Unlimited

My husband likes sports—all sports, even crazy stuff like curling, although Red Wings hockey is his favorite. So I learned long ago how to talk the talk, but I’ve never made any attempt to walk the walk. I am a fair-weather fan of just about any sport you can name.  When “our” teams are winning, I follow along, cheering. When they aren’t doing so hot, I have no interest whatsoever.

When I worked for a denominational magazine, I can’t tell you the number of times men would say something like, “You should do an article on the relationship between Christianity and sports. Teamwork, using gifts, building character, blah blah blah.” So about once a year we would run pieces on Christianity and sports, and some of them made valid points, but I never really bought it. There’s nothing wrong with sports; they are not unchristian or antichristian. But to try to put a holy spin on the sports industry never sat well with me.

I now work for a different Christian organization, and the men there talk sports, because that is what men talk about in our society. From my cubical, I hear them reviewing the previous day’s events. They seem particularly partial to Tigers baseball, and who can blame them? Until the actual World Series, it’s been a great season for the Tigers.

On the day of the final game of the American League playoffs, two of my coworkers were predicting the night’s events. “I guess it would be okay if the Yankees won tonight, to stretch out the series and give the Tigers less time off so they don’t lose their momentum,” said one fan.

“No!” said the other, indignantly. “Never, never give them a reason to hope.”

And there it was. The clear and definitive difference between Christianity and sports. Christianity is about hope, and sports is about crushing it.

That evening, at choir practice, our director mentioned a book about the feminization of worship, particularly music, and “the boyfriend song,” in which God (or Jesus) the almighty is portrayed as a tender, almost romantic soul mate who meets one’s every need. Men, it seems, prefer stronger music, with more masculine images of God and Christianity. Songs where Christians are called to battle against our foes and where God crushes the enemy.

Like all art, music is a reflection of culture, so it is no surprise that we are shaping God into characters we know from popular culture. We want God to be the romantic lead in our life stories, or the hero who slaughters the bad guys or scores the winning homerun. We want God to be Indiana Jones or Jason Bourne, someone who is tender with us but ruthless with our enemies. He always has a plan, and he always wins, all within a two-hour timeframe.

Like the authors of Scripture, we want to make God one of us, or comparable to something we understand. In the Bible, God is wind and God is shepherd; God is a mother and God is a father; God is light and God is a rock. If we were still adding to the Canon today we might equate God to a quarterback or a rock star or any number of contemporary images.

God is all of these things, and none of these things. God is more than we can imagine or put into words, which doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to put it in words, or in music. But our images of God should help us to explore all of who God is. It’s dangerous to cling to an idea that is comfortable for us and never move beyond that. We need to push the boundaries of our own understanding in order to begin to appreciate the scope of all that God is. We are limited, in our power and our imagination and in our understanding, but God is limitless.

Cafeteria

Although I quit my part-time custodian job several months ago, the school district has kept me on as a sub. Since my “real job” is only a couple of days a week and we have three kids in college, I take extra shifts when I can.

And so it came to pass that, one warm September Friday, I am asked to do a lunchtime set up and tear down at an elementary school. It’s a new gig for me; I had never been to this school, and I've never set up lunch. I am always up for a little adventure.

When I arrive, the secretary at the front desk points me toward the custodian’s office, where I find a set of keys, a map of the school, and instructions written in what I can only surmise is a kind of code. I use the map to find the lunch room, where I introduce myself to the lunch ladies, all of them grandma-types who work very hard for their pay. They are pleasant and helpful, and are happy to answer my questions when they can. Willie tells me that during lunch there are several parents who volunteer, and that part of my duties will include opening granola bars and policing the kids.

I need a few things from the supply room, so I consult the map. The principal, who happens to be coming by, sees me trying to get my bearings and stops to introduce himself. He quickly and efficiently arranges things on the cleaning cart while giving me a few more pointers on lunch procedures before heading off to do administrative stuff.

Cafeteria food has its own particular smell, and when the smell has filled the room, the kids begin coming in: second graders, kindergartners, first graders, and then the tiniest of breaks before the third and fourth graders. It’s like a crescendo of kids: the congestion and noise start low, increase with each grade level, then drop off slightly until the next groups come in. I seem to blend in with the parent volunteers, and kids are more than willing to ask me to open juice boxes or find them a band aid.

The principal, who spends the entire lunch hour in the room, beckons to me from across the room. A pudding cup has oozed all over inside a kindergartner’s lunch box; he asks me to help her get some pizza while he takes care of cleaning out the lunch box. Pretty classy on his part: I’m the custodian, but he takes the messy job while I get the far better task of helping a child. I even earn a shy smile of gratitude as I help her find her table.

As the first lunch fades, I notice an overly tanned mom waiting at an empty table with a multipack of chocolate cupcakes, a birthday treat for her son’s class. She wears hot pink head to toe—hoodie, tee shirt, short shorts, and sneakers—and her bleached blond ponytail is pulled through the back of her hot pink baseball cap. She’s not old, but she’s way too old for her outfit.  Hell, most of her son’s classmates are too old for her outfit. Clearly she does not want to blend in with the other parents.

The older kids don’t need help opening their food, but they are louder, and they do need a little encouragement to use walking feet and inside voices. The lunch ladies and the principal insist that the kids clean up their own tables, and with only a little prodding they do. And suddenly they are gone: the kids, the aides, the principal, the parents, Malibu Barbie mom. The lunch ladies retreat to the kitchen, and I begin cleanup.

There’s a lovely breeze blowing through the room, which makes sweeping up the Capri Sun straw wrappers a little tricky. I finally get everything corralled and into the trash, and I begin mopping. I use a nasty string mop, which is heavy and hard to manipulate, but it does seems to get the job done. I try to work methodically so I can tell what’s been washed and what hasn’t, but everything is so sticky the contrast between dirty and clean is pretty obvious.

One of the lunch ladies comes out and asks again my name. She says, “You’re a hard worker; I’m going to tell Jim [the regular custodian] that you did a good job.”

In blue collar world, this is the highest compliment that can be paid. No one cares if you’re smart or creative or well dressed. They don’t care what your grades were or what other jobs you’ve had. They want to see you work, which requires actual physical movement. In blue collar world, paper pushers are useless and overpaid, because they don’t DO anything.

I am tired, and glad to be finished. I make one more trek out to the dumpster, return the keys to the custodian’s desk, and walk out into the sunshine. Being a custodian is the hardest I’ve ever worked for the least amount of money.  And mostly I hate it, but it does have its rewards. As I walk to my car I remember the gratitude on the face of a cherubic kindergartner, and I smile.

Soccer Mom

When we first talked about adopting, a friend who had also adopted when her bio kids were a little older, was of course encouraging, but she also prompted me to consider carefully all the things that we would have to do again. “You've got to ask yourself, ‘Do I really want to go to all those soccer games again?’” she said.

Every Saturday morning when I’m at the soccer field, I remember that advice. When the weather is good and the kids are having a great time, it’s not too bad. But during the latter days of the season, when the weather is lousy and I’m tired of giving up my Saturday mornings, I remind myself that I chose this.

Both Lewi and Lily seem to enjoy soccer, which at their ages might be more important than having talent. Lewi is sporadic in his play, with moments that are inspired and others that are less than majestic, but Lily has settled into being a pretty good defensive player. She’s not fast and aggressive like the forwards, but she has a great kick, and she consistently moves smoothly into position between the ball and the net while keeping her eye on the play, trying to anticipate where the ball is going.

Over the years all of the kids have played in the rain (and even snow), but there is rain and there is rain. On this particular Saturday it had begun to rain, hard, before we woke, continuing cold and steady throughout the day. We were happy we had the early game, although when we arrived the field was completely soaked. Lily had dressed in layers, as did I, but I knew that was an exercise in futility. We were gonna get wet.

Some spectators set up chairs and huddled under blankets and enormous umbrellas right on the sidelines, but I’m more of a pacer, especially when it’s cold. The field is at the edge of the school’s playground, at the bottom of a little hill. Several of us have taken to setting up about midway up the incline, because it allows a better view of the whole field. Standing there, umbrella in one hand and rapidly cooling coffee in the other, I could see everything that was going on.

On rainy days, dads outnumber moms on the sidelines, and only die-hard grandparents show up (briefly, before remembering they have something really, really important to do).  I know some of the moms, but I didn’t see them that day, although with all of us bundled up like hikers on Everest, I’m not sure I could recognize anyone. It was too cold for chatting, anyway, so I focused on the game.

Lily played in goal for a quarter and as a midfielder in two. She didn’t have to move as much as some of the other girls, which was great, because it meant the team was playing well, but bad, because she was getting colder with every inactive minute. When she was bored she would look for me and wave. She had a couple of good saves and played her position well. By the third quarter it was obvious all the girls were sick of it but, soaked and cold and muddy, they played all four quarters to wind up exactly where they started: zero to zero.

Some days are like that. Sometimes even the things that should be fun and easy become hard work under adverse conditions, and in spite of your best efforts, you come away with nothing to show for it. And if you had seen it coming, you might have chosen a different path. But no game was ever won by second guessing. Better to slog on. Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass; it’s about learning to play in the rain.

Think Pink!

Pink is the color of breast cancer awareness, and since October is breast cancer awareness month, you’re going to start seeing a lot of pink in support of this important cause. Sports teams play in pink jerseys, yogurt companies top their containers with pink, charities sponsor walks and fundraisers with pink themes.

A woman’s lifetime risk of breast cancer is about 1 in 8, while a man’s is 1 in 1,000. And although breast cancer has one of the highest survival rates among the cancers, nearly 40,000 U.S. women died of breast cancer last year.

Almost fifteen years ago, on a Tuesday evening in May, I found a lump. At my relatively young age, with no family history of breast cancer, the few people who knew about the lump tried to console me that, statistically, it was probably nothing. Except my doctor, who looked me in the eye and said, “I can’t tell you it’s nothing. We need to get you in for tests.”

Those tests all confirmed the worst. About a month later, I had a lumpectomy. My oncological surgeon spoke with me as I was wheeled out of surgery. In my groggy post-op state I missed most of the specifics, but I clearly remember her squeezing my arm and saying, “I think you’re going to be fine.”

My oncologist told me I had no reason to have a mastectomy, but she encouraged aggressive treatment to take every precaution against a recurrence. It made sense to me; do everything possible to nip this in the bud while I was young and healthy and had fantastic support systems in place to get me through chemo. So over twelve weeks I had four rounds of poison pumped into me. The chemo made me sick to a degree that defies description. It also took my hair (I was oddly okay with this at the time, but now, years later, haircuts freak me out) and put my body into menopause. When chemo was done I went in for daily for six weeks of radiation; although it was annoying going to the hospital each day, the treatment itself was a piece of cake.

I still think about my cancer every day, when I notice the scar high on my left breast or when someone else is diagnosed or when the call goes out for organ or blood donors (a cancer history makes me ineligible to donate). Sometimes the full experience floods over me in waves of nausea, but more often it’s like remembering a bad work experience: an unpleasant event that consumed much of your life but that you survived, stronger than before.

Surviving cancer makes me feel both invincible and vulnerable. When I was diagnosed, I prayed for five more years of life so that I could raise my kids, who were very young at the time, to an age when they would remember me. God granted me more than double that, and I am grateful, but I still have moments when I forget to love my life. Sometimes I wonder what I was supposed to learn from the experience, whether there was something special God was expecting me to do with my remaining days, and whether I have honored my second chance.

Now that I understand the path, part of my journey includes walking with others living with cancer. I do what I can, but this is a hard road. The easier part is to advocate for early detection and support for research, for this and all other cancers. So here’s my pitch: even if you think you are too young, have no family history, are feeling great, are really busy—eat right, get the mammogram, get the colonoscopy. Pay attention to your body. Do the self-exams. Early detection saves lives and body parts.

I love the color pink, and I wear at least a touch of it every day in October. I wear it in honor of breast cancer survivors, and in memory of those who could not overcome. I wear it for my daughters (and sons), with a prayer that they will never have to face what I did. I wear it in gratitude for my wonderful doctors, who gave me hope, and in gratitude for all of those who supported me during those difficult days.

But mostly I wear it because it is a happy color that reminds me that each day is a gift, tied up in a pink ribbon. 

Loss

This week, two families in my circle of friends experienced loss through death. One family said goodbye to a mother. Her death was long, slow, and often painful for her family, and at times for her. Alzheimer’s had taken over years ago and had turned her into a truly horrible person. And then gradually the disease loosened its grip on her personality; she wasn’t lucid, but she was loving, and when she finally slipped into the arms of God, she and her family were at peace, and the love remained.

Another family said goodbye to a teenager. The boy had been born with muscular dystrophy, and had never lived a moment when his body wasn’t trapped by the disease.  Yet he was a remarkable kid with a remarkable attitude. He dedicated time to helping others and held no bitterness about his broken body. He loved his life and his family, and made a difference during his sixteen years. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, he was gone: he took his last breath in this world and was released from his pain forever.  

Suffering and loss are universal in the human experience. I know that the world isn’t fair, but I don’t know why it isn’t fair. The randomness of pain, the infliction of bad things on truly good people: there should be a better system. It seems to me that a God who can create the Amazon ecosystem and our remarkable brains and so many amazing things could come up with a better plan.  

Theologians point to Adam and Eve and the serpent and the fruit and free will—and I say, “Really? These families should suffer because of a slice of papaya at the dawn of time?” This week, that is not a satisfactory explanation.  

Yes, often we grow and learn and develop deeper faith through pain. I’m not sure the gain is worth the price. And I’m not sure who is supposed to be doing the learning here. I am always frustrated by the story of Job. God allows Satan to test Job by killing his children. The children are like props in this story, which is a crazy way to view people. Job’s wife surely also suffers from this loss, but she’s a throw-away character; in fact, she is harshly judged by history for her lack of faith.

And in the end, the Book of Job provides no answers to Job, or to us. We are allowed to ask the questions, but we should expect no answers, at least not yet. God is who he is, and he does as he does. He’s got control, even when we don’t see it, and he has a plan, even if it is not obvious to us.

I envision heaven as a place where this will all make sense, or maybe as a time when our earthly questions will no longer matter. But in the here-and-now I accept that it is not my task to understand or explain the ways of God. It’s my job to walk with those in pain, to pray for them and with them.  That is all that I can offer, and although it does not feel like nearly enough, it’s all that God requires. 

Lucy and Lily

These lyrics are from “Little Known Facts,” from the musical You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown:

Do you see that tree?
It is a fir tree.
It's called a fir tree because it gives us fur,
For coats,
It also gives us wool in the wintertime.

And way up there,
Those fluffy little white things,
Those are clouds,
They make the wind blow.
And way down there,
Those tiny little black things,
Those are bugs,
They make the grass grow.

D'you see that bird?
It's called an eagle,
But since it's little it has another name,
A sparrow,
And on Christmas and Thanksgiving
We eat them.

My sophomore year in high school, the play was You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. I worked on the sets. I loved going to rehearsals and eventually knew the script as well as the actors, especially the girl who played Lucy, who botched this song every single time. Super annoying, especially to those of us who auditioned but didn’t get parts.

I often think of this song when I overhear Lily and Lewi have a (one-sided) conversation. Lily is a self-appointed expert on virtually everything and, being two years older than Lewi, feels compelled to pass her vast wisdom on to baby brother  (“That’s a hawk, Lewi, but sometimes they are called an eagle hawk”).

On our way to church she explains about Moses (I think). In the way of most children, it’s a confusing mix of a variety of Bible stories, cartoons, and dreams: “Then they threw all the babies in the river. And there was a snake, and Moses held it up and turned it into a cobra.”

When she’s talking with Lewi, sometimes I correct her , but usually I tune her out. She’s practicing language, and I don’t want to discourage her. Most of her comments can’t really cause harm, and if Lewi is as attentive to her as he is to me, all of her sage offerings have evaporated long before they get anywhere near his brain.

I’m less inclined to ignore her attempts to educate me, and she gets super grumpy when I tell her that, yes, I know a few things about how the world works, and that her unsolicited advice isn’t helpful to me.  I’m especially prone to jump on her when she tries to speak for Lewi, who is perfectly able to speak for himself.

Tossed into the role of protector at a young age, Lily seems unable to reclaim her role as a child; she thinks she’s an adult. She also listens to every conversation and happily, and often inappropriately, inserts herself into each one. She might be one of those kids who was kind of born older, but a lot of it is adoption behavior, traits that tend to crop up among adopted kids. Plus she joined a family dominated by teenagers. She’s a natural mimic, so it’s likely she copying some of their behaviors, not understanding that what flies at age 18 doesn’t at age eight. It’s been hard to teach her appropriate social skills, and I worry how she does with her peers.

It’s sad that Lily’s childhood was cut short, and it’s sadder still that she seems unable to reclaim it.  That said, it’s really only sad to me. She seems to be a happy kid. Her attitude suits her, I guess. She enjoys being a little adult. And she does have some delightful childlike moments, like when she plays soccer and when she chooses to dress up like a princess for Halloween every year.

She’s like everyone else in this family: a blend of intellect and immaturity that can most graciously be called quirky. She’s her own person, but she fits right in.

I thought I would be better at this parenting stuff by now, but I’m still learning. Instead of trying to change her, I need to accept her, encourage her, correct her (occasionally), and help her find her unique way, not the path that I choose for her. We will grow up together.

Threads

This summer, my husband, who teaches third grade, took a week-long seminar on teaching reading. He came home completely fired up for the method and knew he wanted to implement it in his classroom. It would be a lot of work, but he had a vision for how it could be accomplished, and with enthusiasm like that, there is bound to be success.

The kids would all read books specific to them, and Bill wanted some sacks to hang on the backs of the students’ chairs to hold these reading materials. Earlier in the year I had bought several yards of fun fabric at a great price that turned out to be perfect for this. (And just to be clear: buying eight yards of fabric with no project in mind when I already have a craft room full of stuff does not make me a hoarder.)I put together a prototype, which Bill approved, and I got going on the other 23 sacks.

The multicolored fabric had a jungle pattern/theme, so I threaded my machine with green thread. I almost never buy thread; I seem to have an abundance of it, some of it older than my kids. I inherited a lot from my mom (she wasn’t a hoarder, either) and over the years I’ve used much of it, but some colors are time-specific. I have a ton of green spools, so green must not have been popular over the past couple of decades, at least not with me. That was about to change.

My mom taught me to sew, so I often think of her while at the machine. My mom worked her way through college and graduated with a teaching degree. She taught for several years, but I’m not sure she was a great teacher or that she enjoyed it. In those days no one really talked about doing a job that you loved; work was work. She was in it for the paycheck, and as a woman in that day, it was a career that was open to her. When she began teaching in the early days of the baby boom, she easily found employment in the classroom.

When the job market shifted, she took a job as a social worker for the state of Michigan, working with abused and neglected children. I think she was good at protective services, but it also ate her alive. She saw horrible abuse and neglect and had to testify in court about what she saw. She had to take children away from their parents and was spit on and assaulted because of it. The paperwork was formidable and, as with every job, she had coworkers she loved and others she didn’t. She wanted to help children and society, but her work must have felt like emptying the ocean with a teacup. And she could never speak of these things, since all records were confidential. It was a heavy load.

Mom found outlets for coping with stress, and one of them was sewing, although I’m not sure she ever saw it as a creative outlet but more a method to acquire more clothing (still doesn’t make her a hoarder). Over time mom sewed less and turned her creative efforts to other things, like cooking. By the time she died at the very young age of 51, her machine had sat idle for a few years. I inherited it, along with a box of fabric and over a hundred spools of thread.

I used up three spools of mom’s green thread making the book sacks. It seems fitting that the thread of a former teacher and children’s advocate lives on in my husband’s classroom. Green is the color of life, of renewal, of fresh beginnings. Even old thread can provide a supporting role in a new year full of promise and potential.