Author: mabbat

Notes on Choir

I know, but I couldn’t help myself with the title.  For most of my life, I have sung in choir.  In fact, I earned a perfect attendance award one year in the church children’s choir; I mention that award because it was one of my proudest achievements until a freakish P.E. award in middle school – but that’s another post.  I learned from the band director within the first week of middle school that I had no rhythm (and he was right – I can’t clap and sing at the same time), and if I couldn’t play drums or a trumpet, I wasn’t interested in the band, thus sealing my fate as a choir member.

In high school, I continued to sing in the concert choir and the show choir (think Glee without all the angst and obvious sex).  I still reference most of my time in high school by the pieces we were singing in choir: “Odysseus and the Sirens,” Hilaritas, “Johnny Be Good,” Cole Porter, and Bach chorales.  I sang in assorted choirs all through college, but after getting married and moving to a new church, I never joined the choir.  I sang with the ensemble in Christmas productions, but I hadn’t been in choir in almost ten years until I started going to practice in the fall.  I am officially a second soprano now, which has been an adjustment from a lifetime of alto and occasional tenor singing, but I can hit most of the notes, and my eyes have almost gotten used to watching the director from the other side of the loft.  Adjustments aside, I feel like I’m home in the choir for a lot of reasons.

A good piece of music is a microcosm of the body of Christ: it is a collective effort that cannot be accomplished by one person alone, and everyone involved has a different job to do.  There must be a composer, a director, people to play the instruments, people to sing the parts, and people to hear the song.  Every Sunday morning in the choir loft, I am reminded at some point that I am one voice among many, and I can identify the individual voices in my section along with the harmonies of the other sections.  It is extraordinary to hear the individuals become one collective voice, and it must be a little bit like what heaven will be.  One of my favorite exercises in high school choir was standing in a big circle around the room to sing whatever piece we were working on; wherever you stood in the circle, you heard every part as if it were a single voice.  The piece I most remember from that exercise is “The Last Words of David;” our director told the accompanist to play, and then she turned all of the lights off.  The first phrase was like a wall of sound with all these crazy chords that gave us all chill bumps.  I think that’s still my favorite choral piece, even after everything I have heard or sung since then, and I will never forget how it sounded that day in the dark.

As amazing as it was to sing with such an incredible group of voices in high school, it is even better to be singing with our church choir.  They, too, are an amazingly talented bunch, but the focus is not on winning competitions or competing for solos: we are there to tell about God’s love through music.  And I feel like the choir members demonstrate that love by the way they care for each other.  Of course there are all of the foibles and follies that humans are prone to – you can’t put people in a room together and never have disagreements or personality conflicts – but this is a group that prays for each other and expresses genuine concern for each other in spite of all the different personalities and ages and professions present in such a large group.  It doesn’t hurt that our director leads by example, either.

My work day was insane yesterday.  I had (make that still have) an enormous pile of paperwork on my desk and several fires to put out through the day, so by the time I left for choir practice, I was frazzled to say the least.  Once we started singing, though, the mess of the day was gone, and I was home.

Shorthand

Court reporting has always been the most mysterious part of a courtroom to me.  I am a hunt-and-peck typist, and all of my efforts to learn correct typing skills have resulted in frustration and laughter from Mavis Beacon.  She’s a really mean computer program, I tell you… okay, mostly because I enabled sound effects that apparently mock you when you hit a wrong key or type too slowly.  I never took typing or keyboarding in school, either.  It may shock you to learn that my elective schedule was too full with art class, math team, choir, and Spanish.  I have honed my hunt-and-peck skills, so that you probably wouldn’t notice that I can’t type without looking at the keyboard, but my speed severely limits my ability to take dictation of any kind.  Understandably, court reporting is out of the realm of possibilities for me: you not only have to type at the speed of conversation, but you also have to know and understand a special shorthand.  Maybe it is the magic of motion pictures, but I am always astounded when the court reporter on a television show reads back several minutes of dialogue from what appears to be three inches of adding machine tape.

But we all have forms of shorthand that we use every day.  For instance, if you have a profession, there are terms that you use that apply strictly to your trade.  Every hobby you have requires a working knowledge of the craft or activity you are attempting to complete.  I recall looking at the information for the triathlon I conned my best friend into entering with me, and wondering, “What in the world does T1 and T2 mean?”  All I knew up to that point was swim, bike, run (What do you mean I have to transition?!).

Sometimes, shorthand can be a barrier to real communication.  Many regular church attendees, especially in the Bible Belt, have a hard time avoiding “religious” or “church” words when they are talking to someone who isn’t familiar with the lingo.  “I was backsliding until I repented of my sins and rededicated my life.”  Chances are, if you’re not Southern Baptist, you don’t really understand what that meant.  I would guess that even if you did understand it, you fall into one of two camps: Camp A which sees no issue with defaulting to the lingo, or Camp B which is frustrated by the lingo because it so often falls short of truly expressing the heart and soul of your faith.  I suppose it’s evident that my tent is pitched in Camp B.  The problem with exclusionary shorthand is that you prevent an outsider from coming into your campground and staying long enough to roast marshmallows around the fire.  I can think of nothing that should be more clearly communicated than the truth of who God is and how he loves us, yet we often entangle ourselves in the semantics or catch phrases.

But shorthand can be useful, too.  In the church example, there is an amazing shorthand among followers of Christ: there is (or should be) an immediate family connection, and they already know the most important things about you without asking a single question.  If you tell me you follow Christ, then I already know you are my brother or sister in faith, and the rest is just details as the saying goes.  I have some beautiful friendships that have developed on that foundation alone.  This blog has also provided a shorthand among my friends.  It allows me to share more than I would either be willing or able to do in a quick conversation, which means that most of my quick conversations have immediately started on a deeper level.  It has allowed others to share things they probably wouldn’t have otherwise, which offers me a shorthand to their struggles, too.  It has turned us into court reporters of the heart, if you will, and that quick and deep plunge into friendship is priceless.

We’re All Just a Bunch of Crock(ery)

Several months ago, I purchased a pair of Vibram Five Fingers shoes.  In case you haven’t seen them, they are pictured here (made even more obnoxious by the addition of striped socks – I am on a mission to find more toed socks today as all the toed socks I own are some variation of stripes or hearts).  I personally find these shoes to be the most comfortable pair I own; it feels like walking around in your socks all day.  I’ve had a really bad case of plantar fasciitis among all of the other issues my feet have had from birth, and, rather counterintuitively, walking and running in these shoes or barefoot is helping tremendously.  However, I do not recommend these shoes to anyone without a healthy sense of humor and at least a small dose of confidence, for you will be mocked.

My Five Fingers have been conversation starters as well as the butt of many jokes around the office (I now wave goodbye to my office roommate with my toes whenever I’m wearing them) and various checkout lines.  I have adopted a new motto regarding my footwear, though: Blessed are you who are mocked for your choice in shoes, for your feet shall not ache nor blister.  Perhaps slightly sacrilegious, but true in my case.  I tend to forget what they look like, so I forget that other people might be surprised by my footwear.

So, last weekend while I was waiting for a pickup order at a steakhouse restaurant, I was not surprised to see someone glaring with disapproval and horror at the outline of my toes.  What made this situation downright hilarious was the disgusted woman’s attire: plaid pajama pants, hooded sweatshirt, and FUZZY PINK FLIP FLOP SLIPPERS!  I barely avoided snorting with laughter when I caught her looking at my shoes because I thought, “At least I have on real pants,”  and then, “Pot, meet kettle.”

That moment has made me laugh all week, but it also made me think about how many times we do that on a daily basis.  How often do I disdain someone in spite of all of my foibles and imperfections?  I honestly try not to criticize someone else without considering my faults first.  I suppose I have this cartoon-like image of myself with a plank in my eye holding tweezers to someone else’s eye.  I don’t always succeed at thinking before critiquing, and I know I fail most often with my husband and my family.  But the look on that woman’s face coupled with her similarly ridiculous choice in footwear demonstrated the absurdity of passing judgment on others.  It appears that we’re all just a bunch of pots calling kettles black.

Friendship

This is from an Oswald Chambers lesson in My Utmost for His Highest: “Friendship is rare on earth. It means identity in thought and heart and spirit.  The whole discipline of life is to enable us to enter into this closest relationship with Jesus Christ.  We receive His blessings and know His Word, but do we know Him?”

When I first read those sentences, I was immediately struck by their beauty and simplicity – so much that I read them several times. On first glance, I was considering that true friendship as described by Chambers is extremely rare, and I am blessed to experience its touches every day in a lot of often unexpected places.  I certainly have a few “go-to” friends with whom I share “identity in thought and heart and spirit”; they are my earthly anchors, and they are truly golden.  The silver bits come from the unexpected touches of shared identity: a word or a hug from a new friend; a message from someone you haven’t seen in years; a shared experience you wouldn’t have been able to imagine.  Essentially, these are the times that we stop everything else and take the time to actually communicate on the heart and soul level – the moments that seem to hang crystalized in our memories because of the insight we gained or the glimpse of depth we each contain but rarely share.

On the repeated readings of that quotation, I began to consider the last few sentences.  Chambers said the whole aim of our lives is to know Christ in this intimate manner.  “We receive His blessings and know His Word, but do we know Him?”  It isn’t enough for me to just read the Bible on a regular basis or pray on a regular basis if I am not taking time to search out the person of Christ through those disciplines.  Do I know him, or do I just know about him?  I can tell you my husband’s personal history, recite stories from his childhood, quote the details of his work truck specifications, and give you his clothing sizes.  But that is meaningless without the intimate knowledge that comes from almost a decade of marriage: I can read the micro expressions on his face and tell you what kind of mood he’s in; I know his likes and dislikes (although he still manges to pull off a lot of surprises on me there); I can anticipate his reactions to situations at work (and to my insane moments).  Those details are unknowable if you stop at the surface or spend little time with someone.

My husband and I will have been married ten years in May; I have been a professing Christian nearly three times longer.  I’m not sure that I could honestly tell you more intimate details about Christ than I can about my husband.  I can tell you innumerable details gleaned from a lifetime of church and Bible study, but intimate details are a horse of a different color.  In some respects, that is because it is easier to obtain intimate knowledge of a physical being you share a home with.  But mostly, it tells me I need to spend more time with Christ.  This does not mean I should cloister myself for hours or days, although I do find that a daily time for study and meditation and prayer keep me more focused on finding Christ in the intimate details of my life.  As Oswald Chambers said, “the whole discipline of life” should serve to draw us closer to Jesus.  I don’t know what your life holds, but my current discipline of life involves being a wife, keeping house, working, and writing, just to name a few.  I should have intimate knowledge of God through each and every pursuit; if not, I need to either find Christ in that pursuit or abandon it altogether.

I think some people struggle with Christianity over the rules and regulations.  We humans impose a lot of rules and laws on each other in an attempt to sanctify humanity by preventing some infraction of morality.  While morality as the result of a pure and honest heart is admirable, morality for the sake of morality quickly becomes self-righteousness and dictatorial.  It turns Christianity into a tool for condemnation and horrible acts of cruelty, like the Westboro Baptist Church folks who protest military funerals.  That is not the love of Christ; it is not love at all except possibly the love of self.  While I may not feel completely confident in my intimacy with Christ, I do know that the more we know him intimately – when we do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God (Micah 6:8) – then the more details and disciplines fall into place.

I think I need to add to my resolution list to search for a deeper intimacy with Christ than I have with anyone else.  How amazing would it be to be able to tell someone about God’s micro expressions?  Moses could have; the disciples could have.  I want to translate all of the knowledge I have acquired about God into close friendship and intimacy.  I can imagine nothing greater than to know God as he knows us.  While the full realization of that knowledge isn’t possible this side of heaven, we can begin here on earth.

To Forgive Is Divine, Which I Am Not

But I’ll try anyway.  I found myself in the foulest of moods today (actually for the last few days, but with our snow holiday yesterday, I was alone and had no need to feel or express said foulness).  I was talking back to the radio; I was angered by news articles (although several of them would have angered me anyway); I wanted to point out every stupid act or remark for its idiocy and therefore irrelevancy; I have the patience of one of my dogs when faced with invading squirrels in the backyard – except that I would be locked up were I to bark out my frustrations like they do.  I mapped out  multiple essays in my head over the last few hours rebutting the topics I heard or saw discussed in the news today.  So I finally stopped to breathe and try to figure out what sparked my rage, and I think I know.

I saw my step-grandmother-in-law (it’s a somewhat convoluted family history, but the short version is we both married into the family and often don’t recognize each other in public because we don’t meet very often) at church on Sunday morning.  While she can be a topic of frustration among my in-laws, she caught me completely off-guard.  We were a little late, so I sat down next to her and waved.  She looked confused until she finally saw my husband.  We didn’t talk to her until church was over, and my husband was talking to the friends we sat near that I really wanted to see.  I got stuck with the step-grandmother-in-law, which is always a little awkward since we really don’t know each other well enough to even discuss the weather.  She opened the conversation with, “Well, are you pregnant again?”  As all of the words that ran through my head were not polite, to say the least, suffice it to say that I was a total loss for a response of any kind.  So I stuttered and answered, “Nope, apparently I’m just fat and out of shape if you think I look pregnant.”  She paused and switched topics: “That little baby of your sister’s – I can’t remember her name, you know I’ve got so many grandkids of my own I just can’t remember everybody’s name – she’s just a beautiful baby.”  Of course, I agreed – my niece is indeed very beautiful – and then she moved on to the much safer topic of weather before I managed to just walk away.  Once she moved on, I told my husband that I never wanted to be stuck talking to her again.  And I will avoid her like the plague in the future.

Of course that is a somewhat outrageous reaction on my part: my step-grandmother-in-law is a polite but clueless old woman, and she rarely manages to even appear to care for my in-laws in any real way based on the few actual conversations we’ve had.  She tends to talk at all of us and generally only ever speaks about her own children.  So, why should I be special when she has so many other names to remember, and why should I even care what she thinks?  In reality, she’s just not worth the effort beyond just being nice to her.  Except she managed to hit a lot of raw nerves in one shot.  And what kind of jackanapes (look it up on www.dictionary.com – their definition made me smile a little, which is horrible and vindictive, but true) leads with that question if you know any tiny bit of our history, and she does?  And then what kind of jackanapes changes the subject to rave about another baby (even one that I love with my whole heart) immediately after that first blunderbuss of a topic?  I don’t care how many grandkids’ names you have to remember, common courtesy should have precluded her first question to begin with.  I’m not really shy about talking about our miscarriages, but that level of insensitivity hurt my feelings a lot.  She obviously didn’t care about me enough to even ask about the situation in a kind manner, which has nothing to do with our relationship, her age, or her memory – it was just rude.

I don’t know if she only heard a tidbit of family news several months ago, so maybe she got confused and thought we were still pregnant (even though I should be obviously showing by now if the last one had stuck).  Or maybe she thought I looked like I might be showing, which hit another sore spot: my weight.  I gained my freshman fifteen a few times in college, which was a difficult adjustment for my former dancer body and my psyche.  Then I gained more weight after I got married, some of which I managed to lose and keep off for a little while.  But, as it turns out, I am one of those comfort eater types, so I have done nothing but gain weight over the last three years.  I finally managed to lose about five pounds over the last month, but it wasn’t enough for the Jackanapes not to ask if I was pregnant again. (More unutterable phrases…)

Those are the situations nothing can prepare you for, since they come out of the blue, and this one happened at a place I consider very safe since everyone I know at church knows about our losses.  I don’t mind talking to anyone who is truly concerned for me or that may be going through the same situation.  I have learned to let most of the things that are said out of love (and a lack of knowledge of anything better to say) roll off if the actual words sting and just accept the sentiment instead.  Aside from this situation, I cannot recall a single phrase that may have hurt at the time it was spoken that I associate with the individual who said it; I may recall the phrase, but all I associate with the person who said it is that they were concerned and expressed some words of comfort in the best way they knew how.  I have not learned how to appropriately blow off moments like the one the Jackanapes provided: she’s not close enough to even realize that she hurt me, and I’m not close enough to tell her without having called her out in that very moment – it’s not like I could call her later and talk to her about it.  She was thoughtless and rude; I would have been more so to have addressed the issue with an elder in such a public foray, especially given that I was hurt and angry at the time and unlikely to have been rational or appropriate in expressing my feelings.  While I might have felt immediate relief had I told her off, it wouldn’t have been the right thing to do, nor would I have felt better for long if I thought I had embarrassed her or hurt her feelings.  I feel like it’s questionable to even write this blog post, given that she could be identified (and I have repeatedly called her a jackanapes, which proves I am also rude and thoughtless when hurt/angry), however unlikely it is that she or anyone close to her would learn of it.  But I also couldn’t keep biting people’s heads off for something someone else said days ago without thinking.

I suppose that this is one entry that may have been better left in my pink Chinese flower journal except for the fact that I know there other women who’ve experienced the same thing, maybe over pregnancy loss, or maybe over another fertility issue.  I was hurt and angry, and I was powerless to do anything about it, much as I am powerless to change my pregnancy loss experience.  I still have no idea how exactly to handle those situations except get away quickly and find a way to vent.  I got away Sunday, but I didn’t quite make it to the venting stage.  I didn’t realize it was that important until I started doing my snapping turtle act.  I know I did the best thing I could in the situation, although my mother-in-law was a little proud and somewhat astonished that I answered the pregnancy query with the fat and out of shape response.  I’m sure that I would do essentially the same thing if the situation were to arise again; the momentary instant gratification I might gain from turning the situation around on the jackanapes would pale when compared to knowing I am called to turn the other cheek and forgive the jackanapes.  Responding in kind would have done nothing to demonstrate the love of Christ.  I’ve got a long way to go before I can handle the jackanapes in a manner worthy of Christ; I let unforgiveness ruin three days of my life, and I very nearly let in hurt the people around me today.

Honestly, I’m not really sure how to forgive her, except by venting my anger in a way that probably won’t hurt her and then try to forget about it.  The temptation to indulge in revenge fantasies will only constantly remind me of the injury and push me further away from truly forgiving her, which would really only push me away from God.  So, now that I’ve gotten it off my chest, I will do my best to let it go.  And I promise to quit calling her a jackanapes as soon as I type this last period.

Christmas Eve Shopping #punked

Almost every year, my family went shopping on Christmas Eve.  We didn’t often buy anything, but it is an interesting time to shop.  People and products are flying everywhere; it’s like standing in the middle of a time-lapse video as long as you can avoid being trampled while standing still in the middle of an aisle.  Lately, I have been shopping on Christmas Eve because I just haven’t had time to finish off my list until the last minute.  But this year, I was out shopping just for the fun of it, and I decided to go to a craft store.  We have at least three major craft chains in town, and they each have their strengths.  One of my favorite stores for the sheer selection they provide is also the bane of my fabric existence.  They have implemented a number system where you have to draw a number in order to be served.  Having worked in a fabric store for much of my high school career, I can appreciate the beauty of the number system, but I also hold fabric cutters to a certain standard of speed when applying said system (especially now that they have those newfangled bar code scanner do-dads – I bet they don’t have to walk to work barefoot, either…).

Several months ago, I walked into this store, immediately drew a number, and proceeded to walk around for over half an hour waiting for my number to be called.  They had only gotten through three numbers before I had to leave, and they were still three numbers away from calling mine out.  I wandered close to the table and looked for someone to give my number to, scanning the crowd for another impatient customer before finding the most likely candidate.  There were two ladies standing near the table with fabric in their buggy, watching the proceedings and trying to figure out who was next in line.  I correctly guessed that they didn’t have a number at all and passed mine on before heading for the exit sans fabric.  From that night on, I have vowed to never buy fabric in that store unless I am either in dire straits or there is no one else in the store.

Imagine my surprise when there were only three other customers in the store on Christmas Eve, and none of them were near the fabric counter.  I casually perused the aisles of fabric, taking my time with some fleece selections before walking, in no great hurry, to the cutting counter.  I looked around and noted the following: the sign said they were serving number 32; there was no one and no fabric waiting at the counter; there was a staff person waiting and doing nothing else; the next number in the chute was 33.  What follows was the actual exchange between me and Tiffany*.

Me: (In my friendliest polite customer voice) Do you really need me to draw a number since no one else is waiting?

Tiffany: (In her not-so-friendly-bordering-on-rude customer service voice) Oh, you HAVE to draw a number if you want some fabric cut.

Me: (Drawing a number) Okay.

Tiffany: (Walks over to the intercom and uses her best announcer voice) Now serving number 33.  Number 33, now being served at the counter.  (Hangs up the intercom phone and looks around the store, waiting for Number 33)

Me: (Trying desperately not to be sarcastic on Christmas Eve) Well, that would be me…

Tiffany: (In her friendliest customer service voice) How can I help you?

I was trying not to laugh out loud or say something sarcastic, but this was definitely a situation of procedure run amuck.  Not only that, but I was terribly sure that I was on Candid Camera or maybe dropped into a live SNL skit – I kept waiting for someone to jump out and say, “Gotcha!”  My mom wondered why I didn’t jump up and down and excitedly yell, “Ooh, ooh! That’s me! Number 33!”  If I had thought of that, I would have (and now you understand why I had to fight the sarcastic impulse…).  I did manage to leave the store before completely cracking up – receiving strange glances in the parking lot is nothing unusual for me, and at least I didn’t ruin Tiffany’s day at work.  I left that for number 34.

*Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent (and because I can’t remember what her nametag said anyway)

Holding Back/No Fear

A while ago, I heard a news story about a woman who does not feel fear.  Scientists want to study her brain; I wonder how she’s still alive.  I’m sure I would do physically reckless things without the inhibiting factor of fear, but my life would more likely be imperiled by the list of people who would want to kill me if my tongue were not inhibited by fear.  Or, if no one smote me, I would be fairly lonely after I alienated most of the people around me.  Well, I might not be too lonely, now that I actually think about it: the people I feel like I have to tiptoe around are not people I love to spend time with, so I might not miss them.

I also recently read an article with tips on blogging.  The sage advice was to write about yourself, avoid ranting, and to consider what you’re holding back if you think you’ve run out of things to write about.  I thought that last tidbit was most interesting since I have been avoiding writing for a few weeks.  I feel like I have been writing the same things over and over, and I felt guilty about posting a Christmas version of grief, especially since I didn’t really feel like writing anything uplifting to go along with it.  I posted the Christmas blog today after I realized that I can’t be the only person who feels sad during the Christmas season.

As I considered what else I hold back, I realized that I don’t write about a lot of things out of fear – fear that they won’t be accepted, fear that I will be misunderstood, fear that I will embarrass my family or friends, fear that I will anger my family.  I certainly do not need or want to rant like a banshee in such a public forum; I have great listeners for that. 🙂  But I do hold back quite often in an attempt to control my emotions and/or to avoid dealing with them, and, given the way that I have felt for the last month, I need to do quite a bit of processing.  I tend to bottle up and avoid by any means possible what I am really feeling, so I walk around feeling like I might explode at any moment.  I don’t explode, but I do get terrible migraines.  So, this year I am making a few resolutions, the first being to blog more often (let’s say at least twice a week) in order to address the things I would otherwise hold back, even from myself.

I haven’t made real resolutions in about a decade because I never follow through with them.  I don’t know if this year will be different in that respect, but something’s got to give one way or another.  Perhaps the real root of my resolution avoidance is fear.  If I publicly proclaim a goal and then fail to achieve it, I have both failed to reach my goal and looked like an idiot – better I keep it to myself so that no one else will be disappointed in me.  That fear has to go, so my second resolution is to accomplish the following goals this year: I will complete at least one rough draft novel (I have three stories that have been languishing on my laptop for several years); I will run at least one mile without stopping (three would be fabulous, but I won’t get too far ahead of myself); I will get caught up and cleaned out at work; and I will be honest about my progress (even though I will probably hate that last one).

I have a million other things I would like to get done this year, but the other root of my failure to keep resolutions is that I make too many or make them too difficult to achieve.  I look at the things that I know I could accomplish, and I expect myself to do all of them.  In reality, I probably could do everything I want to do (if I were Superwoman and had an extra 12 hours each day), but I set myself up to fail by expecting way too much too quickly.  Instead of being happy that my house is moderately clean (more than half the rooms are presentable) and none of the living creatures under my care died or were seriously wounded, I am usually frustrated by what I didn’t accomplish in a given day.  So my final resolution is to forgive myself for not being able to do everything and to only be tough on myself where more rigorous discipline is required (pretty much just where other people count on me) – like work.

You are welcome to hold me accountable in any way you wish, just so long as you know that I already feel lighter by writing this and sharing it with you.  I am now off to the treadmill (while I’m still motivated)!

All I Want for Christmas…

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday – not for any one reason in particular, but Christmas on the whole is pretty great.  There are special decorations, special songs, special events that all center on God’s greatest gift to earth that wouldn’t be realized as such until Christ’s death and resurrection.  Christmas is a promise that the gift of a miraculous birth would end up bringing rebirth for all humanity.  I’m sure as a kid that Christmas was all about getting gifts, but at some point the gift emphasis shifted to finding good gifts to give others.  I love finding or making something that suits the recipient and shows them in some small way that I love them enough to find something they will like or will use.  One of my favorite Christmas mornings was the year that my siblings and I decided to be Santa for our parents.  We gathered a few special big gifts, we painted (probably horribly tacky since flourescent puff paint was involved, but proudly well-worn anyway) sweatshirts for them and conned at least one grandmother into helping us purchase some extra little things.  Since my room was the only one downstairs and thus closest to the tree, I squirreled away the extra loot and woke up super early to put our Santa gifts out before the grand entrance to the living room.  I couldn’t wait to see my parents see their Santa loot; it was probably all I thought about for weeks.

Christmas has always been a sparkly, magical time.  I really want to feel that way again about my favorite holiday, but over the last several years, it has been difficult to rally any luster at all.  Until this year, I hadn’t even gotten the pre-lit tree out for two years in a row, and we only had stockings out for Christmas day.  Three years ago, I wouldn’t have had a tree up at all except my brother and sister put it up the weekend before Christmas; I wouldn’t let them decorate it so that I wouldn’t have to pack up ornaments.  This year, I actually decorated, and we have wreaths in the window and lights and garland on the porch and ornaments on the tree.  I think subconsciously I wanted the decorations to ignite the Christmas spirit I lost (okay, maybe it was more like a deliberate effort rather than a subconscious desire), but it hasn’t really worked the way I had hoped.  Nor have the copious Christmas songs on the radio or the peppermint coffee or the eggnog or the crazy neighborhood assortment of lights and inflatable figures (including a nativity scene with wise men) elicited the same kind of zeal I used to have for all things Christmas.

The only thing that’s close is the joy of matching the right gift with the right person, and even that has taken a few years to get back.  The worst Christmas ever was the one right after the third miscarriage.  It happened right before Christmas, and each family gathering was just an exercise in emotional control.  I wanted nothing more than to disappear or hibernate; I think I actually prayed for a hole in the earth to open and swallow me up during one of the family gift exchanges.  For the first time in my life, I just bought stuff to wrap so that everyone who was supposed to have a gift would get something from us.  While there is something to be said for getting through a tough time even if it’s by rote, there was no joy at all in that Christmas.  It was hard enough dealing with the first post-miscarriage Christmas knowing what could have been, but Christmas hasn’t been the same since that one horrible year.  You’d think (or I used to, anyway) that if you love something as much as I loved the Christmas season, that it would be a simple thing to just enjoy it no matter what.  Perhaps that is the most insidious thing about grief and depression: it robs you of the simplest joys or changes them just enough to be both recognizable and simultaneously unattainable – the oasis you can see with water you can never drink.

I’m sure a Dickensian catharsis awaits (cue the orchestrated carol of your choice and ringing bells here) if I could only embrace the true meaning of Christmas.  But the reality is that special holidays that focus on family time are just hard to deal with.  It is nearly impossible to mark the holiday season without also marking the milestones we’re missing.  For the day that I got to be pregnant not quite two months ago (think pregnant without feeling like everything is going wrong), I ticked off the markers in my head: by Christmas, we would have seen the heartbeat on ultrasound; by Valentine’s, we would have been entering the second trimester; by my birthday, we would know if it was a boy or a girl…  The main marker being the heartbeat and the only thing I told God I wanted for Christmas – the same way a child puts only one thing on their list when they know it’s a huge gift.  I think everyone did that as a child with some outrageous desire, even if you were too afraid to say it out loud: “If I got a pony for Christmas, I wouldn’t want anything else,” even if you were happy with every other present you got, and even if you knew you were never going to get a pony.  That heartbeat was my outrageous wish list for Christmas, and that’s another reason Christmas spirit is hard to come by.

Even though I didn’t get my heartbeat, and if I never got anything else, all I really want for Christmas is to love Christmas again.  I miss whole-heartedly singing carols without crying when I really think about the words; I miss driving around at night looking at lights; I miss the innocence of Christmas without loss.

The Childless Mother

We had friends in town a few weeks ago who were teaching a class at our office.  They have terrific tow truck toys, and as I was browsing their selection, I was telling April all about my best friend and her adopted son.  As I told April about the journey my friend took and how amazed I am by her decision and how happy I am for her to have a child, April summed it all up simply and emphatically, with the countenance of one speaking absolute truth, “It’s perfect: she was a mother without a child, and he was a son who needed a mother.”  April has never laid eyes on my best friend or her son, but anyone who has seen them together would have to agree – it is perfect.  I know it is not the path to motherhood that my friend imagined, but now, even after only a few months, I cannot imagine any other situation for my friend.  I know that there are things she may wish were different, but they must pale compared to the love she feels for her son and the joy I hear in her voice when she says, “my son.”  I love thinking about what kind of man he will be simply because he was adopted by my friend.

I have always thought about what kind of mother I will be – how I will be like my parents and how I will be different; how my husband and I will parent together.  Since the first pregnancy, it has been in much sharper focus, and I have thought about all of the things I would love to teach my children.  They will learn all about tow trucks and music and crafts; we will read together and sing together and dance together.  This morning, I was watching the news and thinking about one of the stories and how I would have taught our children about bullying – the story I would tell them about the one time I will never forgive myself for when I made fun of someone who needed and deserved a good friend.  She had a hard life, and I made it worse, and I would make sure that my children knew that there are some things that no apology or restitution can make right.

I have thought about how to teach my children about faith and love.  I have thought about how to teach my children to love (or at least appreciate) different kinds of music and how to draw or paint or take good pictures or write poems and tell stories.  But mostly, I keep thinking that it seems awfully sad that I have all these things to offer and no one to teach them to.  My poor niece and nephew will probably get tired of me trying to pass on the gifts of books and crochet hooks and paint brushes.  I know that there are other ways to get involved with children and pass on the things that were lovingly taught to me, but I’m not ready to be the odd neighborhood art teacher, and I’m not sure I want to work with groups of kids.  Kind of hilarious coming from someone who wanted to be a teacher, but I am woefully lacking in the patience department right now.

So, for another little while, I will wait and see what happens and make lists in my head of the things I want to teach my children, knowing that the ones we lost must surely know more than I could ever have taught them.  Christmas is more than a little bittersweet when you think of all the traditions and the stories that are passed from generation to generation.  It’s really hard not to think about what Christmas with an almost three-year-old would have been like.  But I think the hardest parts are not growing bitter over the thought that I could be a great mom and not using my lists as a bargaining chip with God: “See how much I could teach a little one?  Now don’t you think I deserve to try?”

Flux

We generally accept the word “flux” to mean flow or fluctuation.  Did you know that it is also defined as a substance that can be used to combine with impurities in metals so that they can be more easily removed?  Or that flux is necessary to make the solder stick in the joints of stained glass, and without enough flux, the solder will be unmanageable and the joints too weak or too sloppy to make a stained glass design.

I’d say flux is an apt description of my current state of being.  We had the follow-up appointment with the fertility specialist, who largely had no new news for us.  Next time we get pregnant, I will have lovenox (a blood thinner) injections, and I will be extremely closely monitored.  Although we have had no real indication of tubal pregnancies, the doctor said he is “always suspicious” of very early miscarriages actually being tubal pregnancies that stop developing before they run into complications.  If that is our problem (as opposed to a blood clotting indicator “of dubious significance”), then lovenox could be really dangerous if there is an ectopic pregnancy, as I could bleed internally if there is a complication.  So, I will be extensively poked, prodded, bled and sonographed whenever we get pregnant again.  Should the lovenox also turn out to be a non-starter, or if there is distinct evidence of a tubal pregnancy, it seems the next step will likely be IVF.  Given the stress involved in that scenario, I’m hoping we don’t have to try that route.  Although, with our previous experience, I have a feeling that we’ll end up trying and failing there, too.  I know I shouldn’t already be expecting disappointment, but I have no physical reason to hope for anything more.  I’ve actually heard therapists refer to that type of thinking as “protective pessimism,” so I’m going to indulge my self-pity for a little while longer, until I need to be hopeful and optimistic about prospective pregnancies again, which will be about three or four more months.

Given the approaching holidays and the challenges Christmas will provide this year, I decided I needed a break from having to worry every month about whether or not I’m pregnant.  (Should I switch to completely decaf coffee, am I working out when I should be resting, should I order my steak well done…)  So, I am going back on the pill for three months so that we don’t have to think about it for a while.  I can focus on shedding some weight, and I can drink fully caffeinated coffee without feeling guilty.  (There is a bright side to everything, and my silver linings almost always involve no small amount of coffee and/or chocolate.)  I can also enter the half marathon (most of which I will walk) coming up in February without having to back out or stop training for months at a time.  It’s nice to make a plan that I can follow through on, and the only real contingency is injury.  I don’t think I will miss the hypochondriac routine at the end of each cycle – I haven’t started my period yet, and I feel kind of nauseated, but the pregnancy test is negative…  Three months off will be nice.

It gives me time to apply flux to my mental metal and try to remove some of the dross bits.  I found a few of them Sunday, but I’m not really sure how to get rid of them yet.  Sunday was our niece’s baby dedication.  I had planned to stay for the whole service, but I couldn’t make myself stay.  My brain stopped and lasered in on a single phrase spoken by the pastor about the baby being a blessing of youth.  I couldn’t get past that point, and then I couldn’t stop crying.  There were plenty of other tears on the faces of family and church members, but they were crying out of joy, and I wasn’t.  I couldn’t stay there and sob in grief and pain and frustration and taint an otherwise joyful event for the rest of the family.  I know they wouldn’t have cared, but I didn’t know how to deal with it.  I don’t know what to do with this question – if children are the blessing of youth and righteousness (and that’s repeated more than a few times in the Bible), does that mean I’m cursed?  I’m not perfect, and there are any number of things that God for which God might curse me or punish me, but in my feebly human view, it would be enough of a curse to just not ever get pregnant.  Why go the extra mile of repeated miscarriages?  All of which runs right into the other brick wall I ran into at full speed Sunday.

We had our Christmas choir concert Sunday night, and it was beautiful (and glittery, for my fellow choir members who might be reading this :)).  Sunday afternoon, we had our final rehearsal with the guest musicians, and we opened the rehearsal with prayer.  Again, my brain lasered in on a single phrase and refused to drop it no matter how hard I tried.  One of the people praying said (this is the nutshell version) that things only happen because God wants them to.  It’s hard enough to find purpose at all in this kind of loss, but to believe that God wants me to have miscarriage after miscarriage?  It’s unfathomable.  It does not jibe with the God that I think I know, and the idea that God wants us to suffer is rather jarring.  To clarify a bit of theology here, I do believe that we must suffer because we live in a fallen world and because we are incapable of being perfect and pure apart from God.  To that end, suffering is a point of identification with Christ, and its purpose is to demonstrate our sin to us and to draw us to God.  And I also realize that I took this point slightly out of context, as the speaker was identifying that God was in control of the concert and desired for people to hear his message in the music that we were singing.  But, how can that statement (everything happens because God wants it to) apply to the proper functioning of sound equipment and voices but not to everything else?  Is it possible that nothing happens without God’s say-so, but some of those things may not be what he wants?  Is there really any difference between permissive will and perfect will?

That was what was running through my head while I was trying to sing Christmas music that is all about the birth of a baby and while there are these beautiful (baby-filled) videos playing along with the music we were singing.  More than once I cried and considered running as far and as fast as I could.  And once rehearsal was over, and I went home to rest for a while and change clothes, I wondered if I could just skip the performance.  Who needs a weepy mess on the front row, and who would really miss my voice if I wasn’t there, anyway?  But I couldn’t miss something I had committed to, and I didn’t want to miss the music and the worship and the choir.  If you have never sung in a choir, it is a wholly different experience than just listening to a group of people sing.  It is a beautiful demonstration of how a sum can be greater than all its parts.  One voice can be beautiful, but many voices singing different parts at the same time is like a musical body of Christ, or a mosaic with hundreds of tiles that only makes sense when you can see all of the pieces as a whole.  So I didn’t want to miss that experience, but I really didn’t trust myself to both sing and worship without falling apart.  In the end, I think I mostly sang and enjoyed the beauty of the music without letting myself think too much about its meaning.  I’m not sure that was the right thing to do since I wasn’t really thinking about honoring God through the music, but it was all I could manage.

I have a feeling that will be how I get through the rest of the holiday season with any shred of sanity.  The mysterious “they” say that the time six to eight weeks after a miscarriage can be the hardest to cope with, and in my experience, they are right.  So, I am groping my way through the grief  of losing two pregnancies in two months that somehow managed to whack me on the back of the head in last few weeks, and I’m trying to sort out how I feel about Christmas in general.  I still have no idea if what I feel about my niece is jealousy or just sadness at not having my own bundle of joy to share Christmas with.  I have no idea how to process a holiday that is entirely a celebration of a baby’s birth.  And I hate the frustration and powerless feeling that leaves me with.  All my life, I’ve been taught that you have to do something – act in some way – to effect change.  But what do you do when there is nothing actionable to do?  More dross, and not enough flux to draw it out; definitely not enough flux for the solder to neatly hold a stained glass pattern together.