all the time. Women in their 30s die all the time. But Jena's age and number of kids, along with the suddenness of it all, bring this death closer to home. Words from one of my favorite songs, by Chris Rice, keep playing through my head:

"Every day is a gift you've been given;

Make the most of the time every moment you're living."

Today is a day just like any other day. I've got a long list of things to do. I'm irritated by a few things; I'm happy about others. I have some regrets about yesterday but am looking forward to tomorrow. But today is today. Instead of just getting through it and existing, I will make the most of today. I will sit with my kids on my lap a little longer. I will give them my full attention when they're telling me their stories. I will tell my husband I love him. I will mail a letter to a good friend who's been on my mind. I will be kinder to the telemarketer on the phone. I will stop and enjoy the strawberries I'll eat for lunch instead of just cramming them in while I bustle around the kitchen. I will tell Jena's story with the hope that other people will make the most of every moment they're given. At least for today.

A Passion for Apostrophes

I don’t care about art, classical musical, science, or hot beverages. (And let me just take a moment to apologize to Kristi and Kjell for that. They’re now denying any relationship to me.) What I do care about, among a few other things, is punctuation. A meandering sentence, properly punctuated, thrills my soul. The semicolon is a particular favorite of mine, so much like a comma, yet so individual and distinct. Semicolons are sadly underutilized. When I do see them, they’re often used incorrectly, usually confused with a colon. Don’t let the similar names confuse you; the two are worlds apart.

A stand-out day in my early training as an editor was learning the difference between the hyphen (-), the en-dash (–), and, my personal favorite, the em-dash (—). Isn’t it pretty? And oh, how functional it is! It makes generous appearances in my writing—and if you’re not using it, you’re missing out!

Commas, quotation marks (doubles and singles, and always curly!), parentheses, and even the trusty old period are all my dear friends. I handle them carefully, treating them with respect and never asking them to do something they weren’t intended for. I’m particularly protective of the apostrophe, which is the most vulnerable to abuse. I care deeply about the apostrophe and how it’s used. While the other eighth-graders in Mrs. McRae’s English class were writing notes—with heinous punctuation, no doubt—I was inhaling her discussion of the apostrophe, hanging on her every word, heart racing for the time I could use it myself in the assigned exercises. Although I of course had used the apostrophe before, never had I felt such power to move it around and thus alter the meaning of entire sentences! I learned that “it’s” is always “it is” and still wonder where everyone else was on the day this was taught. I learned about contractions and possessives and that apostrophes are way too special to be used for a simple pluralization.

My children—texting, abbreviating, acronym-users that they’re sure to be—will be taught the finer things about punctuation and will be held to a high standard by their mother, if no one else. They’ll probably know nothing of art or music, but you can bet they’ll be connoisseurs of the apostrophe and loving its (NOT IT’S) place in the world.

My Week

A while ago, I started praying about who God wanted me to be, rather than what God wanted me to do. Two character traits came to mind: patience and selflessness. The handful of you who knew my father know that I don't come by these qualities genetically. I'm able to pep talk myself into them on occasion, but they're far from my natural default. But I liked the idea of them, and I sensed that God liked the idea of them for me. They were even factors in my desire to keep having more kids, as I saw how each baby built more patience and selflessness in her mother. 

This week scored a big win for patience and selflessness. I spent every minute of this week with my kids and basically no one else. (A very full work schedule and three nights of evening activities limited my husband's appearances.) The many women I know who do this regularly are enough to remind me that this is neither noteworthy nor noble, but it is something different for me. Even while on maternity leaves, I had plenty of help and times in which I was responsible only for a sleeping newborn. And when my kids were younger I could always count on nap time for a few hours of me time. Now I have a kindergartner who no longer naps, and she was sick this week, making her extra needy during her sisters' afternoon naps. 

Yesterday, Valentine's Day, was particularly challenging. It was a day of unmet hopes that came to an exciting conclusion with a trip to Souper Salad with my three little girls—the boys were at a wrestling meet, yes, on Valentine's Day—followed by three episodes of Cinderella. Still, it was a good day, although it took some work. It started out with one of the hardest parenting mornings I've had in a long time: hysterical sobs that I would not be attending the Valentine's Day party with the aforementioned kindergartner, topped with a sprinkling of my own guilt and disappointment that my childcare had fallen through—again.

When our kids are whiney and have a bad attitude, we prod them to "change it." I had signed, stamped, and mailed the lone invitation to my pity party yesterday morning when I felt the nudging of the Spirit, inquiring, "Ya gonna change it?" Then He kindly brought to mind my prayer for patience and selflessness.

Apparently, these qualities didn't have much of an opportunity to grow in me as I sat comfortably in the sanctuary of my office at work, doing the things I wanted to do, surrounded by people who praised me and appreciated me. No, they're more likely to take root when I've just finished up a 14-hour solo parenting shift, tending to poopy diapers and sore throats, and crawl into bed with a good book only to be interrupted by a little voice saying, "Mommy, I can't find my tiger. Will you get it for me?"

Be careful what you pray for. God may take you seriously. 

Growing Up, Growing Out

Most parents want things for their kids that they didn't have growing up, and I'm no different. This sentiment goes awry all the time with parents who overindulge and seldom say no, all in the name of somehow recapturing the desires of their own youth. It's a slippery slope, and I'm trying not to lose my footing as I pursue the endless opportunities that beckon my kids and, equally important, me.

The thing I most missed from my childhood was exposure to the bigger world. I'm thankful my parents did a good job of protecting me, because there's a lot in the world that kids just don't need to be exposed to. But I do wonder how my childhood—and my adulthood—would have been different if I had realized there was a world beyond northeastern Colorado and southwestern Oklahoma. Is it possible my lack of a homecoming date wouldn't have seemed quite so earth-shattering?

Besides a few trips to Mexico, a dash across the Canadian border, and a Caribbean cruise with my grandparents when I was 14, I've never been outside of the United States. I'm hoping my empty-nest years will take care of this, but for now, it's one of my major regrets. It's not just the adventure and sightseeing I crave, but the perspective that comes from seeing the world differently. And seeing it alongside different people. It's a perspective I want my kids to have.

Since it's not likely this family of six is going to do much globetrotting in the years ahead, missions trips seem like our best opportunity to get outside of ourselves, see how God is at work in different people in different places, and offer ourselves up to be changed by Him in ways we never would at home. We go to an extremely missions-minded church, and they start 'em young. Braden is just four years away from being able to go on a short-term mission trip to Mexico, and he and his sisters will have different opportunities throughout middle school and high school. And just maybe, I'll get to go with them a time or two.

In the meantime, I'm trying to find ways to prepare them for such big leaps. How do you get a kid who still gets his milk poured and delivered to his spot at the table—with a straw no less—used to being away from home and trusting in God and his survival instincts instead of his parents? Summer camp! We recently took the plunge and signed Braden up for five whole nights away from home. It's Eagle Lake, a camp run by The Navigators, and I've been writing about it for 14 years, waiting for the day I could send one of my own offspring. The day has come, or at least it will in June. Thinking my 8-year-old couldn't possibly do this alone, I tried to find a friend to go with him. When this didn't work out, I prepared to launch into a lengthy description of the enormity of such an event. I began by asking, "Do you think you'd be OK going by yourself, without mom or dad or anyone you know, for FIVE WHOLE DAYS, to a place you've never been?"

"Yeah, sure," he said. "I'll be fine." He ran off and my homily went unheard.

And with that, my son took his first step toward growing up, leaving home, and exploring the bigger world. I don't know when I've been so proud. I don't know when I've felt so old.

Stay-at-home mom revelation #1

I don’t have much to show for my time.

In the past week, besides the usual school runs, laundry, meals, dishes, diapers, baths, exercise, quite time, etc., I don’t know what I’ve done with my time. There’s gotta be something because I used to do all that stuff and work 20 hours a week. Where are those 20 hours going? I’ve taken groceries over to a friend who’s trapped at home with a fractured hip. My kitchen is as clean as it’s been since we moved in. The Valentines have been purchased. I wrote a hard letter and sent some greeting cards. But surely those things don’t take up 20 hours? And I haven’t even touched the two hours of American Idol waiting for me on TiVo.

My time used to be so neatly segmented and measurable. I came home from the office with items checked off my to-do list (although never as many as I liked) and with some sense, however small, of accomplishment and closure. I could look back across the months and see books created and stories written and videos made. Monuments to my time.

At home, my to-do list is more accurately described as a “do-it-again” list. They’re things that must be done weekly, daily, hourly even. The kitchen that sparkles today will be covered with mud and blueberry remnants as soon as the kids walk in the door. The sandwiches I will make for lunch will be devoured, and the “I’m hungries” will start again before I even get the bread put away later this afternoon.

I can see I’m going to have to find a new way of measuring the ways my days are spent. There’s no satisfaction for me in meals made and shirts ironed. I know that some women—even dear friends of mine—find great fulfillment in serving their families in these ways. I think that’s wonderful, but I don’t think I’m ever gonna get there. To me, I’m just washing undies, not showing my kids the value of good hygiene. But I am starting to pay more attention to the little monuments. Is Addison reading a little better this week than she was last week? Is Camryn scooting around a little faster? Is Braden just a hair taller? Has Brooka been any kinder because of some small thing we talked about? These things are so subtle that I have to look hard to see them. But maybe that’s what this time is all about, time for looking hard.

LOST but found

“Community” is one of those Christian words that gets old after a while. It’s something we’re all encouraged—over and over again—to find, but we may wonder what it looks like or how we’ll even know it when we find it.

I found it first in an office building. In the beginning, I thought of The Navigators as merely my job, albeit a job I loved. But as I grew up, it became clear to me that the people I sat with and worked with and lunched with were not just coworkers. They weren’t even just friends. They were “community”—the people I shared my life with.

It didn’t take long for our community to move beyond our cubicles, and it soon branched out into the Girl Network. It defies all junior-high experience, but I worked with a group of about nine women who all get along beautifully. We are truly a group without cliques or feuds or jealousy or backstabbing. And we welcome other women with open arms, as long as they watch LOST (or at least pretend to).

A silly TV show (really, as genius as we might believe it is, it really is just television) has brought out the best in our community. We gather several times each season to watch new episodes. We gather in the off-season to reminisce over our favorites. We pawn off our children and bring decadent food and enjoy fellowship with Jack and Kate and Sawyer—some of the women really enjoy fellowship with Sawyer—and, even better, with each other.

After waiting not-so-patiently for nearly nine months, we gathered last night for the premiere of Season 4. Pulling out of my driveway, I felt as giddy as a five-year-old on Christmas Eve. We gathered together—women in their 20s, 30s, 40s and 50s, mothers of married children, mothers of small children, married women, single women, divorced women, women in the midst of tragedy and women living out the best days of their lives—huddled around a TV show. It’s my community, and I’m so lucky to have found it.