10 things I've learned in 20 years of marriage

This year my husband and I celebrated 20 years of marriage. Even though it sounds like a long time, some days, it feels like we're still slushing through the same interpersonal messes we faced in 1994. But there are a few things we've learned along the way.

1. Fire hardens brick

We had a pretty negative marriage counsellor when we were first married, but one thing he taught me was how our opposite ways of communicating pull us apart. The angrier I get, the louder I get and the more crazy my metaphors become: I go from feeling "stuck" to "a kitten clawing my way out of a drainpipe" to a "banshee in a burning pit" in an attempt to express the seriousness of the situation and engage my husband in the conversation.

But when he's angry, he gets quiet. His hope is that I'll see how much nicer it is to speak calmly and that will rub off on me, but his silence makes me crazier. And all my efforts to prod him into responding to me make him shut down more. Because when you put a raging fire near a brick wall, all it does is harden the brick. He already knows how intensely I feel pain; what he needs to see is my willingness to give him space to think before he responds. I already know calmness feels better than craziness; what I need is for him to show me that he cares about my pain.

The same goes for other areas. I can't convince him that saving money feels more secure by criticizing his purchases, nor can he convince me that throwing money away is fun by drinking a $7 coffee in front of me. He needs to show me that he's concerned about our future, and I need to show him that I want him to enjoy life now. I'm not here to teach him to frugal and he's not here to teach me to be carefree; that just pulls us in opposite directions. We're here to meet in the middle.

2. Everything has a history

Often the things my husband does that make me mad have nothing to do with him. When he doesn't hear what I say, I snap because it reminds me of the painful year my dad started losing his hearing. When my husband naps, I get antsy because it reminds me of when he stayed in bed for days after being downsized. When I ask him a question he can't answer, it reminds him of the French teacher who called him stupid. I didn't cause the bruise; I just accidentally bumped into it. It's freeing when we begin to acknowledge this.

3. Our marriage is an object between us, not a subject in us

When I say how I feel, even if I use "I statements" (I felt hurt by your words), invariably he'll hear "blah blah blah bad husband, blah blah you stink." We all tend to take things personally. But it's not about what one of us is doing wrong, it's about this thing in our hands called "our marriage." It's an object, not a subject. It's not about trying to change each other, it's about working together to make this thing we share better.

4. Never tear him down in front of his friends

Only speaking well of people is a good rule of thumb in general, but it's particularly important with husbands. They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach (or another organ), but I think his ego is bigger than his stomach, more fragile than anything a cup could protect. More than meat and apple pie, my husband craves respect and admiration. It can be tempting to get sympathy from friends for your side of a disagreement, but in the long run, even in a joke, it's never a good idea to make your husband feel small.

That includes bad mouthing him behind his back. Chances are you'll start a group man-bashing session, and you'll feel closer to your girlfriends, farther from the one friend who shares your bed. You won't be any wiser. All you'll have is more ammo. If you need advice, see a pastor, spiritual director, or counsellor. Save girlfriend time for bashing Sponge Bob.

5. He changes faster than the version of him in my head

1 Corinthians 13 says, "Love doesn't keep a record of wrongs." My husband and I had a disagreement recently that ended with us realizing that I was arguing with Tony circa 2002 and he was fighting with Ange 'o the 90s. Neither one of us still felt the way the other assumed we did. But we never corrected the picture in our heads. Someone once told me, every time you see someone, it's a first time. Keep an open mind and expect change.

6. We don't know what each other is thinking

This is a big one. I know of marriages that have failed because one or both partner assumed they knew what was behind the others' words.

Hints don't help. Rolling my eyes because he should know by now doesn't help. Ask for what you need. Say how you feel. Listen.

7. Dare not to compare

This is a big one for me in every area of life: finances, parenting, publishing. My husband and I get along well in some areas; others are harder for us. The tendency is to look at other couples who have what we lack and think they're better, instead of celebrating what we have.

How many couples could work together at their days jobs and a photography business and not drive each other crazy? We actually like it because we get to see each other doing what we love, in nice clothing, in the hours before we're frazzled. So what if we can't dance.

8. Connection comes in all kinds of flavours

My husband loves me the way he wants to be loved, and it doesn't always feel like love to me. I like cuddling in front of the TV. He likes frequent, quick hugs, usually when I'm in the middle of something and need my arms. I've learned that even the stuff that doesn't do it for me "counts."

Some days we're better at connecting in writing. When I type my thoughts to him, he can process them at his own pace and without all my drama. And I know he's "heard" me.

9. Do unto my husband as I want my future daughter-in-law to do unto my son

I can imagine my son's wife someday being so frustrated with the way the guy gets lost in a book or daydream. He could step over a dead racoon all day long and not notice, never mind a dirty cup. But I want her to appreciate the way he keeps his promises or makes people laugh, the sweet way he hugs goodnight, and not focus on his dirty socks. My husband deserves the same.

10. Why reread the last chapter when we can start writing the next one?

It's easy to rehash, to "what if," to regret. But moving forward is so much more...better. Here's to 20 more years!

Of good soil and talking cats

I sit across from my spiritual director, a young nun in her 70s.


I tell her about my children's silence. How I sow words in the dark. Without knowing the questions they carry or the misinterpretations they take away from me. Or even if they're listening. How I throw out advice about friendship, sex, faith, money, how to clean a toilet, and hope at least a handful of my words fall on good soil.

What is their good soil? What's yours?

I have no idea what she's talking about. I know bad soil: misunderstanding, discomfort, unreadiness, hopelessness, rejection.

What's your good soil?

Her elderly cat Precious, no larger than a kitten, enters the room and rubs against my pant hem.

Call her.

I pat my lap, whisper Come. She looks up at me.

She knows when the timing is right.

I reach down and stroke her back, her belly.

What's happening between you and the cat? 

Precious glides back and forth across my legs, but she isn't coming up. She's purring.

I don't have words for it, I say.

Aha, my nun says. Now you've finally gotten out of that over-thinking head of yours into something deeper. 

She cups her hands in front of her chest. There is a connection beyond words. That's your good soil. 

That's my children's.


***

My son and I sit shoulder to shoulder, leaning over clay bowls of soggy Mini-Wheats. 

That's my story about how a cat spoke. That's how I know I'm a good mom and you're going to be just fine, even when all I hear is "I duh know." 

He smiles that crinkled smile that makes his eyes vanish. And then he tells me something about his day. 

The timing is right.

Our one-of-a-kind gingerbread...courtyard

This weekend, we made our annual gingerbread house. We got a fully assembled, ready-to-decorate kit that promised to come out looking like this:

But when we opened the box, the house was broken. We tried to glue the roof back together with icing. 

But it wasn't working. I kept thinking, I hope this isn't a metaphor for my life.
We added more and more icing, and held as still as we could, but it just didn't stick.

We decided to make the best of it and do our own thing.

The good thing about going roofless is you get to decorate inside too.

  
We even rolled out the red carpet.

 And invited in some Christmas friends.

Maybe this isn't such a bad metaphor after all.

 

 

If I had a time machine

Leaders are dissatisfied with the way things are.

I heard this from several speakers over the past couple days at the Willow Creek Leadership Summit, (an annual, international video-cast conference put together by a Chicago church on how to effectively lead in churches, charities, and businesses).

Well, what I felt dissatisfied with was the Summit. Because it was too good. Too good to keep from the people who haven't heard it. I'm dissatisfied with church leaders preaching to other church leaders about how life-giving it is to be part of the church.

Speakers, including Condoleezza Rice, Me to We Co-CEO Marc Kielburger, bestselling author John Ortberg, and former Hewlett-Packard CEO Carly Fiorina, shared inspirational insights on organizational health, personal integrity, innovation, discipline, energy management, succession planning, and communication. And many of them talked about how Jesus and the church make a difference in the world and in their lives. But most of the audience was pastors who already know that.

Not people like the local poet, whose line kept going through my head: "If I had a time machine"...(I'm paraphrasing here), I'd go back to Jesus and tell him the atrocities his followers will commit in his name: the crusades, country music; and then I'd go back a few more years and give Mary some "immaculate contraception."

Kudos on the humour and wordplay, but ouch on the pain behind it. I can only imagine how the poet has been hurt by the church. Perhaps, like people I know, he's been bullied, smeared, rejected. Or, like me, he's sought support from a church and received condescending advice, trite answers, and judgments instead. Perhaps without any personal contact, he's been offended by Christians in the headlines. I ached for him, but I also felt like he'd just badmouthed my best friend.

My church of the past 14 years, Crossroads MB, has been the family that prayed when I thought I'd lost my baby, didn't judge me when my kids screamed and ran during the service, listened to my painful stories of diagnoses, encouraged me to follow my dream of writing, and gave me opportunities to teach and sing (even though I wasn't always that good).

At the conference, John Ortberg talked about the contributions Jesus' followers have made: most of our hospitals, universities, orphanages, soup kitchens, and relief missions were started by Christians because they took seriously Jesus' teaching that everyone (including women) should learn, that sick and disabled people were to be fed and cared for (not drowned as in Roman "civilization"), and that all races should work together equally despite differences. Many cultures have alphabets and literacy today only because of the dedicated work of Bible translators. Take away the church, and we wouldn't have the Red Cross, World Vision, Compassion, YMCA, Habitat for Humanity, MCC, MEDA, Mennonite Disaster Service, Canadian FoodGrains Bank, or the Salvation Army.   

And then there's the more personal side to the church's care. Former H-P CEO Carly Fiorina said when a room full of thousands of people prayed for her after she spoke at the 2007 Summit, she felt "elevated" and as she went on to endure aggressive cancer, treatments, and her daughter's death, the "sweet peace" from that moment never left her.

The church has its class bullies, but we don't shut down the educational system because of the bad teachers and the big kids in the back of history's bus; why write off the church?

So, if I had a time machine (and a lot more clout), I'd go back to the Summit, and at least for half the day, kick out half the pastors and invite in the poets (and their nonliterary, cynical cousins), the women hanging out in the front of the Elmwood apartments across the street, the cartoonists with the stinging satires of the church, and the people who pass them around on Facebook, and asked them what they thought of the speakers' stories.

Instead of asking church leaders how we can become better, I'd ask the poets how the church had hurt them. And how we could elevate them with prayer.

On second thought, I'd move the Summit from the cramped church to a convention centre so the pastors and everyone else could fit, so the people who will never enter a church building would come because when people say, "The church is the hope of the world," they don't mean the building or the organization.

As I was complaining about all this to my pastor at a session break, a man came up to us, and asked my pastor why he was at the conference. He knew Marv from Toastmasters, but he had no idea he was a pastor. (Marv's so involved in community groups outside church and so approachable, this didn't surprise me, and it made me extra proud.) I asked the gentleman why he was here, and he answered, "If my wife hadn't brought me to this conference last year, I wouldn't have come back to the church." It was uncanny the way I was forced to eat my words as soon as they came out of my mouth. Not everyone there had heard it all before. But it confirmed my conviction that if more disgruntled-with-church people came, it could change their minds.  

But if I had a time machine, I wouldn't go back and undo the moments people were hurt, however much that would pain me. Because the church needs to learn from those mistakes. And (like Carly Fiorina says), in everything (even pain) there is a gift. Often it's a story.

If I had a time machine, I'd go back and watch everybody's stories unfold. And, however dissatisfied I am with what life throws them, I wouldn't give up before their happy ending.  

No-I'm-not-on-crack parenting advice Part 3: Honey, you'll feel better if you *don't* just let it all out

PMS-ing psycho with a weapon or hot mamma needing to chill? Choose your words carefully.

I'm one of the quiet ones at the autism support group. If you know me, you know I love to talk, but I feel terribly guilty when I interrupt, especially when everyone around me is pouring out their hearts about blow-ups, bullies, blind doctors, deaf resource teachers, foul-mouthed teens, and long-gone daddies. So if there isn't a break in conversation, you won't hear much from my corner of the table.

But if I would get the nerve to jump in, overactive conscience be darned, I might say something like this:

Is this helping?

I can tell you love your children like crazy, but when you nickname them "vixen" and "devil-man," and call your life "hell in a minivan," does it make you feel better about your world?

There is a place for sharing what you're going through now and getting support and advice for the next step on your path, but does retelling the story of how your son destroyed the living room furniture five years ago or how your father blamed you for her behaviours before the diagnosis make you love them all more? Oh, sometimes it's a bonding thing, and sometimes it helps us see the humour in our situations - and almost always it's downright entertaining - but often I think the negative talk just makes a difficult situation that much harder to bear.

I met a friend for coffee last week and she said she'd noticed so many changes in me over the dozen years she's known me. The biggest one is in the way I talk about my family. When she met me, I used every opportunity to shock people with painful stories and try to squeeze out a few more drops of sympathy. My right, my consolation prize, for having a bizarrely painful life package, right? But I decided years ago to choose words that made my husband and children look good in public. Even when I feel like running away from home. Because I found those words didn't only change the way others saw my family; they changed the way I feel about them too.

When I'd say, "My daughter's constant lying and stealing makes me so mad I want to strangle her," I really meant "My daughter has lagging social skills that make it difficult for her to control her impulses and recognize the effect of her actions on the rest of us. She needs patient guidance, and I need supportive friends and plenty of rest, so I have that kind of love to give."

And "My husband is a self-centred sofa-warmer who never shows affection and wishes he were rid of us" has become "My husband is overwhelmed and suffering from migraines again, so he doesn't have the energy to stay calm when the kids are screaming, and he's afraid to spend time with me because I've been so naggy lately. I need to be clear and gentle when I ask for what I need from him." It doesn't sound as interesting, but it sure makes me feel more content, calm, in control. And most of all: hopeful.


I'm guessing some of you think I have too many self-help books shoved up my prissy ass, but that's okay. That's another reason I'm doing this here and not in person: I'm not only leery about interrupting; I'm also sensitive to criticism. Write me off as a goody-goody, but I still think it's worth saying. What's more important: to go home feeling glad others share our personal "hell" with their own batch of "Satan-spawns" and "sperm-donors," or feeling empowered to accept every challenge and blessing our precious handfuls can dole out?

Words have power. They don't just reveal how we feel; they determine it.

So please do cry on my shoulder. I may not talk about it as much, but I've been there too. And I care deeply. Tell me the truth. Be real. But know that the way you say it could alter that reality.

May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be plaid. Happy holidays from Plaiditudes.

Me, myself, and I should

I am in a sun room in beautiful British Columbia, feeling sun-kissed and wrapped in mountains. In the past three days I have eaten fish and chips beside the pier in White Rock, dipped my toes into the ocean (wearing a hoodie and coat), and walked the entire Stanley Park sea wall surrounded by sailboats, rocks, trees, birds, and happy people.



I've also spent eight hours in interviews, one hour wandering in the rain looking for a quiet restaurant, two nights at a hotel they forgot to clean, and one sunny afternoon stuck on a highway replete with lane closures and turnoffs you can't see until you've passed them.

The "should haves" keep popping into my head: we should have left earlier to avoid traffic, we should have taken the detour, we should have walked to that other beach, looked at that map, stayed at that hotel.

I wish I could have left myself at home and come without me.

I'm supposed to be relaxing. The school doesn't have my number, my kids don't need me, and my laundry piles and litter box are three provinces away. But it seems I've spent so much of my life in "to do" mode that I don't know how to relax. So many people want me to enjoy myself on this trip that I feel like I have to account for every minute well spent. Pressure.

When I'm having a hard day, thinking about how God can turn it into a story fires me up with courage to keep going or to do the next hard thing. I think about not just my work, but my life as being a book for others to read. It keeps me accountable and charges every little faithful decision with eternal significance.

But sometimes, like now, thinking about my life as a story makes it harder to live in the moment. I wonder if I should stop even writing about it, because it can just reinforce the idea that I'm part of one lifelong performance evaluation.

You can't evaluate happiness. The minute you ask yourself, "Am I as happy as I could possibly be sitting here in the sun under the mountains, or would someone else feel happier than I do right now if they were here?" all your happiness flies out the sun room window.

Enough with the "shoulds," already. Maybe I'll just make some of my happy moments my little secret, so that you, and I, don't have to evaluate or rethink them.

In traffic and in the sunshine, I'm stuck with myself, so we may as well make the best of it. Patience. Construction always means "expect delays." Especially in B.C.

Here's to my week of feeling human again

The kids were both at overnight camp this week. They had great workers (Can I keep them?) who stood up for them and stuck by them and they (the kids and the workers) made it the whole week!

It's amazing the difference I felt in my body without them here.

I was present. I could feel the fishcakes I was forming in my hands; smell the grass I had mowed, sing along with the music (not straining to hear what was happening in the next room). Tension-free. Soft.

I could make supper without thinking about how much T.V. they were watching to make that possible and how much they were going to "Ew, gross" it when it was done. I could wash windows outside without worrying about what kind of trouble they were getting into inside. I could run out to buy clothes, take a walk, meet a friend - all without phoning through a list of 7 names first to find a babysitter!

Best of all, I could read for hours without feeling that I really should be giving K. and G. something right now: nutrition, exercise, math practice, rest, attention, a play date, or new underwear. Everything feels lighter and brighter when you are just you and not the physician/chauffeur/mediator/teacher/psychologist/advocate/entertainer/police officer/receptionist/chef/personal trainer/maid/nurse/bodyguard on call.

Here are some of the things I didn't do this week:

1. A load of laundry a day.
2. The whole bedtime "Get in the tub, out of tub, to the table, to the bathroom, into bed, before I count to three" routine. (Gah, that whole ending can take the shine off the best day.)
3. The "He didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but you have to stop bugging him now" conversation.
   
4. The daily wipe-off of toothpaste splatter on the bathroom mirror, counter, and, sometimes floor.
   
5. Any work after 9 pm!

Here are some of the things I did:

1. Met my cousin for coffee. He always makes me feel like a beautiful genius. (It does run in the family.)
2. Found a sundress for $15, jeans for $10, and dark-wash denim capris for $20.
3. Helped T. carry and screw up drywall in my laundry room. (Of all things I've screwed up in my life, of this one I am most proud.)
   
4. Finished reading The explosive child, Getting your kid on a gluten-free, casein-free diet, and Brennan Manning's The furious longing of God, and start reading Toni Morrison's Beloved and another Jodi Picoult novel, Vanishing Acts.
5. Put my feet up on the dash.
6. Had Mongolian stir fry with another couple and didn't look at my watch once to see when we needed to be home.
7. Spent 10 hours transcribing interviews from last month that I haven't even had time to listen to.
8. Went to the beach with T. twice and listened to the waves and the birds and felt the sun on my face. (And didn't have to worry about anybody drowning or being abducted while I read my novel and ate too many chips.)
9. Made up some gluten-free flour mixes.
   
10. Enjoyed quiet, uninterrupted couple-time from supper till bed.
11. Ate chocolate whenever, wherever, however I wanted. (Fondue was my favourite.)
    

I was hoping that a break would make me a more relaxed mother. But last night, thinking about returning to my hyper-vigilant 24/7 on-call post, the tension returned. I felt like my body was bound up with copper wire, digging into my skin. I need to do whatever I can to make sure that small breaks keep coming, so I don't snap.

To help maintain the "I'm a person too" feeling, here's my plan: I resolve, no matter how I feel, to lose the "I'm so overwhelmed I can't take it" edge in my voice which makes me and T. both feel like running away from home. To do my best to see my kids, not as repositories for earwax or boom boxes sans volume control, but as people too.

Take these broken wings

I endured the most difficult conversation in the car last night on the way to pick up my husband from work. It was a tearful euthanasia/palliative care (gone wrong) debate, right in front of the dying patient.

G. had found a one-winged butterfly, which she was aggressively nursing back to health. (It wasn't working.) She'd it shake and poke it to try to make it move. Every time it wiggled, she'd report her clinic's success rate. Poor K. was beside himself.

K: "You're hurting it!"
G: "It moved its leg. Yeah, it's still alive!"
K: "It doesn't want to live anymore! Leave it alone."
G: "Oh no, it stopped."
K: "Finally, it's not suffering anymore."
G: "Wait, it waved again."
K: (in tears) "Ahhhh!"

We finally arrived at the office, where I insisted we leave butterfly among the flowers. G. said, "We can take care of other creatures. Right, mom?" All I can say is, with her kind of care, I hope insects don't have a lot of pain receptors.

Eugene Peterson writes, "Suffering is a character of the personal. Animals can be hurt, but they do not suffer. The earth can be ravaged, yet it cannot suffer. Man and woman, alone in the creation, suffer. For suffering is pain plus: physical or emotional pain plus the awareness that our own worth as people is threatened, that our own value as creatures made in the dignity of God is called into question, that our own destiny as eternal souls is jeopardized."

Remembering Scripture can be comforting in times of suffering. Verses like 2 Corinthians 1:3-5: "Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows."

Or Philippians 1:6: "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."

Lately the verse that's been in my mind is: "Help, God--the bottom has fallen out of my life!" (Psalm 130:1 The Message).

Not exactly one of comfort or completion. It is nice to know that someone else (although a few thousand years too early to cry with me over lattes) has felt the same way, but I'm guessing the writer's problem had more to do with being chased by lions or watching his children being carried off by marauders, than the setbacks of parenting a child on the autism spectrum.

For that I need to look around the table at my mom's support group. They know the fear, vigilance, discouragement, inconvenience, childcare issues, safety concerns, the stares, the home-school-doctor conflicts, the medical decisions (do I look like a doctor?), the frightening side-effects, the uncertainty about whether this summer's plans or independence (college? empty nest? grandchildren?) dreams will pan out.

What I like about Psalm 130:1 is that it's directed at God; God-given words to pray when I'm too tired to think up my own (but that fit my hurt like a glove). Eugene Peterson says this Psalm is "a powerful demonstration that our place in the depths is not out of bounds from God. We see that whatever or whoever got us in trouble cannot separate us from God."

No relief for wingless, Über-handled butterflies, but for the K.'s and the moms (and the G.'s in their own way) who weep over lost beauty, who feel the pain plus, who see the bottom fall out, it's something to hold onto. Even if it's only with one wiggling leg.

What flavour of jelly will you be?

How much of a child's personality is shaped by their disability? Who would they be if the autism suddenly disappeared?

Here's another quote from Jodi Picoult's Aspie character, Jacob, from House Rules. (Are you getting the feeling that I loved the book?)

"Once Theo asked me if there was an antidote for Asperger's, would I take it?

I told him no.

I am not sure how much of me is wrapped up in the part that's Asperger's. What if I lost some of my intelligence, for example, or my sarcasm? What if I could be afraid of ghosts on Halloween instead of the color of the pumpkins? The problem is that I do not remember who I was without Asperger's, so who knows what would remain? I liken it to a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that you peel apart. You can't really get rid of the peanut butter without taking some of the jelly as well, can you?"

I disagree. I love my kids and my brothers for who they are, but if there was a way to make life -- touching, experimenting, relating, dressing, eating, working, learning, expressing -- easier for them, I would.

I know the churchy stuff about hard things building strong character, but when the disability is a lack of coping skills like endurance, adaptability, and impulse control, rather than growing them outward and upward, the pain of butting up against the world often makes children on the spectrum retreat further into themselves. If you misread the world, chances are you won't get the lesson of pain either.

And I don't share Jacob's fear that my kids wouldn't be themselves without the disability. While it's true that kids on the higher end of the autism spectrum are often articulate, curious, intelligent, endearing, unique, and precocious, it wasn't the autism that made them that way; it was God. All of us are who we are, and we love each other for it. But none of us is exactly who we were meant to be. We are broken, imperfect, beautiful walking images of the living God.

I don't for a minute dream of giving birth to anyone other than who I have. I don't waste time wishing my kids were different. I'm not waiting for an antidote. But I do look forward to the day when love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, and self-control will rule in every heart and each of us will be more like our true selves, the perfect unique person God intended all along.

He knows what's peanut butter in us and what's pure jelly. He could separate them without losing any sweetness. But I have the feeling our destiny will look more like this: he'll transform our rancid peanut butter into Nutella.

Mmmm.

Shall I play for you? Pa rum pa pum pum

Margaret Mead wrote, "No recorded cultural system has ever had enough different expectations to match all the children who were born within it."

I discovered quite quickly that, while society says that it's okay to march to your own drum, our schools can't handle more than one rhythm per classroom. There just aren't enough conductors. We say that we want kids to be themselves and follow their heart, but what we really mean is, "Follow instructions and do whatever the rest of the class is doing."

Before school, I thought it was great that my son expressed himself artistically. When he started Kindergarten, if the teacher asked him to paint a red circle, a detailed pencil sketch of a maple leaf's cellular structure just didn't cut it. "Making breakfast" at the play stove for the girls wasn't appreciated for the chivalrous gesture it was, if it happened to be during "O Canada" or a lesson on "ing" words.

It's a difficult task, encouraging your quirky children to express their own strengths--and letting them face their weaknesses in their own time--when you know if they don't tone down the quirks and turn up the conformity, they will get labeled and left behind. Love them for who they are, or protect them from the consequences?

In the past few weeks, both my kids have wandered or run off during school field trips. For one, the stress was too much to handle and he had to get out; for the other, the enticement of what was through the next door was too much to resist and she had to go in. So now, I'm in charge of finding, or being, the caregiver for their field trips, or they can't go. It's a safety issue. The school just doesn't have enough full time education assistants to provide one-on-one all day supervision; if they would assign someone to my child, the child at another school who needs that EA for half the day would have to stay home--hardly fair to them. Not easy for me either. I'm just starting a new job (writing/editing!) and have to be available to my employer whenever she needs me. Practically, I'm sure it will work out in my schedule, but emotionally it feels like a burden.

Unlike Ms. Mead, I've always thought that there were too many expectations on our children, but I think her reflection is more accurate. We need to have more expectations: we need to expect that some children will be more interested in being loving than it spelling "ing." That some children are born to find environmental solutions or make technological advances, and the fact that they can't "colour in the lines" is exactly what makes them able to see outside them.

I have no doubt that my kids' teachers hear the music of many drums. And they encourage short solos whenever possible. But they can't always catch the little drummer boy when he marches out of the building on their own.

All any of us (typical or autistic, young or old, parent or teacher) can do is play our song to the best of our ability, listen to the songs around us, and blend whenever we can. "I played my best for him...Then he smiled at me...Me and my drum."

Wif God

My daughter doesn't often bring home spelling words, perhaps because she studies them adequately at school, or perhaps because her teacher doesn't want to increase G's (like-mother-like-daughter) perfectionism by emphasizing the upcoming test. But the week my daughter did bring home her spelling workbook there was a good reason: God needed to send me a message.

Included with G's list of a_e words, I read the three sentences she'd composed to practice them and the second put me on the edge of tears.



Like mother like daughter; we make life hard for ourselves, setting standards we can't meet, focusing on our failures and life's "what-ifs". But deep down we know where we are: safe in God's hands. When we face new challenges--a first college lecture or a second grade test--we sometimes forget.

Then God comes near and spells it out for us again.

The devil I know

Last week I was in a frenzy to prepare a sermon, create a course outline, and arrange an interview. This week I don't even feel like opening a doc file. Someone once described me as a "rabbit driving stick shift." I'm either racing ahead or lurching to a stop and hiding in the grass. I used to think I was crazy; I've realized, no: I'm just a writer!

I've begun reading famous writers' thoughts on their careers. (Why didn't I do this sooner?) It's so good to know, for example, that Annie Dillard writes one page a day and says that's success. Or that she sees the thought that her work in progress is terrible or the thought that it is wonderful as mosquitoes to be swatted. But the biggest revelation came about the writing life came from Kathleen Norris:

"I am both an extrovert and an introvert, energized by other people, even crowds of people, but also content to keep to myself for days on end...My energy levels are set on high or low: I can happily juggle any number of activities or do very little. At my most sluggish, I experience a mild agoraphobia, which makes it hard for me to meet outside obligations, even to shop for bread or a quart of milk."

Oh boy, does that ever sound familiar! I'm not sure if writing attracts extremists, or drives sane people to extremes, but there you have it: they go together like long ears and cottontails. It makes sense: you go from the stress of the deadline to the exhaustion that follows, from the elation of being published to worrying whether you'll ever have another story idea as good as the last one. Write and cut, write and lose to a computer crash. One page forward, ten pages back. Up. Down. Up.

"Were I to approach an abba or amma asking for a 'word' to help me cope with the assaults of acedia [despair] on my soul," writes Norris, "I would likely be reminded that if I am especially susceptible to acedia, it is because I harbor within myself the virtue of zeal. That comes as a relief. It helps explain the extremism that lies beneath my more or less sane facade."

There's something freeing about making peace with your internal yo-yo. On the other hand, God may have something slightly less jerky in mind for my life:

Norris says, "One of my mantras is a plea from Psalm 51: 'Put a steadfast spirit within me.' I pray it, but I must admit that I don't always mean it. Would a more steadfast spirit deaden me somehow, or dampen the writer in me? This up-and-down, unsteadfast person is who I am; this is the devil I know."

We prefer the devil we know to the one we don't. But, when you think about it, there's only one of him; both devils are the same guy, and I prefer door number three. I've had the same fear of dampening the writer in me, but like Norris, I have to say a steadfast spirit sounds really good.

"To Edmund Bergler, the twentieth-century analyst who coined the term 'writer's block,' and once remarked that he had 'never seen a "normal'' writer,'" Norris says, "I can honestly reply: That's all right. I am not certain I have ever seen a 'normal' psychoanalyst."

I have no idea what sort of transmission their inner animal drives...but I'll bet the upholstery is nicer.

(Photo: Rabbit in the Dryer by Tim Moore)

The magic of tea

I had a little tea party this afternoon at three.
It was very small - three friends in all - just I, myself, and me.
Myself ate up the sandwiches, while I drank down the tea.
T'was also I who ate the pie, and pass the cake to me!

When I was a little girl I would set up tea parties with tiny plastic dishes. My dad (who was home all winter while his fields lay under snow and my mom worked as a nurse), or an unsuspecting uncle, or a collection of teddy bears would be invited to sip imaginary tea and "oooh" about its delicate aroma.

Last week I had my first tea party with tea and cakes made out of more than air and fairy dust (a less economical choice to be sure). For the first time I laid out the tablecloth and tea cups I inherited from my grandma this winter. (Oh, how I wish I could ask her who gave them to her and why! Did they remind her of a special occasion? Did she ever use them?)

I invited 7 women who have prayed for me, supported me, and laughed and cried with me through my difficult last pregnancy, Kieran's diagnosis, and my grandma's passing. This list of super models include:

My pastor's wife, who for the past 11 years has given me a weekly hug and the reassurance that I'm not as crazy as I feel, and a lot more beautiful.

My accountability partner from 6 years ago, who still meets me at Second Cup every couple months to talk about things I don't tell anyone else. So many times one of us has said something off the top of our heads that turned out to be a gift from heaven.

The friend who happened to be pregnant exactly the same times I was; she moved an hour away and still showed up at my door after my grandma passed away - just to give me a hug.

The mom who shares my love of cheesecake, ice cream, and strong coffee, and the experience of having a child intent on discovering a record number of ways to endanger life by the age of 2. Actually 3 out of 7 of the women I invited have a child with ADHD, meaning you can tell them all sorts of strange parenting stories and they don't flinch.

The single girlfriend who disagrees with me on almost everything, but has stuck with me for the past decade through thick and thin. I'll never forget the day I was too sick and pregnant to take care of Kieran or myself; she appeared at my door with white bread and real butter to make us grilled cheese sandwiches.

The mom who takes me for coffee, laughs, nods and totally gets it. She said once, I don't have a sister, but I have friends like you. And I say "ditto."

The prayer warrior who told me she woke in the middle of the night to pray for me. She sensed I wasn't sleeping sleeping well either; she felt God telling her to sing me to sleep. The only song she could think of was "O Canada" so she sang that!

Only four of my friends were able to come, but we had a lovely time. There's something about the atmosphere when you're sipping tea from real china cups and eating cakes sprinkled with flower petals and arranged on tiered, etched glass trays that makes every moment feel weightier, yet lighter.

Since I was turning "thirty-something else" they asked for my wisdom (even though they're all older) and when I couldn't produce any off the top of my head, they proceeded to share all the gifts they had received from me in the past: the encouraging words or smiles that came at just the right time.

I blessed them with loose leaf tea, homemade lemon cupcakes, and fine jelly; they blessed me with sweet words. I can't decide what was in my throat: one lump or two? I waited thirty-some years for my first teddy bear-less tea party and now I'm addicted.

Tea, anyone?

Resisting change on a cellular level

I'm allergic to change.

I know this because last month my husband switched cellphone networks. Just like that. Without drawing a pros and cons chart or talking about it for weeks or getting my grade one teacher's opinion. And I was so stressed I thought I was going to be sick. Surprise charges, disappearing benefits we'd taken for granted, disgruntled relatives who were no longer on the same network and couldn't call us for free and therefore would stop inviting us over for coffee - I thought of all the possible side-effects to this deceptively cheap and beautiful new phone. That week I dreamed my husband signed me up for dunk in a Hawaiian shark tank. Switching phones, watching sharks - both got a crazy reaction.

I used to like change. The first 18 years of my life didn't have enough of it. Same town, same bullies, same pressures, same long, cold morning wait for the privilege of standing in the aisle of a school bus. My bed and dresser traded walls every few weeks just to keep me from going crazy with the fixedness of everything in my life that wasn't made of arborite.

When we got married I didn't want to feel stuck anywhere (except with the same guy). We moved apartments every couple years and were always looking for new jobs. A few years ago when I was a pastoral intern I remember agreeing with the leadership books that said the greatest leaders are those who aren't afraid of change.

Now buying a can of paint triggers makes me shake. What if I hate the colour? What if I have to redo it or live with it for 10 years? After the first coat I can't sleep and I feel prickly all over. You move my arm chair to the other side of the room and I feel all upside-down inside. And don't even suggest that I might ever sell my house. God would have to do a huge overhaul of my insides before that would ever happen. (I realize he's good at that and gets a kick out of it.)

I don't like being so uptight. (My husband likes it even less. But thanks to my knack for chicken dinners and my sense of humour he's still here.) Worry takes all the joy out of new things. And we can't stop change. But I've finally created a life, a home, a garden, that I like - it's hard to think about letting any of that go. It really comes down to trust. Do I believe the Truth can set me free even when I'm bound to a 3 year wireless contract in a non-symmetrical living room?

Our house is currently embroiled in garage negotiations. We've been saving up for a garage for a while. But I'm scared we'll spend all that money and then hate it. It won't have the exact same siding as our house - what if they look silly side by side? Or what if it takes away too much of our yard space? Or we get laid off the year after we drain our savings? And if we spend all summer working on it how will that affect our relationship?

Or in the interests of our marriage, maybe we should use the money for a sunroom instead so we have a place to nurture our relationship that doesn't smell like Petro? (But that would require me to change the location of the bookcase and chair in the photo to make room for the doorway.) Better yet, I'll go live at my parents' house till all the renovations are done.

Maybe they'll let me rearrange the drawers in my old dresser.

How am I doing?

It's easy to say how I'm doing physically: I have a head cold, I didn't sleep well because the hamster cage fell apart in the middle of the night with a crash, and my cuticles look terrible.

It's not so easy to say I'm doing in life. What do I compare it to? The "Ghost of Sunday School Past" in my head tells me I should compare myself to Jesus. Not helpful. Compared to him I'm a worm.

I had my first day of teaching my new course on Monday. I think it went well. Considering it was my second time teaching. Considering I'm just learning how to use Microsoft Powerpoint. Considering I was very nervous and had a confusing morning of fighting with a printer and fielding calls from the kids' school.

I felt good about it because we got into some great discussions about meaningful issues. There were quite a few students that jumped in with questions and comments. They all seemed interested. But was that because I was interesting-strange or because I was interesting-informative? (They were taking lots of notes but I think some of them may end up in the professor-roasting section of the newsletter....)

My inner "Ghost of Therapists Past" tells me not to compare myself to anyone. I am me and that's all that matters. Still not helpful. There are many "ME"s. Nobody would want the "bath-robed, grouchy, couch potato ME of 10 PM" teaching them Hosea. Or the "giggling, recipe-swapping, parenting-horror-story-telling, out with my girlfriends ME."

"Professor Angeline" is only one part of me. She's like an outfit I put on with my suit jacket. But she's very closely related to "study everything I can about the Bible" Angeline and the "I love these students and want the best for them" Angeline. Those come naturally.

Unfortunately so does playing nervously with my whiteboard marker.

Highlights and lowlights

When the kids were preschoolers I belonged to a Tuesday morning mom's group that began every meeting with "highlights" (and sometimes lowlights) - the best and worst of our week. The things you were just dying to share with someone over 4: your husband's promotion or layoff, a romantic date night or your mother-in-law's extended visit, your daughter's first words or your son's first broken bone.

More than the coffee and baking, the secret sister gifts, and the girls-only outing, what I miss most about the mom's group is having someone ask me every week about my highlights. So as I reflect on the coming of the New Year, I'd like to share my highs and lows of 2008 with you.

Highlight: Holidays.
We went to Disneyworld with my parents and little brother in May, to a cabin on Gull Lake in August, and spent a weekend visiting old friends in Brandon in September. I've always been careful (read: uptight) about spending money. I like to invest my money in something that will last or save me money in the future (like new windows or insulation) but this year I learned the value of buying experiences. Meeting the little mermaid and fishing for minnows, jumping out of our skin when we fell down Splash Mountain and when that giant pine fell on the powerline. We're going to be talking about those memories and enjoying the pictures for years!

Lowlight: Cancer
My grandma's rapidly progressing lung cancer has been a weight on my heart since September. I worry about her pain, her medication, her appetite, her spirits. I dread saying goodbye.

Highlight: Math, manners and the boys next door.
K. went from being 2 years behind in his understanding of basic numeracy in June to doing grade level math in September. We have no idea why! We're chalking it up to prayer. All the school staff are also noticing in K. a newly developed awareness of his peers. It may be partly thanks to a social skills class he took this fall in which an OT led a room full of boys with Aspergers or PDD to practice turn-taking, active listening, and saying "please" and "thank you."

But a bigger factor was the boys next door. When I asked K. today what his highlight of 2008 would be, he answered without pausing, "Meeting B." Whenever a For Sale sign goes up in our neighbourhood I pray for the new neighbours. Maybe out of fear of the unknown (Could they be gun-slinging, paint-spraying crazies?) or maybe out of a desire for a greater sense of community on our street. God has never answered my prayer like this one!

I was painting their side of our fence (but not with spray paint) when the new neighbours pulled up for the first time in September. The question "So do you have kids?" led to the realization that we both had 9-year-old boys who had already met - in the same class! B. and his younger brother have been here pretty much every weekend since. And my boy (whose idea of 'playing' used to be talking to himself beside someone else) now saves the Mars Colony right alongside B. (when he's not playing the villain), and let's him have the final say on all "Inspector Bebop" movie scripts. (I'm their videographer.)

Lowlight: Layoff and letting go
I still miss my coworkers and the creative challenges of the writing job I had to leave in September. I miss the Christmas parties, the coffee breaks (mmm...cinnamon buns), and the sometimes quirky, always brilliant visionaries I interviewed each week. In September I also had to let go of my baby as she started grade one. I went from an identity as "stay at home mother of preschoolers" to not being sure what I was! The good news is she's doing fabulously. (The fact that the rest of G.'s class isn't composed of halo-wearers also helps cast her in a more positive light!) She's only run away from class a couple times, because she "already knows everything she needs to know to be a mom!"

Highlight: Teaching
Two Christmases ago my mom said, "Wouldn't it be nice if you could use your Masters and teach a College course?" Last January I got to do just that. And I survived! What's more I fell in love with teaching and with my subject matter: the book of Revelation. I had the chance to teach Revelation again at church this fall. Wow, is it ever easier the second time around! Learning to present material creatively and clearly, stir up discussion, captivate attention, and bring ancient literature about a living God close to home is exciting stuff! I feel more confident, not just as teacher, but about everything I have to offer, because of the experience.

Now I'm set to teach College for the second time with a new subject - the minor prophets - which I suspect will reappear in my highlights of 2009. I'm hoping another week at a cabin will also be in my future!

But there are some new highlights I'm hoping for in the New Year as well. A deeper friendship with my husband. A banishment of G.'s inner whine-monster. A garage where my snow-covered car is standing (and where I can put all the tools and lawn furniture that are currently cluttering up my basement!) A closer friendship with my mom as we support each other through the process of losing our mom and grandma. Maybe even a book idea. (Hey, I can dream! My "novel" went from one page long in 2007 to eight pages in 2008, so who knows, in 2009 it might even grow into a short story!)

And above all a greater sense of peace. Of enough. Of the Hand that guides me through the losses, challenges, revelations, and joys of 2009. Happy New Year!

A tribute to ordinary

My grandma is still with us but we're already planning her funeral...with her. It feels a little weird, a little special, and very hard.

My mom asked me if I would start preparing to share some memories. I don't really have specific story-like memories of Grandma because all our times together were so ordinary. My women's group encouraged me to just start writing the ordinary. So here we go.

I remember:

- Sitting at Grandma's kitchen island in Brandon on Boxing Day in my new shiny, yet itchy nightgown and watching her prepare breakfast.

- Walking through canola fields in Boissevain with Grandma helping her pull wild oats from the seed crop, the way she half disappeared in the yellow flowers, how she looked in her old straw hat.

- Riding overnight in the backseat with Grandma on the way to visit my aunts in Calgary. She folded my blanket under and wrapped it around my neck because she said that's how her own children had wanted to be tucked in. I still sleep that way.

- Grandma taking me to a one room cabin with no plumbing and me complaining the whole time about how people on my dad's side took me to bigger, nicer cabins. I must have hurt her feelings but she didn't say anything.

- Sitting in front of her bookshelf and reading her old books for hours. One was about a girl who went to university and said no to the pressure of drugs and alcohol. That book shaped my view of drinking and drugs (in a good way-I avoided them)...and university (not so good-I never went).

- Talking for hours with Grandma the times she stayed over while my parents went on holidays. When I was a boy-crazy teenager and my parents were the ones afraid to be seen in public with me, Grandma listened patiently to my stories about the boys at school, and instead of telling me I was too young for boys, shared with me about her love for Grandpa.

- Staying at Grandma's when I was very young, I think after one of my brother's was born. Playing playdough with her at the diningroom table and building block pyramids in Grandpa's study when they were pastoring in Manitou.

- Climbing around and pretending I was the pastor in the old church on their farmyard in Boissevain, by then converted into a storage area, until they told me it wasn't safe. Carrying cats up the 4 foot high stacks of grainsacks in the big shed and sitting up there for hours daydreaming. The church is gone but that shed and the little office inside it still look and smell like they did when Grandpa was working and whistling inside.

- Sitting with Grandma in the front pew of their church listening to Grandpa preach, loving the sound of his voice and wishing I would always remember what he said, but knowing I wouldn't.

- Celebrating my tenth birthday at their farm and having everyone making a big deal of it. Going to the beach.

- The feeling I got walking into her kitchen on the farm at Christmas. Playing under her ornate wood dining table. Being afraid of falling down the laundry chute. Peeking through the hole in the office wall made for the phone.

- Going to the ice cream shop at the end of the dirt road. Never knowing which flavour to get. Driving her crazy with my indecisiveness.

- The way she stubbornly won't believe K. had a disability. The way she looks at him and calls him her special boy and always believes through love and prayer he'll turn out just fine.

For better or worse, I've inherited Margaret Froese's sense of humour, work ethic, anxious spirit, love of books, stubbornness, and servant's heart. I may not have long, unique, or fascinating stories to tell about her, but I have moments. And feelings.

And the beauty of the ordinary.

How I traded my fear of escalators and ramps for a little lift

I used to sweat every time I went near Polo Park Shopping Centre.

There's a few reasons for that. When I first moved to the city in the summer of '92 (to begin my short career at Dairy Queen) I was hit by a truck right in front of the mall. I didn't see any other vehicles coming, but in the middle of my U-turn I sure felt one. We never found each other in all the traffic, he never phoned it in, and I was left paying the deductible.

I wasn't injured, but the experience didn't do much for my confidence as a city driver, especially considering I had just rear-ended someone two weeks before. If I had had speed dial, Autopac would've been on it.

I was so tired of dealing with body shops, police reports and Autopac claim adjusters. Every time I saw an Autopac sign I would relive the boom of the crash, followed by the laughter of my Dairy Queen coworkers, the shaking frowns of my parents.

When I began dating T. that fall, we decided to turn my negative experience around; every time we saw an Autopac logo we treated it like mistletoe and smooched. Now that was a much more pleasant 'collision'!

The other reason Polo Park gave me the shakes was because I was a regular window shopper at Polo Park's Thyme Maternity during my first pregnancy...the one I lost.

I also seem to recall a frightening encounter with the Polo Park down escalators from my childhood, but I think I've repressed it.

This summer there was a reclining lawn chair on sale at Zellers that I wanted to get T. for our anniversary. There was only one left in the city - at the Polo Park location. I made it home with the chair, a stiff neck, and a few more reasons to hate going there, which involve confusing parking ramps and gift cards that drain themselves if you don't spend them in time.

But last night I drove to Polo Park and I can't wait to go back.

I visited a parents' group for moms of kids with disabilities that meets in that area. We shared our experiences with behaviour therapies and stimulant medications, discussed coping strategies, and swapped the battle stories that sometimes make parents of typical kids clear their throats and change the subject. Stories of kids running away in public and parents wishing they could too. Of unhinged doors and falling stipple. (Which, by the way, they wanted me to let you know makes a great hair gel. Scratch off ceiling onto head, rub in and style. Instant body and hold. Not that K.'s naturally "Calvin and Hobbs" hair needs it.)

After 3 hours of laughing and sharing over 7-Up (i.e. 3 hours of laughing on a full bladder) I felt so comfortable (except for my bladder), like I'd known these moms for months.

Polo Park still has parking ramps and gift card fees, but I don't have to worry about those. Just like Autopac can become a reason to kiss, Polo Park has become a reason to laugh.

A house full of pirates and joy

At G.'s dance class last weekend I overheard some moms talking about their families. One mom had five young children and finally felt like her family was complete. She looked very calm for a mother of five. (She owns 2 washers and dryers which helps I'm sure.)

I always imagined T. and I would have four kids, or at the very least three. When we were engaged I had visions of us someday walking through the park with four blonde heads of descending size, like Russian dolls, walking between us.

Okay, so I was a bit naive. What I really got was one blonde head trying to dive into the duckpond and the other one rolling in the grass screaming because her leggings were slipping.

I guess it's sort of like my dream: they could've been brunettes or redheads diving and rolling.

I wonder if the Madonna-Five-Times-Over ever has days like that. From what she said it sounded like she nurses the baby while the other four sit quietly at a table and teach each other the alphabet.

After K. got his diagnosis, I'd see pregnant women and all I could think about was the risk they were taking. Especially by having boys, who are 4 times more likely than girls to have autism and 2-3 times more likely to have ADHD. At the time when people usually talk about having a third, I was so overwhelmed with K.'s behaviour and the needs of a preschool-girl-with-attitude, I didn't even seriously consider it.

Last night I had 5 kids in my house. Three boys from the neighbourhood showed up to play hide-and-seek with K. and G.. I had kids popping out of closets and shower stalls left and right. And it felt like little champagne bubbles popping in my chest.

I loved having a house full of children. And as someone who wanted a little girl very badly, I'm surprised at how much I loved the pirate sword fights and Lego airship factories of K. and his friends. Nine year old boys are a lot of fun. And now that we're permanently diaper and spit-up free, I wonder what it would be like if we had had more? (If we'd made it through the toddler years with a bit of sanity remaining.)

All I know is that I'm grateful that K.'s social skills and our parenting skills have grown so that we now have the energy to welcome more Russia dolls of all colours into our home.

Even if it is only for as long as it takes to bring down a pirate airship.

"We had high hopes for you" and other difficult things about being family

I love my extended family. Families share so many values, traditions and memories. Families believe in you and have high hopes for you.

Which is why I sometimes feel like wearing a high hope-proof vest.

To brutally misquote Isaiah 55:8: Your hopes are not my hopes and your ways are not my ways, saith Angeline.

My mom's siblings are an academic bunch: psychologist, author/life coach, social worker, corporate lawyer, businessman, programmer. (As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are their incomes higher than mine.) From the time I was knee high to a microfiche, I was told the virtues of marrying late and getting a Masters and a high paying, prestigious career in an academic profession. (Plumbers make good money but that doesn't count. Which is okay, because I'd make a terrible plumber.)

Masters degree - check. Academic career - check. Prestigious - well, my articles have been read by thousands across the country and two have earned awards (see Disabilities and Simplicity links to read the award-winning stories). High paying - not so much. And you can't get married much younger than 21, can you? (I mean legally.)

So at family gatherings as I field the questions: "Why aren't you writing for more publications? Why are you teaching only one class?" I sense a disappointment. Dashed hopes. (When I start talking about drying the dishes by hand their eyes really start to tear up.) I imagine I can hear the unasked questions: "Why is she wasting her education?" "Why isn't she more motivated?"

"Why isn't she like us?"

A few years ago I was more motivated. And miserable. I felt like I had to prove myself to the world by publishing more, winning more, earning more. More, more, more.

No more. I'm at peace with myself and what I do. I write and teach because I enjoy it. I also bake pies and scrub shower tiles because I enjoy it. And I walk kids home for lunch through the park and chat with them about airships and pirates, mermaids and heaven, because I really, really enjoy it!

To take Isaiah 55 in context, God's ways are higher than ours as the heavens are higher than the earth; meaning we're all on the same earth, equal before him and equally below him. I may not have fully lived up to my family's hopes and values, but I am learning to listen to God's way for my life.

I don't want to be like the man Walker Percy was describing when he said, "He got all 'A's' and flunked life." (Which is why I intentionally got some B's in college to make time for important things like donut runs and toilet papering the dean's office. Oh ya, and wooing T. with my feminine charms and working car.)

A few verses down in Isaiah 55 God promises, "You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands." Finding and giving joy is becoming the guiding principle in my life. Not resume-building.

Now if you'll excuse me I have pies to make. Maybe I'll even set one aside in the freezer for the next family gathering.