Today my sister would be celebrating her 50th birthday. 50! And my dad is celebrating his birthday, too. The date is intermingled – an event that was always a dual celebration in our house. I thought it was a special kind of magic that two people not related by blood would share such an important date. It’s like they were destined to be family.
This may surprise some people who know my family – my dad is not Aimee’s genetic father. Dad met my mom in Christchurch, New Zealand when Aimee was but a year old and adopted her when she was…Maybe 6? These things took a while back in the day. I know that my dad, in his inimitable way, decided to marry my mom within days of meeting her and that my mom, badass that she was, made no bones about the fact that she was a proud single mom and that to love her was to love her daughter. This was 1968 – she was staking out her ground and daring a man with vision and courage meet her on her own terms.
Dad was the man for the job. A young naval officer at the time stationed in Antarctica (he got an island in the Antarctic named after him for his efforts – imagine that!), Dad accepted the challenge and went to battle for her hand and her daughter.
I mean this literally. My grandmother, Dorothea, was the most badass warrior woman God ever created. She fought on Burma Road in WWII and no half-witted, soft-lad Yankee was going to steal her beloved Granddaughter and spirit her off to the God-forsaken wilds of America. Let’s just say that woman knew how to wield a machete and was not afraid to use it.
In my father’s usual quiet way, once he set his mind to something, he went and did it. He won my mother’s hand with his keen mind and sense of humor then he won over my grandmother with his courage under fire.
And my sister? He won her heart with his willingness to enter her world and search for Christopher Robin and the Hundred Acre Wood. I think they found it somewhere near Morgan Hill back before there was silicon in our valley and orchards still covered the land. I’m sure wherever it was it smelled divine – like cherry blossoms and old oak trees.
And that was the start of our family – Mom, Dad and Aimee. I came along a few years later, and then, pulling up the rear, my brother.
And here we are, 50 years after her birth. We carry on without our beloved daughter and sister. But the link between us all, the invisible thread that ties us together is still there. This is one of the secrets you learn when you lose someone before their time – if you keep telling their stories, they are still with you. Until the last story is told.
Here’s to more stories and more memories. Happy Birthday Dad. And to Aimee, wherever you are 💙💙💙
Let the first act of every morning be to make the following resolve for the day:
– I shall not fear anyone on Earth. – I shall fear only God. – I shall not bear ill will toward anyone. – I shall not submit to injustice from anyone. – I shall conquer untruth by truth. And in resisting untruth, I shall put up with all suffering.
This quote has rather dominated the last 5 months of my life. I have always loved it but I don’t think I ever truly understood the courage it takes to resist submitting to injustice, nor the resolve required to resist untruth and endure all suffering as a consequence of that resistance.
When you speak truth to power, there may be immediate rewards and even glory. And let’s be honest – it can feel downright liberating to let people know exactly what you think.
Just as easily, there may be other consequences that do not feel so wonderful. There are often real, painful, and harsh penalties that do not feel as satisfying, including humiliation, rejection, and betrayal. In fact, you should probably count on it. Most folks don’t respond well when you call them out and hold them to account and they will take their pound of flesh, make no mistake.
This is why I love Gandhi’s quote so much. It reminds me that I must expect to be faced with these harsh and often unjust consequences, to anticipate them and be ready to pay the price. It is part of being a wayseeker.
One of Gandhi’s other lessons is that suffering is part of living and those who can accept this and embrace it can find peace. It is when we resist suffering, when we rail against it, when we wring our hands and gnash our teeth, that we dispair. Suffering can be endured. Dispair, however, is soul destroying.
When we suffer for the right reasons – because we stood up for truth or beauty or to preserve human dignity – we might lose friends, get fired from our jobs, or face arrest or imprisonment. Recognize this, and accept these as the price for walking this path.
Like Gandhi, Jesus understood what it meant to suffer for the truth. No one was better at declaring the truth and calling people out when they denied it or acted in ways that were not in alignment with the truth. And no one was more willing to suffer pain, humiliation and eventually death in defense of the truth and beauty of God’s Kingdom.
I am currently suffering for the truth. I spoke my truth and demanded that I be treated with dignity and I was cast out and humiliated for it, publicly and in a most inhumane manner imaginable. It has made me question my faith in people and certainly undermined my naive belief that honesty is a policy that is rewarded.
This is hard!
The Bible says in 2 Timothy 2:12 “If we suffer, we shall also reign with him..” This is such an important lesson. We are one with Jesus when we take up a cross and carry it, willingly, for the right reasons! When we suffer because we fear no man but God and will speak the truth, we may well suffer, but we will also be one with our teacher.
We are never to suffer needlessly, however, because of things like guilt or shame. Good Lord, put those crosses down! Jesus died for those exact sins so that we would be free from their heavy weight and impossible burden. This is his grace and mercy to us.
The follow-up to this verse, of course, is a reminder that if we deny Jesus, he will deny us. This sounds rather harsh, but I make sense of it in this way: we are called to walk by faith, not by sight. When we suffer, or when we see others in pain, we may be tempted to impose a timeline on things. We are willing to endure, but only for so long. Then we want it to stop, for things to get better, to be rewarded for our efforts.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. God has his owntimeline and it rarely aligns with ours. In those agonizing minutes and months and years of prolonged suffering, we may move from grudging endurance to outright resentment. We knew it wouldn’t be easy but we didn’t sign up for this! And we might be tempted, in our frustration, to believe we’ve been abandoned. We lose faith.
Remember to keep going. Remember to walk by faith alone. When the reality of your suffering becomes great, close your eyes and keep on moving. This is the path of the wayseeker. You are not lost and you have not been foresaken. You can’t see the end of the road, but God can and it will end. It always does, one way or another, and as long as you don’t lose faith, your place beside Jesus is confirmed.
That is the only thought that keeps me moving sometimes. When I feel my commitment flagging, when I think I can’t go another step, sometimes all I have left is a battered and worn out “Hallelujah”. Yes, in my low moments it even rings hollow to my own ears. But it is better to say that – and hope it rings true in time – then to abandon the Way altogether. And I’ll keep saying it until my faith feels steady once more.
Supprisingly, even some in Hollywood understand this (and why shouldn’t we embrace Home Truths, even when they come from such an unlikely source. Truth is Truth). In one of the final scenes of the Star Wars epic Rogue One, the inimitable blind warrior Monk of Jedha, Churrit Imwe repeatedly intones:
“I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.”
Now there is a lesson: if I say it often enough, it will guide my steps and I do not have to see where I am going in order to arrive at the right place at exactly the right time.
My husband and I are house hunting. We are not in complete agreement about what we want to buy, or even where, and the search is in its early stages which means we often find ourselves in rather unexpected places, all in the name of “checking things out.”
Today we found ourselves in a new eco co-housing community, mostly because, like all good progressives, we like the idea of a strong sense of community combined with sustainability. So we traveled a mile out of town to see what was cooking at the proposed eco village.
It took me about 30 seconds to realize this was never going to be a welcoming place for our youngest sons. This place was crawling with senior citizens in Birkenstocks and hemp clothing. These folks are slow and steady, calm to the point of inertia, unless they are gardening or composting their healthy and pesticide free leftovers, or forming singing groups called “The Green Grannies” who sing about saving the earth and dress in wildly flamboyant green clothing.
Everything moved at a relaxed and deliberate pace, and inside voices were used outside because, like all worthy people, shouting, along with picking one’s nose, is seen as vulgar in the extreme. There is plenty of energy, but it is for things like potlucks and community gardens, not games of capture the flag or sword fights (always plastic or wood swords, just in case you were worried).
My boys ran at top speed from the parking lot to the play area barely missing the perambulating seniors and toddlers who had arrived earlier in the day, made heart-shaped mud pies with the sand toys, and climbed everything not surrounded by an electric fence. They whacked low hanging tree branches with the aforementioned plastic sword, as well as probed ground holes with its tip, and ran and tripped and leaped across the uneven ground, skidding in the mud, all with voices in a decibel range only a NASCAR enthusiast could appreciate.
They stood out like a couple of hyper, dirty and noisy sore thumbs.
Outside the community building where a lecture on the proposed design plans for the community was being held, signs were posted asking latecomers to remove all shoes, not just the muddy ones. That strategy would hardly last through breakfast in our house. Mud is our middle name. So the boys, who have an inherent knack for slamming doors and filling a studious quiet with shouts of, “I need to poo, RIGHT NOW!” were invited to stay outside.
We missed the lecture, but I didn’t really need it to know we didn’t fit in at this place.
In fact, we don’t fit in many places any more. Even in places where there are other children. Our boys are notorious for their high energy and imaginative games. These games often revolve around nature exploration, but they could equally involve super heroes and Power Rangers. They always involve climbing, running, water, mud, and a high degree of unintended destruction. If it can be thrown, jumped on, pounded, pulled apart, flung, stacked, soaked, dug up, pulverized, or propped up, it will be.
We deal in a constant whirl of negative impulse control and bad outcomes. I have had to teach my boys about mens rea – the legal concept that a crime requires intent – and that having a reckless disregard for the outcome of one’s actions makes one just as guilty as if one had intended the outcome right from the start.
Raising boys is a study in living life on the edge with a reckless disregard for the consequences.
And the more boys you have, and the closer they are in age, the more accute this experience becomes. Mothers of twins and “annuals” (my word for those of us whose kids will be just one year apart in school) know exactly what I mean. The phrase “partners in crime” was developed to describe our kids. Together, they are far greater at causing chaos than a simple sum of their individual parts would indicate.
My Aunt Carol had 6 boys. The first 5, thanks to a set of twins, were very close in age. At one point, she had 5 under five. I shudder at the very thought. Like imaging the death of a loved one, I just can’t go there.
Some say I am following in her footsteps, but the truth is, she is a bloody miracle of Motherhood because she SURVIVED. And I admire her for how she did it – with grace, humor, and a move to a ranch where her boys could run wild and free and indulge in all things boy, in a way that suburban living will never tolerate.
And this is where I will follow my Aunt’s lead. If I have learned one thing during my initial house search it is that my boys need space, with mud that isn’t in a flower bed or covering the squash and bean crop, trees that aren’t the fragile but attractive Crepe Myrtle at the front of the drive, space to fling rocks and hurl sticks, and enough distance between them and everyone else so that their imaginations can run wild and free without causing property damage or personal injury.
The truth is, society today no longer appreciates boys or boy-like behavior. We like to see kids playing imagination games so long as those games don’t involve competition, or God forbid, fighting, wrestling, or any other physical, risky challenge. Earlier in the day, in fact, we were hounded out of the outdoor restaurant where we were enjoying lunch because our youngest, Jacob, was open carrying his plastic sword, and was running with two other boys. The other dads took offense and hollered at Jacob, then told my husband about the transgression. All Jacob was doing was running with a sword. It kept falling out of its “sheath” (his belt loop on his trousers), so in order to keep up with the kids, he had to hold it. And that was enough to condemn him in the eyes of the other parents.
As we drove away I noted that the other boys were now armed with larger, rapier-like sticks. My boys are leaders of future men, if nothing else.
Boys need time to be boys. They need space, and patience, love, and lots of understanding laughter. It is a hard, messy, job to parent a boy. And in those moments when I am not tired, trying to clean, or it is early in the day and the list of transgressions is still short, I can appreciate them in all their filthy, fun and physical glory.
For the other times?
Wine. And a Bible. And a padded cell. But hopefully the wine and Bible are enough.
I sometimes see my boys in the future. They are strong, fearless, and full of adventure and high spirits. They make me laugh and keep me young.
All will be well, I tell myself, if only I can survive these Wild Years. And of course I will. For who wouldn’t want to see what becomes of all this energy and what order will be brought to this chaos?
I used to think I was supposed to be a mother of many daughters. I have a degree in Women’s Studies, after all. But now I see the wisdom in God’s mysterious ways. She knew what She was doing when She sent me these last two boys, my change-of-life sons, Brothers in Arms, worst of enemies, and fiercest of friends.
My 5-year-old son, Josiah, told me today – with a confident nonchalance that only a 5-year-old can muster – that he speaks excellent “Bird”. Apparently, all the birds love him. As a matter of fact, ” I also speak Hawk,” he declared.
No problem, I thought. Good on ya for believing in the impossible. We should all approach life with a certain amount of faith in the impossible, in ideas that are unbelievable, and the people who have them.
Let’s face it, this kind of faith is in our collective DNA. Having hope in a crazy idea is what made America possible. No one in his or her right mind would have ever believed that Jamestown would make it to year 3, let anyone to year four and beyond, what with all the problems they had, not the least of which was famine.
And yet here I in Virginia, in a land so plentiful that it makes my heart weep.
And what about that crazy little idea about walking on the moon? Or vaccinations (inject yourself with the disease you are trying to prevent – are you nuts??), or air conditioning, or that women should have the same rights and entitlements as men, or that a dead guy could get up and walk out of his grave andlive.
This last just might be the craziest of all, and I’m the first to admit it. There is nothing rational about believing what I believe. And let me be clear, my belief is unqualified. I do not think the story of Jesus is a lie, a metaphor, or that, even if there was an historical Jesus, that we can explain that event away with science (perhaps he was in a coma, or in some way not quite dead yet).
No, I firmly and unequivocally believe that Jesus died and three days later, he got up and walked out of his tomb. I believe that Jesus is the hope of the world and this is because he lived.
Better still, he got up and lived on the heels of a revolutionary 3-year ministry where he healed the sick, comforted the grieving, loved the rejected, and fed the hungry. Even if he hadn’t gotten up and lived, I’d still love the guy, because he got it. I’d love him because he understood that the Kingdom is right here in front of us, ready for the taking, if we just moved closer to love.
I recently saw Jack Canfield – he of Chicken Soup for the Soul fame – on Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday. Jack said that every day we have to make a choice. And the choice is between love and fear. Are we going to move in the direction of love or are we going to hang on to our fear?
Love or fear?
Jesus asked us to move towards love and showed us that even our deepest fear – that of death – could be overcome by love.
And the real miracle isn’t that he lived, but that some many of us have found a way to love each other because of it. Through faith in him who died, then lived, and showed that death is not the final word, we have found moments of transcendent humanity and compassion. This is what the Kingdom is, and it its source is faith.
I believe that my son can speak bird because he believes he can and he loves birds, and I love him for it. And I believe that Jesus was dead, then he lived, and that His love leads to everlasting life.
Call me crazy. I’m good with that.
Because I’m going to do my damnedest to choose love over fear every single time.