A Response to Pain

It has been a week of pain. I hurt, and I know that others that I care deeply about do as well. My pain is physical, as the fractured clavicle reminds me with every bounce of my step, swing of my arm, or turn in bed. Emotionally I battle as well, battle the pain of losing, of failing, of knowing that I am not going where I thought I was going to go. I have watched pain in those close to me, pain that is not mine to share, but pain that is real and tearful and permanent.

This has been a week of pain. Perhaps it has been for you as well.

But it is impossible to ignore the intoxicating aroma of the freshly cut lilacs in my kitchen and the full batch of fruit cups, the annual true sign of summer goodness, my wife is preparing for my delight. And I know that my world is good.

Risk Anyway

When you speak plans or desires out loud, you risk the result of failure. Risk anyway.

I've always been an advocate for having something on the line that you care about. It's one of the reasons I like coaching, and it's also a theme I teach students through literature. Life is better lived when you care about something enough that you have something to lose, when you have to walk around with that proverbial pit in your stomach because you've put in time, effort, and love to something and you want it to work out. Risking enough to feel that way about a person, a job, a performance, etc. can be taxing and hurtful when it doesn't go the way you want it to. You put yourself out there for significant loss. But you do that because there's so much to gain as well; and playing to win is so much more rewarding than sitting on the sidelines, surviving, merely getting by each day long enough to go to bed, wake up, and get through the next one.

I realized another reason this week that caring and risking big is a better way to live.

For the most part I've avoided the topic on this blog, but I'm currently chasing a position that I want. I've known for about 4 months that there would be a week sometime in the spring where I'd find out if I was going to get what I wanted. This is that week. I've got something I want, something I've put thousands of hours into, something that will hurt if I lose.

This week I've walked around exhausted, tossing and turning through sleepless nights, mass-consuming coffee and jostling that pit in the corner of my stomach, working hard not to vomit. I've put myself in as good of a position as possible, but the risk is very real. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a couple of days after, the verdict will be returned.

Wednesday was interview day, and I wrestled my nerves and my desire and my fatigue all day. But it was a good day, regardless of the news I get. It was a good day because through this experience, through having something on the line that mattered, I got a good picture of the people in my life who are for me. Scattered throughout the week were notes and emails and quick conversations of encouragement, well-wishes, and prayers. Those messages will not affect the final outcome, but they will affect what happens after the outcome.

After the outcome, whatever it may be, I know I've still got that support. I know I'll have those people in my life, and I'll know that the next big thing that I chase, the next goal or challenge that really matters and that I risk time and energy and emotion into, they'll be there for that too. I might not have received that reminder without the angst of the chase.

Risk big, and you'll find out who's with you. And find out what the important people in your life are risking today too; they'll want to know you're with them now, in the process, before the verdict is ever returned.

Disaster Plan

Yesterday there was a chance of severe weather across Iowa, including thunderstorms and tornadoes. Early in the day the teachers here at school received an email regarding our plan in case the severe weather hit. As should be the case, a plan had been developed for such an emergency, and we were prepared as well as possible to protect our students and staff from harm in the event of catastrophe.

We have plans in place for bomb scares, armed intruders, abductors, blizzards, fights, fires, and stubborn trains that delay students' arrival to school. For almost every disaster that can be conceived, we have something written down and in place. When all hell breaks loose, we'll see how solid those plans are. Regardless, they exist, and we know what we hope to do when the worst of the worst happens.

I'm being to realize that we each need an emotional catastrophe plan in place as well. Frankly, it is the emotional catastrophes that are much more likely to occur than the natural, physical ones. Which is likelier: a death of someone close to you, or an F5 tornado? Despair and frustration in relationships, or fire? An unexpected change in your occupational status, or a bomb at your office? Both could happen, but why would we be better prepared for the least likely scenarios than we are for those that are certain to occur?

David offers such a plan in Psalm 57. Hiding from king Saul in a cave, fearing for his life, feeling betrayed and doubtful and helpless, David knows what to do: "Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me, for in you my soul takes refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed" (v.1). The plan wasn't murky; David knew what to do in the worst of scenarios. Our plan yesterday was to go to our new FEMA room/storm shelter. David had a shelter all ready for his heart, a place to hole up until the disaster passes.

Once David finds the shelter, the next steps in his plan are clear as well. "I cry out to God Most High," he writes. "My heart is steadfast; I will sing and make music. . . I will praise you, O Lord, among the nations." Regardless how difficult it may be to follow this plan when the unexpected has attacked him, David knows that this plan gives him the best chance to navigate the unexpected calamity.

Having this clear plan in place allows us not to avoid emotional pain and despair, but to manage it. Rather than spinning wildly out of control until one day we hopefully arise from the internal ashes, rather than hitting rock bottom before we seek a way out, instead we give ourselves a chance to minimize the damage. The hurt will still hurt. But the medicine will be available. The damage will be minimized. The salve for our souls will begin the healing process sooner. And if our plan is like David's, in it all we will see God while we hurt, not after.

A Mother Multiplied

My mother put in her time.

She raised me and did everything for me that a mother should.

She demanded much, especially when I didn't want her to. She wouldn't let me go in late to school after a late night, even when I thought missing study hall wasn't that big of a deal. Mediocrity in academics wasn't okay. Nor was it in church and Sunday school attendance.

She baked and she cooked, and she did both well. Some manner of bar or cookie was readily available, especially during my teenage years when I grabbed two or three at a time. Cupcakes were a plus. Or homemade donuts on Saturday mornings. Banana cream pie on special occasions.

She traveled many highways over central Iowa to watch all manner of athletic endeavors, even when I was bad. She cheered and supported and gave me space to lick my wounds in peace or exuberantly relive triumphs.

She worried like crazy. About school, about driving, about college, about my wallet, about who I was with and what I was doing - all of it, both during the times she mentioned it and the times she didn't. My guess is she offered many little prayers when I left the house and many sighs of relief when I came back.

She wrote notes. Notes of instruction on days when she left before I was out of bed, or notes of encouragement and love in lunches or snacks, or Bible verses in my mail at college. Even and especially when she could not be there, she made her voice known.

My mother put in her time and could easily just call it good. She took care of her kids. She continues to support her kids. Isn't that enough?

Not for mom. No, my mother has done this and continues to do this not only for me, but for the people important to me as well. She has multiplied the good she has to offer, multiplied the mothering, amassing a sea of goodwill and blessings connected to her efforts.

When I coached youth flag football while I was in college, she was there, driving 2 hours on a Saturday morning to cheer on the boys and give them post-game encouragement and treats. And she's there now, in the stands in many a CIML gym on Tuesday and Friday nights, supporting and feeding a group of boys who are not her blood but who she has claimed as her own.

My friends on the coaching staff get fed too - all manner of baked goods or bakery delicacies to feed our disappointment or celebration all the way home. They get encouraged. They get prayed for too.

A couple of my friends swear by her cupcakes and swear at me if I visit without them. Then there are the "kling-ons," the marshmallowey Corn Chex and Reese's Pieces conglomeration of good, that my roommate in college greedily devoured. No visit from Mom was an empty visit for friends.

For those important to me, they find an ally in Mom - whether it be from help or hugs, verbal or written support, food or folly. And she's got worry to offer them too.

Being a mother of three has never been enough. The good she has offered me has been extended unwaveringly to all those around me. And while they may be thinking about their own mother this weekend, my guess is they think about mine on quite a few other days and smile.

A Weekend of First Drafts

I hope parenting is like writing.

It feels like it is. I started Anne Lamott's book on writing, Bird by Bird, this weekend. After the first couple of chapters, a couple of clear messages about writing stand out. In it is a Vonnegut quote: "When I write, I feel like an armless legless man with a crayon in his mouth." Yep, that sounds like parenting.

More specifically to the point, though, is Lamott making it clear that you've got to write a ton, write every day, write when you don't feel like it, and write about stuff you never think will lead you to anywhere. And most of it might not. But a small percentage will be gold, or at least the beginning of something that glitters and leads you to where you never thought about going but you discovered was treasure-filled all along. "You are desperate to communicate, to edify or entertain, to preserve moments of grace or joy or transcedence, to make real or imagined events come alive. But you cannot will this to happen," writes Lamott. "It is a matter of persistence and faith and hard work. So you might as well just go ahead and get started."

I hope parenting works like this. Just keep doing it and hope that a small percentage of what you're doing will be good, that without planning on it or seeing it coming, you got exactly what you were aiming for, despite pages and pages of ridiculous and silly failed writing attempts.

I hope that by going back out there every day to parent, even after every "first draft" for the past 2 weeks has been complete and utter garbage and I can't imagine ever getting it right again, there might be some solid writing in there somewhere. Like Friday afternoon. We just went on a walk. It was accidental, routine, just another warmup writing exercise in this extended metaphor. But it was good. We left with energy and gusto. Running and banter and sunshine. I seamlessly calmed one child down after she fell and drew blood (and dutifully placed a band-aid on the now pride-producing war wound), I got them to daintily dodge all the mud puddles but did allow them to enjoy the dog dancing in the ones he encountered. We held hands and they told stories and I talked to them about Jesus. If they read any of the books of their childhood, I hope it's one with walks like these.

But for every time I get it right, every time the writing comes easily and the figurative language dances effortlessly on the page, there are ten times I get it wrong. One child flashed the entire soccer field, much the same way she's flashed the entire church. Fights and battles and lying and endless piles of just stuff, everywhere, oh the stuff, the stuff that I repeatedly tell them to put away and swear that I won't let be the source of one more fight, one more fit, that stuff gets tripped on or stepped on or kicked or broken, and the writing is terrible.

And the bad writing goes for page after page after page, and I'll feel like I'll never get it right again. And Lamott says about that, "Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. . . Perfectionism means that you try desperately not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived." And if parenting is like writing, then I'm given some grace to drop the perfectionism bit and just try. Just write. Write anything, with good intentions and with passion.

"Now, who knows if any of this is usable material? There's no way to tell until you've got it all down, and then there might just be one sentence or one character or one theme that you end up using. But you get it all down. You just write."

And in that writing, you get one daughter who walks the length of the entire lawn, row by meticulous row, pushing her bubble mower next to her father's precision-cut Yardman lawn eater, just to "help out" like she did shoveling compost all afternoon. Or you get the other daughter who has decided that writing and journaling with me should be a big part of our summer plans. Or the two of them in my lap, giggling like crazy while reading Shel Silverstein poetry together, but only after the Bible-reading because they've reminded me that we need to read that first, always first, so we don't run out of time.

If parenting is like writing, then I hope they never go back and read all of the drafts I've had to discard. I hope they leave those pages out, all the awkward prose and meddling metaphors and cluttered paragraphs that I pieced together in search of perfection. And I hope there's enough of the good that they can piece it together and find a book. Or perhaps a solid chapter. A chapter where they can see into the heart of the author.

I hope you were able to follow this little comparison tonight as I cobbled my way to meaning. If not, don't worry. It's just one of many drafts I intend to write.