Dishes

I’ve never been the woman that ropes off her living room unless company is coming over, and I don’t really have things that I save for special occasions, but I do have a number of lovely things that aren’t particularly practical for everyday use. Some were wedding gifts, others were inherited from family members, and others I’ve picked up myself over the years. Mostly they live in the china hutch, but when I host a gathering, I love pulling them out and showing them off.

My oldest niece is getting married in a few months, and her sister Sarah and I hosted a bridal shower for her. I had great fun trolling Pinterest for décor and menu ideas, and I enjoyed cooking and decorating in preparation. Cleaning…well, less fun, but important. My house is never as clean as I’d like, but I’ve accepted that, and I know that being a good hostess is not as much about a spotless home as it is about an open door.

The morning of the bridal shower, I cover the table with an embroidered tablecloth that had belonged to my stepmother; in fact, I think it had originally belonged to her mother-in-law. I spread a second embroidered tablecloth—a treasure purchased for $2 at an estate sale—over the kitchen island where I will set up the dessert station. I often pick up handwork at second-hand sales, because I want to honor and respect the work of the women who created it. The textile arts, in my opinion, tend to be undervalued.

Once the backdrop is in place, I retrieve tiny white china cups and saucers—a wedding gift from a childhood neighbor—from the bottom of the hutch. My neighbor was an avid garage sale shopper, and I am sure that these cups were not new when she gave them to me, which, frankly, I think is awesome. Recycling rocks!

I take out another wedding gift: an enormous glass bowl, a present from the kids in the 9^th-grade Sunday school we taught before we wed. I love this bowl and use it often. When I do, I always remember those sassy, introspective, amazing kids. We lost touch with them, but I know a few things: two of the girls were pregnant before they graduated high school (*sigh*), one of the boys was killed in a car accident when he was 26, and the father of one of the girls died just a few months ago. Much has happened since we knew them, but the beauty of the glass bowl remains.

To serve the chocolate mousse, I pull out my own Crate-and-Barrel dessert dishes, plus a few antique dessert dishes of unknown origin and a few pieces of my mother’s stemware. I’m sure that at one time I would have found the mish-mash of dishes tacky, but now I love it. Matchy-matchy is so 20^th-century.

There are not enough forks in my every-day silver, so I pull out the forks that were my family’s “good” silverware when I was a kid. I’ll also need three stainless serving plates to hold the quiches and my grandmother’s floral bon-bon dish for the butter. We plate and arrange everything: the tables look beautiful.

Our guests arrive—a mix of women new to me and people I’ve known for decades. The room is full of laughter and happiness, getting to know each other and celebrating Beka and the new family that is being formed with her marriage. 

At this shower, also I see and hear and feel the presence of women long gone, women I have loved and women I have not met. I see their artistry in the beautiful tablecloths that have served, and continue to serve, as a backdrop to lovingly created meals. I hear the echoes of their conversations as we sip from the same porcelain coffee cups. I see the reflection of their lives in the metals and the crystal. 

These days, when most women work for their own fulfillment as well as for financial reasons, when men cook and clean and tend to children, these gatherings might seem a throwback to another time: a hen party, a relic from the days when a well-stocked kitchen was the epitome of what every woman wanted. But I see it more as a rite of passage: women supporting women, helping to launch a young bride’s new life, offering our advice and our blessings to the bride-to-be as she enters an exciting new chapter.

When women gather, there is power. Sometimes this power changes the world through advocacy, education, research, or new ideas. And sometimes it changes the world in quieter ways, empowering just one woman and surrounding her with love as she moves confidently into her future. Godspeed, Beka, and know that you’re supported by those who walked this path before you. 

Reading

When I talk to parents who, like us, have large gaps in the ages of their children, they will often say that they are much better parents later in life. They have learned to let “little things” slide and they focus more on enjoying their kids than correcting them.

I can honestly say that I don’t feel that I have changed that much. I am just as bad at parenting as I have always been. I still get grumpy over lost items and spilled drinks, and I still get mad when I have to repeat simple instructions 20 times. We don’t indulge the kids’ every request or sign them up for everything they want to do; we ask them to make choices. When they pair green sweatpants with a red shirt or commit some other fashion faux pas, I will send my kids upstairs to change, although I have always been fairly relaxed about hair, allowing them to choose their own styles and colors (and trying really, really hard not making snide comments). But I still insist the kids eat their veggies, do their chores, and go to bed at a decent time.

I do notice, however, that I don’t worry quite as much about the younger kids’ academics. I help when I can, nag when I must, but I don’t feel the need to push them to be the top of their class. One thing I have learned is that motivation must come from within, and pushing too hard only leads to frustration for me and passive aggressive behavior in them.

I used to try so hard to get the older kids work up to their potential. All of them, smart and talented but not particularly driven, were happy to get by with the least amount of work, so from time to time we would work on an incentive program. When Beanie Babies were popular, I promised my oldest son, Phillip, a new stuffed animal with each perfect score on a spelling test, and for months his tests were flawless. When I told him that I thought he should get two perfect tests in order to get a toy, he decided that was too much work, and he never studied for a spelling test again.

I do believe in education, and I do want my kids to give things their best effort. I want them to understand math and be scientifically literate. I want them to LOVE reading and to be able to put together clear sentences in written form.  But with spellcheck available everywhere, it hardly seems important to be a perfect speller. By all means, I want the kids to learn the difference between there, their, and they’re, but most of the other stuff—eh, not so important.

More than brilliance in the classroom, my wish for my kids is that they learn to be kindhearted and empathetic without being used and abused, that they can understand the give-and-take required of any good relationship. I want them to learn to be good friends, and this is far more difficult to teach this than any academic subject.

Over the years each of my kids has had good friends and not-so-good friends. I know that my kids didn’t, and still don’t, tell me about every time they were bullied or bruised. I also know that, although they are basically lovely people, my kids have been guilty of acts of unkindness—some of it stunningly cruel. It’s what kids do: speak without thinking, act without considering someone else’s feelings. Sometimes it has cost them big, but other times they have been able to make amends. At the very least they have learned from the experience.

Back in the days when I was pressuring Phillip about I before E and all other things academic, he hung out with a kid named Greg. They were friends through high school, but they didn’t see each other much after that, even though they made some attempts to keep in touch. It wasn’t a falling out, just a falling away, as happens when paths diverge.

Enough of their friendship remained that Phillip went to the visitation hours when, at age 21, Greg took his own life. Even looking back at their time together, Phillip did not suspect that Greg would suicide. I don’t know if Greg changed after high school or if Phillip just didn’t see it. I certainly don’t blame Phillip for missing it. Greg had a loving family and several close friends; I don’t know if any of them saw it, either. But I wish someone had, and had found a way to stop it.

I want my kids to read great literature, to understand math, and to know important events from history, but more than that I want them to be able to read people, to understand relationships, and to know themselves. Not that the two are mutually exclusive; it’s certainly possible to be self-aware and a good friend and also to be intellectually well-rounded. But if I have to choose, I want to raise kids who are good friends, who have healthy relationships, and who make a positive difference in the lives of others.

I’ll go to parent/teacher conferences this week, and if history is any indication, I expect that the teachers will tell me that my kids are doing okay academically: strengths and weaknesses, but mostly middle of the pack. And then they’ll tell me that my kids are helpful and kind, sweet and funny, growing up to be good people. After the conferences I’ll attempt—as I always do—to offer more help (and nag a little more) with schoolwork. But in my heart I’ll know that the important foundation is already secure.

Sad

Lots and lots of people fight depression. I am one of them. It runs in my family, as do diabetes, heart disease, and big feet. Not much that can be done about the genetics, but if you know your weaknesses, with proper care and attention, it’s possible to avoid or overcome these things. (Well, except for the big feet. For that there is no cure, only acceptance—and cute shoes.)

Much was written about depression in the wake of Robin Williams’ suicide, and I’m not sure I have anything new to contribute to the discussion. That said, I know that writing is therapy for me, and so sometimes I write to help exorcise my own mental demons. And so, dear reader, welcome to my therapy session.

One reason that Williams’ death hit all of us so hard is because it had clearly been such a long struggle for him, and he had obviously done everything in his power to get well. If such a gifted, loved, and loving person, someone with excellent resources, couldn’t beat this disease, what hope is there for the rest of us? Fortunately, most people with depression don’t fall into a well that deep, but it is rather alarming the number that do, even when under a doctor’s care, even with family and friends being vigilant and supportive.

My depression most often feels to me like I am trapped in tall bucket about half-full of sadness. I’m not drowning, but I am surrounded, and I cannot get out. I know that there are things I can and should do to at least make the water level go down, but even when I know that writing or exercising or even cleaning have the potential to lift my spirits, they are the last things I want to do. The sides of the pail are too tall, too slippery. I feel helpless. So I focus on the darkness instead of reaching for the light.

There is a little something stubborn in people with depression. We tend to feel like victims, and with that mentality comes a sense of helplessness, of not believing it is within our power to change things.  Perhaps we are more comfortable living with the sadness that is known than to move into the happiness that could be. Or we may believe that, once we’re out from under the cloud, no one will believe that the cloud was real.

Depression, like so many illnesses, is more complicated and more devastating than we know. We’re looking, as we always do, for the quick fix, the sure shot, the easy-to-swallow correction. It doesn’t exist. It requires a lot of work to overcome. And each case is different; each depressed person is in his or her own pail. Each has to figure out what works, and then stick with the plan.

Depression is as a medical condition, and it deserves to be treated as such. There are medicines available that can be a great benefit, but getting the right meds in the right doses is kind of a trial-and-error thing. And, as a friend noted, the pharmaceutical companies are the ones doing all the research on depression, and it’s likely that their goal is motivated as much by money as by improving the human condition. A pill is not always the answer, is not always the ONLY answer, is not always the COMPLETE answer. As with most medical conditions, a multi-tiered approach often works best.

Talk therapy, with or without pharmaceuticals, can be a huge help, but again, therapists only make money when you’re making those appointments. Talking with friends can be just as beneficial for many people, but even the best friends are bound to get frustrated after weeks and weeks of negative self-talk. And I don’t blame them. I get tired of hearing myself complain. I have a pretty great life, and it bothers me that I don’t appreciate it more. I don’t want to burden my friends with my petty complaints when we live in a world full of atrocities like hunger and racism.

So, what to do? While certainly not a substitute for medical care, there are simple things that can be done to combat depression. Research shows that listing three good things that happened each day (small things, like a call from a friend, completing a task, discovering a new tea) lifts even clinical depression in a matter of weeks. Decades of research also indicate that the act of smiling—even when you’re not feeling it—and doing good deeds for others consistently boost mood. None of these things in itself is a cure (look again to Robin Williams), but all can be helpful.

When I had cancer, there were times when I thought that the treatment was worse than the disease. I wasn’t sure if I could do all of the chemo and all of the radiation. Many people kept me going: doctors and pastors and friends and coworkers and family and even the occasional stranger in the street. But in the end, it was my decision, and I knew that I wanted to do all that I could to get well. Having a goal allowed me to do the things that I didn’t think I could.

So it is with depression. Many, many people have kept me going, listened to me vent, forced me to get out, helped me to find purpose, and I am enormously grateful. But it is still my pail. Some days I am out, and other days I fall back in. And each day I have to remind myself that, even if I’m in the pail, there are things I can do to keep the water from rising. I need to choose to do them.

I also try to remember to do for others as others have done for me. I can’t pull those who are depressed out of their pails, but I can be a listener and an encourager. I can offer to hold them accountable. And I can walk with them on their journeys.

I guess those big feet are good for something.

Thrift

I often describe myself as the world’s cheapest human, which isn’t quite true, but close. It’s not that I won’t spend money, but I really, really hate paying any more for an item than is absolutely necessary. I love a bargain.

While this has been true for a long time, it became even more important when our family income was cut in half a few years ago. Although we hadn’t been living a lavish lifestyle, at that point we had to make some serious adjustments. We had to tighten up everywhere.

Clothing can be considered a luxury, but with growing kids it’s a necessity. While at one time we relied on thrift store purchases for costumes for school plays or for Halloween, when I lost my job and we added two children to the family almost simultaneously, shopping thrift stores for clothing became an important way of keeping expenses in check.

Here in Grand Rapids we have a few thrift stores that support local missions that I frequent occasionally, and I used to shop Goodwill until I learned of the dramatic pay disparity within the company, but the Salvation Army Store is my current go-to. I’m especially partial to the days (about once a month) when clothing is 99 cents per piece. No need to check the tags or do too much math…the perfect shopping experience.

I’m not the only one who takes advantage of these sales, so on 99 days, the place is packed. The entirely inadequate parking lot overflows, so people ignore the do-not-park-here signs at the enormous (often empty) parking lot of the neighboring garden center. I often park in this lot, but I park in a part that isn’t tagged for towing so I’m pretty sure my car will be there when I come out.

The store has an aroma all its own: musty, with a hint of mothballs and grandma’s cologne. On busy days it’s tough to get a cart, but if your timing is right, you can score some wheels. Of course, the aisles are narrow, so shopping with a cart will definitely slow you down. It’s a calculated risk, either way, but if I have time to really browse, the cart is a good choice.

On sale days, I start in the boutique, where the high-end stuff is lodged. I’ve never been a brand-name snob, but I know good quality, and I know that sometimes I can find it sequestered on these front racks. The store puts a higher price on boutique stuff, but on 99 cent days, it’s 99 cents. I check the racks for men’s stuff, women’s stuff, kids’ stuff. I examine the pieces for wear, for stains, and for working zippers. Replacing a button is no big deal, but if I have to replace a zipper it never ends well.

Many people shop together as families. Young children run wild, scream from boredom, or sit on the nasty stained floor and play with the toys that are for sale while mom and dad consult about items they’ve pulled from the rack. It appears that many of my fellow shoppers are recent immigrants; I often hear Spanish, Chinese, Korean, and the languages of Africa, as well as languages and accents I can’t identify.

Because of the ages and genders of my family, I shop virtually every rack of clothing, crawling past other shoppers with their overflowing carts. Clothes are sorted by gender and by color but not by size, so you can spend a lot of time looking and might still come up empty handed. For the kids, if I find something good I buy it even if it’s a size or two large; quality kids’ stuff isn’t easy to come by.

Thanks to some modest sewing skills, sometimes I can repair or alter something to make it work, and I’ve actually refashioned a few things so that they’re quite wearable. But not everything is worth the effort, so I focus on things that have real potential. Even 99 cents isn’t a bargain if you’re not going to wear it.

The lines for the five dressing rooms are crazy long on these days, so I know better than to buy anything that has to be tried on. If I am shopping for pants for myself, I come alone on a quiet Tuesday morning and take my time in the dressing room. For these pieces I have to pay “full price,” which is still a bargain, and way better for my sanity.

When my shopping is done, or when I’ve had enough of the experience, I make my way to the checkout and pull off the hangers while waiting in line, tossing them into gigantic boxes. Invariably I’m caught up in a conversation with other shoppers during the slow crawl up to the register, and I learn a tiny bit about the lives of the working poor. In general they are smart, hardworking, family-oriented, and kind—like most people everywhere. While I feel a great deal of kinship with them, I’m sure that in terms of material wealth I am a millionaire in comparison.

After a half-hour in line, I leave with two enormous bags: six pair of men’s pants, five men’s polos, a few things for the kids, and three shirts for me…for $18. The musty smell fills my car and then my laundry room, where I quickly wash away the stink and the stigma.

Because I do feel it: the ways that we are measured by what we wear. I believe that our outward appearance says something about who we are. And while I’m proud of how well I can dress my family shopping this way, I am careful about how many people I tell. Well, at least until now…

What the heck. Go ahead and judge if you must, or join me at the next sale and score some fabulous bargains. Either way, I’m fine. 

Thirty

My husband is a great guy. He’s smart, funny, a terrific father, and a great life partner. He is not, however, particularly romantic. Before we became engaged I, like many young women, dreamed of a thoughtful, memorable, write-a-book-about-it kind of proposal, but when I suggested that such a thing would be nice, Bill was clear that he thought elaborate proposals were stupid. He thought things like talking to my father (“getting permission”) and proposing while on bended knee were old-fashioned and sexist, and told me that such gestures would not be forthcoming. So the moment that we agreed to marry could most accurately be described as a non-event, but I said yes anyway.

We picked out a nice ring and started making plans, even though we were both fresh out of college and unemployed. Nothing about our future was clear or firm. We picked a date and planned a wedding on a fairly modest budget. We took a few risks in our arrangements (like planning an outdoor reception with no back-up plan in case of rain) and added a few personal touches, like a carriage ride to the reception. Everything else was lovely but fairly standard: four attendants each but no flower girls or ring bearer,  beautiful flowers, an organist but no vocalist. Great hors d’ oeuvres and a beautiful cake, but no sit-down dinner, no dance hall, and no DJ.

I’d like to say that the wedding went off without a hitch, but actually the hitches are the things I remember best.  I woke up on my wedding day still a little drunk from the rehearsal dinner the night before. As the day unfolded, I sobered up and managed to get everyone and everything in the right places. Except I didn’t have a check for the florist, and I had to make a quick trip to buy shoes for my going-away outfit…but when the time for the wedding arrived, I was dressed and ready to walk down the aisle.

About five minutes before the ceremony, the minister found me to inform me that Bill had forgotten to bring my wedding ring. Just plain forgot it. So I took off my engagement ring and handed it off to the minister, who gave it to Bill, who placed it on my finger right after the vows….which Bill also forgot. The minister helped Bill—poor nervous guy—to stumble through. And then we were married, and were off in our carriage to enjoy our outdoor reception.

That was thirty years ago this week. While I am sure that even then there were weddings far more elaborate than ours, these were the days before Pinterest and shows like “Say Yes to the Dress” turned weddings into the elaborate, insanely-detailed events that they are now. I’ll admit that part of me wishes that we could redo some things—there are some very cute and creative ideas out there!—but in truth we were more focused on our marriage and the life we would live together after the wedding than we were on the wedding itself.  And that I wouldn’t change.

When we got married, people didn’t talk about “soul mates.” Love and compatibility are important, of course, but even the most perfectly matched couples learn that love doesn’t actually conquer all. In every marriage there will be struggles over money and family and any number of issues, large and small. At the end of the day (or week, depending on your standards), someone still has to do the dishes, and you may not always agree on who that should be.

Thirty years ago, I don’t think I could have defined what a soul mate is, but I think I can now. It’s someone with whom you’ve shared a lifetime of everyday memories and some great adventures. It’s someone who supports you through cancer and job loss, and someone who trusts you enough to be willing to lean on you during his or her tough times. It’s someone with whom you have a million inside jokes and shared secrets. It’s someone who encourages you and supports you; someone who loves you exactly as you are and yet still challenges you to be better. It’s someone with whom you share a past, the present, and the future.

Love is a choice, and marriage is the commitment of two people willing to work it all out: for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. It’s not particularly romantic, but who needs romance when you can have a genuine soul mate.

One Year

I wrote this piece nearly a year ago. Kelsey was fighting some pretty powerful demons at that time. Today, on the anniversary of what was her darkest day, I'm so happy to see her continue to emerge as the amazing person she is and is becoming. 

For Kelsey, as she turns 19

Since your birth, we’ve shared a love for Disney films. We know all the characters, all of the lines, and of course all of the songs. I know some people blame these movies for their own distorted notions about life and love, but to these people I want to say, “You do realize that animals don’t talk or do the dishes, and fairy godmothers and enchantresses and pixies and flying carpets—you do realize they’re not real, right? Grow up!” These movies are fantasies, to be sure, but I think the stories and the characters are often more complex than we give them credit for.  As we get older, it’s up to us to find the deeper lessons and find ways to apply them to our lives.

I like your new mantra, “I’m the hero of this story.” It’s thoughtful, it’s to the point, and it’s true. You play the most important role in your own life, and that includes taking responsibility for getting yourself out of difficult spots. It means taking initiative and not placing blame, and sometimes it means taking your lumps. Sometimes that means fighting demons and darkness. But I have no doubt that you can win the fight. You are your own hero.

But you’re more than the hero. You’re also the princess: beautiful, kindhearted, spunky, with a great voice (and a tendency to burst into song for no reason). You’ve got big dreams, and with your talent and some hard work, there’s no reason to believe that those dreams can’t come true. You have a lot to offer to the world, and to your own story.

And some days you’re the villain: witty, a little snarky, a little dark. Disney villains in particular are interesting characters and can be a source of comic relief, but inevitably they become obsessed with some long-ago hurt, real or imagined. For them, living in the past is the road to madness. So be careful not to sabotage yourself by dwelling on what was, or what might have been. Learn from the past, but focus on the future.

Also remember that, while you are the center of your own life, you play an important supporting role in many, many other lives. You enrich our stories in innumerable ways, some that are obvious, and some that you may never know. You have so much value to so many, and that value will only increase as you mature. By the same token, there are many who play supporting roles in your life. Even when you’re alone in the spotlight, remember that all of us are only a breath away, and while the scene is yours to carry, we’ll be there to support you when you need it.

Unlike the plays you auditioned for in high school, in real life you’re not assigned a part, but you get to choose the part you want to play in any given scene. You don’t need to be the same person all the time, and each part can be interesting and valuable, but there’s one part you need to avoid playing: the victim. You’re definitely not this. Self-pity does not look good on you, and it has no place in this story.

So you’re the hero, but you’re not some two-dimensional romantic lead who sweeps in at the last minute, but a hero more like Indiana Jones: genuine, complex, and slightly flawed, someone who confesses to making it up as you go. You can’t control everything that happens, but you can control how you respond to events. Learn to respond with grace and courage. You’ve got a great life ahead of you. 

Struggle

It is my nature to worry, and I do it well. When my kids were really young, I used to stress about things like childcare and cloth-versus-disposable diapers. As a working mom, I wondered if I was spending enough time with them and if the time we spent together was of sufficient quality. I worried about keeping them safe and whether we had done enough reading with them so that they would be able to keep up in school.

My dad, an experienced parent, had no appreciation for the depth of my concern. When I would vent to him about my worries, he would smile a little smile and shake his head ever so slightly. “Little children, little problems. Big children, big problems,” he’d say.

I may have been frustrated that he was a little dismissive of my bundle of worries, but I understood what he was saying. Sort of. I also imagined that if I did my work well when my kids were little, that would carry them through to adulthood, and our big kids would not provide me with big problems to worry about.

And it has worked out that way. Sort of. Not a day goes by when one of my kids doesn’t astound me with a profound bit of wisdom, an achievement, or an act of deep compassion that makes my maternal heart swell with joy. They are learning, growing, becoming.

It is just as true that on any given day my kids will say or do something that astounds me with the depth of their stupidity, immaturity, and selfishness. As painful as these things are, I hope, and I pray, and I try to believe that they are learning, growing, becoming through these experiences. But I have my doubts.

In a really old episode of Law and Order (my favorite show), Detectives Curtis and Brisco were investigating the murder of a young woman. Raised by loving parents, she got into modeling as a teen, which led to a world of money, celebrities, and drugs. Curtis, who had young daughters, was bewildered and judgmental: he figured if he raised his girls right, they would avoid any kind of problems.

We all know loving, close-knit families where the kids have been raised right but still make mistakes—lots of mistakes, huge mistakes, stupid mistakes that can’t be ignored. It is the nature of young adults to test limits, and sometimes kids get caught. Others, for whatever reason, are able to avoid the dire consequences of their recklessness. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with parenting, but more with dumb luck.

Some days I really, really want to return my kids to the bubble of childhood, where I could control them and protect them and attempt to bend them to my will. I want my kids to avoid mistakes and heartache and pain. When I’m honest, see that part of the reason for this is because I believe that their bad choices, bad behavior, and mistakes reflect poorly on me and my parenting.

I miss those days when my biggest concerns were their bizarre clothing combinations, bad table manners, or failed spelling tests. I hope that when I scolded them for these things, they understood that I was trying to teach them about bigger things: about being polite, getting along with others, diligence and hard work, and that small things matter. I hope that these are the lessons that will carry them forward in life.

They say that, during childbirth, it’s important for the child to struggle through the birth canal; it’s a healthy thing for the baby, and part of nature’s design. Perhaps it is the same as these kids become birthed as adults; struggle is healthier for the adult in the long run, but it sure is painful for the mother.

Advice columnist Ann Landers said, “It is not what you do for your children, but what you have taught them to do for themselves, that will make them successful human beings.”  Even now, when the law says three of my kids are adults, the jury is still out on what I’ve taught them, or rather, what they’ve learned from me. Whatever it is, there’s still a whole bunch of stuff they will have to learn for themselves.  May God give them, and me, strength and wisdom for the journey.