Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

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Flu {Now and Then}

The fever had come and gone for a couple of days and our daughter had spent much of her waking hours lying on the couch. When she wasn’t watching episodes on Netflix, she was sleeping. She was not eating. She was not puking. But she was not herself. On the third day, after one missed day of school, my husband took her to the walk-in clinic just to be sure.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

They couldn’t confirm that she had the flu because her fever was gone, but they couldn’t dismiss it as a possibility, so they gave her a prescription for an off-brand of Tamiflu. The first dose unsettled her stomach so much that she vomited. But she hadn’t eaten for almost a day.

I was at work when most of this was happening, and honestly, that’s the best place for me to be. I do not have the nurturing gene that offers comfort and compassion when someone (including myself) is sick. I want to fix it, and if I can’t fix it, then I just don’t want to deal with it. Also, it’s hard for me to watch when a family member isn’t acting like their usual selves. I ask a hundred times a day during an illness, “Are you okay?” and the obvious answer is “Duh. No. I’m SICK.” What I’m really asking is if there’s anything I can do, and if not, then at least I feel like I did something by asking.

The day after she went to the doctor, our daughter was feeling well enough to go to school. The next two days she went to school but came home wiped out. Her body still needed recovery time.

All the while, I kept waiting for it to be someone else’s turn in the family. Our son had had a brief round of sickness before our daughter, so maybe he was the carrier. My husband was next.

—

Maybe it’s not the best idea to read a book about a flu epidemic from 100 years ago when your family members are battling various stages of a winter sickness. But I can’t resist a new book by a favorite author.

As Bright as Heaven by Susan Meissner tells the story of a family who moves from a rural Pennsylvania town to Philadelphia in 1918, just before what would become a flu epidemic hits the country. An estimated 50 million people died worldwide from the Spanish flu, yet it wasn’t widely reported for a variety of reasons, one of which was involvement in World War I. This is one of the reasons I love a well-researched historical novel from an author I trust–it gives me a glimpse of a moment in history that I might otherwise overlook.

The move to the city for the Brights is meant to be one of opportunity. Thomas takes a job in his uncle’s undertaking business and the family moves into the home that is also the business’ location. The young family is faced with death on a regular basis, even more as the epidemic spreads. Without spoiling anything, I’ll tell you that life gets rough for the Bright family. But what emerges from this time is incomparably beautiful.

This is a story with deep questions about life and death, and it is told from the perspectives of the Bright women–mother and three daughters–each with their own point of view per chapter. This allows the reader to see through their eyes and feel along with them.

At one point, the mother, Pauline, says what many of us try to articulate concerning death:

I am suddenly overcome by my inability to understand why some will survive the flue and some won’t. Why some babies live and some don’t. Why some people pass away in a warm bed full of years while others have their breath snatched from them before they’ve earned so much as one gray hair.

We generally do not like to think about death or hardship, but I appreciated the way Meissner narrowed the focus to one family and how they responded to the circumstances they faced. It is applicable to us all. In the author’s note, Meissner writes:

Death comes for us all in one way or another. It is a certainty. Our lives will one day end, and most of us never know when. Interestingly enough, it is our mortality that gives our existence its value and beauty. If our days were not numbered, we probably wouldn’t care how we spent them. How does this knowledge that we are mortal affect our choices? The risks we take? The risks we don’t? These were the questions I wanted to explore as I wrote this book and that I wanted you to ponder as you read it. We are, all of us, living out the stories of our lives. Each of our stories will end, in time, but meanwhile, we fill the pages of our existence with all the love we can, for as long as we can. This is how we make a life.”

Yes. And amen.

—

When my husband filled the prescription for our daughter, the pharmacy only had enough liquid medicine for half of what was required. We had to go back later in the week to get the rest. So, on a Friday afternoon, after work, I stood in line at the pharmacy counter awaiting my turn. When I gave the name and birthdate to the person behind the counter, I was met with a “we’re still working on that.” He came back saying that I’d have to come back Monday because they were out. By Monday, our daughter was supposed to be done with the prescription.

So, I asked to speak to a pharmacist. As I told him the predicament, I could see the concern on his face. He remembered my daughter and set to work typing on the computer trying to find a solution. For whatever reason, the promised second half of the prescription wasn’t there. Come to find out, only two stores of this particular pharmacy in the county had what I needed. One was in the city. He made arrangements for me to pick it up later in the day, and I couldn’t help but think of the flu epidemic I had so recently read about.

Back then, there was no medicine for the flu, just a wait-and-see approach. It was highly contagious. It still is. Our kids had to wear masks when we took an unexpected trip to the ER to have my husband’s chest pain checked out. People are still dying from the flu and from lack of access to the medicine. The shortage of medicine the pharmacies were experiencing probably weren’t going to cause panic, but I could imagine the desperation. I counted myself lucky to have the means to drive to another pharmacy without too much inconvenience to get the medicine we needed. And grateful for insurance that covers vital prescriptions and doctor visits.

I know this isn’t how it is for everyone.

Maybe this is some of what history can teach us–gratitude. When the Spanish flu epidemic hit, there was no such thing as a flu vaccine, and we can debate its effectiveness all we want, but we haven’t seen anything like millions of people dying from the flu in the last 100 years. (Have we? I hope we haven’t.)

But I hope that history doesn’t make us complacent. Sure, we personally might be better off than someone who lived 100 years ago but let’s not assume everyone enjoys the same status. It also makes me wonder what the next 100 years will hold. What is our generation’s “flu epidemic”? (Opiod crisis? School shootings? These are a couple of the options, I suppose.)

—

When I realized this book was a straight historical (as opposed to a dual timeline story with a contemporary and historical thread), I was a little disappointed. I love how Meissner’s previous books have connected a storyline taking place in the present with a storyline taking place in the past, especially with an object relating to both timelines.

But I think she did that anyway. Flu is something almost all of us can relate to. It’s common. It’s still around. And reading this book DURING FLU SEASON was all the connection I needed to relate to the story.

This is the kind of response my history books in school could never elicit. I need a story, something personal, to make the facts stick. And this book will stay with me for many months to come.

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For foodies and readers alike: Review of The Saturday Night Supper Club by Carla Laureano

I haven’t read everything Carla Laureano’s ever written, but what I have read, I’ve enjoyed. Whether she’s writing about far-off travel destinations (like the Isle of Skye) or crafting Celtic fantasy tales, Laureano knows how to keep readers turning the pages.

Her newest book, The Saturday Night Supper Club, is a devourable read as much for the romantic storyline as the food around which the story revolves. Set in Denver with an accomplished chef as the female lead, the book takes us on a culinary journey that’s about more than just food. (Disclosure: I received a free copy of the book from Tyndale House Publishers. Review reflects my honest opinion.)

When essayist Alex Kanin writes an editorial about online criticism that goes viral, one of the subjects of his article, Chef Rachel Bishop, loses her job at a restaurant she co-founded. Alex feels guilty and vows to set things right. The reluctant pairing leads them to a new culinary endeavor and opens the possibility of new life and love.

If you’re a fan of fine dining or a Food Network binger or just love a good love story, then The Saturday Night Supper Club is a book you need in your life.

Here’s one of my favorite lines from the book: “Truly good food had to do more than fill the stomach. It should touch the heart, tug on a memory.”

Also, this is the first book in a long time where I’ve read the included preview of the next book in the series. I can’t wait for more!

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Let them come

Ash Wednesday.

I was early to the service at the downtown church that’s becoming more a part of my spiritual practice, so I walked through the adjoining cemetery and took some deep breaths. I was alone. Our kids didn’t want to come, so my husband stayed home with them and worked on our Valentine’s Day dinner. I would have welcomed their presence but I needed the time to myself.

I entered the church through the usual doors behind a man dressed for business, and we stepped into the large sanctuary with the high ceilings. It was nearly empty. Another man directed us to the chapel where we found children at the door handing out the orders of service and a small-but-growing gathering of families and others. This was the Ash Wednesday service designed with families in mind, and I didn’t really know what that meant. It was the only service that fit my schedule.

I quickly noticed that the order of service was simplified, with each part of the liturgy explained in terms children (or occasional Episcopalians) could easily understand. Children sat on the floor of the chapel and the priest met them there. The ceremony was toned down a bit, which isn’t to say that it was less important or less serious. It felt more accessible. Less intimidating. The small room was packed and later when we would receive the ashes and then the bread and wine, there was some jostling and rearranging to make sure everyone could get where they needed to be.

What surprised me most was how welcome the children were. Some of the older ones were chosen to read the Scripture passages and it was not cute or precious or some of the things I usually think of when children are allowed to participate in the “adult” services I usually attend in a different denomination. It felt right. As it should be. The message was directed to the children with props and a simple story that even adults could find meaning in.

These things in and of themselves warmed my heart and lightened my spirit.

And then the priest invited the kids to help him prepare for the Eucharist, and I think I must have held my breath or let my jaw drop. The littlest ones and a few of the bigger ones crowded the altar area as the priest guided them through: First, I need this. Then, I need someone to hand me that. Now, the wine. I thought of the scene in the movie about Martin Luther starring Joseph Fiennes when Fiennes as Luther is so nervous serving Communion that his hands shake and he spills some of the wine. It is humiliating and embarrassing. (I think I’m remembering this right.) I haven’t watched that movie in years but there I was in a chair in a chapel bearing witness to children carrying the small pitchers of wine. I held my breath like I did when my children carried cups of juice across the carpet.

None of them spilled anything and if any of them did anything wrong, I didn’t know it. These children were not admonished. They were accepted.

—

Earlier in the week, I saw a picture of Pope Francis holding hands with a little girl with Down Syndrome while he spoke to a crowd and every time I saw it posted, someone was freaking out (in a good way) about how refreshing it was to see. (Here’s a story explaining the photo and backstory.)

A religious leader holding the hand of a child.

Welcome. Accepted.

It reminded me of the scene described in the Gospels where children are trying to get close to Jesus and the disciples are shooing them away and Jesus says, “No, let them come. The kingdom is theirs.”

Photo by Hanna Morris on Unsplash

Let them come. 

The children. The outcasts. The broken. The bruised. The adults. The “in” crowd. The whole. The healed.

Ours is the kingdom.

The more I read about Jesus’ life, the more I love him and the way he opens the kingdom to all who will come. I am reminded of another story Jesus told about a man hosting a banquet. He invited many guests and they all made some excuse about why they couldn’t come. So, he expanded the invitation.

It is almost as if he is saying, “Let them come.”

—

One of my favorite Christmas gifts is a T-shirt that says “Build a Longer Table.” It is a concept that has been phrased in a variety of ways. Every time I wear the shirt I am reminded that there is always room for one more.

Photo by rawpixel.com on Unsplash

One more friend.

One more kindness.

One more smile to a stranger.

One more person included.

One more welcome.

It is the philosophy that compelled me to work with newly arriving refugees. (Let them come.)

It is the philosophy that drives me to my day job at a middle school. (Let them come.)

It is the philosophy that encourages me to say “yes” to my daughter having a friend come over even though the house is in a constant state of “lived in.” (Let them come.)

It is the philosophy that breaks down all the walls I want to put up between the ones I think are “in” the church and the ones people tell me should be “out” of it. (Let them come.)

This has become the song of my heart.

Let them come.

And when I see it modeled from a place of leadership, I hope and pray it trickles down. So that every day someone who has been on the edges, on the outs, feels welcome. Included. Accepted.

Let them come.

I do not care much who “they” are.

Strong characters in need of redemption: Review of The Masterpiece by Francine Rivers

Whenever Francine Rivers releases a new novel, I’m quick to find a copy. Her characters and storytelling have been some of my favorites through the years. Her strengths lie in creating imperfect, broken, in-need-of-redemption characters. And that holds true in her new book, The Masterpiece.

In it, Roman Velasco, a successful artist with a tortured past, meets Grace Moore, a woman haunted by her own mistakes who is trying to do right by her life. It is a romance, which Rivers excels at writing, and it is redemptive, a quality for which she is known.

And I feel a little guilty that I didn’t love it like I have other books she has written.

(Disclosure: I received a copy of the book from the publisher through the Tyndale Blog Network. Review reflects my honest opinion.)

It was a good story because Rivers is a talented storyteller. But it was a lot “preachier” than I remember her previous works being. Most Christian audiences will probably enjoy it, but if the story is meant to be evangelistic, it probably comes on too strong.

That said, I enjoyed the well-developed and unique characters, and it didn’t take me long to read, even at nearly 500 pages, so the story was compelling enough to keep the pages turning.

If you are a fan of Rivers and her stories, please read this book. I’d love to hear what you thought of it.

For additional reading pleasure, here are some questions and answers with the author, provided by Tyndale House Publishers.

You often say that each of your novels is prompted by a faith-related question. What question inspired The Masterpiece? Were there particular Scripture verses or stories that guided your writing of this novel?

The question that came up for me was whether two people from severely dysfunctional backgrounds could have a healthy relationship. Grace and Roman both come from abusive childhood experiences and developed different coping mechanisms to survive. The past often intrudes and sometimes blocks people from moving forward, but we are all ultimately responsible for the choices we make. Each of us must decide who Jesus is. That choice decides where we spend eternity. It also makes a difference in our life in the here and now. When abuse occurs, a child’s view of God is twisted. That raises other questions. What might need to happen to open the door to the true God and faith in Him? What if someone grows up knowing nothing of God other than as a curse? I had questions enough for several books, and wallowed around in the mire through several drafts. Hence, so did my characters. Grace and Roman are each on different journeys. What brings them together and what keeps them apart? I was well into the project before I knew which Scripture God was showing me: Ephesians 2:10—“For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.” This is the heart of the book.

What kind of research did you do for this novel? Did any findings particularly surprise you? 

Most of my research had to do with the patterns and psychology of victims of abuse. It wasn’t pleasant reading. It’s heart-wrenching. I didn’t want to misrepresent survivors of abuse. I talked with a friend who is a strong Christian, highly educated, and a certified family counselor. She suggested I present my characters to a group of counselors who meet once a week. When we all gathered, I explained my dilemma and presented my “case studies.” One gentleman cried and said he’d worked with young men exactly like Roman Velasco. Grace’s emotional trauma and means of coping are also common.

I also needed to learn about graffiti artists. I started with online searches and then met a young man who had been a gang tagger in the Bay Area. We talked about his motivations, experiences, and the dangers he faced, not the least of which was leaving the gang. I found a website with terms and definitions regarding graffiti. I also read some books about the young man’s idol, Banksy. No one knows the identity of Banksy, but his work is known around the world. I liked the mystery element and employed it.

The surprise came after the book was written and I had the opportunity to meet Cameron Moberg, a Christian graffiti artist in San Francisco. He does work around the world, as well. He reaffirmed what I saw happening in Roman Velasco’s life. Cameron’s art is also on the cover of The Masterpiece. Many of his works are of spectacular, imagined birds. How could I not see God chuckling at how He brings things together?

Your novels look deeply into characters’ motivations and emotions. What do you hope readers will learn from delving into the inner thoughts of the characters in The Masterpiece?

Sometimes the hardest-hearted person you know is the most broken inside. All too often, we judge by the outward appearance, but God knows the heart. Also, even when we don’t see God at work, He is working. Never give up on anyone. Just keep praying and walking the walk. You never really know what’s going on inside someone. The blessing is you may witness the creation of a new God-ordained masterpiece.

The main characters of The Masterpiece, edgy artist Roman Velasco and his new personal assistant, single mom Grace Moore, might not receive a warm welcome in every church across the country. What do you want readers to see in these characters—and in themselves—as they read?

Never judge by outward appearances. It takes courage for people to come into a new church—or enter a church for the first time. Christians are, after all, “aliens,” very different from the world—or should be. Visitors and newcomers may look different than we do. They may come from different places. If people seem unapproachable, offer a smile and nod of greeting. Give them space. Give them time. Extend courtesy and welcome to all. And when the door opens, talk with them about Jesus—not just inside the walls of a church, but anywhere.

Roman Velasco is unlike any other male character you’ve written. What was most challenging about crafting the character of a rebel graffiti artist? Why did you choose this character?

I thought the hardest part in writing about Bobby Ray Dean/the Bird/Roman Velasco was going to be learning about the art form, challenges in doing it and getting away with it, terms and materials. But the real challenge was figuring out what drove this boy/man to paint graffiti—and the kind of graffiti pieces he did.

We have crews in town that go out and buff (cover) graffiti as soon as possible. Many times, graffiti is a territorial marker, a challenge, evidence of war going on in your community. I wanted Bobby Ray Dean to have other motivations which evolve as he grows up and into the persona of Roman Velasco. He feels illegitimate as the Bird, but strives for legitimacy through Roman Velasco. The graffiti and the canvas work he does show the war going on inside him. It takes God to bring the two sides together and blend the mediums into a new, unique art quest and passion.

With friends like these …

The snow had just started to fall when we left church on Sunday. The forecast had called for a mixture of snow, sleet and freezing rain for some of the day, and it had held off until we were headed home. I was grateful. Winter weather, even though I’m used to it and grew up with it, makes me all kinds of nervous. Too many inexperienced drivers. Too much throwing caution to the wind.

I got into the van where my husband and kids were waiting for me. My husband seemed angry. Or maybe he was just tired. I couldn’t really tell. We drove home in relative silence. At the house, I ushered the kids into the kitchen to pick something for lunch while my husband retreated to the couch.

It wasn’t long before he found me in the kitchen and told me the chest pain he’d been having off and on for a couple of days was the worst he’d felt. He was worried. He wanted to know what I thought about going to the hospital.

My husband is 36, not old but certainly not out of the realm of possibility for heart problems. Just 10 days prior, his father had open heart surgery. It was weighing on all of our minds. We decided to proceed with rational caution. He called the 24-hour nurse line and described his symptoms. We thought maybe his new workout regime could be the culprit, but we didn’t want to assume this pain was nothing.

He hung up the phone and said, “Let’s go to the ER.”

Because my husband is a veteran, the closest ER is a 45-minute drive from our house. And on this day, the weather was tricky. And I had to drive because what if it was his heart?

Before we left, as we gathered our things and asked the children to pack a small bag for entertainment, I typed a quick text to friends of ours who lived in the same county as the VA hospital. I explained the situation. “Are you available to meet us there to pick up the kids?”

The reply was a swift and emphatic “YES!”

Hannah Rodrigo via Unsplash

Read the rest of this post at Putting on the New, where I write on the 12th of each month.

T.G.F.F. (Thank God For Football?)

Two years ago, when the Cubs won the World Series, our family wished we could be in Illinois to join in the celebrations. Because, let’s face it, the number of people who were stupid-excited about that feat in central Pennsylvania were few and far between.

So, when I went to work yesterday, the day after the Philadelphia Eagles won their first Super Bowl title, I got a sense of what that would be like. It was all anyone wanted to talk about.

I’m happy for the team and its fans. I know what it’s like to wait a long time for your team to succeed. So, congratulations!

Photo by Ben Hershey on Unsplash

I don’t remember when I first heard about all the Eagles players who are committed Christians, who are creating community and baptizing each other in hotel pools. But during the post-game interviews was the first time I had heard their professions of faith for myself.

I tweeted this in response:

I have become increasingly uncomfortable with testimonies and stories that are told only when the conclusion is favorable, successful or victorious. (Pick your word.) And while I don’t doubt that these players truly are thankful for their God-given abilities and the circumstances that placed them on this team at this time in history, I have a problem with the way we sometimes react to this news.

I am shocked that some people of faith think that the Eagles won the Super Bowl because there is a significant group of Christians on their team. As if God’s reward for living a faithful life is a sports trophy. (See Hebrews 11 for a listing of faithful people who were promised something and died before they received the blessing from God they were promised.)

God might be showing us something through this band of football players, but it’s not that He loves one team more than another or that a sports victory is a sign of his blessing.

The articles I’ve read about the team show me that authentic community makes a difference in people’s lives. The NFL is a workplace for these players, but it’s more than that because I’m sure they spend more than 40 hours a week together. Like anyone who spends a lot of time with people, if you genuinely care about each other and share what you believe in a non-threatening way, (and if the Spirit leads and the time is right–you guys, it’s not about us AT ALL), you are bound to have some kind of impact on those around you. Authentic community changes people. That is the takeaway here. It is not that God rewards a group of people with a Super Bowl ring because they’re His followers.

If the entirety of the NFL decides to follow Christ, that’s great for the Kingdom of God. But it doesn’t let the rest of us who follow Jesus off the hook. We are still responsible for living out a life of faith in our workplaces and neighborhoods, families and communities. If a professional quarterback says the name of Jesus on national TV, I still have to go to work the next day and try to love the person I don’t like very much. (Or to church the next Sunday, let’s be real.)

I feel like I need to say this, too:

God doesn’t love you more if you win the Super Bowl. God doesn’t love you less if you lose the Super Bowl.

God doesn’t love you more if you say His name on national TV. God doesn’t love you less if you say His name as a curse.

God doesn’t love you more if you do great big things in His name. God doesn’t love you less if you do tiny unnoticed things in His name.

When I read the Bible, I find that Jesus loves people. He loved the whole world before the world even knew who He was. He loves us when we’re faithful. He loves us when we’re unfaithful. He is the father watching eagerly for his son’s return. (You are the son or daughter.) He is the shepherd seeking the sheep that has wandered off. (You are the sheep.)

He is the God of the victors and the God of the losers, and I wish there were more stories of praising Him in the losing times. Maybe there are and I just haven’t seen or heard them. I’ll gladly share those stories because it’s too easy to believe that God only loves the winners. Or that if my life isn’t working out right that it must be because God is displeased with me.

Atheists win football games. Christians lose football games. There’s a worldwide sporting event coming up in the next few weeks and people of all kinds of faith traditions will win medals, break records, and perform at the peak of their event. People of all kinds of faith traditions will not medal or break a record or perform in such a way that network TV notices.

I hadn’t thought of this until just now, but I wonder if this is the Chariots of Fire syndrome. Do we assume that because Eric Liddell refused to race on Sunday that he won the gold medal in an event he wasn’t used to running as a show of God’s favor? I don’t know. That’s an inspiring story, for sure, but it is not a blueprint for God’s work in people’s lives.

I’ll say it one more time: Not every victory is God’s reward and not every loss is His punishment.

Photo by Luiz Hanfilaque on Unsplash

We are called to be faithful people, no matter the outcome, and while, yes, we can rejoice with a team of football players who profess our same beliefs, we should not assume that this is always how God will work. Or that it is the only way He can work. I would suspect there are other stories of God at work in the NFL. (I shared this story as one example of how faith lived out in two lives can look radically different.)

Enough said about the Eagles and their Super Bowl win. I’m a Chicago Bears fan and we had nothing to celebrate this year except the merciful end of the football season. Eagles fans, I hope you cherish this victory for many weeks and months to come. And that if you are a person of faith, you do the work set before you, whether you win or lose.

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Snowflakes {Be Who You Are, Part 2}

The forecast called for morning snow the next day, and in January and February, especially, there’s always murmuring about a school delay or a snow day. (Kids are hoping for it; parents often not.) We woke up before the sun and the snow hadn’t started falling yet. It was one of the weekdays where we needed to take a bus into the city to pick up the van before school in time for the kids to catch their bus to school and for me to go to work. (It sounds more complicated than it is.)

The snow started just before we left the house for the first bus of the morning, but we took our umbrella and the wait wasn’t long. The snow was falling steadily but not heavy, and I always find the snow more charming when I’m not the one driving (or if I don’t have anywhere to go at all). We walked a couple of blocks through the city to the parking garage where we picked up our van and drove back out of the city to our house. We had just enough time to grab the backpacks and walk to where the school bus picks up.

As we waited, I noticed the snowflakes sticking to my daughter’s hair. And I gasped.

There, on the back of her head, was a beautiful, perfect snowflake, so tiny and detailed I almost thought it wasn’t real. I captioned it “tiny wonder” on Instagram because that’s all I could think to say about it.

If this wasn’t a special snowflake, I don’t know what is.

—

Special snowflakes. It’s a phrase I can’t remember ever hearing until maybe a year or so ago. Apparently it’s been around for a while, maybe made more popular by the 1996 novel Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk. (And the movie by the same name.)

All I really know about the phrase is it’s hardly ever kind. In fact, I had to look it up just to be sure I was understanding it correctly after my husband questioned my definition of the term. (We were both right.)

One of the definitions Wikipedia lists is “a person who has an inflated sense of their own uniqueness.” (A further search reveals that the term snowflake has racist roots. That is so not where I’m heading with this blog post, but now I want to know more about that usage!)

It’s meant to be an insult, I think. A derogatory commentary on someone’s supposed special-ness. I’ve never used it to describe anyone and no one has ever said it to my face, but just the thought of it being said about me makes me feel sad and ashamed. It’s like another way of saying, “And just who do you think you are?”

In my previous post on the topic of identity, I wrote that we can’t all be stars because some of us are made for supporting roles. I stand by that. But that doesn’t mean that being unique or special is somehow wrong.

In fact, I think that every single one of us IS a special snowflake. And we were made to be that way.

Photo by Levi Saunders on Unsplash

—

Maybe we can’t prove that all literal snowflakes are unique. (I’ve heard that’s true, but is there science to back that up?) Maybe that’s a mystery we’ll always have to wonder about. But when I think about all the people I know (and all the ones I don’t) it’s not hard to argue that every human is a unique being. Even identical twins are not exactly the same in every way, although they probably come the closest.

Every person’s experiences, upbringing, and personality add to an endless combination of possibilities of how those traits are expressed. The Enneagram teachers I follow (see my last post about my love for this personality profile) say that no two people, even if they have the same number on the Enneagram, will express it exactly the same way. (If the numbers were colors, for example, they might all be blue, but they won’t be the same shade of blue.)

So, why does this idea that someone else might be special offend us so much? Why do we have to turn something wonderful about a person–their uniqueness–into an insult?

—

I don’t know what you were told as a child or what things have been spoken over your life through the years. My own head is a cluttered mess of the most hurtful things I’ve ever heard said about me. (Why do I hang on to those and not the good ones?) Recently, I sorted through a box of cards and letters I’ve received in my life (because the box was overflowing and not everything needs to be kept) and I found so many encouraging and lovely words about me and my presence in this world or in someone’s life.

It is a lost art, this telling others what we see in them or how they’ve affected our existence. I struggle, sometimes, to believe that I matter to anyone, that my presence makes a difference in the world. This is one of the shadow sides, as they say, of my personality. But in the last year, especially, I’ve seen how presence is the gift I’ve been given to give back to the world around me. It is small and almost imperceptible, but it changes things and people. It is the reason, I think, that I love my job so much. A lot of it is just being present and paying attention. (You can read more about my goal for the year to be awake.)

But I don’t think that what I have is any more special than what anyone else has. I think it is one small part of something much bigger, a tapestry of humanity that needs every single thread to make a work of art.

—

Maybe this tendency we have to deride someone else’s uniqueness by calling them a “special snowflake” (or saying they aren’t one) has its roots in our wounds and insecurities. I think we sometimes want to downplay another’s gift because we don’t know what our own is. If someone else is special, then we might feel less special if we don’t yet know what our specialness is. It’s okay to not know. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I fully believe that if you are a living, breathing human on this planet right this second then you have something to offer the world at large. It is no accident that you exist in this time and place.

Uniqueness has no scarcity. If your sister or best friend or mortal enemy is a unique human being that doesn’t mean you’ve been shorted in that department. Your unique contribution to the world is only different, not less. You were not left out when uniqueness was handed out.

Photo by Dakota Corbin on Unsplash

And it’s possible that we only see our special gift in isolation. If one snowflake fell from the sky today, would anyone care? But when millions of snowflakes combine to drop multiple inches of snow on the ground, people take notice. Maybe your unique gift needs to be combined with someone else’s to realize its (your) full potential.

This has been a lot of words to say one simple thing: You are a special snowflake. And so is the human sitting next to you. And when you receive that truth with gratitude, as a gift to share with the world, you don’t have to worry about whether anyone else agrees. It doesn’t make you entitled to more. It doesn’t give you license to dominate anyone else.

But it does make you free to be you and live life to your fullest potential.

 

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Why we can’t all be stars {Be Who You Are, part 1}

A few weeks ago we took our kids to see the newest Star Wars movie. It’s only been since last summer that they’ve caught up on the originals (Parts 4,5, and 6) and last fall when they saw The Force Awakens. Like many kids their age, they love the characters and stories and have started collecting memorabilia. (Our son got a Lego Millennium Falcon for his last birthday. He’s 8.)

So, on a recent night when I was losing my cool because of all the video games winter has forced us to play, the two of them and I took to the couch for a coloring session. Music often helps to calm us so we chose a John Williams station on Amazon music. We heard not only our favorite theme music from Star Wars but all the other masterpieces Williams has created. (The list is longer than I could have told you before that night.)

Photo by Isaac Ibbott on Unsplash

We got to talking about the music and how it adds to the movie experience. I asked them how the Imperial March made them feel when they heard it. How different would it be, I asked, if when Darth Vader marches on screen the music was more like a circus theme. They laughed and laughed.

John Williams is a talented composer, and I know that he gets a lot of credit for his work. But I wonder how many people who have watched the movies featuring his scores fully appreciate his contributions. I mean, what would Superman or Indiana Jones be without their recognizable theme songs?

In some cases, I feel like the answer might be “nothing.” The music adds a layer of depth taking an interesting character and making him (or her) unforgettable.

 

—

My new job is a supporting role. I’m not a teacher. I’m an aide. My official title has a fancier name, but my day-in, day-out duties are assisting someone who has more knowledge, experience and credentials than I do.

Ten years ago, that might have bothered me, but I feel exactly the opposite. I have never felt more perfectly suited for a job in all my years of work. (I have come to realize that my writing is more art/calling than job, but that’s a post for another day.) I show up. I help where I’m needed. I go home satisfied because my presence mattered in a real and tangible way. (Some days, it feels more intangible, but that’s rare.)

In the world where most of us live (I was going to say “real world” but Hollywood is part of the real world and acting is a viable way to make a living if that is your gift and talent), there aren’t a lot of prizes for a job well done. There’s little recognition for a supporting role in life. No one is going to hand me a trophy for showing up to work every day and giving it my best effort and maybe making a difference in someone’s life.

But the truth is I don’t need a trophy. Because I’m doing exactly what I need to be doing with my life.

Photo by Ariel Lustre on Unsplash

I wouldn’t make it past the audition round of American Idol and I would fall flat on my face in the meantime. Even if by some miracle I was cast in some kind of TV show or movie, I would be miserable. I don’t like people looking at me all the time and I’m definitely not a performer. (Unless I feel really comfortable with you and can crack a bunch of terrible jokes in succession. Or if I’m telling a really interesting story.)

I couldn’t work in the medical field because I don’t like bodily fluids and I have an overactive gag reflex. Even my job as a journalist, which I worked for almost 10 years, was a not-quite-right fit. I am less detail-oriented than I would like to think, and I often missed asking the obvious questions.

One month into my new job and I feel more “accomplished” than I did in 10 years of journalism. But then again, I don’t think I could have done this job all those years ago. I needed more time to figure out who I was than who I thought I wanted to be.

—

It’s awards season. The TV channels are full of Oscars and Globes and Emmys and Grammys, and I am always six steps behind what’s new and popular, but I have a casual interest in these things. There are recognitions for all kinds of behind-the-scenes contributions, some we never even hear about. And because we focus so much on the stars–the leading actors and actresses, especially, the awards for supporting roles sometimes feel like a lesser prize.

(Am I alone in thinking this?)

I wonder what kind of message we send to kids of this generation when we spend so much time adoring the stars–in movies, sports and music. Why can’t being good at something ordinary that perfectly suits us be enough?

—

I suspect the answer to that question lies in part with our inability to really know ourselves. From the time we are young, we are given clues about who and what people want us to be. Most of the time, we mean no harm when we comment on a child’s personality, but I wonder how much of it shapes who they become. Or who they think they have to become.

In the last year, I’ve become obsessed (I don’t think that’s too strong of a word) with the Enneagram. It’s a personality assessment, I guess, but it’s more like a mirror into your true self. I have learned more about myself through the Enneagram in the last year-plus than I have maybe in the last decade. (I hope that doesn’t sound like an exaggeration.) I know more about why I do some of the things I do and how I need to change. Maybe most importantly, especially in light of what I’ve been writing about supporting roles, I know that my presence matters. That might not sound like any big revelation but’s that probably because you aren’t the same Enneagram type as me.

Knowing that my presence makes a difference in the world, that my voice matters, it changes how I go about my day, and it convinces me that this support job I do five days a week is an appropriate use of my life.

I’m almost 40 years old and I’m just learning this. I hope that you are further ahead in this area than I am. But if you’re not, could I encourage you to invest in learning about yourself? The more you know about who you are, what you’re suited for, and why you do what you do, the more likely you’ll be to find your role in the world. It might be a starring one. It might be a supporting one. It might be one no else understands.

Photo by Nicole Smith on Unsplash

But as long as it’s the right one for you, the world will be a better place.

More than a paycheck

If I’m going to be honest, there’s part of me that hopes nobody reads this post. Or that if you do, you don’t talk to me about it. When I sit here with my laptop, writing, it’s hard to not be honest. I can feel the discord when I’m lying to you or myself, trying to show a better picture than whatever the current reality is. I love you, reader. I also fear you. It’s easy to walk through the world showing people only what we want them to see. (Easy but also exhausting.) The answer to every “How’s it going?” from a casual acquaintance or even some friends is always a verbal “good” from me but a nonverbal lengthy essay on every thought and feeling I’ve had since the last time someone asked. (You’ve been warned.)

It’s those latter thoughts and feelings that often find their way to the more public spaces–this blog, my Facebook status, the occasional Instagram reflection. It is easier for me to tell you all these things when I can’t see your face, although I do see your faces sometimes when I write. It’s easier because the words make more sense when I write them than when I speak them. If we’ve ever had a conversation, you’ll know that I sometimes can’t find the words to describe what exactly I want to say. (Even if you don’t remember this happening, I remember what seems like every time it’s ever happened. It makes me wonder if people doubt my supposed way with words when I stumble over my speech or only speak five words in a conversation.)

Photo by Amador Loureiro on Unsplash

Enough about my social communication issues. Let’s get on with why I’m really here today, shall we?

As of Friday, I’ve been employed for 15 days. I only work weekdays and with the wacky winter weather we’ve been having here in Pennsylvania, I worked 9 of those days and almost every one of them was a different schedule. I’ve not yet settled into any kind of routine, but I have noticed some things even in this short amount of time. I’ll get my first paycheck this week, and while that is the primary reason for this job, the benefits go beyond money.

Let me try to explain. I doubt it will be brief.

This year marks 10 years that we’ve been living in Pennsylvania, having moved here from Illinois for my husband to attend grad school.

Back then, we thought we had a life plan, a trajectory that would only move us forward and up, whatever that meant. We left Illinois with little debt thanks to my husband’s military service in the Army Reserve and a one-year deployment to Iraq. This was crucial considering that we were about to take on more debt for grad school, but because we were following a dream, a calling, a whatever you want to call it, we thought it was worth it. Incurring debt for education and an advanced degree seemed like an investment that would later reap at least a way to repay the debt.

Until that point in our lives, I had worked full time as a journalist in various roles at two different media companies in Illinois. But we had a five-month-old when we moved and no family where we were headed and me getting a job to pay for health insurance and day care didn’t seem like the path we wanted to take. So, Phil got a part-time job, in addition to his school work and I stayed home to take care of the baby, all the while we looked for ways to make ends meet. (This is the part that is always hard to talk about.)

It wasn’t long before I learned about the world of welfare. We needed health insurance so we could take our daughter to well visits but we couldn’t break through the convoluted system to talk to anyone, so on a whim, I applied for food stamps, also and suddenly we had an appointment at the welfare office and we were talking to a case worker who asked us a gazillion questions and told us in a lighthearted manner that our case was “easy.” We walked out that day with a card loaded with money for food. (I was loaded with anxiety about all of this.)

Less than a year later, I learned about WIC when we discovered we were pregnant with our second child. I had no health insurance at the time. (This was before the Affordable Care Act–not that long ago.) So, I went to the free clinic for low-income people, which is what we were, and they referred me to the WIC office just down the hallway. This was a whole new world of check-ins and vouchers good for food products. (Cue the anxiety while using these, as well.)

Photo by Ali Yahya on Unsplash

All these years later, I remember how nervous I was every time I bought groceries and slipped the food stamp card out of its folder. Sometimes I had to tell the cashier out loud that I was paying with them. Almost every time I felt guilty for something that was in my cart. I didn’t write much about it in the early days because I was embarrassed, and I got some strong judgmental reactions from people I thought were friends, so I just did what I had to do to get by. It was only going to be temporary, I told myself.

At the same time I was adjusting to these new provisions for food for our family, I was receiving what I now consider substandard health care at the free clinic. The interns or medical students, I’m not sure which, couldn’t find our baby’s heartbeat every time we went in. This always caused a moment of panic until the overseeing doctor came in and found it. Once, a doctor told me that women with “more cushion” made getting a heartbeat reading more difficult, and I left feeling ashamed of my weight and so many other things.

Fortunately (?), my second pregnancy was considered high risk because our daughter was born five weeks early. The clinic felt my care was beyond their expertise so they referred me to a group of OB/GYN doctors that served most of the county. I had never felt more relief. I was a low-income pregnant woman so I qualified for free health care. I was also married with one child already, a college graduate with a husband pursuing a master’s degree. These things did not connect in my head. I fought the shaming voice in my head that told me we shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t be this needy.

I never saw a bill for that second pregnancy, which included an emergency C-section. My healthy, active 8-year-old son is a gift in more ways than one.

Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

This is where the shame rises again. I know women who pay thousands of dollars for their pregnancy care and births. I had insurance when my daughter was born, so I know the hospital bills that follow. This is nothing I would ever brag about, and I am continually grateful that I didn’t have to worry about how I was going to pay for a safe, healthy birth of my second child. A child who was born into a family on purpose and with intention. Not an accident or a mistake or as a way to milk the welfare system. (These are things people actually say, mostly online to other people, although not to me directly.)

Over the next year, we would look for other sources of income and make bad decisions about how we would gain that income. One decision later resulted in a choice my husband made to break our marriage vows, and we have never been the same (for better and sometimes worse) since then.

That was eight years ago. We lost income. We gained more debt as we sought counseling to heal and made intentional decisions to be with each other. My health deteriorated, though I would not experience the full effects until later. Our debt accumulated as we had to pay for things like heating oil with credit cards. ($700 every time we filled the tank, which was 2-3 times a year.) We paid for travel to visit family in Illinois. These are some of the things that saved us. And we are literally still paying for them.

I feel like I need to pause in the story for a moment because we are heading downhill fast, and my intention is not to make you feel pity or sympathy, disgust or anger. I have no idea what reading this will make you feel. I used to care a lot more about that but I’ve learned that all I can do is tell the story true. How you react is how you react and that says more about you than me. Everyone has their own stories of struggle and survival and ours is not particularly dramatic nor, I suspect, is it particularly unique. But I have to tell you where we were to tell you where we are and where we’re going. These things I’ve just told you, they weren’t the end for us, and though I would not have chosen them to be part of our story, they have helped us become who we are. (And I like who we are.)

In the aftermath of infidelity, I found my faith shifting. What I had believed about God and Jesus and Christian living no longer fit with my reality. Before, I thought if I did all the right things, then right things would follow. Instead, I saw that all of my right living couldn’t stop my world from falling apart. Instead of spiraling into no faith at all, though, I found a faith that was steady when the world was not, a God who was faithful when I had no faith at all. I saw Jesus in a whole new way. He was close to the broken-hearted, and that is what I was.

I cannot speak for my husband. His faith journey is his own. But as our marriage healed from this hurt, we discovered the roots were deeper and more prevalent than either of us wanted to admit. While we had entered grad school with the intention of entering full-time ministry–pastoring a church–that option no longer seemed like the healthy or right one. My husband graduated with his Master of Divinity, and we took the next year to figure out the next step.

You can read some of that story here. (Start with part one. There are six total, and each one is shorter than this post!)

Phil got a job in food service. We moved to a different town. We found an affordable rental. And we still struggled to make ends meet. Our income was subsidized with food stamps, WIC and Medicaid far longer than I had hoped. I constantly felt like a failure as a human being. How had two college-educated kids from the Midwest with a middle-class upbringing ended up in this financial pit?

For a couple of years, we just let ourselves recover from some of the previous hurt. We were in no hurry to move on or figure out what we were meant to do in the world. We were content to just float for a while, without fear of storm surges overtaking us. We both sought counseling, individually, and started to see progress in our emotional and mental states. But the drifting only worked for so long. I began suffering from back spasms that left me unable to walk without pain for a few weeks, so we added chiropractic visits to our health care expenses. Two years ago, Phil lost his food service job. He found another job in food service a few weeks after that, but it was another bad decision on our part, made mostly out of desperation because we needed money. By this time, our kids were both in school, and I did some looking for work, but I was still trying (and mostly failing) to make a go of freelance writing and editing.

Eight months later, he was out of a job again and we started last year with the expectation that things had to get better because getting worse was unimaginable. After a major car repair, receiving unemployment, and Phil finding a new job, we settled back in. We started to hope again. What if we could buy a house? Maybe we should start looking for a new car? (We bought our van 8 years ago and it is pushing 200,000 miles on the odometer.) The timing on both of those things just wasn’t right. Our debt continued to plague us.

Photo by Mar Newhall on Unsplash

I am slow to consider and adopt change, so it wasn’t until the year was almost over that I faced the reality of getting a job outside of writing, outside of the house. (A word about getting a job after 10 years of not having one: it is not as easy as snapping your fingers. I hear this tossed around frequently, directed at people on welfare or unemployment. “Just get a job!” For me to get a job that suited our family’s schedule and one-car situation, I had to pay for background checks, buy some suitable work clothes, make a doctor’s appointment to get a TB test, all before I officially accepted the job or saw a paycheck.)

If you’re still reading, here’s what is happening now: working outside the house has restored some of my emotional health. I have a reason to get up and get out of the house and shower on a regular basis.  I cannot stay in my lounge clothes all day and binge-watch Netflix and drink coffee (there is nothing wrong with any of this; some days, I miss that life). I generally don’t care what I wear but because I had to buy new clothes, I let my husband and daughter and mother talk me into some things that I normally would not consider for myself. And I feel fabulous in some of these clothes. Turns out if you buy clothes that actually fit you don’t spend as much time shaming yourself for not being in better physical health.

Also, I hadn’t realized how much of a hoarder I’d become. When you live paycheck to paycheck and sometimes that doesn’t cover it, you start to hang on to stuff that really should have been thrown out long ago. At least I did. Because if I threw it out, then I would need to replace it and we didn’t have money for things that weren’t bills or food. (Or so I thought. I should also admit to you that we are not terribly disciplined about budgeting. A budget would not have solved all of our problems–I do not subscribe to this theory–but we do splurge every now and then.)

Photo by Gary Chan on Unsplash

Last week, I realized how burdening this has been. I have saved half-used coloring books and scores of broken crayons my kids haven’t touched in years because what if one day they want to color and we don’t have anything and no money to buy them? I have thrown more things away, or put them in the giveaway pile, in the past two weeks than I probably have in the past two years.

This does not mean we are going to blow every paycheck I receive. We are not. (This is our debt reduction money.) But we will have the flexibility to buy the things we need, and some of the things we want, without stress. For the first time in years, we can see a path toward buying a new-to-us car that will not be a burden. When the van emits a troubling noise now, instead of freaking out about the cost of repair, I think to myself: Just a couple more months, old girl.

It’s just a job. It’s just a paycheck. But it honestly feels like so much more.

—

A final note: I’ve taken too many words to tell you these things today, but I guess I want to help you understand the kinds of unseen burdens people live with when they are under-employed. And we are the lucky ones. We have family support. And good credit. I don’t know where we would have been without both of those things. There are other people in the world who live paycheck to paycheck, who are underemployed and receiving welfare, who do not have family members who can help them when things get tight, who can’t get a credit card, even if they want one. These are the people the payday loan places target. These are the people who try to survive however they can. Please consider the bigger picture when you hear about food stamp fraud or people dumping their garbage illegally or whatever other “crime” might be associated with poverty. (I’m not excusing those practices, but in a lot of cases, there are larger systems and factors at work.)

If you’re still with me and you want to read about one of those systems, find a copy of Matthew Desmond’s Evicted. You will never think about housing in the same way again.

January thaw

The forecast calls for rain tomorrow and after a stretch of cold/ice/snow/wind that seemed it might never end, I am grateful. I rolled the window down in the van today, and when I stepped outside without a jacket, just for a moment, I forgot the bitter chill from a week ago.

I’ve lived through too many Midwest (and now Mid-Atlantic) winters to hope that we’ll have a short winter, that by January we’ll have seen the worst of the weather for the season. The truth is there’s a lot of January left. And then February. Followed by March’s unpredictable patterns. Spring might feel closer when the calendar flips to a new year, but a lot can happen between now and then.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Still, days like these give me hope. And relief, however brief.

—

It was almost 60 degrees two days before Christmas when my family flew out of Baltimore, headed to Chicago to spend the holidays with family. The next day, in typical Illinois winter fashion, it snowed. And the temperature dropped. Our entire visit was the coldest I can remember experiencing in almost a decade. When we returned to Pennsylvania, we were greeted with the same stretch of cold air.

If we hadn’t believed it was winter before, then we were being given evidence to believe day after day.

Looking ahead at the weather forecast offered little hope. Until just this week when we saw the high temperatures begin to gradually increase. As the snow melts and the temperatures rise, the burden of winter lifts a bit, even if we know it is temporary.

This is often the way of my heart.

Read the rest of this post at Putting on the New, where I write on the 12th of each month.