God and Flashing Neon Signs

Lying there, my head on his chest, I am reminded of Anne Lamott's Rosie. How the mom's feet were alone at the foot of the bed, though her bed was not empty.

This is my favorite place to be, when it is dark. Quiet.

Though indecision cloaks the air.

We both have reached the same conclusion-about where it is God is leading. Just we are never there together. He is solid one day, and I am resistant. The next we reverse.

"How I wished God had a flashing neon sign."

A common utterance since my adolescent days. Then. Then I would know for sure just what it was He wanted from us. From me.

"I think I know, but then something new happens, and I can't be sure. I wish I had some concrete sign."

"The Israelites had one. They still screwed it up." My husband’s voice, the delicate pragmatism, cautious because though he is right, I am a better arguer.

I remember from Bible School days, Moses leading by fire at night and a cloud during the day. A flashing sign, looming before him.

Still the people doubted, made a golden calf to worship-a tangible God. Ignored the majesty that was smoke and fire.

I wonder if Moses did too, his heart tentative, asking the Lord if He was really, really sure this was the way to go. Did he question the burning bush; explain away his white hair after coming down the mountain?

And what if my flashing neon signs are all around? Explained away as coincidence, luck, misfortune?

Maybe the voice-the nudging, nagging thought is His flashing sign. It is just us, me, who wonders if He is really, really sure of the direction. If it were there in print and lights, would I still wonder if it was what He wanted?

Wondering if it not the flashing neon signs I am missing, but the faith to believe them.

Jesus

"Jesus."

It was all I could mutter when a nurse down the hall brought her phone. The live stream showed the recent aftermath of the Boston explosion.

"Jesus, help us."

I cannot pretend to know their fear, their pain.

My father and I were having this conversation recently-the one that is being played across Twitter, Facebook, and in living rooms.

What is the world coming to? When did our world get so bad? What has happened?

Today, I wanted to skip the allergy shots and homework, bunker down in our first floor apartment and wait.

But the shot needed gotten, the dog was still at the vet. We were almost out of milk.

My dad pointed out that every generation imagines itself the worst, the hardest-working, living in the most dangerous world there is.

We have 9/11, Sandy Hook, and now Boston.
The 90s had Oklahoma City, Columbine.
The 80s had the Iranian Hostage Crisis, attempted assassination of Reagan. Apartheid
The 70s had Vietnam, Agent Orange, SDS bombings.
The 60s had the Civil Rights Movements, the killings of Civil rights activists near Philadelphia, bombings including one that took 4 beautiful Birmingham girls in the House of the Lord.
The 50s had the Cold War, bomb shelters, imminent threats of Nuclear War.
The 40s had Pearl Harbor, Hiroshima, Auschwitz.
And so it went on, each generation with its on fears, threats, and dangers.

"We didn't have to worry when we were kids." Quoted by people from 25 to 60.

Thought @ 35, I remember somehow knowing Adam Walsh's head was found severed from his body, harmed by scary people somewhere in broad daylight. He had been in K-Mart.

News reports from when I was in the first grade, a white van abducting children. My brother at 10, taking a knife to school.

My mother remembers her high school classmate murdering his stepmother, 50 years ago in a quiet Mississippi town.

Recent society can recall Jonestown, anthrax-tainted mail, Son of Sam, Oklahoma City, the assassinations of Robert and John Kennedy and Martin Luther King.

A generation or two removed recall the bombs of Berlin and Paris, suicides as the stock market plunged, bread lines, rations.

Graves hold the fears and stories of those who came before: Jesse James, the Titanic, the assignation of Frans Ferdinand, the Civil War, Jim Crow.

The tragedy the human heart can inflict is rivaled only by the resilience of the human soul.

May Jesus carry those affected by the tragedy of today.

May he make the rest of us brave so that we will carry own in this world because He has work for us to do. And how selfish of us to wish His return before every soul can hear of Him.

On being tattooed and Christian

I dye my hair, more than one color.

I have enough tattoos that they are measured in hours, not number.

I still have somewhat of a potty mouth, though I am recovering.

I want Hillary Clinton to be the next President of the USA.

And I don't think the government should get to decide what happens in a uterus or a bedroom.

I am a Christian. I love Jesus, and He alone has saved me.

Sometimes all these pieces don't add up to what I think a Christian woman should look like. Sometime they don't add up to what society thinks a Christian woman should look like. Frequently, they don't add up to what the church thinks a Christian woman should look like.

I am drawn to women who identify their beliefs via uniform. Crushed when I discovered all nuns did not have to wear habits. I will gaze, longingly even, at the Mennonite women in our community (so much so that my husband has kicked me under the table), dying to know the difference between the black and white head coverings. Wanted to join in on the conversations of Pentecostal women I see at restaurants. To me, these women wear the uniform of a Christian.

I struggled to make those garments mine, struggled with what I thought I should be. I have covered tattoos, avoided political discussions, wanted to bake and preserve. I even tried to stay at home once.

Because I assumed that is what Jesus would want a Christian woman to look like.

I married a good man. He is God-fearing, love your wife as the Lord loves the church, Sunday school attending, Republican, music minister's kid who by all accounts should have married the quiet girl who sings in the choir.

Once I asked him, "Are you sorry you married a crazy lady?"

His only response, "I am sorry I didn't marry her sooner."

He chose me.

All of me: the single mother, the tattooed flesh, the overuse of the word a@#, the doubter.

So did Jesus. Jesus chose to make me, the way I am. He knew before I was thought of the bad choices I would make, the suffering I would both cause and endure and he still made me.

 (I wish I could take credit for the following revelation, but I can't; I read it in a blog comment somewhere. Thank you to whoever wrote it. Yes, God knows exactly how we are going to screw up before we do it. Remember when David asked God if he could build the temple. God told David that his son would build it. His son. God and David had this conversation before Bathsheba, before the death of David's first child, before Solomon. God KNEW exactly what was in store for David. He didn't just use David's mistakes for the glory of God.)

Knowing all these things, God still made my flesh, loved me, commanded me (just as He commanded every other believer) to love Him most, love others, and make disciples.

And because I believe in Him, I am a Christian.

May I focus on people seeing this by my actions and not worrying about my uniform.

I am a CHEER MOM

My husband is convinced that I will name any future children Olivia, Stabler, and Fin. He is probably right.

I watch Dance Moms with varying expressions of incredulities, disbelief and shame. I have watched more than one Honey Boo Boo, IN A ROW. There is (unfortunately) little shame in my guilty pleasure. But I cringe when I see advertisements for Cheer Perfection; I turn the channel before it comes on and think happy thoughts if I happen to hear recaps from someone else.

I was a cheer mom. The WORST kind--the loud, always-right, takes-it-way-too-seriously, has a talented kid who I embarrassed--cheer mom.

We fell into cheer; baby girl was about to start kindergarten and taking a tumbling class at a local gym. She wanted to sign up for a cheer clinic, and the instructor let her, though she was not yet 6. The rest is history.

She is super talented, can do handsprings and tucks and jumps.

But super talented isn't always enough when you're a cheer mom. I compared. I fussed. I complained. I pushed. And in the end, none of us loved cheer.

Life happened. I married and moved hours away; baby girl had to sit out since we moved midseason. Midseason turned into sitting out a full season and rec classes. The husband and I shared carpool duties to dance and tumbling. Carpool only, never darkening the door of the gym.

I was cured.

UNTIL. Until she told me she missed it. Missed the routines, the workouts, the competitions. And we delved back in, looking for a gym for next season.

We stumbled upon one in a neighboring town; the coach wanted her to come for a workout and get a feel for the group.

I felt a little like someone in recovery, walking into a bar again. I asked my husband to pray without ceasing while we were gone, and I asked my daughter if I could watch her while she worked out.

"Will you be nice?"

  

I didn't have the heart to ask if she meant to her or everyone else, but I nodded and added, "If I will make you uncomfortable, I will wait in the car." 

I was pardoned and took a seat in the lobby. She shook hands with the coach and started to stretch. As they progressed to tumbling, she moved from the line and came to stand beside me.

"I'm scared."

I wish there wasn't that little part of me that wanted to say 'Suck it up and just go out there.' But there is. It is ingrained, deep. The professional woman. The single parent. The survivor. We don't admit to fear.

Then there is the mom. A role that is evolving, that I am learning still, even if I'm not always comfortable.

The mom spoke, "It is OK to be scared. You haven't cheered for a while. Just take a breath and do whatever pass you want."

She leaned on me for a while, her body only two inches shorter than mine, her strong legs against my seated torso, her elbow on my shoulder.

And I think of all those nights, sharing a bed, her infant body resting in the curve of my hip. As a toddler, tiny toes pressed into my back. Lying closer wrapping her limbs around me as she grew. Never close enough for her. Her breath light on my face as she slept.

When I married, she picked out a new bedroom set, moved down the hall to her own bed. How I worried that she would be afraid without me. She straightened her pink zebra blanket and never looked back.

"Mama gets scared sometimes too."

And she left, joined the line, and looked at the coach when it was her turn.

I was amazed to watch her in the air. I had not seen her tumble in over a year. Flips with no hands, high into the air. Light on her feet as she landed.

And she looked at me. She was waiting to see where I would have her improve, what she could have done differently, better.

She got a thumbs up.

She shrugged, smiled, and got in line again.

  

This was my second chance. My second chance to watch my baby girl do something she loves. My second chance to encourage and support. My second chance to be involved.

Thankful today that I serve the God of second chances. Not only cheer mom, do-overs, but renewed every morning. Thankful that my God has given me more than a second chance.

The coach asked baby girl join the senior squad for the last competitions of this season.

She was thrilled.

I was nauseous.

But we both went forward.

I am still a work in progress, but enjoying watching her excel.

I let her coach, coach.

And I am her mom. A CHEER MOM, with a second chance.

They shoot fat women, don't they: an ode to Suzanne Sugarbaker

Baby girl was nearing 12 weeks old: her thick black hair crooked on her head, like a preacher's toupee. She is cool in her onesie; Mississippi temperatures well above 75 in April.

Dr. L_____ walked in, no knock on the door, "Miss K_____, you're fat and you're going to raise fat children."

I pulled baby girl tighter to my chest, stood and said, "Then, I guess it is safe to assume your children are a@#holes."

And I left.

I always thought I was heavy, was told I was; though the few pictures salvaged from Katrina show a different story. I was always tall for my age, lacked toothpick or willowy limbs, with a round face and soft middle. Late elementary school would have me filled out, nearly 5'7", curvy, developed early, cutting short my neighborhood football career.

The boys in my class had eyes only for the other girls: short and tiny, with perms and bangs. It was my older brother's football teammate who first told me I was pretty; though with no one's echoes it fell on deaf ears.

After over a decade in scrubs, it is time for business dress. Today, I tried to shop for work clothes. Our small, college town has limited choices, but JC Penney's is good for black pants. I browsed the small store having been there as recently as a few weeks ago, but could not find the plus size section. The store clerk told me, "THEY took out our Women's section."

And just like that, the fat women were gone.

My body has been my enemy as long as I can remember. The large breasts and rounded behind gave way to thick curves and ultimately soft flesh filling out all the available space.

No amount of exercise would give me long legs and thin arms, not my body's natural shape.

And so I opted to not try at all, just eat what I enjoy, and focus on anything but my body.

My husband thinks I'm beautiful. I remember after a double-date, a friend telling me that she wished her boyfriend was proud of her in public the way my husband was of me. But despite his desire, I never liked my body.

I didn't want to raise baby girl with those same feelings. As a toddler, we would stand together in the mirror and both exclaim how beautiful we were. Though everyone has always told her how beautiful she was, even now as she is growing up, I remind her of all her strengths; her beauty included.

But today at Penney's, there I was with no department to represent me. Nothing above a size 14 in the whole store. And for a fleeting moment, I was once again mad at my body.

Then I was pissed at Penney's. How dare they scrub the store of a large percentage of the population? Who are they to decide plus size women don't need a place to shop? And though there are no other stores within 30 minute of me, I won't be darkening the door of JC Penney's again!

So today, I'm going to forgive my body and the woman who made it fat. It has, after all, survived relatively unscathed for over 35 years. It made, grew, and birthed the most beautiful baby girl I could have imagined. It lets me get up and work every day. Don't get me wrong, I am trying to treat it better (no soda, no fast food, organic and whole foods), but I am not waiting for thinner to be proud of my body and what it does.

So to JC Penney's and Dr. L______, yeah I'm fat but I'm beautiful, too.

If the Wise Men were introverted, suffering from PMS and slightly obsessed with One Direction

Christmas lights and sounds and crowds make me weary. My breath comes slowly and I feel hot and sticky in the holiday shops and endless lines. I prefer to watch it all from the fringes, appearing for a bit and retreating quickly to solitude.

The holidays are busy: a drive to my parents, peppered with conversation, a stop @ Cracker Barrel where Baby Girl laughed so hard root beer spewed across the table, and jazz on the radio. Pops and brother played guitar; Nana walked to and from the kitchen; Baby Girl and Teen Niece straightened hair; husband and Little Nephew conversed intently about Star Wars. I watched, half immersed in a book, enjoying the familiar.

Christmas Eve @ husband's family: the winding country roads and the smell of lavender to keep the motion sickness @ bay. Food and people. Baby Nephew excited in all that is wrapped and waiting to be opened. Baby Girl new here, still--like her mother--stays close throughout the day, venturing to play only as night is falling. There are dogs; one so massive and alive, he is better suited to the pages of Narnia, but gentle. His head as big as mine nudges my hand for attention, his heft against my legs.

On the way home, we pull over and watch deer for a moment...a sight still thrilling for those of us in this new country.

As Christmas sneaks in, Baby Girl is fast asleep, husband wraps the last of the gifts, and I lie watching him. I search my essential oils guide for cramps find two that came free with the starter kit. "That's how to get husbands to buy in. Treat PMS." Husband laughs when he says it.

Christmas morning there are gifts, cinnamon rolls, a 100 piece puzzle. Baby Girl asked us if we said Happy Birthday to Jesus. She facetimes with Pops. It is our first Christmas day apart-bittersweet because we miss them, but know they're happy for our family.

The day lazes on; there are books, leftovers (jambalaya from husband's uncle, Nana's BBQ), naps, the documentary concert of One Direction.

It is a quiet Christmas. Unremarkable by most standards. I wonder if I'm failing with no tree, no decorations, no traditions.

Baby Girl wears a trail telling me that the One Direction calendar has all the birthdays marked (Harry's is February 1). She raves over the cinnamon rolls and jambalaya. Pouts when her wallet can't be found. She shows off her new shoes and headbands, downloads songs to her IPod. She is quick witted, sometimes sharp-tongued, curious, confident turning flips or doing turns on stage, yet so shy we couldn't sing Happy Birthday to her until she was four. It is her heart I see today; her letting Baby Nephew help tear open her last gift, her teacher commenting how she was one of only three girls that refused to get involved in a tween girls' dispute, and today counting out dollars and coins that she had saved for almost a year to fund drinking water for someone else.

Husband took photos, modeled his new shoes, and a belt too big. He took a nap, made the absolute best sandwiches, and silently matched Baby Girl's donation dollar for dollar, never telling her. It has been a year since we married. He is more confident, able to stand up for himself better, and laughs more. He quadruple wrapped some of Baby Girl's gifts after he caught her peeking through the paper. She laughed at being foiled; he pleased that he could foil her.

And I with my little family. Laughed at the pictures taken, tackled pieces of the puzzle, read a book as husband napped, enjoyed chips and salsa. In this, my first year of marriage, I find I have to defend less, enjoy more, and am happy to have someone to depend on.

I think of the Wise Men. Their flaws? Did one want to lead, but was forced to follow? Did one begrudge bringing the gift of gold to a child? The shepherd? Did he doubt? Was he irritable? A loner? And Mary. Sweet, sweet Nana reminds me how hard that donkey ride must have been for her. Who could have blamed Joseph had he left? We know so little of this man, but I marvel at what he must have been, for God entrusted him with the earthly raising of His Son. The cast of characters that makes the first Christmas was not dressed in finest linens, did not hold the highest office of the day, did not attend parties in the fanciest of places. They were integral to the Story because they were searching for the KING.

So today, we are celebrating Jesus birth. It was low-key, a little unconventional, surrounded by the people who are closest. And so was our Christmas, our flawed cast of three, enjoying one another and following the KING.

Mary, did you know?

Tonight there were no AR goals, no make-up work, no organic/nonGMO meals, no labor budgets, no mortgage payments. There was Wendy's (her choice), preview of the new jazz dance, plans for a friend's party tomorrow. Tonight, I combed her head and greased her scalp--something she has deemed herself grown enough to do for over a year. I never imagined her magic moments, all those long days she grew inside me. I could not have envisioned her laugh, quick wit, sensitivity to others, and her fierce protection of her mama. Nothing can prepare you for the love, joy, pride, the worry. If I knew the outcome would I still have wanted the ride? Mary, did you know? The betrayal? The cross? Even knowing Sunday was coming, could you have carried the burden of Friday? How much God loves us knowing the end and sending His Son? How much Jesus? Their heart breaking on Calgary? Tonight, for the mamas who lost their babies, there aren't words. But between mothers there don't have to be. Mary, did you know? And for the rest of us, belief in the One who does.