Lasagna Love

WThis week, I found myself making a lasagna.  A friend was struggling, and a group of mamas were working together to make sure she didn't have to worry about dinner prep for a few days.  Despite making dozens of lasagnas in my (very limited) culinary career, this lasagna hit me with the sacred space of it all.  If it weren't for the random collection of magnets, pretend food, and barbie shoes littering my kitchen floor, I might have taken my shoes off.  I'm talking THAT sacred of space, people.

As I layered the ingredients, I thought about all the layers of hardship that I had prepared lasagnas for.  New parents slogging through sleep deprivation.  Families trying to navigate grief, mental illness, or cancer.  As I've watched these families accept my lasagna, I've decided that asking for help is one of the bravest things any human can do.  Asking for help when you are feeling rough around the edges is pure heroism, in my opinion.  Because if I'm showing up with a lasagna, it's because figuring out what's for dinner has been lost in a sea of scared, lonely, unshowered, confused, dirty-clothes-scattered-around-the-house overwhelm.  And whether its sleep deprivation or a mental or physical diagnosis creating the overwhelm, the risk is still the same.  The risk of being scrutinized, of all that time spent keeping up appearances and niceties going out the window.  So these lasagna-eaters are real heroes, I tell ya.  Not just because they graciously accept my cooking as a "gift" but because they remind me of the beauty in the whole dynamic of giving and receiving.

The beauty in taking time away from work and chores and other annoying adulting (see below) 

things to send up a pasta prayer.  Even though Husband insists this form of prayer was not covered in Seminary, it's a thing, people.  So far, it's been the most sacred part of my week.  To layer the noodles, grace, cheese, patience, sauce, courage, herbs, self-compassion for the lasagna-eater.   To honor that struggle and love and community all belong together in the same dish.  To give myself permission that when I find myself on the wrong side of circumstance, I can accept the lasagna from another.

PS- After I crafted this lasagna, and my blog post, I read that the WHO has decided there's a link between red meet and cancer.  I'm not sure what kind of cruel twist of fate this is.  That my newly discovered spiritual practice is inflicting cancer on my lasagna-eating heroes.  *Sigh*  Too much for one day.  I'm eating some bacon and going to bed.  

Home

Awhile back, Kiddos & I were driving to the library.  We were listening to the radio, and this song came on.  Kiddo 1.0 piped up from the back seat: "Turn it up mama, it's God singing to us!"
Me: Turn what up?  God? Where?
Kiddo 1.0:  The song, mom, the song.  Listen.

Hold on to me as we go, as we roll down this unfamiliar road.  
Just know you're not alone, 'cause I'm gonna make this place your home. 

Me:  Kiddo 1.0, how do you know that is God?
Kiddo 1.0: Because he made our home.  The song is about the Earth and how He is always with us.
Me: Silently tearing up in the front seat.  For a lot of different reasons.  First, tears of joy because that's beautiful theology, from a little one.  I love that she listens to love songs and hears her Creator singing to her.  Second, tears of confusion because this particular theologian had been screaming at me not EVEN an hour earlier for doing something horrific like brushing her hair in the bathroom instead of in the living room.  It's so, so disorienting to have intense joy and frustration for one little creature.

Fast forwarding, I tucked this experience away to unpack later.  And I'm sitting here, wondering about the concept of "home."  For a portion of my childhood, I was a military brat.  By the time I was 8, my family had lived in 8 or 9 homes in 5 different states/countries.  Enter a season of stability with 1 home for 10 years, followed by college/marriage/early career season of 9 homes in 8 years.  Definitely calls into question the merits of a physical space being the defining characteristic.  Then, my thoughts wander to some of my most vulnerable clients.  The ones that are in foster homes, waiting on a legal system to define their tomorrows.  And they remind me that "home" isn't just a physical space, it's a mental health commodity.  Then, my thoughts wander back to Kiddo 1.0 and another recent experience:

We've started kindergarten this month. Big deal, around here.  Kiddo 1.0 is in heaven.  She loves this learning, playing business.  Except when the business goes a bit off-script (so.my.child).  Which is how we found ourselves, holding hands in a very, very loud and crowded and chaotic school cafeteria.  Kiddo 1.0 had tears rolling down her face and was completely stumped about how to navigate this not-outside-because-its-raining-recess.  And I, in my Master's Degree, Awesome Mom Splendor, had a very appropriate response started to cry too.  Cue the 5th grade angel.  This creature walked up to Kiddo 1.0, asked her if she knew how to play "Go Fish," and invited her to join the game.  Kiddo 1.0 let go of my hand, went on to win "Go Fish," and have a great day at school.

THAT, my people, is home.  That gift of "you are struggling and you are worthy" is home.  Sometimes it comes in a song.  Sometimes it comes in a game of "Go Fish."  My hope and prayer is that I can BE that to others.  And when I can't be that,  when I'm too tired or disenchanted or wounded, that I can TRUST that in others and accept the invitation.

Flashback: Grace & Love & Samoas

T was super excited about a book he just finished by Rachel Held Evans.  And even though I *should* fully absorb everything T tells me and is excited about, I don't.  I get distracted by things like the load of laundry I started 3 days ago.  Cutting to the chase, tonight I'm super excited by Rachel Held Evans.  I was catching up on paperwork reading some of my favorite blogs.  And I came across this gem of a quote by Rachel:

"One of the most destructive mistakes we Christians make is to prioritize shared beliefs over shared relationship, which is deeply ironic considering we worship a God who would rather die than lose relationship with us."

Tangent: I didn't really know what I was getting into 8 years ago when I married T.  I mean, I knew it wouldn't be all sunshine and rainbows, but I didn't spend a ton of time vetting important things like, "Articulate your philosophy on antibiotics when you're sleep deprived & dealing with a feverish preschooler" and "Does grace extend to the occasional fender bender and major medical emergencies?"  So, me meeting and marrying and still thoroughly enjoying a guy that is excited by people like Rachel Held Evans is my personal testimony that there is some sort of higher power.  

Back to regularly scheduled programming:  My first reaction as I read this quote was "Yes! I love all people because my God did first!  This single quote captures the single most important tenant of my faith: unconditional love.  I may have broken out the box of Samoas to celebrate Rachel Held Evans.  

And then?  And then I remembered all of the moments over the not-so-distant past where I prioritized beliefs over relationship.   

Moments where I yelled at my kids because they don't share my belief about the value of vegetables and personal hygiene.  Moments where I ignore the pile of dishes because T doesn't share my belief about rinsing first.  Moments where I get really occupied by my phone instead of the arguing pair on the corner because they don't share my belief about conflict resolution.  

And then? And then I remembered Grace.  This beautiful, wipe-the-slate-clean caveat because no mistake is too big to undo the love and the holy and the sacred.  And that is why I choose faith.  Because as humans, we are wired for relationships.  But relationships are HARD.  Sometimes, people are WOUNDED and MEAN.  And the God I believe in knew this, and loves us unconditionally, and forgives us unconditionally, and calls us to do the same.  

Lessons Learned

I've been running up against a common saying this week.  "I must not have learned my lesson last time.  This must be happening again because God wants me to learn something."  And on the one hand, I appreciate the sentiment of:
"Wow.  This is downright crappy.  But maybe, if I keep mining through this pile, I'll find a porthole to a magic land of unicorns and rainbows in the form of a life lesson.  And that's just the motivation I need to keep from throwing my hands in the air and resigning myself to living a life in the pile."  

But then, I've noticed people around me ADDING layers to the pile.  Like, "I didn't learn the lesson the first time so I must be a stupid shmuck who will never get it."  And my heart breaks a little.  Because I've spent enough time in my own pile to know it is NOT prime real estate.  It's a raw, stinky, awkward, unattractive venue.  And so I can't conjure up a God that puts me there on purpose to do hard things like learning.  And even if that were the case, I don't think the lesson we are back there to learn is "we are stupid schmucks."

So, in my pondering-humanity-and-how-strange-humans-are practice that is stalking Facebook, I came across this:

And it resonated with my God vs. Pile dilemma.  I also appreciated that the image is of a huge elephant.  Because I don't know about your pile, but my pile is something like what you'd find on the wrong end of an elephant. 

I digress.  

Going back to my Silver Linings post, God doesn't concoct piles.  Piles are comprised of bad habits, unhealed wounds, interpersonal errors, and shame.  Piles are a byproduct of being human.  And if we're really doing human full on, we're going find ourselves in piles.  The hope I've been holding for myself is that I respond to the situation NOT with doses of shame, but with:

"Ugh.  This pile is very, very familiar.  But I am changed.  I am more ___________ (brave? compassionate? wise?) than the last time I was here."

"Hmmmmmm.  This pile is very, very familiar.  And I feel less _________ (brave? compassionate? wise?) than the last time I was here.  I wonder if there's a fellow pile-wanderer who loves me enough to muck out this pile with me."  

"Bleck.  I'm.So.Tired.  All I can hope is this pile is big enough and raw enough and stinky enough to keep me away from situations/people that cause me to be in charge of things like decisions and thinking and problem solving and cooperating." 

Saying Goodbye

Today I said goodbye to a couple of things.  Probably not things that warrant an entire blog post, but here we are.  

First, my hair.  Well, not ALL of my hair.  But most definitely, mathematically, MOST of my hair.  As seen here:  

A year ago, I found myself crying in the shower.  I have showered since then.  But this particular shower was different because it was 5 am and I was getting ready to go see Partner, who was in the hospital. Partner had emergency surgery the night before for a severely broken ankle.  I was crying because:

(1) It was scary and hard to see Partner so vulnerable 

(2) Partner could not be "weight-bearing" (this is a nice was of saying no driving, no full impact parenting) for 12 weeks 

(3) Ambulance rides and emergency surgeries are expensive

(4) Anything before 8am is inhumanely early for me 

I was washing my hair, crying, and having the thought that hair is really a silly thing to be taking time for at a moment like this.  Then two women I care about crossed my thoughts.  One was on her way to Seattle for a wig because her hair had fallen out due to an autoimmune disorder.  Another was wondering how to explain her breast cancer to her 2 young daughters.  And then I realized that hair is a very-not-silly thing to these women.  And that my heartache was very raw, but very manageable.  And I wasn't sure how to get through the day, but I was sure I could take time for my hair until it was long enough to cut off and donate.  Which brings us to today.  And the situation you witnessed above.  

I scheduled this appointment 2 months ago.  My hair was the longest it has been in 30 years.  So, I was a little bit shocked when the hairdresser was measuring my hair to see if it was even long enough chopping off an 8" ponytail.  Happened that quick.  Too quick for me to take a before picture.  Clearly, cutting hair isn't a sentinel event for her.  But I had to pause to catch my breath.  Then I got sad I didn't have the before photo.  Then I got mad I didn't have the before photo.  Then I got scared.  Then I took some time to reflect and self-actualize went shopping.  And while I was shopping, I realized that loss is so like that.  So.Quick.  And even if it's not quick, it feels quick because it never feels like enough time to orient to the new.  And that helped me be brave and remember that my haircut served a purpose: to maintain perspective about hard stuff.  That I lost 8+ inches of hair, but people I love are losing so much more, but thriving in the process.  

So, I took this little epiphany (and a few new wardrobe items) home.  And it gave me the courage to say goodbye to this: 

Yeah.  My breast pump.  If you saw that coming, I'm not sure if I should be concerned or totally impressed.

I am done being pregnant.  That's a story for a different day, but it leads us to me rifling through the house with a lovely family member who is 9 months pregnant.  And in need of a breast pump.  And as I carried it to her car, I felt sad.  Which is wacky.  Because I.HATED.PUMPING.  It's about the most dehumanizing thing a person can do.  A sweet friend told me once that in her sleep-deprived state, she was convinced the rhythm of the machine was talking to her (bad-mom, milk-machine, bad-mom, milk machine).  For me, it was initially a reminder that I was critically ill and my baby couldn't nurse.  Later, it was a reminder that I was a working mom who "chose her career" over her child.  Disclaimer: That's not how I really feel.  But sleep deprivation and shame takes a person to a really, really dark place.  Bottom line is, being sad about this era being over is a bit strange.  

I confided this to Partner, because I was confused.  And Partner stopped what he was doing and gave me a hug.  And said it's a very-ok-not-weird-thing to be sad about.  And I stepped into the second lesson about loss:  It doesn't have to make sense.  But everyone and every loss deserves a safe space.  And our culture does a lot of running from, covering up, and simply ignoring grief.  But the longer I spend noticing grief in myself and others, the more I am convinced that making space for grief is one of the bravest, kindest things we can do for one another.  

So, to summarize the day:

(1) Loss is disorienting.  

(2) Loss deserves a safe place.  Offering safe space is a great act of courage and compassion.  

(3) I'm going to save a lot of money on shampoo.  

Paddle Boarding

Let me fill you in on my perspective about Paddle Boarding.

Yes, paddle boarding.  I tried it for the first time while at camp this month and loved it.  Partner doubted my natural ability, so instead of taking pictures, he held my sunglasses and cleared the children out of the area so they wouldn't witness a drowning.  So, I did a brief google search to find photo representations of my experience.

There are two things not accurate about this photo.  First, I don't wear 2 piece swimsuits.  Second, the paddle board I used was white, not purple.  And while I didn't *actually* do this yoga pose, I probably could have.  If Partner would have calmed down long enough to single parent for 2 months so I could spend that time on said paddle board, perfecting my form.  

There are two things not accurate about this photo.  First, I don't wear visors.  Second, Partner was a lifeguard in a previous life so both myself and Kiddo 2.0 had lifejackets on.  The kid part is totally accurate.  Because after I realized I could maneuver a paddle board, I delicately created space for Partner's fears stuck Kiddo 2.0 on and paddled circles around Partner.  

Pretty much everything about this photo is not accurate.  But I picked it because it most closely represents my absolute favorite thing about paddle boarding:  Centering.  The key to paddle boarding is staying centered.  The week leading up to my paddle board experience was a pretty chaotic one.  I felt pulled lots of different directions with work and kids and extracurriculars.  Then I found myself on this paddle board and I realized very quickly that if I focused on any one or any thing other than me on the board, I would look like this:

Except I wouldn't be in footie pj's.  I don't do two piece swimsuits, but I also don't do footie pj's.   I digress.  Back to centering:

Considering how much time I spend, you know, making a living encouraging mental health, I've always really struggled with centering.  For a rough patch in high school, I think it was to avoid some of the raw, insecure wounds I had at my center.  For a good chunk of college and grad school, I made the grade focusing on everyone else's center.  But life like that isn't sustainable, so I had to start looking at my center.  And that was hard.  And that is still hard.  Until you have an ice cold lake staring right back at you.  Then you spend time focusing on center.  Until you have an injured family member or big life decision. Then you spend time focusing on center.  

So my hope is that we continue to have paddle board moments.  Moments to center without a crisis as the driving force.  May we have the courage to try it, the motivation to make it a priority, and the grace to hold each other's sunglasses for when we fall.  

Wedding Shoes

Partner and I have been married for almost 8 years.  I was wearing my wedding shoes the other day and noticed a couple of things:
(1) It's cool that I'm wearing my wedding shoes 8 years later.  Our culture's wedding traditions don't lend to much that lasts.  The flowers die, the dress shrinks, and the music stops.  Heck, statistics show that the marriage itself only lasts about half the time.  I went into my wedding (and my marriage) with practicality in mind.  So that's where these come in:

(2) If I wear them too long, they start to rub the skin raw on the back of my feet.  They didn't used to do this.  But pregnancy, in combination with life in general, tends to change one's body shape over the years.  This is also true of my marriage.   The first bit was cute and the perfect accessory.  Even practical, actually.  And then life happened.  And somewhere in that process, I began to notice that Partner sometimes rubs me the wrong way.  Rubs me all the way to raw.  Because marriage is HARD.  Being in a partnership where you put all sorts of assets (financial, emotional, and human) in a shared basket is a classic definition of vulnerable.  Re-evaluating the value of those assets to make big decisions (where should we live?  what career should I have?  where should we send our kids to school?).  TOUGH STUFF.

(3) I haven't gotten rid of them yet (the shoes or the husband).  I also haven't tortured myself with raw skin.  I invested in some medical tape and artificially create some "thick skin" on the spots I know get get tender.  In my marriage, this looks like adding "reinforcement" in the form of caffeine, sleep, time in the sun, and good music. This also looks like informing Partner of "tender areas."  

SIDEBAR: After 12 years together, Partner appears to know things I don't know I know.  Kinda sweet.  And creepy.  But he mostly uses this power for good, not evil.