Deja-vu

It was like 1985 all over again, except now I have cable and a DVD player instead of a console TV in my parent's basement with a VCR on top and a Texas Instrument lying beside it. Jim Bakker is on TV again, sitting around a table with his beautiful, blonde, buxom, wife, offering people escape from the calamity that is to come. People sat in the audience much the way they sit at televised Gaither gatherings, laughing, praising, and tsking at appropriate moments.

In one breath he warned of the cities burning and Jesus returning, and with the next offered an audience member tickets to a Branson show. He promises subsistence farming and survivalist techniques at his new Branson compound, and also basketball courts and a glorious worship tabernacle. In exchange for donations, he'll send you buckets of freeze-dried food that you can store in your basement and survive during the Apocalypse while your neighbors starve. He offered buy-in to his compound; you can go live live there in a condo or something. He questioned the wisdom of putting _any_ money into the stock market, suggesting it would be better spent as a donation to his ministry. I wish the best to Bakker, as a man, in his spiritual journey. But I don't wish the best to this new venture.

Is the universe offering me a make-up exam? I got this one wrong in 1985. If I totalled up the hours, I've probably spent weeks of my life watching PTL and contemplating the end of the world as narrated by Bakker, Falwell, Robertson, and Lindsay. This time I only gave him 30 minutes.

Financial advice

Should I sign up for long-term care insurance? Rates are lower when you're younger, but you know, I have a lot of financial commitments regarding start-of-life issues for other people in my household that are very immediate. But I get so much marketing for long term care insurance, I worry that everyone else must have it.

Conserva-not-a-pedia

If you were wondering why, perhaps the other day, I screamed at you when you opened the door for me while I was wearing pants, not baking, advocating for coed submarines, and actively rejecting my husband's surname, look here.

Conservapedia seems to be an ideological database written in encyclopedia form.

A plunge

I did it. I scheduled an initial spiritual direction meeting. It will all be by phone, after the boys are in bed, so it won't mean another 60-90 minutes away from them.

Is this a good idea? Are mothers allowed to have spiritual lives? Will a jealous preschooler sever the electricity or scream in his sleep, sensing that I have an agenda other than providing direct care to him? Do I have a spiritual life left, and if I do, what might be in there? Is there such a thing as a spirituality of fatigue and personal neglect?

This early morning brings a heavy, heavy fog. I can't see the neighbor's house, but I can see the light shining from a lamp post in his yard. I realize that the light shining through the fog is a tired metaphor from Sermon Illustrations For Dummies. But there really is a dense fog, and I really do see a light out there.

Christianity 21

Check out Christianity 21 and consider coming. It's a thing (not a conference) in Minneapolis in October. 21 people will talk for 21 minutes about 21st century Christianity. We will all claim to be 21 years younger than we are, and quote at least 21 Bible verses in our talks. (just kidding)

Balancing the scales (or not)

One ugly part of grief, for me, was the scale that I pictured in my mind. My loss sat on one arm of the scale, and I waited for God to fill up the other. When something good happened, like a new baby or a new job or laughter or a nice meal, I'd accuse God - "Nope. Not yet. That doesn't balance the scale." God was in my debt, and I was an exacting accountant.

I worried about sharing my story of a poor outcome and a good outcome with reproductive technology on public television yesterday. I don't think it is podcast, but if you're local, it's on again Sunday noon. Once I picked out the right shirt, I stopped worrying over my appearance. I also reminded myself that when you are identified as "professor," you get a pass in the appearance category. I accidentally used my fake public speaking voice, but I won't hold that against myself - I was extremely nervous.

It felt redemptive to tell the truth about higher order multiple pregnancies. For every healthy set of triplets, quads, quints, sextuplets or octuplets you see on TV, there are 80, 90, or even 99 families living with total losses, partial losses, profound child disabilities, or lifelong maternal health problems. Higher order multiples are becoming too popular, and appearing too easy, and reproductive technology is like a Wild West world in which people can get whatever they can pay for.

It just felt good to say that. It doesn't have to have positive weight equal to some accumulation of negative weight, and it doesn't have to add up to anything. Apparently I forgot to bring my scale. Using a mathematical approach to goodness and badness wasn't working well, perhaps in large part due to the researcher effect ('good' and 'bad' were defined by me, so accounting errors may have occurred due to inaccurate sorting). Goodness can just be asserted into the universe, going where it will and doing what it likes.

Moving Right Along

I misunderstood an offer to be on the radio discussing fertility issues tomorrow. Turns out it's a TV program, on WITF (South Central PA public television, Smart Talk program, 8:30-9:30 Friday evening). Just yesterday I was watching The Muppet Movie in which Big Bird is traveling to California to try to break into public television. If I get nervous or can't think of anything to say, I'll just start singing "Moving Right Along." And I'll drive our rainbow Studebaker to the studio.

But then it morphed into a second opportunity to be on the radio, on the same panel and same topic, on Monday morning (south central PA public radio WITF, Smart Talk program, 9-10 am). That was an easy decision, since I thought I had already agreed to be on the radio.

The topic is fertility, a discussion in light of the Nadia Suleman story. There are two panelists: a reproductive endocrinologist (an expert in reproductive medicine) and me (an expert in lived experience with infertility and reproductive technology).

Overall, I'm excited, but I'm nervous about two things:

1. Will I look fat? (back-up concern: will I sound fat on the radio?)

2. I tend to have low affect with my face and voice, and when under stress, I can go nearly monotone. I'm worried that people might think I don't love my children enough b/c I'm not emotional in a "Matt Lauer Interviews Woman Whose Child Was Kidnapped Three Hours Ago" kind of way.

What is it they say about fears -- if you voice them, they dissapate? Or give fear an inch and it takes a mile?

Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

The world of other mothers is not an easy place for me; I've spent more of my adulthood in the world of ideas and the world of the male-dominant workplace. I lean toward hypersensitivity, feeling judged by the way another mom looks at me, or doesn't look at me. But I do get outright verbal criticism on a fairly regular basis when we're out in public. "He's going to fall out of that stroller!" "Do you really let him run with a screwdriver?" "Don't you see he's about to trip?" "Do you permit them to hit each other like that?" "Hey! Is anyone watching that kid?"

Every one of these comments from other moms is about my boys' risk-taking and potential physical injuries. No one says my boys are rude or violent or socially inappropriate, because they're not. But they do risky physical things, and they love tools, dirt, climbing, jumping, metal, and messes. I watch them very closely and I have an internal sense of danger that alerts me to intervene. But that internal monitor seems to get set off more quickly for many other white middle-class American moms (that monitor is surely culturally formed) than it does for me.

Would a mom criticize another mom in public for caring too much? I observed two women - a mother and her friend - escorting the mom's 3-yr-old boy from pool to locker. They both gave their total attention to his feelings as they unfolded -- his feet were cold, his eyes got water in them, his arm hurt when his shirt went on, etc. He had about six important emotional episodes in four minutes. Might I have criticized them for cultivating patriarchy -- letting this boy believe that women can always be interrupted to give their total attention to whatever need or whim a male may have? Might I point out to moms at the park that talking in loud baby voices might be more about establishing their maternal credibility among the other adults present than it is about caring for their children? (I know, I know, I can be judgmental, too. And I totally agree with what you're probably thinking now, that a PhD in the social sciences from a feminist graduate school probably overcultivated my critical thinking in this area).

Men, on the other hand -- fathers, grandfathers and the child-free -- have frequently appreciated my parenting, and I love them for it. As my boys crawled through a parking lot culvert, dirty from head to toe, a man paused on the street and watched them with nostalgia. "It's great that you let them get dirty," he said. "I loved that." Another guy watching one of my twins gently assault his younger brother, encouraged me to have more boys. "I had six brothers and it was awesome. You should try for more." (Before trying it, I'd like to ask his mother how awesome it was for her.)

I see great parenting, both mothering and fathering, everyday, but middle-class American fathering rarely includes hypervigilance about risk-taking and avoiding owies. And it never includes baby talk to anyone older than a baby. Men seem to understand that the enjoyment of the precipice, the chance, and the unknown is worth the pain that often follows. They seem to appreciate that having three boys virtually the same age is pretty much like raising a pack of dogs, so it's OK to let the wildness show.

I'm not entirely closed off to other mothers offering perspective - even negative - on my parenting. Some of those comments have turned into conversations, and I've learned some valuable techniques and ideas. I don't want my children to be seriously injured and if someone else's eyes or words can help prevent that, then I'll welcome the help. But men, please keep the compliments coming. And when you see us out in public - dirty and bruised but still playing hard - take a long look and remember how good it is to be a boy.

Two questions

1. Why do cybermarketers think I want Viagra so desperately? I don't.

2. What does the word "viral" mean? If I were to blog virally, or write book reviews virally, what would I have done?

The prison in my town

I live in a small residential community that surrounds my college. Normally there is no prison in our town, but yesterday I encountered one. For a time, my boys and I and ten Canadian geese and thirty ducks were the only living things at our community park. Each of us did what we most enjoy, and we were all happy.

A woman out for a walk approached us to talk about the past, what the town was like when the college was smaller, when the pond was cleaner, when the geese were better behaved. Then she said, "It's great that you have three boys. I only had one child, and she was killed in young adulthood in an unresolved murder far away from here in the Big City. It's destroyed my family. My life is a prison." The first time she said, "My life is a prison," I said, "I'm so sorry." The second time she said it, I said, "I believe you." The third, fourth and fifth times she announced, "Life is a prison," I said nothing. The phrase had morphed from description to invitation, and I didn't want to enter the portable prison of Grantham.

As she departed, she said, "Raising three children will be a lot of work, but never resent it. You could lose any one of them at any moment. Life as you know it could end in a second." She walked away, but her words hung in the twilight that hovered over the pond. I snatched my boys -- from the pond, but also from accidental deaths that I couldn't stop imagining -- and we left the park.

I don't judge the woman's despair; it is well-founded. I hope to see her again in a few years, and then a few years after that, and see whether she is still imprisoned, or maybe up for parole, or maybe succeeded in pulling off a harrowing and exciting escape plan.

Suffering tears a person away from home and tosses him onto the Let's Make a Deal stage. Monty Hall and his audience roar with laughter while he cries, exposed and forced to choose a door. Behind door number one is a prison, I'm sure of it. Door number two leads to a mental ward, or maybe a courtroom, or hell. Door number three, however, opens to a beach, or a lake, or a rural Pennsylvania community park at twilight. I have to believe that door number three is there for the opening.

Students want to know...

What does a woman's resume look like after she's taken time away from her career to raise children? If you have such a resume that I could share in a senior-level class, please e-mail it to me. If you have any words of wisdom regarding life planning that includes both career and family, I'll take those, too.

If a man has a resume that reflects significant time away from linear career building for whatever reasons, send those too!

It's an idolatry of the linear -- resumes that look like a person had a pure and single focus, and outstanding successes with narry a stumble seem so much more desirable than, say, life as we all are actually living it.

Real Women's Rights

You have the right to go to the bathroom. You can go as many times as you want and stay as long as you like. It wasn't selfish to have drank all that water. You aren't a bad mother for not enjoying your children in the bathroom with you. You don't need to use potty as a reward (I'll go to the bathroom after I get this chunk of work done. I'll return just one more e-mail or phonecall, and then I'll go.) You don't have to multitask in the potty, using the time to also meditate, make grocery lists, or indulge in a brief emotional breakdown. (Though if your idea of self-indulgence is crying while on the toilet, then you probably really do have some problems!). You don't have to teeter in the hallway from one foot to the other, trying to choose between going to the bathroom and doing housework (or office work).

Let me say it again: You have the right to go to the bathroom. You can go as many times as you want and stay as long as you like.

If women (and by "women", I mean "me") practiced just this basic right, I think a lot of other things would fall into place.

Don't Read This Unless You're Prepared to Be Blown Away (part 4)

Last one from Christian Wimans

"Religious despair is often a defense against boredom and the daily grind of existence. Lacking intensity in our lives, we say that we are distant from God, and then seek to make that distance into an intense experience. It is among the most difficult spiritual ailments to heal because it is usually wholly illusory. There are definitely times when we must suffer God's absence, when we are called to enter the dark night of the soul in order to pass into some new understanding of God, some deeper communion with him and with all of creation. But this is very rare, and for the mos tpart our dark nights of the soul are more pathetic than tragic, wishful thinking. God is not absent. He is everywhere in the world we are too dispirited to love...

Pain has its pleasures, not the least of which are its reliability, immediacy and even, in a strange way, companionability."


I mistook the daily grind for despair. Truth is, I'm tired of sippy cups, diapers, wet beds, suffixing words with "ie" and "y", talking about potty (see, there's a "y"), having food taken off my plate, drinking toddler backwash in my water glass, vacuuming the same carpet, folding the same clothes, and living in this same sticky, cruddy house with the shitty kitchen floor and tiny yard that slopes at a 45 degree angle. And I'm tired of being tired of it, because truth is, this is the life I always wanted. I was complaining to a friend recently and she said, without sarcasm, "Funny how hard it is to have the life you wanted so badly." I replied, without sarcasm, "Yes it is. Funny, that is. And hard, too."

I felt a little better when I recast the matter as existential despair, loneliness, religious uncertainty, and a need to rethink the major life decisions of the last several years. Indeed, pain has its pleasures. But really, God is everywhere in this sticky, cruddy house I'm too dispirited to love. Naming the daily grind for what it is, instead of imagining the drama it could be, somehow makes it a little more loveable (except for the backwash).

Don't Read This Unless You're Prepared to Be Blown Away (part 3)

more from Christian Wimans

"You continually seek something that will resolve your anxieties once and for all, will push you over into a consistent and comforting belief. You read book after book, you seek out intense experiences in nature or in conversations with people whom you respect and who seem to rest more securely in their belief than you. Sometimes it seems that gains are made, for all of these things can and do provide relief and instruction. But always the anxieties come back, are the norm from which faith deviates, if faith is even what you could call these intense but somehow vague and fleeting experiences of God. You have forgotten, or perhaps simply will not let yourself see, what true faith is, its active and outward nature (as opposed to active but inward, which is what all of those activities above are). Do not pray to be at peace in your belief. Pray that your anxieties be given peaceful outlets, that you may be the means to a peace which you yourself do not feel.

Does this mean that we're condemned to be always anxious in our belief? Insofar as our efforts are directed inward, at appeasing or pacifying our own anxieties, the answer is yes. But when we allow our anxieties to become actions, when we perform concrete things in the name of faith, then we gradually begin to find ourselves inching forward on a rope ladder of action strung high over the abyss of unbelief, and our gaze becomes focused on what is ahead of us rather than forever staring paralyzed down."

I'm afraid I'm not loved enough, so why not just kiss my son?

I'm afraid certain people don't like me, so why not just start liking them instead?

I'm afraid I can't finish the book I've promised to write, so why not just write?

I'm afraid my faith isn't good enough for my children, so why not just share it with them?

God is not vague or fleeting. God is there in the rope ladder of action and in the courageous edge of anxiety that empowers a step toward concrete action.

Don't Read This Unless You're Prepared to Be Blown Away (part 2)

Again, from Christian Wiman:

"Pascal: 'We must keep silence as far as we can and only talk to ourselves about God, whom we know to be true, and then convince ourselves that he is.' This is the fundamental vanity of the intellectual Christian, the belief that faith may be forged within oneself like a little spiritual pearl, which one may then present to the world as a rare treasure. In truth this encounter never happens, for this personal pearl is not simply a currency the world will find worthless, but, when exposed to the air of actual existence, a dull, ersatz thing which you yourself do not quite recognize. Faith is forged not by the mind alone but by the mind's risky, messy encounter with the world at large. Faith is not something you have; it is something you do."

1. Why, if I'm evangelical, am I an intellectual Christian? Evangelicalism is all about having a heartfelt relationship with a living God. But then we socialize converts into an intellectual religion based on rational assent to correct belief. The drama of evangelical conversion could enliven the entire life of faith.

2. How about, with respect to homosexuals, we start evangelizing in silence? We ought to evangelize to sexual minorities -- sharing the good news of God's love with them. How about we stop using words altogether, and only use actions? We could try it first for just a little while and see how it goes. It would help us sift out the moral education, the boundary maintenance, the politics, and the culture warring from the evangel.

Don't Read This Unless You're Prepared to Be Blown Away (part 1)

I discovered Christian Wiman, poet and editor of Poetry journal, when The Christian Century excerpted his forthcoming book, "My Bright Abyss: Meditation of a Modern Believer." I've read the excerpted article several times and am finding much there for reflection.

"So long as belief is something that withstands the assaults of reason, experience, secularization, or even simply (simply!) the slow erosion of certainty within your own heart and mind; so long as that verb accurately describes the dynamic between your belief and all that seems to threaten it, then faith is an illusion in you, a dream that weakness clings to, rather than the truest form and fruition of strength."

Occasionally I see my tendency (usually I hide it from myself) to project my ideals and longings onto God. God is perfect love, perfect friendship, perfect intimacy, and perfect closeness. No wonder, then, that I can't find those things -- I've defined them as just out of reach. Let the illusion go, let the beliefs go, acknowledge the slow erosion of certainty without embracing it or rejecting it, and you might just find yourself not having faith, but doing it.