Teaching Respect in a Bumper-Sticker World

At breakfast one day last week my 5^th grade daughter was talking about a bumper sticker her friend had seen. “There was a picture of Obama on it and it said, ‘Does this donkey make my car look big,’ only it didn’t say ‘donkey,’ it said that other bad word.”

My first observation: My daughter refers to her president as “Obama.” Not “Mr. Obama” or “President Obama,” or even “Barak Obama,” but the casual name she hears so many adults use.

My second observation: She doesn’t know what to think about this bumper sticker. Should she snicker with her friends? Or is there something wrong here, even though she’s not sure what it is?

And finally: It sure is hard to teach respect in a bumper-sticker world.

A few nights earlier I had talked with some friends about the lack of respect so evident in our country, how we’ve blurred the lines between a political figure’s character and the politics he represents. I told my questioning kids that while I don’t agree with President Obama’s politics and I hate some of his policies, he still has my respect. I actually find him pretty easy to respect. He’s obviously very smart. He carries himself well and always looks professional. He’s done nothing shameful to embarrass himself or our country. He seems to be an honorable husband and father, and I’d be surprised to see scandal erupt in his life. And besides all that, I believe that the President of the United States—no matter who it is—is simply a position that deserves respect. That’s why I take it personally when I see the insolent bumper stickers. That’s my president they’re ridiculing. I didn’t vote for him but he represents my country, and I don’t want anyone smacking him to the ground with their insults.

Does the Golden Rule not apply to presidents? Is that what we want our kids to learn? “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Except when it comes to the president. Then you can draw cartoons of little boys peeing on his head and plaster it to the back of your car.”

Our children need to understand that freedom of speech is a gift. Combined with respect, it’s the recipe for a great nation. Without respect—in our words, our actions, and our bumper stickers—not so much.

Educating Girls

I’m having radical thoughts on education. So radical they might make me sexist. Or at least seriously old-fashioned.

I have three daughters and one son. At least one of these daughters shows strong signs of wanting to be a wife and mother. (Especially if babies just fell from the sky with nothing “gross” or painful involved.) It’s not hard for her to find role models. The great majority of women we know are, or were, wives and moms. And yet I can only think of a couple of these women who are working full time outside the home; even in those cases, it’s not often by choice. One of my good friends has a medical degree, which she uses frequently at home and not-so-frequently in the world beyond. She spent years—not to mention lots and lots of dollars—pursuing her education while knowing that she really wanted to be a wife and mother, too.

My friend and I, and most of the women I know, are products of the Great Lie of the 70’s and 80’s: “You can have it all!” We believed it and gave it our best shot, only to realize that while you might be able to have it all, you won’t do it all well. And you’ll be so tired that you can’t even think straight. Something had to give. Some women gave up the job and began the hard work of making ends meet with just one paycheck. Some tied a key around their children’s necks and convinced themselves that the kids were better off with a satisfied Landrover-driving mom than a stifled stay-at-home mom. Some stayed on the job out of desperation and cried themselves to sleep thinking of some other woman holding their baby all day long. Some dads moved home or found creative solutions to fill in the gaps. And some of us were lucky enough to do our work from home.

So what if the next step in the education of girls—and boys, too, for that matter—is helping them find a trade they can do at home? I’m not talking about girls who know they want to be doctors and lawyers and rocket scientists and have the drive and patience to make it happen. I’m talking about girls who believe early on that their first calling is to be a wife and mother. Is it wise to send these girls off to pursue a four-year (or more) degree that can only be used in the outside professional world? Would it be more helpful and practical to encourage them toward something they can do at home? Traditional things like sewing and giving music lessons, but also things like accounting, graphic design, computer programming, book editing. Some of these require a college degree, but not one that costs $200,000.

And going a step further, as we’re divvying up whatever money we have to educate our children, is it inherently wrong to put more money in our son’s pile? Does it make us sexist to believe, even in the 21^st century, that he’ll most likely be the primary breadwinner in his family and that our daughters will not? Is this archaic thinking, or just a practical function of how many evangelicals think and raise their children? And if it’s the latter, why don’t we talk more about it?

If any of my kids is chomping at the bit for a certain kind of education, I hope we’ll be able to help them get it. But getting a degree just for the sake of getting a degree? Because it’s what everyone does in our circles? Because we want them to be well-rounded individuals? I’m not sure that’s the answer. There are a lot of ways to become well-rounded. A wiser choice to me seems to be helping them discover early on what they’re good at, what they love, and how they can earn money from it in ways that may be unconventional. It seems helpful to find people who are already doing those things and shadow them. I’ve always argued that none of the skills I use to do my job were learned in a classroom; they came from real-life experiences and sitting at the feet of good mentors. They were also free and didn’t consume years of my life.

I'm glad I have years ahead before these questions need to be answered, but for now, I think they at least need to be asked.  

13 Down, 13 To Go

It’s hard to say what I love most about my kids’ school, but probably it’s that kids get to be kids as long as they should be. Homework is never emphasized over family time, sixth graders aren’t obsessed with cell phones and boyfriends, and kindergartners go to school four mornings a week. Some parents struggle with that last one, and I’ll admit there have been times when I was ready to launch my five-year old much more quickly into the world of full-time school. But not this time. This time I’m so thankful I have one more year before Life As I Know It changes. One more year to transition out of the Little Kid Years and enter a new stage. One more year before I become that woman standing in her kitchen at 8:30 in the morning saying, “What do I do now?”

Empty-nester moms get all the press, but kids-in-school moms, at least those who don’t work outside the home, face a similar question of identity and purpose. When Camryn starts first grade next year, I will have spent 14 years wiping bottoms, pouring juice, reading books, singing songs, and teaching my little kids how to be big kids. I’ll have another 12 ahead of working with my big kids on how to be adults—and I’ll also have a whole lot more free time. This thrills my soul, but I want to be intentional about how I use it.

I could easily fill that time with exercise, Bible study, and meeting with friends, all things I love. I could increase my freelance business, which I love, or find a part-time job. I could throw myself into service and volunteer my hours away, which I would love. I could redirect my nurturing and get a puppy—love puppies!—and plant a garden. And let me say right here that I am aware of the huge luxury it is to even be able to ponder how I’ll spend my time. The vast majority of the world doesn’t have that option. To me, that’s all the more reason to be intentional and not careless with it.

What I can’t do is do it all. And so I feel like this year is a gift to me. Not only do I get these sweet days with Camryn, but I have the luxury of getting to pray and plan for the next 12 years of my life. This will be the year I say “no” so that next year I can begin saying “yes” to the right things. 

Are you saying "yes" to the right things? Are you investing your time intentionally or spending it carelessly? Something to think about as we all tear through our days. 

Reflections from Juror Number 14

In the midst of three major life transitions—moving, sending one kid to a new school and your baby to kindergarten—what’s the one thing you want to do most? Jury duty? Why, yes, of course. Who wants to shuttle children around and unearth the shower curtain when you could be sitting for hours in a courtroom?

This was me earlier this week. My summons was actually for the middle of July, but since we were on vacation that week, I handpicked this make-up date for myself. I’ve been on a jury before, so I’m no stranger to how it all works. I always bring my stack of reading material and assume I’ll be in and out in a couple hours, but it never quite works out that way.

About 350 of us gathered Monday morning at the county courthouse. By 11:00, 300 were dismissed. The remaining 50 of us were given a supplemental questionnaire and told to return at 2:00. I knew by the look of the questionnaire that I did not want to return. The words “sexual assault against a child” jumped off the page and made me slightly queasy. Still, the thought of a warrant for my arrest seemed even worse, so I obediently returned to the courthouse at 2. On my way there, I reminded myself that I am the Lord’s servant, and anyplace He puts me is where I want to be. Even on this jury.

The questioning, which lasted four hours and continued into Tuesday, was absolutely fascinating. I’m a studier of people, and the jury box provides better material than any airport terminal. The first two hours were light and conversational. We were asked about our jobs, hobbies, reading, music, and TV preferences. How can it be that in this city, I was the only one who reads Christian books and listens to Christian music—or at least who admits it? Country music, romance novels, and moms who love vampires are a lot more common than I knew.

Then we got into the nitty-gritty questioning. We were told there were five accusers in this case, all children, who would take the stand and testify. We talked about whether children were reliable witnesses and whether it’s even morally sound to put them in that position. We talked about the presumption of innocence, to which a few potential jurors responded, “He’s guilty in my book until someone proves him innocent.” (They were promptly excused at the first opportunity.) We learned more about the legal requirements of the case and how each count was separate and distinct from the others. In other words, we would have to consider each child’s testimony independently from the others, with no testimony bleeding over in our minds.

This is where things took an interesting turn. Person after person nodded affirmatively that they could do this. All the while I’m thinking that while that may be the law, it’s a ridiculous expectation. I had decided I wouldn’t say anything to intentionally get off the jury (like responding “purple bunny” to every question), but I would give my honest answers and let the chips fall as they may. I had the benefit of time and was able to think deeply about my answer. “I discern someone’s character based on their patterns,” I said. “Lie to me once, and I’ll give you grace. Lie to me repeatedly, and I’ll know better than to trust you.” Then I stated the seemingly simple concept that if I deemed the defendant the kind of man who would hurt one child, it would be hard for me to believe he would not hurt another. As much as I would want to follow the judge’s instructions to keep the charges separate, I wasn’t sure on a practical level how I would do that.

It wasn’t a popular statement. The defense lawyer started scribbling notes and asked who agreed with Ms. Jones. A few people raised their hands. But the prevailing thought in the room was that compartmentalizing these charges was as easy as it was essential. This leads me to wonder if I’m more honest than the average Joe, more aware of my own limitations, or just more crusty and disagreeable. Regardless, I was on the jury for only three minutes before the defense “thanked and excused Ms. Jones.”

Not the way I planned to start my week, but a great opportunity to surrender afresh to God’s plan for my time and realize that there are a lot of people even in this city who are a whole lot different from me. 

The Bigger Story

For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

—1 Corinthians 13:12

I love being able to see the big picture. I love knowing how all the parts and pieces fit together. During our months of praying for a house, I hoped that some day I might know how God was answering those prayers. Not just how it ended, but what was happening all along the way. He gave me a glimpse of the bigger picture when I met a new neighbor who told me about the people who built our house.

In the summer of 2010, when our family was moving into the Shome, another family was preparing their house to sell, too. Mr. and Mrs. Throne, in their 70s, had built their house in 1977 in what must have been the country back then. They were close to our age at that time, and I imagine this was their dream house. They used fine wood and excellent construction. (Their choices in wallpaper were questionable, but as it was 1977, we’ll cut them some slack.) Mr. Throne walked the neighborhood each morning and helped the neighbors stay connected. Mrs. Throne worked in her garden and took care of Mr. Throne, even labeling a shelf in the pantry “Lunch Food” so he would know where to look when he got hungry. But in 2010, Mr. Throne received a cancer diagnosis with a grim outlook; he had about a year to live.

He spent the last year of his life preparing their house so that his wife could easily sell it when he was gone. He updated the kitchen and master bathroom, put in new carpet and air conditioning, and replaced the roof. He brought his house out of the ’70s so that a 21^st century family would love it as much as he had. He probably would have done more if the cancer hadn’t taken his life, but his dying wish was fulfilled. His wife easily sold their home within days in August 2011.

She sold it to a single man. I wonder if she thought, “This is a lot of house for just one person.” Had she imagined a family here? I think she had. But the family she was imagining—mine—wasn’t ready yet. We were only halfway through our time at the Shome, and we didn’t even know this house was here last summer. Good thing, or I would have clamored for it. But instead, the single man bought it. He lived here for 10 months. How surprised he must have been when his job took him overseas for an indefinite period of time. The house he surely thought he would settle in had to be sold. In July 2012. Just in time for us.

There’s a lot I don’t know about the Thrones and the man who sold the house to us. But I know that those sweet older people prepared this house for my family. I believe they had us in mind as they worked. And I know God used that man to hold this house for us until it was our time. God Almighty was working on our behalf every step of the way, knitting the pieces together as only He can. There I was, sitting in the parking lot of my children’s school a half mile away last year, praying that God would give us a house, and it was being prepared for us just down the street.

But there’s an even bigger story going on. God’s not just preparing houses for us here on earth; He’s preparing our home for us. Our eternal home. He’s doing it right now. While we fret about our bills and our government and our children’s future, He’s working on a much bigger story for all who follow Him. Some day He’ll move us into that home, and we’ll see how all the pieces fit together, even the hard ones that make no sense to us here. Then we shall know, just as we are fully known.

In my Father’s house there are many rooms; if it were not so I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me so that you will also be where I am.

 —John 14:2–3

784 Days

Our days at the Shome are coming to an end. We’ll be moving next week, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise. To the casual reader, it may seem like we just moved in. But to me, the past 784 days (give or take) have felt exactly like 784 days. My baby was newly three when we moved in; now she’s starting kindergarten in a week and a half. A lot of living has happened at the Shome. So what will I remember? What will the kids remember? The lack of space? The long commutes everywhere? The line of five whiny people at the bathroom door? Probably, but I hope we’ll focus on these memories instead:

• The girls becoming master rollerbladers in our family room.
• Eating donuts and watching the hot-air balloon launch on Labor Day weekend from our rooftop.
• Walking to the Family Dollar store across the street. How many people can do that?
• The kids using our bed as their “outdoor play area,” and us being laid back enough to go with it.
• Sword fights with dipsticks on top of the building next door.
• Daily visits from Grandpa, who works downstairs. Every kid should get to see their grandpa each day!
• Camryn opening her eyes in the morning and seeing her dad sitting at his desk right across the hallway.
• Christmas caroling in the ’hood with 80 of our suburban friends.
• Getting creative in the minivan. We used it for doing homework, eating, napping, reading, playing games, changing clothes, and having some really great conversations. 

And what about what we’ve learned during these 784 days? I’m still processing, and probably will be for a very long time, but here are a few things I know today:

• The poor are not just who you think they are. In our neighborhood at least, they are old ladies who live in small houses with lots of pets. How can we all do a better job of taking care of these forgotten women?
• Our city is much more diverse than we think it is. In any of the stores near our house we see people with turbans, women covered in robes, people with no limbs, and every race imaginable. Some day soon the kids won’t know this is normal. We’ll go days and weeks and possibly months without seeing someone in a wheelchair unless we’re intentional about where we walk and shop and hang out.
• Kids are so much less fragile than we think they are. Why is it that when a scary-looking person walks down the street, I step aside but kids look up and smile? Or that a 7-year-old can talk so intelligently and compassionately about homelessness? How can they all endure a middle-of-the-night break-in and be completely unfazed the next day? Nope, not as fragile as I thought.
• And here’s the big lesson for me: If you’re going to radically change your life, you’ve got to jump in with both feet. You can take baby steps—maybe even teenager steps—in living outside your comfort zone without completely detaching from the world as you once knew it. That is what we have done, and I’m so glad we did. We are better because of it, even if the ways are small. But we didn’t fully commit. For several reasons, we kept our kids in their overachieving school in the “nice” part of town, which meant their playdates, sports teams, and really their hearts, stayed there as well. This also left me in the car three hours a day, and it’s hard to invest in your community when your most meaningful fellowship is with a steering wheel. Baby steps are good and important, and I’ve done things here that I never imagined I could do. But to anyone considering uprooting to a different kind of lifestyle, I would say you’ve got to pull those roots all the way up. 

A New Era

Today I am the mother of a teenager. My son Braden, an unwilling participant in his own birth, was yanked from the womb 13 years ago today. I've said for a few years now that we're in parenting utopia—no babies, no teenagers. It all ends today.

Or does it? 

Can we make it through the next seven years with no door slams, no holes punched in the wall, no angry “YOU-JUST-DON’T-UNDERSTAND!” moments? I’m not so sure. Most of the grown men I’ve asked have admitted to a wall punch or two during their teenage years, and my husband bears scars on his own forearm from an angry adolescent outburst.

Will my son make it through junior high and high school with no regrets? Not a chance. I see many of my own worst qualities spewing out of my firstborn—impatience, a tongue quick to criticize, brutal honesty that’s not always packaged in love. He’ll say something he regrets, probably every day, until maturity and natural consequences and the book of James finally do their work in him and tame his tongue. Then it’ll only happen once a week.

Will he experience devastating disappointment? Will he be stressed and overwhelmed? Will he feel like no one understands him? Will he wonder why God made him the way He did and wish he could be someone else? Yes on all counts. And he’ll be stronger, wiser, gentler because of it. I wouldn’t shield him from these traumas for anything. 

But I will not surrender him to teenage culture. I will not accept the popular idea that this is where I lose him. I will not believe the bad press that teenagers get. I will not believe the lies that teenagers don’t want anything to do with their parents or that they have to shut us out to discover their own independence. I will not assume that he doesn’t want to hear from me on the big issues of life and keep my fingers crossed that he’s getting good enough messages from his church leaders, teachers, coaches, and friends. I will not trade in my role as his parent in hopes of being his friend. I will not assume that healthy independence means hours spent in a room filled with technology but no people or that my son has better things to do than spend time with his parents and little sisters. I will not stop wrestling with him, tickling him, or hugging him just because he’s eight inches taller than me (and, oh, how I hope he’ll be eight inches taller than me!).

In the blink of an eye, these little children I’ve been raising will all be teenagers, and it starts today. I say bring it on. I can’t wait!