one of the best parts about spending the month in western north carolina is getting to spend time with my brother, who lives in asheville. and one of the best things about his status here as a local is that he takes us on adventures that cannot be found on trail maps and in guidebooks. who knew that there are hidden trail heads on exit ramps and places on earth where poison ivy and private property give way to scenes like this?

the monkey and bird were experiencing  their first day of clubs, a day camp at montreat, while the adults were embarking upon waterfall hike. but i could not help but be distracted by daydreams of a future time, when my little boys will be big boys, old enough and eager to climb the rocks and dunk their heads under the rushing water. sometimes there is so much promise in the future that it is difficult to stay in the present.

in our current stage of toddlerhood, afternoon naps, and the boys’ almost constant need for assistance, it is so easy to get swept away by far off notions that someday, adult conversation and uninterrupted sleep will re-enter our lives. and then i catch myself forgetting that this time of sloppy nose-kisses, uninhibited delight, the honest articulation of fears, sweet sweaty ringlets, triumph over small accomplishments, and the natural wisdom of innocence is fleeting and precious.  i know i will long for this stage when it is gone.

when we were on our way to the mountains on friday, i received an email from the rental company pressuring us to decide upon our rental plans for next year. never mind that we had not even begun our mountain adventure for the current year. never mind that we were, at the time, simply trying to make a bag of pipe cleaners last for the remainder of our trek down I-40.

the world will lure us prematurely into the future if we haven’t already wandered there ourselves. for me, being fully present in the moment is something i talk about and value, though i find it almost impossible to do! apparently, as i learned on our hike, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the words, “BE PRESENT” does not automatically calm the multi-tasking mind.

funny how this does, though:

i take solace in the fact that there are moments scattered here and there that seem to stand outside of time. thank goodness for a spontaneous plunge into frigid water; the surrender of the bird, who stops resisting his nap long enough to rest his head on my chest; and the first cup of coffee enjoyed on a tree-top porch.

speaking of coffee, let us not underestimate its importance when it comes to living in the present and parenting small children.

i returned last night from the young clergy women’s conference, the topic of which was “leading as ourselves.” as i sat in the sub-artic environs of our candler divinity school classroom and looked around at my fellow girl preachers, i was struck by both awe and jealousy. many of these women work full time in the church or other para-church settings. some of them have children, some of them work part-time or half-time, but very few seemed to be on the piecemeal job plan as i am, stringing together a haphazard collection of part-time gigs with the trials and rewards of stay-at-home motherhood.

i learned later, of course, that i am not the only one holding my life and life’s work together with odd combinations of pipe cleaners, vestments, therapy, wine, and a steam mop. the room was full of those who long, as i did, to have children; those who struggle for balance of all kinds; those who are facing transitions; and those who are wrestling with issues of identity. 

i did not know all of this on day one, though, when one of our beloved speakers, melissa clodfelter, asked us what leadership-related topics we would like to cover in our time together. so, i raised my hand and explained that i am often trying to lead from the margins. because of my simultaneous frustration and delight with the church and my desire to spend the majority of my time with the monkey and the bird, i am never central to the church’s power structures. i often feel like an outsider, and i wonder if i can ever actually effectively lead from this position. though i felt as if i were speaking only for myself at the conference, i know that the world is full of women who feel marginalized in the workplace, whether for reasons of choice or unfair circumstance. what kind of leadership do we, the women on the fringes, have to offer?

i was relieved when melissa answered that the margins are the places from which true leadership emerges. it is only by stepping outside of the structures that rule our world that we gain the perspective needed to change things. fitting in is not a prerequisite for effective leadership, as evidenced by gandhi, martin luther king jr., and jesus christ, himself! in fact, affecting change requires an uncomfortable, liminal type of existance.

i am beginning to see that leadership, from my own personal margins might look like this:

• changing the world, by raising boys who are emotionally intelligent, compassionate, and justice-seeking. brown eyes over scrambled eggs, and all that…
• remaining on the fringes of church in order to speak from a place of perspective and insight.
• remaining connected to the church so that my perspective and insight will matter.
• writing here about what it’s like to try fashion a real, meaningful life that honors my own leanings as well as the legacies handed down to me by superwomen, fifties housewives, and everyone in between.

but mostly, i’m beginning to be thankful that i never quite fit in anywhere. in an odd sort of way, i am in good company. and there is meaning to be found in the margins and proclaimed to the world. thanks for joining me in this process — this little makeshift revolution.

my apologies for for the infrequent posting lately. i’m enjoying the fellowship and insight (and wine) at the young clergy women’s conference in HOTlanta.

i was in second grade when the challenger, carrying teacher christa mcauliffe and a crew of brilliant scientists and explorers, was snatched out of the air by a fiery fate. as my classmates and i whirled around on the school’s blue cafeteria stools trying unsuccessfully to trade our carrot sticks  for others’ sugar-coated desserts, the grave voice of our headmaster came through the loud speaker and shocked everyone into stillness. he told us what had happened to the challenger, and i watched as my teachers looked aghast and teary.

my world was full of smocked dresses and church-league sports, and homework was the closest thing to a tragedy i had yet experienced. but in that moment, i got the sense that the grown-ups knew much more than i did about the world, which could apparently be sad and scary enough to make even teachers cry.

now, over two decades later, as i vacation with my family and extended family in florida’s beautiful white sandy gulf coast, i have those same second grade school cafeteria feelings, only this time, i’m in the role of a teacher. with two kids in my charge, one of whom will likely have half-memories of the oil leak like mine of the challenger’s explosion, i wonder how much of the world’s underbelly the monkey is taking in.

of course he doesn’t fully understand what has happened or how to fix it. does anybody? but he can use words like “dispersant” in conversation now. he looks, with his cousins, through binoculars at the boats in front of our condo and runs with packs of older children to inform adults that the boats are “laying out boom.” was the monkey standing on the shore when my brother plucked a small oil conglomerate out of the surf and used it to draw a slick black line on his hand? or will this trip go down in his personal history as the one when he first tried boogie boarding?

the beaches a few miles west of us were closed yesterday after black, gooey, half-baked pancakes of slippery black oil washed up on shore. my brother and sister-in-law trekked down there with the the sense of awareness and responsibility that comes when one knows that history is being made right before one’s eyes. as i type, the water in front of me still looks beautiful, but some say it’s already marked by a different texture and enough dispersant to cause a rash. it will not be long before the oil hits here in full force.

meanwhile, we will continue our evening softball games in the courtyard. the monkey will continue to delight in this village extended family. he’ll continue to work on his new swimming skills in the pool, and he’ll probably even get to make a few more sandcastles. but somewhere, in the midstof all of this, he must be intuiting that human beings, for all of our creativity and intelligence, are limited. it must be dawning on him, little by little, that the world can be a sad and scary place. he is gradually joining the rest of us in a world beautifully described by william sloane coffin as a place that is “too dangerous for anything but truth and too small for anything but love. ”

[the pictures from this post were taken yesterday near the east pass in destin, florida by my brother, jamie.]

as i was sitting on the beach this morning with a bird-turned-sand-flea in my lap and a surf-side monkey in my purview, i had a conversation with the other adults around about good summer reading for moms.

take note: i, myself, was not reading in this moment, just wishfully talking about doing so, which is often as far as my literary interest takes me these days. nevertheless, we came up with a working list of summer reading titles for moms, each of which fits  at least one of the following requirements:

1. self-contained chapters that do not to add strain to one’s poor dwindling memory.
2. brevity, which comes in handy when one drifts to sleep and drops the book on one’s face.
3.  page-turner, which allows the reader to feel successful and be swept into another world at the same time.
4. awakens an old part of one’s self

so, without further babble, here’s the list. feel free to add to it by leaving comments:

mr. darcy and the blue-eyed stranger, by lee smith. this book of southern short stories meets requirement number one, and it has made me laugh out loud at least ten times.

on chesil beach by ian mcewan. this tale of love, sex, and timing scores points for meeting requirement number two. if you drop this book on your face, you will not wake up until the morning.

born to run: a hidden tribe, superathletes, and the greatest race the world has never seen by christopher mcdougall. according to my husband and fiftyleven friends of mine who have read the book, this tale of the mexican tarahumara indians, their running style, and its potential to transform american running fits requirements three and four. all i know is that, inspired by this little gem,  my husband has reverted back to the habits of his high school cross-country days.

the sunday wife by cassandra king. this fictional account of female friendships and the life of a preacher’s wife allows the reader to vicariously vacation at grayton beach. it makes the list for meeting requirement number three.

an altar in the world by barbara brown taylor. for the theologically inclined, this book about finding god in the most ordinary places and experiences will have you looking to your dusty baseboards for signs of the divine. as is true for many of barbara brown taylor’s books, this one meets requirement number one.

the help by kathryn stockett. i might have been the last person on earth to read this fabulous book. i had a newborn when it came out, and it looked so long and daunting! but other mom friends read it and vouched that it meets requirement number three, and boy does it ever. i sped right through this illuminating and provocative story set in 1960’s jackson, and i was sad to say goodbye to the characters at the book’s end.

that’s all for now. feel free to add your own. i’ll probably add a few myself as the wishful conversation about reading continues. who knows… maybe i’ll even get to crack a book myself!

yesterday, when the monkey and i drove through kosciusko, mississippi, i said to my three-year-old-turned-captive-audience, “monkey, your great grandfather was from kosciusko.” i said this with full awareness that if  i had told him that oprah is from kosciusko, he’d have the same reaction, which was, “oh.”

a couple of hours later, when we passed through jackson, i said, “monkey, your great grandmother was from jackson.”

 i explained that he was named for these very special mississippi-born relatives, and then, in order to spark some interest where there clearly was none, i began to launch into stories about my beloved maternal grandparents.

i told him all about the time they took my brother and me to el chico’s for dinner and the waiter dropped a giant beer on my granddaddy’s head. suddenly, there were gales of laughter coming from the back seat. i told him that my grandaddy once worked really hard to build a giant tent on the beach for our family to play in. being an avid tent connoisseur himself, the monkey’s eyes widened. i told him about my spend-the-night dates with these grandparents that involved pancakes in the morning and sharing the bed with my grandmother on the nights preceding. we would stay up late, and she would tell me stories about her life and her relatives and about my parents’ childhoods and courtship. i loved these stories.

so i don’t know why i was surprised when, on two different occasions and after the passage of hours, the monkey pushed the stop button on his video and said, “tell me some more stories about your grandma and grandaddy, mommy.” and so i did.

i have read to the monkey and practiced with him his letters and numbers. i have potty trained him and tried (rather unsuccessfully) to teach him to share. but yesterday, i had the distinct sense that i was passing along something more important than all of those things. so much of enduring and enjoying this harsh and beautiful world depends our our ability to appreciate and tell a good story.

i began to understand the power of story when i read about vicktor frankl’s holocaust experiences in man’s search for meaning. surrounded by death and defeat, frankl kept his spirit alive by crafting a redeeming a narrative about his purpose in the world and the manuscript he would live to publish. we can make sense of our lives any way we want to. we can construct that stories that inform us in any way we choose. this process is what frankl called, “the last of human freedoms.”

 i experimented with this when my husband was diagnosed with a chronic illness, and i found that indeed, we can keep our spirits alive by choosing narratives that infuse our lives with meaning and purpose.

so today i am remembering with great fondness the one who sparked in me the love of a good story. what a privilege it is to pass along the last of human freedoms to her little namesake.

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

yesterday, the monkey and i spent all day like this…

so that we can spend all week like this:

we arrived in the florida panhandle just in time to pick up andy and his charge, the bird, who really prefers to fly. let the fun begin!

i officiated a wedding  in atlanta this weekend, and in order to save all members of our immediate family from the bird’s car trip conniptions, the monkey and i took off on our first ever adventure as a traveling duo.

the six hour drive, two sleeps in the hotel, and back-to-back wedding festivities were a far cry from the monkey’s usual routine. in order to preserve our collective sanity, i made up a few new traveling rules on the fly.

1. the driver can change out the movies in the car dvd player, but the passenger is in charge of pushing buttons to begin the featured presentation.

2. lollipops, bags of cookies, mentos, baked lays, and other wedding goody bag items are all approved components of the travel meal plan. also, it’s a good thing ketchup counts as a vegetable. thanks, ronald reagan. and p.s. who cares if the three-year-old in question consumes a green ring pop on the way to the rehearsal dinner and arrives with swamp monster teeth?

3. though the $16 ticket price at the center for puppetry arts seems a bit steep, it’s really quite a small price to pay for an hour-long puppet show, a make-your-own-puppet workshop, a gander at some of jim henson’s origional puppets, and free mango iceys on the back lawn.

4. if your handmade stellaluna puppet loses a limb during vigorous museum or restaurant play, you can just tape it back on using excess adhesive found elsewhere on said puppet.

5. wedding venues in parks such as this one come complete with neighboring playgrounds.

it is perfectly acceptable for a wine-toting, cocktail-dress-wearing mom to spend equal amounts of time inside the reception and outside sitting on a decorative boulder next to the orange “curly slide.”

6. bedtimes are later than usual. bathtime is optional. if parent and child fall asleep together on a pull out couch during story time, so be it. if a three-year-old wants to wear his house shoes for an entire day, fine.

7. the rules of the road are certainly not fit for everyday guidance. in fact, over time, they would most certainly lead to rotton teeth and malnutrition. however, in the face of unprecidented one-on-one time with my baby-turned-“big boy,” they afforded us a little glimpse into the kind of fun our future will hold. this is why the next rule is this:

8. we must do things like this again and again!

we are back from an eventful “family camp” weekend in middle tennessee at camp NaCoMe. with the exception of an unavoidable conflict here and there (such as my brother’s wedding last october), i have gone to this church camp twice a year since i was five years old. in all of these 28 years, i have yet to adequately describe to others what exactly we do at NaCoMe and just why it is so much fun.

we dance…

…sing, eat lots of food, practice yoga, do some makeshifting…

jog, eat more food, walk in the creek…

…eat more food, play horseshoes, catch crawdads, play tennis, eat, talk to old friends on the porch…

and let grandparents, other people’s parents, and other people’s children look after our little ones.

in turn, we look after other people’s children and grandchildren too. the great outdoor challenge was not such a challenge in this beautiful, green, wide open space.

this nacome had the added element of four (FOUR!) tornado warnings/watches that sent us to our cabins to clutch our packed-and-ready emergency bags and to prepare to huddle together in a crawl space down below. in the end, the crawl space remained empty (apart from a few adventure-seeking children and their gracious parental chaperon), and we were left on the porch to watch the sky unleash its wrath on a little town five miles down the road.

this morning, it was as if the storms never happened.

as the sun brightened the rain-soaked trees, we packed up our boys, with new memories of adventure, and carted them back to memphis. there, they too will fail to describe to others what exactly we do at NaCoMe and just why it is so much fun.

goodbye, beach. we’ve got a long car trip ahead of us today, but you were worth it.