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.

i used to wonder why middle school girls are so mean to each other. why the seismic shift of affections, the dramatic purchasing and demolishing of “best friend” necklaces, the endless note-passing and back-stabbing, and the constant labeling and striving for that which is popular?

yesterday, as my children were wailing (again) at the prospect of spending time with me while their daddy went out for a jog, it hit me: middle school misery is part of the preparation-for-motherhood process. only such a colossal test of self-esteem could come close to readying a gal for the sucker punch that comes when, apropos to nothing, she falls out of favor with her children.

when “the daddy phase” began a few months ago and my children began approximating time spent with me to sharing a cage with a hideous monster, i remained strong. i returned their unhappy scowls with hugs and kisses. when the monkey set aside an entire day to cry about the misfortune that his preferred parent has a full-time job, i remained calm. when i returned home from a two-day vacation last week to the monkey’s disappointment that “i didn’t stay away longer,” i made myself ignore these words. but yesterday’s pathetic chorus of daddy-wanting hysterics was just too much. if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. i starting crying myself.

so here i am, 34 going on 13, dissecting the anatomy of the popular parent. from my non-randomized qualitative study of one, i can conclude that popular parents are not preoccupied with cooking, cleaning, folding, and typing. popular parents are fun! they are like cruise directors, shuffling two kids to four fabulous locations all in the time that it would take me to locate and cram on the necessary shoes. never mind that popular parents just grab the first ill fitting shoes they see. everyone is having the time of their lives!

the next thing i know, i am also studying the anatomy of the unpopular parent by way of yet another non-randomized qualitative study of one. at its best, this “research” leads me to the conclusion that unpopular parents are simply not fun. at its worst, it is a bit like what anne lamott calls KFKD radio:

“out of the left speaker will be the rap songs of self-loathing, the lists of all the things one doesn’t do well, all the mistakes one has made today and over an entire lifetime, the doubt, the assertion that everything one touches turns to shit, that one doesn’t do relationships well, that one is in every way a fraud, incapable of selfless love, that one has no talent or insight, and on and on and on” (bird by bird).

i made it through  middle school in one piece. surely i can keep myself intact in the face of a couple of preschool boys. step one: find a new radio station.

my post today is an essay i wrote for a fabulous blog project called “a liberated life.” vanessa and sarah solicit and post essays wherein women of every age and stage chronicle their joys and concerns along the path toward liberation.

here’s an excerpt, but you’ll have to scurry over to “a liberated life” to read the rest:

Liberation, as it turns out, is not as simple as a dream job or a grad school diploma, or a positive pregnancy test, or a happy home. In fact, I cannot even begin to envision what a liberated life might look like for today’s mothers, whose souls brim with enough passion and opportunity to fill a warehouse full of moon bounces and inflatable slides. There is an anxiety that comes with motherhood that has far outgrown the widespread dreams for balance and the tired juggling metaphors. Scientists study it, and talk show hosts allude to it, but this anxiety, for the most part, remains undefined.

how would YOU define a liberated life?

blockprint by mary allison, text from pc(usa)'s "brief statement of faith."

during one of my recent stream-of-consciousness drifts into theology and mom-tology (that’s ontology for moms), something beautiful occurred to me.

i was reflecting on just how much i have changed over time. the essence of me is the same, of course, but when the kids hit the scene, andy and i became full-time adapters to the whims, patterns, needs, and developmental requirements of the little people in our lives. this awareness makes the metaphor of god-as-parent all the more fascinating. does god, as the process theologians claim, change over time according to the movements of the universe?

i was interested in this concept in college and divinity school but now that i am a parent, i find myself embracing process theology for the blessing it can offer mothers. what good is the metaphor of an all-powerful, hands-off sort of god to a mother whose power in society is questionable and who is intimately involved in the details of her children’s lives? i like thinking about a god who would postpone her sleep to help a child out of the fog of a night terror. when i think of the possibility that god has shaped her plans around her children, i remember that what i am doing is valuable.

i am not saying that god has surrendered the entire universe to human control. nor am i saying that we should surrender our lives to the irrational notions of a two-year-old.

 i’m just saying that it’s possible that we were created in the image of a makeshifting god.

a few years ago, my mother-in-law gave the kids a hand-sewn manger scene set, complete with plush, non-breakable characters that can be arranged, stacked, pelted at each other, et cetera. the set has been a hit for various reasons (see above), and because our den is home to a constantly evolving sea of miscellaneous toy pieces that defies organization, i was not surprised at all yesterday to see this:

it looks like the monkey crashed the party, so to speak.

some young clergy women friends of mine turned me on to the sermons of debbie blue a while back, and i recently re-read her hilarious and insightful musings about the placement of the wise men in manger scenes. in betty’s manger scene collection she writes,

“i’ve been thinking maybe someone should start a small group of guerilla activists whose task it would be to plant shocking figures in manger scenes…. suburban housewives will shriek when they find batman figures on the roof of the manger on their mantle. churches will be horrified to find barbies and plastic dinosaurs on their altars. but people will pay attention. they will look twice. they may even stop their car. they may even get out when they see a garden troll or a pink flamingo or a big plastic homer simpson leaning over the baby jesus on the cathedral lawn.

photo from ncs909x

i actually wonder if i’m not the first to come up with that idea. it might have been some sort of guerilla group that first placed the wise men in manger scenes…. these guys probably didn’t come from nice clean places, maybe not even good families, probably more like smoky little rooms in the back of tattoo parlors… that’s a bold way to tell a story, these foreigners, in every sense of the word, these outsiders (way outsiders) were the first people in matthew’s story to encounter the jewish messiah…. it’s like having shirley maclaine at our manger scene. it’s that out there. shirley maclaine.”

i’m so proud of my little guerilla activist! i’m thinking about following his lead and inserting a little shock value into all of the manger scenes i encounter from here on out. you better watch out… you never know who will turn up on your mantle. as previously stated, i have access to a constantly evolving sea of miscellaneous toy pieces.

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

as i have confessed in an earlier post, i am not always very good at explaining elements of my faith to my children.

perhaps this is because kids are such concrete thinkers and i, on the other hand, am not. or maybe this is because i am keenly aware that concepts such as communion, resurrection, and the trinity are truly bizarre. if i tell my kids now that god had a baby named jesus, for example, will they ever find pause later to consider just how outlandish this story is? if stories like this become part of the familiar fabric of their childhoods, will they ever be able to recognize the unpredictable and mysterious nature of god’s movement in the world (and humanity’s interpretations thereof)?

contemporary theologian and renowned children’s book author, rabbi sandy sasso, set me straight on this topic a few years ago when i heard her interview on the public radio program, keeping the faith. sasso asserts that children are innately spiritual, and that, unlike many adults, they have not developed a fear of mystery or unanswered questions. furthermore, sasso emphasizes that it is important to teach our children the sacred stories from our own backgrounds, even if we have negative associations with these stories, even if we see these stories differently now, even if they no longer inform our notions of truth.

“stories,” says sasso, “are the vocabulary of theology for children.” they, along with the communities that tell them, are the tools children need to grapple with the mystery themselves.

these are the thoughts that went through my mind the other day when the monkey became deeply involved in creating a “major” out of a laundry basket. you know, a “major,” as in “away in the ‘major’ no crib for a bed…”

the fun continued as a stuffed animal became the stand-in for the baby jesus.

and finally, when the kids took turns dive-bombing into the “major,” i reminded myself that they were just getting the feel for some very necessary tools. they were careening into a much-needed theological vocabulary. maybe they even recognized how bizarre the whole birth story is. after all, making a crib out of a laundry basket is about as strange as making a crib out of a feeding trough.

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a what sorts of insights are emerging from your own versions of chaos? play along if you’d like. check out what erica, maryann, jaime, and kathi are finding in the midst of chaos. if i’ve forgotten to mention you here, please let me know and i’ll make the necessary revisions.

even the almost-two-year-old bird seems to value slowing down. here he is taking it upon himself to warn drivers of his recreational pursuits.

who can say that immersion in the care of children is not a spiritual exercise? they are like little prophets who know the secret pathways to the centers of our souls. there they set up shop and direct our waiting with the proper signs.

*     *    *

what sorts of insights are emerging from your own versions of chaos? play along if you’d like. check out what erica, maryann, jaime, and kathi are finding in the midst of chaos. if i’ve forgotten to mention you here, please let me know and i’ll make the necessary revisions.

as i have written in a previous post, i am determined to notice the deeply spiritual nature of the holidays, even in the midst of the chaos of family life with young children. as my old vanderbilt divinity school professor, bonnie j. miller-mclemore, writes:

“limiting spirituality to the ‘inner’ life and restricting theology to the life of the mind ends up excluding a huge portion of life from both faith and theology” (in the midst of chaos, 7).

is there anything in this world that trumps parenthood in its simultaneous associations with the supremely holy and the utterly mundane?

speaking of holy (or shall i say holey?), in the midst of chaos, there is growth.

what sorts of insights are emerging from your own versions of chaos? play along if you’d like. in the midst of erica‘s chaos, there is awe, and in the midst of maryann‘s chaos, there is wonder.

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.