The Voices We Entertain

In late December, Joel and I traveled for his work — by ourselves, without our children — for four days, three nights. Before this, he and I only had been away together without kids for four days, so this singular trip doubled the amount of sans-kid travel we've had in the nearly 20 years we've been parents.

As you keep our entirely child-free status in mind, let me tell you the story of how he and I took an afternoon hike. The trail, which was steeper than either of us had anticipated, took three hours to ascend and descend. Given the perfect weather, the trail had a fair amount of activity, and during the descent we had two fellow hikers trailing us at a relatively close distance.

Close enough to hear their conversation, at least.

They must have been late teens or early twenties. It was unclear if they were brother and sister or boyfriend and girlfriend, but it was exceptionally clear that they were bickering.

Bicker. Bicker. Bicker.

Pick. Pick. Pick.

Snarky comment. Snarky response. 

I kept my eyes on the ground, scanning the terrain for my next good foothold, and noticed that I was growing more frustrated with each step. It was a beautiful day! We were supposed to be enjoying a hike! But these knuckleheads were filling our airwaves with argument, complaint, and irritation.

That's when I had an epiphany. These were somebody's kids, but they weren't my kids. I wasn't responsible for my own kids this day, much less someone else's. I didn't have to walk near them. I didn't have to stick with them. I didn't have to let their voices fill my ears. 

I looked at Joel and said, "I can't listen to their arguing anymore. We've got to let them pass." He nodded quick agreement.

I'm not sure if they heard me. It's possible. My epiphany had given me a bit of a rush, and I hadn't guarded that excitement by lowering my voice.  We stepped to the side, pausing until they passed, then waited a few more moments to create enough distance between us before we continued.

The remainder of the hike was much more pleasant. I don't know why we hadn't pulled off to the side to let them pass earlier. Nobody needs that much negativity filling their ears.

This week I remembered this lesson as I thought about the voices that I let myself listen to, the voices I let trail behind me as I move through life. For a portion of time during this hike, I hadn't even contemplate that I had a choice. The kids were behind me, they were complaining, and that seemed like the end of it. Suck it up, buttercup, I could have said to myself. It's a bad hand you were dealt, but these are the people following you down the mountain Just deal with it.

But that's not true at all. We had agency. We adjusted our journey. We better positioned ourselves. We chose to let the negative voices pass by rather than letting them trail us.

This past week, I've had several times where I needed to get intentional about the voices that I've listened to. The voices that were trailing me as I moved about my day, telling me that I had messed up. The voices, whispering accusations that I'm not good enough. The voices that do nothing but create irritation, cast doubt, and suck joy.

In the gospel of John, Jesus reminds us that sheep recognize the voice of their shepherd, and that he is our good shepherd. In contrast, we're we're told that Satan is the accuser. When the running commentary in my head is filled with accusation, it's time to separate myself from that voice. It's not from my shepherd. Metaphorically, I can step aside, let the accusations pass, and choose not to make them my traveling companions. I can choose to listen to what the the Lord is saying to me and about me.

We get to choose. We get to choose the voices we entertain. 

Let's Chat: Mid-February Musings

IT'S ALMOST HAPPENED. We've almost reached the halfway point of February. I can't tell if these first weeks of February have dragged or if they've gone quickly, but I just realized that I didn't write here once during the entire month of January, which is surprising because January lasted a decade. So, to make up for my silence, it's time for an official Let's Chat post.

LET'S GO! And by let's go, I mean, sit right there and get comfortable. Grab a nice warm beverage. Let's chat.

A new semester. The "spring" semester (which is inaccurately named) is already in its fifth week. We're past syllabus week, learning names, and first impressions. We're now in the thick of things — assigning assignments, submitting assignments, grading assignments — and we'll remain in the thick of things, rinsing and repeating, for the next ten weeks. 

I've taught so many semesters that this rhythm is second nature. Today I enjoyed a rare moment when I got to talk with not one, not two, but three colleagues at the same time in the hallway between classes, which was a gift of levity and connection.

New opportunities. I'm stepping out this semester in several ways. I'm leading an eight-week women's Bible study at my church, and I'm teaching a new class on campus. Both endeavors are exciting. I love prepping for classes and messages, and it's been good to flex my muscles, so to speak. I'm proud of myself.

The benefit of an outside opinion. Last weekend, I roped my good friend and neighbor into a closet-cleaning endeavor. She sat on the arm chair in my bedroom while I went into my closet, grabbed a pile of shirts, dumped them on my bed, and proceeded to hold them up one at a time so we could judge them. While I already sort through my closet each season, having an outside opinion was a game-changer. She had no connection to anything in my closet and could view each piece objectively, giving me that extra push to let go of pieces that no longer served me well. 

I did this for her at the end of summer, sitting on her bedroom floor as she tried on outfits, giving her a thumbs up or thumbs down like a Roman emperor with my approval or disapproval of fashion choices. It's much more fun to share this task with a friend. More effective, too!

Playtime. I miss working in my garage on projects during the winter. It's been ages since I've spray painted anything. In these cold months, I miss those creative outlets. Still, since I know I feel better mentally and emotionally when I can work with my hands and be crafty, I try to pick up small projects. My most recent was when I used paint and drywall compound (which is uncannily similar to icing a cake) to create textured hearts on an old canvas.

The hearts aren't perfect, but perfection wasn't the point. Playtime was the point. Soon enough, the weather will be warm enough that I can putz in my garage until my heart is content, spray painting anything that doesn't move. For now, these little projects scratch the itch.

Leaning into lingering cold. I'm eager for spring for a multitude of reasons. It'll be warm enough to spray paint. Obviously. And, generally, warmth is good. There will be more color. More daylight. Things will grow. Garage sale season will begin! There's much to look forward to with the approach of spring.

But we're not there yet. Winter still has us in its clutches, and February has some bite. So, for now, I lean into the lingering cold. I make myself a cup of mint tea each night. When I snuggle under a blanket to read, I have the best companion in Peanut, who takes this setup as an invitation to nap in my lap. All in all, when you have a cup of tea in your hand and a cat in your lap, life is pretty good.

February. Is it bad that I still have to carefully sound out this word in order to spell it? FEB-U-ARY? FEB-RU-ARY? What is happening with this word, people? Are we dumping in extra R's into this month merely for kicks, just like we dump in an extra day every four years?  February's tough. I imagine it standing there, taunting us, ready to take the hit. Go on. Give me what you've got. You want to add an extra letter R? Bring it. I can handle it. Just toss it wherever. It's not gonna bother me one bit, but none of you — I mean NONE of you — are gonna actually know how to spell me, so joke's on you.

* * * * * 

Friends, as always, thank you for sitting and chatting. You could spend your time anywhere, but you visited here. I'm grateful you stopped by.

Until next time (sometime later in FEB-RU-ARY), be well and stay warm.

Robin

Blursdays: What Fills the Gaps Between Christmas and New Years

I took an early morning walk, quite pleased with myself that by the time I turned the corner at the end of my street I had figured out that today was Thursday. Then, after a few more mental calculations, I corrected it to Friday. Close enough. 

Days between Christmas and New Years are amorphous. Is it a Monday? A Tuesday? A Saturday? Nobody knows. Days have no identity. There are no solidified mealtimes, just indiscriminate eating of leftover Christmas lasagna and cookies and the triple-layer coconut cake that our neighbor dropped off.  There are no distinct times, either, just earlier and later. I haven't worn anything other than sweats in 72 hours. Have I put in contacts? No way. Mascara? That's laughable. I'm in my most natural state, and it's a little slovenly and a little wonderful all at once.

Back to that morning walk: when there's nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, it's easy to carve out an hour and a half to wander. From my house, I took my most common walking loop: down the street, hang a right, then take an eventual left which leads me past the house with the wood stove.

Against the pale drab sky, bare tree branches loomed in stark contrast. I noticed leaves that haven't been raked and unlit strands of Christmas lights draped along fences in the wan December daylight. Deflated inflatables languished in their drooped states over dormant grass.

But when you look, when you really look, you find beauty. I stopped in my tracks to watch a flock of geese fly overhead in V-formation. I veered down side streets to the quin historic neighborhood, technically still classified as a village, that's nearby. There's something simple and beautiful about an unadorned natural grapevine wreath hung intentionally against barnwood.

I walked along a stretch of railroad tracks, which better positioned me to peek into the back yard of the house with stockpiled stacks of red bricks. What long-ago project were these bricks intended for, or what project might they eventually be used to complete? In the nearly twenty years I've lived here, they've just been there. It's a mystery.

The grain elevator and coal sheds still stand as a tribute to the past. When I drive by, I don't look at these sights closely, but as I walked I peered into the windows and somehow felt like I've stepped back in time. 

In the alleyway tucked behind the cafe, there's the blue fence with its arched gate that surrounds the house with all the pollinator plants. Like much of the town, the blue fence leans and sags. Odds are it'll either last forever, or it'll fall over tomorrow. Sheds and barns and fences seem to be eternally crooked here. Somehow, they manage to be equal measures sturdy yet run-down, upright yet ramshackle. 

I avoided roads on the way home and solely walked along the railroad tracks. You have to concentrate when walking this route. My steps never perfectly match the distance between wooden railroad ties, so I adjusted the length of my stride often. It made each step more deliberate, which felt okay, given that I was walking simply to enjoy walking, not to be anywhere for anything.

When I was a child, I think I would have loved walking these streets, wondering about the lives of people living in these houses. When I was a teenager, like my own kids are now, I'm not sure if I would have paid much attention. Perhaps yes, or perhaps I would have been immersed in my own life to the point that I wouldn't notice clusters of green moss growing along the rails.

I walked and I thought. I worried a bit, then prayed, then cycled back to a bit more worry when my prayers got tangled in my head. I know I can control very little in this life — my attitude, my reactions, my heart (and I'm still working on these things daily) — yet I kept thinking over the attitudes, reactions, and hearts of my own children, wondering if I've done anything, ever, right as a parent. Mentally, I know that my children are their own people, with their own inner thought lives, who ultimately control their own choices, attitudes, reactions, and hearts.

But, my oh my, some days. Some days it's hard.

It's a hard balance. I want to love them fully without solving their problems, which they need to solve on their own in order to grow. I want them to have experiences, yet have them understand — really understand — that experiences are privileges, not rights they're entitled to. I want them to have resilience and grit and fortitude. I want them to face challenges, not collapse under them. I want to be tender to their hurts, yet not enable. I want them to be grateful. I want them to take walks, even when the sky is gray. I want them to find happy distractions in an overhead flock of geese and beauty in a perfect tuft of moss nestled next to railways with their rusted patina.

Given that I didn't know what day of the week it was when I started this morning walk, you'd be right if you assumed that I didn't finish my walk with these thoughts figured out tidily. How to strike this balance as a parent, just like how to discern the form of these blursdays between Christmas and New Year, isn't instinctively clear to me.

So, I did the one thing I always do, the one thing I know is clear even when everything else is unclear. I turned back to prayer, aligning with God in this: I don't know. I lack wisdom, and I need it. Lord, would you please give me wisdom. I try so hard yet I'm a flawed person myself. Lord, you're perfect, so would you help me to faithfully point my kids to you through my actions, words, and attitudes. I'm tired yet I want to be strong. Lord, help me lean into you. Be my strong tower and refuge.

It's been hours since I returned home from my walk. (At least I think it's been hours. The day still has no discernable shape or structure to it.) There will be blurry days, blurry seasons, blurry times when nothing feels quite right, yet you make it through all the same. I'm banking on this, not just in regard to these loose days until our regularly scheduled lives begin again after the holidays, but in regard to all of life's phases. Like parenting teenagers. 

In the meanwhile, I'll take walks, during which I'll make middle-aged observations about the sights I see, and I'll pray. Oh, I'll pray, and I'll keep praying, and I'll pour out this heart of mine to the One who hears and understands, the One who knows me the best and loves me the most, the One who entrusted our children to us and us to them, the One who loves our children more than we can fathom, the One who actually knows it's Friday, the One who will remain faithful all the days of my life, even when those days feel blurry to me.

All Is Not Calm

My friend and I had a good laugh the other day. She stopped by my house because she left something in my car earlier. (Leaving things in my car is one of her habits.) When she arrived I handed her a Christmas card, which she opened right on the spot.

The card said, "All is calm. All is bright."

That's when we laughed because, friends, have you ever gone into Christmas thinking, "If I had to select one word to capture this season, it would be calm. All is calm. All of it."

I mean, I love singing Silent Night by candlelight each year at Christmas Eve service, but the lyrics trip me up. There's no way the original Christmas was calm, either.

These days, some of the lack of calmness is by our own doing, of course. The season brings a certain intensity. There are presents to wrap, cookies to bake, family to visit, friends to remember, and events to attend. If you're a parent, there are school parties where your children agreed to contribute popcorn or a fruit tray without telling you. These same children get embroiled in one, maybe two, Secret Santa gift exchanges with a group of their friends, and they'll let you know they need to buy a gift the night before.

Beyond that, some of the lack of calmness is circumstantial. In my line of work, everything amps up at the end — students desperately work to finish the semester by completing final assignments and professors desperately work to finish the semester by evaluating those final assignments and submitting final grades. In contrast, in my husband's realm of work (college football) everyone is desperately working to not finish, to keep progressing, to keep winning. Given the new playoff system, it's technically possible for teams to play seventeen games by the time the season is done. Exciting? Yes. Exhausting? Also yes.

I'm also fighting a stupid head cold, which is neither here nor there, but I thought I'd mention it.

All is not calm. It's never going to be perfectly calm — not at Christmas, not in life in general. In light of this, I'm grateful Christmas celebrates Emmanuel, God with us. Jesus walked this very earth, entered this very mess, wrote himself into this very story with the good news that he is the Prince of Peace and the King of Kings. He's with us.

My circumstances don't need to be calm for me to rejoice. I can find peace in the midst of it all — the final grading, the extended football season, even the stupid head cold — because God is with me.

All is not calm, but that's okay. I'm not alone. God is with me.