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A Week Ago Part 2

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A week ago, Sam called to tell me that he had been in a wreck, which lead to a series of events that took over our week including doctor’s visits, insurance calls, and rental car arrangements. It wasn’t how we were expecting to spend our week and there were many times last week that I asked, “why did this happen to us?”

And then I on Wednesday when I picked Ben up, I got his first ever school craft. A simple reminder of the season of Thanksgiving that we are approaching. I looked at that footprint and remembered in the hospital the first attempt to take his footprints were too bloody to take home because of the glucose tests they had to do by sticking his heels and I remembered the week Ben was born and how I was left speechless by the miraculous power of life and birth and breath in Ben.

And a week ago I was reminded again of the beauty of life and breath as Sam walked away from the car wreck. I breathed deeply as I held this simple picture because even though our lives were overtaken and redirected last week, we were still together as family.

This is not an easy time to be a parent, to be a minister, or to be a family. It is hard work to redirect our thoughts to being thankful and grateful. It is is hard work to try to engage in the important work of trying to speak love into the divisive rhetoric we hear, read, and often repeat. It is hard work to stop and reflect and imagine what we could become together if we are thankful instead of ungrateful, selfless rather than selfish, and understanding rather than defensive. But this, this is the hard work we are called to do as partners, parents, and ministers.

And for a community of people who are working towards these same goals, I am thankful.

Making Grits and Celebrating Eucharist

This Sunday was the first Sunday since January that I haven’t preached or been a part of a morning worship service. I wasn’t preaching because I was in Asheville celebrating an almost 6-year old’s birthday and trying to wrestle an almost 7-month-old through a dance recital.

Before the dance recital, we gathered at the girls’ mom and stepdad’s house and decided to make brunch. I thought about how strange it was to not be preparing to preach as I wandered around an unknown grocery store trying to find some last minute ingredients. I wondered how about the people of New Hope who I’ve been journeying with for the last 10 weeks were doing. I wondered how the people at Emmanuel were doing as they gathered to worship in wake of the loss of one of our members. I wondered about my friends and colleagues in ministry and when the last time they had taken a Sunday off was.

And when we got back from the grocery store, I lost myself standing by a stove in the sacred art of making grits and pulling popping bacon from hot grease when it was just a little past brown on the edges. And I thought, this is a holy calling. And I wondered if the last supper that we have turned into a symbol of solemnity was actually friends who believed that the world could be different who were sharing bread and wine just as we were sharing grits, bacon, and coffee.

It’s Scary as Hell to Be a Parent

Ben and Mama

I did it again.

I went to his room and peaked over the crib railing to make sure he was breathing. He’s been sleeping on his side since he was a day old, but still it scares me to death, especially when he covers his face with both hands, just like he did in all of his ultrasound pictures. I know there are apps and video monitors designed and sold to parents to quell our worries and concerns, but I still have to go and check. I have to see his belly moving up and down with my own eyes or hear his soft snore with my own ears.

It’s scary as hell to be a parent.

Because when you’re not worried about whether he or she is breathing while sleeping, you’re worried about whether he or she is getting enough food or gaining enough weight. And then when he or she stops sleeping and wakes up more during the night you worry about why he or she isn’t sleeping. Is it teething or sickness or a growth spurt?  And then you go to the doctor and they tell you what percentage he or she is in height and weight and head size, giving you three more things to be worried about not to mention the list of developmental goals you are supposed to be monitoring and assessing and encouraging. And then you see other kids around his or her age and wonder if your kid is doing the things those kids are doing. And if your kid is doing something different than the other kids, you wonder if that is something to be concerned about or not.

It’s scary as hell to be a parent.

Because you’re responsible for this mini human and his or her well being. You are responsible for helping him or her grow and learn. And when he or she gets to the point that he or she can do things independently like walk and eat and go to the potty, then you have to start teaching him or her what it means to live in community: to share and do unto others as you would have them do unto you and respect caregivers who give their time and energy and love and support.

It’s scary as hell to be a parent.

Because then you have to walk with him or her when he or she encounters the brokenness that exists in the world. You are the ones who tell him or her when someone they love is sick. You are the ones that have to tell him or her that our bodies don’t last forever and that sometimes the people or pets we love die because people and pets aren’t designed to live forever. And then you have to wonder how to explain the divine to these mini humans whose minds and bodies are really still mostly concentrated and attuned to learning how to be human. And you have to decide whether you are going to tell them what to believe or what we believe or encourage them to believe what they believe even if it’s different than what you want them to believe.

It’s scary as hell to be a parent.

Because you see the worst and the best in your children and you pray desperately that the worst won’t win as often as it wins within you, but that the best parts of you and the best parts of your partner might somehow miraculously be the only parts that this mini human receives. You encourage the good and address the bad trying every parenting method that you’ve read about, sometimes all within one day. And you hope and pray that you are doing something right.

It’s scary as hell to be a parent.

Because then you end up preaching a sermon from John’s gospel and read before a community of faith, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” And you realize that even though it’s scary as hell to be a parent, you are the parcel of peace presented to these mini humans because of the Holy Spirit is dwelling or staying within you. And you remember that even thought it’s scary, you don’t want to teach your children fear, but peace and wholeness in a world of brokenness.

And so you whisper, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you,” as you say goodbye and send your girls back to their mom’s and as you go to peak over the side of the crib railing just one more time to make sure he’s breathing.

I Was Taught to Be Afraid

I was taught to be afraid –

of dying before I knew that I knew that I knew I was saved,

 

of missing opportunities to lead others to Christ,

of not being an example to all the nonbelievers,

of living outside of God’s perfect will,

of being myself.

 

I was taught to be afraid –

of walking in parking lots by myself at night,

of boys with bad intentions,

of talking to strangers,

of the homeless, the helpless, the desperate,

of people different than me.

 

I will teach my children –

awareness to see the needs surrounding them,

compassion for all people,

hope to share with the hopeless and the desperate,

love to heal the broken and those in pain,

confidence in their strength and their instincts,

 

I will not teach fear.

Teacher Parents

IN recent years, we’ve been treated to reams of op-ed articles about how we need better teachers in our public schools and, if only the teachers’ unions would go away, our kids would score like Singapore’s on the big international tests. There’s no question that a great teacher can make a huge difference in a student’s achievement, and we need to recruit, train and reward more such teachers. But here’s what some new studies are also showing: We need better parents. Parents more focused on their children’s education can also make a huge difference in a student’s achievement.

Friedman is opening a can of worms here. He is tapping into the teacher/parent finger blame game that has been circling schools. As a first year teacher, I fell into this trap of blaming parents.

I was wrong.

Most parents that I’ve encountered, especially in high poverty situations, want to help their children succeed but don’t know how. When I put my finger-pointing hands in my lap and opened my ears, I realized that I could offer some strategies that we could work together to provide continuity.

As teachers, it’s easy to fall into the trap of blaming parents, especially when many of us are dedicating so much of our time and personal energy to the teaching profession. Michael Smith in a reflective post, says:

Except for the fact I always wonder if I’m spending too much time helping raise other people’s kids and not enough time on my own.

Contrary to popular belief, teachers and administrators aren’t super humans that are able to solve all the world’s problems. We are dedicating our lives to our students, but we are also parents too.