Interstate 94 and the Pennsylvania Turnpike and then some country roads, take me home

I may not be very materialistic, but I am very much a materialist; it's upsetting to have my things disordered. I worry, and escalate into excessive organizing, over things in our new house like countertop height, drawer size, where the beds will go, which box the good toys are in, and whether the water will be too hard or soft for my liking. The trip east? I have Toy Bin A, Toy Bin B, Toy Bin C, each stocked with small motor skill, large motor skill, electronic, manual, paper, plastic toys. Snack bin A and B. Three books on tape (got Sedaris - the rest of your suggestions were too timely for our library to stock). Clothes for the boys for seventeen days. The only thing we're lacking is a leash for Wesley, which, I'M NOT KIDDING WESLEY, I'm going to buy today.

It has me thinking about food and shelter, and how difficult it is when one of those basic needs is disrupted. If you don't have enough food, or you have a disordered relationship with food, or you eat too much food, or you're pregnant and throw up every day, food becomes a consuming concern. If you don't have a house, or you're moving, or you might lose your home, or you're obsessed with having a better home, then shelter is a huge concern. It's hard to have higher order thoughts about philosophy, theology, or blogging, when a basic need is unmet.

Spending 3-5 days on the road between houses is extremely stressful for me. "It could be worse" is hardly ever a comfort for someone under stress, but it's OK to say it to myself. Refugees don't have a house, a friend, or a familiar language at their destination. They don't even have one snack bin for the road, and I have two. People leaving their houses because of financial disaster are not necessarily headed for something better. People moving with only part of their family, because of divorce or because they lost custody of their children, have additional emotional stress.

We're moving to the country for a better quality of life. We plan to eat good food, breathe clean air, and be good neighbors. We have an address to move to, a job to work at, and money to buy food with. (Too bad we don't have a grammar coach to fix that last sentence.) And we're together.

I'm in for a few days of missing my material comforts. I don't like the griminess of travel, the crying in the car, I'm afraid of losing the cat, I don't want to be hungry, I might drink too much caffeine, the air in the motel might be dry, the air conditioner might be set too high and the boys will need socks at night, I won't get to hold the baby very much and that might cause him lifelong psychological problems, I might not like David Sedaris, the radio might not tune in, the movers might break my violin and my mom will never forgive me, I am waffling on my decision to not pack heavy sweaters just in case, and I hope Bethel doesn't switch my e-mail over to the new system that I don't understand before I manually forward 400 emails to my new account.

But it could be worse. Buck up, Jenell.

Some Numbers

6 days since we got an offer on our house. Still pending inspection, but it looks good!!!

10 days until we move

1063.31 miles between here and our new home

16 hours of driving

3rd floor of Boyer Hall is where my new office will be

2 things I need:

1. a daily self-care/spiritual practice for the next 2 weeks. I have ten minutes here and there - not regular, and I don't have any extra cash.

2. an audio book to listen to in the car

Suggestions welcome!

The Mamas Moo

The lactating women at my church are donating breastmilk to a baby whose mother is hospitalized and temporarily unable to fully nurse. Picture a small band of relatively house-bound women, linked by internet, pumps plugged in and at the ready.

The other day I met the woman's mother, who lives in another country and is here just to help for awhile. She said she was amazed at the breastmilk brigade and said, "Maybe they do that kind of thing here. I haven't seen that in my culture." I laughed and said, "That's not American culture; it's just our church culture."

Isn't that just what we ought to say about our churches?

A Cry Like No Other

Conservatively estimating at 12.5 cries per day per toddler and 15 cries per day per new baby, I've heard at least 20,050 child cries since June 2005. Yesterday I heard a cry like no other.

There have been copious loose stools around here lately, which I realize has you thinking this is either evidence of my tendency to release TMI on my blog or a cheap attention-grabber, but it's actually essential to the story I'm about to tell. Yesterday morning I found a just awakened Wesley awash in a crib of poo. He cried because it burned, but even after I cleaned him up and applied tenderizer to the raw meat that his inner thighs had become, he continued to cry. He tried to hide his body from me, and avoided eye contact; it was the first time I have seen him experience what I think was shame. It's one thing to do something wrong, like throw a toy at someone's head, and look to mommy for punishment and then cry in the time-out chair. It's another thing to be physically hurt and wail about it. It's yet another thing -- shame -- to realize that something has gone wrong, and you did it, and you wish you hadn't done it, and you'd like to hide it, but you can't.

I don't know child development theory, but in our house, it looks like potty training will be a stage of immense psychological proportions. A toddler becomes aware that one's waste should not be near oneself, but isn't always able to get the waste away. Parents become coach, cheerleader, and cleaning crew in companioning the toddler toward successful waste management. What a metaphor for being human. We hate our excrement, be it relational, emotional, spiritual, or whatever, but we keep making it and are unable to distance ourselves from it. We need companions to advise us, cheer us on, and help us clean up after ourselves.

It's no fun to clean up bodily fluids, and I can see why a parent might shame a child for making messes. It was clear to me, however, that Wesley was shaming himself. (Why they can't feel shame over something worthy, like throwing toys at heads, I don't know!) Coming from a religious tradition full of legalism and shame and a pre-therapeutic family focused more on outcomes and behavior than process and feelings, I don't have good cultivated responses for situations like this. But Wesley called forth the love that he needed. After a few bad minutes of cowering in the back of the bathtub while I poured water over him, he climbed onto me and held on for dear life. I traced the angel hairs that grow into a V at his lower back and chanted the mantra "It's OK" until he felt better.

The Golden Rule is not a rule at all, something to be memorized and performed, but a reality that is called forth when we love and are loved. While holding Wesley, I realized that in the act of parenting, I also am parented. In loving, I am loved. Faith means that even when I can't see anyone out there, I still cry out and ask for the love I need, believing that someone will come and not only count the angel hairs in the small of my back, but stroke them, until I feel better.

God of the Burbs

Sojourner's magazine (print) has a great article titled "Jesus of the Cul-de-sac" (July 07, p.20) by Valerie Weaver-Zercher. Part of what makes it great is that I'm quoted in it, along with extensive quotse from Al Hsu, author of The Suburban Christian. Will and Lisa Samson is also quoted in there (authors of Justice in the Burbs), and Will is about to become my new friend in facebook, how exciting!! If you're one with ambivalence toward suburbs, you'll find much for reflection in the article. One intriguing part is that the urban-suburban-rural trichotomy is too blunt an instrument for describing contemporary development in the US. We need more nuanced language for talking about our places, and more nuanced theology for working out ways to live well in them.