it is no small wonder that in our culture, a pregnant woman is referred to as a person who is “expecting.” not only are the cells of her child multiplying rapidly in her uterus, so too are the visions of her future multiplying in her consciousness, along with the imagined qualities of a little person who has yet to meet the world. for ten months, expectations build super-human momentum; they crouch, waiting to bully the hell out of the reality that begins on birthing day. starting with variations from the birthing plan, breastfeeding troubles, meconium diapers, and the like, new parents quickly learn to expect the unexpected. but this difficult work is a breeze compared to its necessary and slowly-unfolding inverse:

learning to unexpect the expected.

every day of my last five years has been fraught with compromised parenting ideals in the face of the most unpredictable embodiments of wonder and mischeif. i have not bid farewell to all of my expectations. this is a life-long challenge, i think. but i have gotten used to the exercise of unexpecting in the same way that i am used to my blue jeans. every day, i pull them on. every day, i zip them up. every day, they poke me in the gut just a little.

a few weeks ago, andy and i piled the kids into a canoe and paddled to a swimming hole in arkansas’ sylamore creek.

we enjoyed a picnic while the boys practiced skipping rocks. the monkey, encouraged by his more daring cousins, dropped from a rope swing into the deeper water. we hiked for a mile or so on a creek-side path before cooling off in the water and returning to the canoe.

as we paddled back to our cabin, andy and i had the same thought at the same time.

“this is what i thought having kids was going to be like,”  i said.

“me too,” he said.

and the strange thing is that the summer has afforded us several moments like this — cherished, surprisingly familiar moments. and as we are meandering down a wooded path, or piled into our car on the blue ridge parkway, or looking out from atop mt. mitchell, it dawns on us that these scenes are familiar to us because they are straight from the postcards, sent to us through time from our pre-kid selves. after committing ourselves doggedly to the exercise of unexpecting, we have been shocked when little bits of the hope we’ve released come boomeranging back to us with more majesty and hilarity than we dared to pen in our dreams long ago.

perhaps this is the beauty of unexpecting. when we are occasionally able to stand down the crouching bullies, who loom before us with idealized pictures of ourselves and our children, we will be able to glimpse a life that is really pretty sweet on its own terms.

it’s enough inspiration to keep me paddling on.

having been on the receiving end of some pretty unwanted, ludicrous, and rudely-delivered parenting advice, i vowed long ago not to volunteer my unsolicited “wisdom” to other parents. you will not find me approaching strangers in parking lots with unsympothetic words such as, “you need to put a hat on that baby!” in fact, my children convince me more and more every single day that, when it comes to mothering, i have no idea what i am doing.

but i must break my no-advice rule just this once to impart this sage tidbit:

if you go to a friend or relative’s house for dinner, and the other guests there happen to be members of a folky, old-time, blue-grass band, YOU SHOULD DEMAND A CONCERT ON THE SPOT. i mean it. don’t let these people eat until they play for you. it will be a spiritual experience. your children will be enthralled. the fiddle and harmonies and lyrics will make you cry. and weeks later, your heart will swell just as it did that night, as they played shyly at first from their seats on the couch and proudly in the end in front of the fireplace.

a few weeks ago, my parents hosted the members of red june in their home. will straughan, john miller, and natayla weinstein are friends of my brother, and they were in memphis for the folk alliance conference. they gave us such a gift, and now, i am giving it to you.

enjoy.

’twas eight days before christmas and all through preschool

performers were clad in halos, santa hats and tulle.

the parents were settled all snug in the pews

with grandparents, neighbors, and of course, camera crews.

when through the side door there processed such a clatter

that the audience responding with clapping and laughter.

lining up on stairsteps according to height

was a ragamuffin choir, unselfconscious and bright!

the monkey spoke not a word as the piano intro played

then with gusto and hand motions, he assumed a gospel singer’s sway.

his voice could be heard above those of his peers,

and his tonsils could be seen during his open-mouthed cheers.

with my cheeks tear-streaked from guffawing i rose

as the monkey hugged his fans at the program’s close.

but andy said it best, ere we drove out of the lot:

“thanks for procreating with me. i love who we got!”

for four years and four months, my world has constantly expanded.

motherhood has brought new and interesting people into my life. the day we brought the monkey home from the hospital, i became a member of a diverse group of fellow moms who share something so basic that there is potential for meaningful conversation even in the checkout line at target.

motherhood has broadened my realm of experiences. i’m not just a woman in my thirties. i’m a little boy in the terrible twos. i’m eating ice-cream for the first time. i am wrapping my four-year-old mind around the concept of death. i’m testing limits, drawing on walls, and climbing on counter tops. i am getting my first bicycle with training wheels for christmas.

on the other hand, for four years and four months, my world has constantly contracted.

motherhood has zapped my energy supply. never before have i had the level of connection with friends that i do now. the paradox is that i no longer have the get-up-and-go to make these connections happen regularly. 

motherhood has narrowed my realm of experiences. there are mind-blowing heights and depths in my every day. but most of these events take place within the four walls of my home.

the female body is not the only part that expands and contracts in the process of ushering in and supporting new life. long after the pregnancy is over there is a new largess and a new kind of narrowing with which to contend. the simultaneous awe and discomfort of pregnancy take up residence in the mind for how long? four years and four months? eighteen years? from now on?

wednesday marked the first day of hanukkah and the first day of december, and last sunday marked the first day of advent. my favorite local radio station began playing holiday music before thanksgiving, and a giant inflatable santa has been looming over union avenue since before the last pumpkin was procured from beneath his (slightly premature) air-filled feet. this is the time of year when i usually get serious about my spirituality.

in years gone by, i have read a bit of tillich each day, edited and published college students’ thoughts on advent, and spent time pouring over wonderful holiday stories by harper lee and truman capote. but those years are as i just described: gone by. there is no time for intense study, no time for ruminating on light in the darkness, no time to be so intentional about making room for hope and divinity and the dawn of new life. 

instead, there are santa beard christamas countdown calendars involving cotton balls and glue. there are cookie-baking parties and charlie brown specials. i think bonnie j. miller-mclemore says it best in her book entitled, “in the midst of chaos:”

“when people think of the spiritual life, they typically picture silence, uninterrupted and serene — a pastor’s study, a cloister walk, a monk’s cell. thinking of parenting, by contrast, they imagine noise and complication, dirty diapers, sleepless nights, phone calls from teachers, endless to-do lists, teen rooms strewn with stuff, and back seat pandemonium. by and large, these portraits are accurate. the life of faith requires focused attention that comes most easily when one is least distracted, while caring for children is one of the most intrusive, disorienting occupations around, requiring triage upon triage of decision and response. can one pursue a ‘spiritual’ life in the midst of such regular, nitty-gritty, on-the-alert demands” (2)?

when the holidays hit, there is no time to simulate the perfect conditions, tie up loose ends, or send grief away on a month-long cruise. my children are just as inclined to create poopy diapers and impromptu marker-on-wall illistrations on christmas morning as they are on every other day. there is no such thing as escaping the chaos in order to locate one’s spirituality. the meaning is IN the chaos. the chaos IS the pastor’s study, the cloister walk, and the monk’s cell. parents have the added challenege and opportunity to look for the extraordinary in the ordinary.

so that is what i’m going to do this holiday season. i am going to look for moments of deep truth and goodness in the midst of our particular brand of pandemonium. and then i am going to post about these moments in an image or phrase. if the bedlam that exists in your house should happen to contain a glimpse of divinity or insight, do share (themsrevolution(at)gmail(dot)com)! there’s no telling what we can find in the midst of chaos.

[source for this post can be found on the bibliography page located on the sidebar to your right.]

to mark the season of advent and the accompanying waiting and yearning for new life in all of its various forms, i’m posting a sermon i preached this time last year at shady grove church. it’s the most honest and vulnerable sermon i’ve ever preached, and i’m including it in the MakeShift revolution because it is equally influenced by my ministry and my motherhood. the texts of the day were jeremiah 33:14-16 and luke 21:25-36. interspersed throughout the text are some block prints i did in 2007 for the advent bulletin covers atidlewild church.

*     *     *

The “baby watch” had begun. The future grandparents called every 12 hours or so to ask about signs of labor. The great-aunt was on standby, ready to babysit the two-year-old on a moment’s notice. The nursery had been complete for a good month, the baby clothes had been washed, folded, and put away, the name had been selected, and the birthing plan had been mapped out. The new car seat was secure in the car. The two-year-old endured periodic explanations about what was about to happen, even though he really just wanted to play with his play dough in peace. And everywhere she went, that is, everywhere I went, I was a walking, waddling, symbol of Advent, pregnant, like Mary, during the days leading up to last Christmas. 

Meanwhile, the season of Advent set the stage with its rich stories. The prophets were prophesying the coming of a new king. John the Baptist was urging his congregation, the brood of vipers, to repent. Mary and Joseph saddled up a pack animal and went to be registered. The young adult Jesus was telling his disciples, and us, to look for the signs of the second coming. The weeks unfurled to the sights of Christmas lights, and the sounds of TV ads meant to herald, or perhaps beg for, salvation for our broken economy. There were the usual to-do lists and the painfully unusual absences left by death and empty nests. I don’t need to tell you what the holidays are like. We all know that strange hybrid of hope and impatience, excitement and desperation that comes when we are expecting God to break into our midst. But for me, last year, it really did all come down to the baby. My baby, who threatened all winter to make an early arrival and beat the baby Jesus to the punch.

I spent some time last year thinking that being very pregnant during Advent gave me a special entry point into this season of preparation and waiting. This brought an added measure of importance to the usual third-trimester symptoms: shortness of breath, night-waking, paranoia about missing the signs of imminent birth, mistaking my own impatience for signs of imminent birth, indigestion, emotional highs and lows, and attempts to conform this miracle to my schedule by eating spicy food, standing on my head, walking laps around the mall, etcetera.

But then I remembered that all of my Advents before had been marked by the same symptoms. Perhaps you suffer from some of these inflictions too: shortness of breath, night-waking, paranoia about missing the signs of imminent birth, mistaking your own impatience for signs of imminent birth, indigestion, emotional highs and lows, and attempts to conform this miracle to your schedule. After all, Advent’s vulnerable waiting wrapped up in the frenzy of pomp and circumstance transforms us all, every year, into people who are expecting, whether we’ve ever been pregnant or not.

But it was not just my pregnancy that connected me so intimately to the Advent story last year. It was another common thread that weaves through the prophecies and the gospels, through my story, and perhaps yours too. I was lured into believing that I knew what to expect when I was expecting.

The people of the houses of Israel and Judah are certain that the coming king will be a ruler, like the rulers of their day. Jeremiah TELLS them that the coming king will establish justice and righteousness in the land, and they just assume that this justice and righteousness will happen in the usual way – by killing off their enemies. They are lured into believing that they know what to expect when they are expecting.

The people who crowd around Jesus in the gospel of Luke, and later many Christians of our time are certain that the second coming of our king will be signaled by the sun, moon, and stars; distress among the nations; and the roaring of the sea and the waves. Jesus TELLS them and us that the Son of Man is coming on a cloud, and from then on our generation of followers has just assumed that this event can be quantified, predicted, screen lit, packaged, and sold. We, that is many Christians of our day and time, are lured into believing that we know what to expect when we are expecting.

The ultrasound tech told my husband and me that our baby was to be a boy. And because we already had one of those — a precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder –  we just assumed that the baby growing in my womb would be another precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder. We were lured into believing that we knew what to expect when we were expecting.

But the people of the houses of Israel and Judah did not get what they were expecting. Their king was a baby, and though he eventually did work for justice and righteousness, he didn’t follow the military model. Instead, he preached about forgiveness and nonviolence

The people who crowd around Jesus in Luke and even now don’t always get what we are expecting either. There are glimmers of the second coming all the time but the cataclysmic event that hits it big in the box office does not seem imminent, nor does longing for it heal the longing in our souls

And a test in the sixteenth week of my pregnancy revealed that my expectations were not accurate either. My little boy had an elevated risk for downs syndrome. Downs or no downs, he could still be a precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder, but I could no longer cling to the silly notion that my second son would be just like my first.

Twice, I endured procedures designed to tell me for sure whether or not my son had Downs. Twice these procedures failed. I was left with no choice but to move through the season in a sort of embodied uncertainty. I had no idea what to expect while I was expecting, and I realized then that nobody else REALLY does either.

Well, this was an entirely different kind of waiting than I had signed up for. The place in my heart that I was preparing for another precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder slowly died, and in its place grew a reluctant, and eventually exuberant openness to this baby, who would change my life forever. Advent comes each year with its traditions and stories, associations, and plans. We have learned to prepare our hearts for these things, so comforting with their certainty. But only the uncertainty, only the wild prospect of an unpredictable savior, only this different kind of reluctant and eventually exuberant waiting can really open us up to the fullness of new life that is promised. Sometimes our expectations keep us from the radically receptive kind of expecting to which we are called.

My son, [the bird], was born on January 17^th of this year, and he does not have Downs Syndrome. But in my opinion, the real victory in this story lies elsewhere. From the moment the doctor handed me my baby, fresh from the womb, I felt nothing but unconditional love. The question about Downs that had ruled so much of my pregnancy had no relevance at all in the face of this love, so powerful, this baby, so divine. Miraculously, I had made room for him, and all that he is, and all that he will become.

This is how my little [bird] taught me what Advent is all about before he was even 5 minutes old. It’s about opening our hearts to a God who is never limited by our expectations. It’s about embracing uncertainty. It’s about casting aside all of those things that have no relevance at all in the face of love and divinity. But most of all, it’s about making room for the baby, born in the city of David, and all that he is, and all that he will become.

AMEN.

last tuesday, my husband received his latest hepatitis c test results.

for those who are just now tuning into this saga, we think he contracted hep c during a surgery five years ago, and life since this shocking news hit has never been the same. we were in our twenties, prematurely grappling with our mortality. i was doing in vitro, he was enduring a year-long chemo-like treatment, and syringes and sharpe’s containers were among our regular household items. six months post-treatment, we got the news that the virus was back. there were treatments in the works but nothing new was on the market. hep c is a slowly progressing virus, so andy set out to control what he could control and live his life.

andy had regular acupuncture appointments and took fist fulls of herbs morning, noon, and night. he stopped drinking, stopped eating red meat, and eliminated unnecessary stress. he committed himself to getting more sleep, and he became a force of nature in the weight room and during his frequent jogs. i am still in awe of his determination and persistence.

last year, a hep c test revealed that he had no more virus in his blood. we were told that if he got similar results this year, he would be counted among the small percentage of people who manage to fight the virus off themselves. last tuesday, he joined this modest and grateful category of healthy men and women.

just as we were beginning to process this news, our neighbor and very dear friend, steve, passed away suddenly. steve was an almost daily part of our lives. in the two years since we moved in next door, we have had many meals together outside, in the cove, and inside, around our table. every member of our family loved him.

i was asked to officiate steve’s funeral yesterday, and driving away from the graveside after it was all over, i told andy that i am not sure i will ever receive a higher honor in my ministry. i am including some segments from my homily (crafted from many emails i received from his friends) that describe the kind of person he was. but i think andy really said it best when he said, “you know someone was a good person when his mailman shows up for his funeral.”

Steve was fun loving.

Perhaps this trait was the most obvious in Spin Class, where he always had “his” spot, right in front of the mirror. After leaving several times to change out of sweaty shirts, Steve could be counted on to have a water fight with Liz, or to stand up and start singing to his favorite Spin Class song, which, by the way, “That’s not My Name” by the Ting Tings.

Outside of Spin Class, Steve knew how to find a certain lightness about life and tap into it. And then, with a smile or a laugh, or just the right amount of teasing, he’d bring his friends into this lightness too….

Steve made Midtown better.

According to one business owner, “He didn’t just own the buildings in Midtown that so many popular businesses occupy, but he participated in our success. He patronized us all and helped so many of us become or remain successful.”…

If the grass got too high at Peabody Park, Steve would arrive on the scene with his lawnmower. Because of things like this, even those who didn’t know Steve personally have suffered a loss….

Finally, Steve was a “passionate participant in life.”

In other words, whether it was yoga, spinning, cycling, running, tennis, art, or [his granddaughter], Steve approached everything with passion and had a blast in the process. He truly enjoyed life and set a great example for all of us.”

He once told one of you, “I love my life, and I look forward to waking up every day.”….

It is with enormous grief that we gather here. But we do not have to say goodbye to Steve. Time will bring back that sense of lightness Steve loved to show us. The grief will fade. And we will remember him with nothing but gratitude.

for the longest time, i resisted getting a tattoo. there was a brief stint in college when i constantly doodled dogwood blossoms and imagined one artfully inked on my ankel or just below the hairline on the back of my neck. but like all symbols that have illumined my path, after its debut as The Center of Unspoken Meaning in my life, the dogwood blossom returned to work at her day job as a bit of earthly matter charged to participate in an ordinary sort of beauty. and i moved on to the sanskrit word for OM, or the mayan cross, or something equally evocative and deep.

image from dianeplus5.blogspot.com

i saw the movie eat, pray, love last week, which reminded me of one of my favorite lines in the book by elizabeth gilbert. in the book, liz is lamenting to her sister that she is feeling reluctant about starting a family. she is trying to discern whether to heed or disregard this ambivalence when her sister says,

“having a baby is like getting a tattoo… ON YOUR FACE. you really need to be certain it’s what you want before you commit.”

it’s true. having a baby is an immediate, noticeable, and permanent identity change. i got my first tattoo in the summer of 2006, at which point i traded things like free time and personal space for an unshakable sense of love and awe and sleep deprivation. my second tattoo came in the winter of 2009, which is when i traded the last vestiges of order in my life for complete chaos, the last shard of my remaining vanity for a brown magic marker and a little road trip entertainment (see above), and my already-full-heart for an impossibly deeper sort of love. inasmuch as there is divinity in everything and everyone (and i believe there is) my children really are the reorienting, Centers of Unspoken Meaning in my life. i don’t want to completely lose my identity in them, and i still treasure the meaning found in all of the world’s symbols. but i have committed myself to shaping and being shaped by these little beings. i might as well ride with them into the depths and usher them into the heights of life. this privelege is what makes such sacrifice worth it.

but taking the parenting plunge yields yet another reward, one that i am just recently beginning to recognize. the indigo girls speak of it in their song, get out the map:

“with every lesson learned a line upon your beautiful face/we’ll amuse ourselves one day with these memories we’ll trace.”

perhaps i am also trading worry and wrinkles for the sweetest of memories… the way the monkey cannot say his R’s, the spring of their curls, the first day the bird said, “hi, mama,” when i went to get him from his crib, our july hikes through the mountains with the monkey at my side and the bird in my pack.

my face is now its own geography of commitment and lessons learned, sleepless nights and smile lines, baby fingernail scratches and sloppy toddler kisses. now i’m not much different than the dogwood blossom, a bit of earthly matter whose day job is to participate in an ordinary sort of beauty. ahh, but what an extraordinary ride this is turning out to be!

[this is the first in a series of guest posts written by jennifer harrison, who was perhaps the only other person in my high school english classes who joined me in gleeful celebration when called up on to diagram sentences. jennifer’s posts will highlight how her vocation as an elementary school teacher informs her parenting, and vice-versa. her bio is located at the conclusion of her wise words.] 

I’m not a math person but I have recently been throwing together some numbers. The upcoming school year marks my tenth as a classroom teacher. Each year, I’ve taught about 20 kids. This means that in all, I’ve worked with roughly 200 students, not to mention about 400 parents. So, long before I began raising my own daughter, Elizabeth, I was introduced to the wonderful, complicated, emotional, and consuming business of parenting.

While I will begin this school year and its requisite parent partnerships with a good chunk of experience under my belt, I nonetheless approach my tenth class with new eyes: the eyes of a new mother, who fiercely loves her daughter and only wants the best for her. I know that each first grade parent I will meet next week was once just like I am now: constantly chasing after a toddler; looking at a little face and wondering what kind of person this small being will become; and hoping that a cheerful, babbling child will always know a happy and abundant life.

Throughout my years as a teacher, I have come to believe that there is one essential truth about parenting. All parents, no matter whether they are overbearing, laid-back, or somewhere in between, absolutely love their children. The way in which this love manifests itself is wildly different from parent to parent. Some parents wring their hands in fretful anxiety about what I, as a teacher, know is a minor bump in the road (if it’s even a bump at all!). Others celebrate every victory and milestone with endless flashes of the camera and small notes in lunchboxes. Still others occupy themselves with very demanding careers so that they can provide their children with a vast array of creature comforts and material things. Regardless of how hands-on or hands-off a parent may appear to be, their common fuel is their deep and abiding love of sons and daughters.

” Too often, we critically declare that this mother works too much, this father hovers around the school too frequently, or this couple places too many demands on their child.”

I think it is unfortunately too easy for so many of us — teachers, fellow parents, and the casual observers of society — to quickly, harshly judge parents. Too often, we critically declare that this mother works too much, this father hovers around the school too frequently, or this couple places too many demands on their child. It helps to remember that all of those parents once held a moments-old newborn in their arms. They have all become enraptured, as I have, with the enormity and the wonder of a life that is, as a friend so wisely put it, pure potential. That moment is the tie that binds us all together as parents. It is a tie that I now share with the 36 parents who will soon receive a letter from me in the mail. I now understand the eyes with which those parents will read that letter. This fresh perspective has renewed my commitment to my career, and it has reminded me of all that I hope Elizabeth and I will grow to be as mother and daughter.

jennifer harrison earned her bachelors and masters degrees at vanderbilt and has taught in public and private schools since 1999. she currently enjoys chicago city life with her ER nurse husband, 13-month-old daughter elizabeth, and dog rowdy. when jennifer is not parenting or teaching, she enjoys reading, photography, travel, and the quest for the perfect latte.

four years ago today, all of the mystery in the universe cried and stretched, moved from darkness into light, and conceded the bliss of the world beyond for our clamorous symphony of love. he, our little monkey, was baptized into a community of gracious souls — the bold village entrusted, along with us, to help him become his truest self. we, andy and i, were baptized into a re-orienting sort of love – unconditional, fearful, wonderful.

happy birthday, big boy! you are my wild, empathetic, curly, defiant, inquisitive, exuberent, heart.

photo by carol reach.