Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

birthdays

I can’t wait to become the person I’m meant to be

Once upon a time, there was a girl who didn’t know what kind of cake she liked. It was her birthday and a friend wanted to make her a cake and asked what her favorite was. The girl had never thought about it. She didn’t think her preferences mattered. She didn’t know how to voice her wants, needs or desires. When she ordered a hamburger from a made-to-order station at her college, she picked the “plain Jane,” because she was too afraid that her choices would be criticized. It didn’t make sense in the cake scenario because these were dear, kind, loving friends. Still, she panicked and said, “White. White cake with white frosting.” (And maybe a side of vanilla ice cream?)

It’s not that white cake with white frosting is bad. It was a delicious cake; it’s just that it wasn’t truly her favorite.  It was what she thought would be easy or right. It was a safe choice because it couldn’t be criticized, right? This same girl would order the same thing from the menu at any restaurant she’d ever been to because it required no risk, no choice.

Stephanie McCabe via Unsplash

Stephanie McCabe via Unsplash

Today, that same girl is celebrating a birthday. (Spoiler alert: It’s me!) And we’re having a meal at church tonight where the theme is “your favorite food.” We’re taking cake. At the time of writing this, I haven’t decided what kind because there are SO MANY to choose from. Now, if you asked me my favorite, I’d say, “Boston Creme Pie,” which doesn’t sound like cake, exactly, or “ice cream cake,” also not technically a cake. Or we might run to Costco and get a cake to take with us because they’re delish and huge. (Also, chocolate cake, yum.)

Now, that girl has trouble choosing a favorite, not because she’s afraid of making a wrong decision or facing criticism, but because she has tried a variety of things she likes.

It is only one evidence of an ongoing change in her life.

—

A few weeks ago, Phil and I were at a local market. It was part date, part grocery errand, as most of our visits to the market are. My husband happens to have Tuesdays off, when the best markets are open, so we take advantage, especially now as fresh vegetables begin to make their abundant return.

Our plan was to find some food for lunch before we shopped for produce. Lines were long at many of the stands selling pork and beef sandwiches. I was waiting for him to return from the bathroom, so I wandered down a path just to see what was there.

“Falafel and shawarma,” a sign read, and my interest immediately peaked. There was a shorter line at this stand, and the prices were reasonable. I turned to find my husband and he was coming toward me. We were agreed that this would be our lunch, and it wasn’t a mistake.

There was a time (see the previous hamburger incident) when I would have wanted to blend in with the crowd and eat something “normal” like beef brisket or a pork sandwich. That day, I was proud, probably in a sinful way, of how far I’ve come. I was more at ease, happier even, eating Middle Eastern food at a rural market in Pennsylvania than I would have been eating the more local fare.

Lena Bell via Unsplash

Lena Bell via Unsplash

I don’t know how a Midwestern girl from a smallish town learned to love the world. My husband and I both come from families who don’t move too far from where they grew up, and here we are 800 miles from home with our hearts set on the globe. I remember, even as a child, seeing airplanes in the sky over our house (Chicago was only 100 miles away) and wondering where the people were going to or coming from. As a train whistled past, just beyond the hill, I thought about its journey and what it would be like to travel that way.

It’s not that I don’t like my hometown; it’s just that something inside of me always knew, I think, that I would leave. My heart beat “away, away, go, go,” before I even really recognized it. This must be something that was birthed in me because it doesn’t always make sense. I’m not always adventurous, but I have always been curious, and curiosity is what propels me toward adventures like Africa.

I was not meant to see only one piece of the world.

—

Maybe I was not meant to see only one piece of the world, and maybe you were. That’s okay.

Part of what makes life interesting is seeing how different we all are and finding common ground anyway.

Months ago, now, I read a beautiful book that changed the way I think about myself. “Bandersnatch” is not a word I was familiar with, but author Erika Morrison built a whole book around it, turning it into a verb. bandersnatch

I’m inviting you to bandersnatch, that is, to acknowledge and embrace the unconventional habits and attitudes that are your birthright, to grapple with what has dominion over you, and to become a bit of a nuisance to the unhelpful, unhealthy, and often harmful systems of the human-made kingdom. (iv)

We do that, she says, by asking these questions:

What part of God do you represent? Do you know where you begin and where you end? … Do I know the words that describe who I am? (v)

Who are you, stripped of those things that tell you who you are? (ix)

I don’t want to quote the whole book because that would be plagiarism, so go read it for yourself. But these questions, and the gentle guidance of this book have got me thinking about who I am. Who I really am, not who people tell me I should be or who I think I should be. There is a difference, and it is huge.

—

I used to think that someday I’d become the person I wanted to be, or was meant to be, if I achieved enough milestones or worked through enough issues. There was some outward standard that would signal I had made it. I figured I would “arrive” somewhere in my 30s, or maybe even my 40s. At some point in adulthood I would feel like I had it together.

I’m 38 today. I don’t feel any of that.

But I do feel more like myself than I can ever remember.

Aging has a way of stripping away the things that don’t matter, although that alone isn’t the answer. I’ve met women much older than I am now who are no closer to knowing who they are than on the day they were born.

So, I’ve decided something. (Remember last year when I decided to try to lose 37 pounds for my 37th year? Spoiler alert: Not even close. Yeah, this is not like that at all.)

I’ve decided that I can’t wait to become the person I’m meant to be. Not “I can’t wait” in the “I’m so excited for that to happen someday in the future” sense. No, the “I can’t wait” as in “I don’t have to wait” sense.

I can’t wait and I won’t wait to become that woman because I already am her. And I’m not. But I can’t put it off. I can’t wait until life lines up like I think it should, just like I can’t delay buying new clothes until I lose X number of pounds. If I wait until I meet a certain standard, it might never happen. So, I’ll buy the clothes that fit me now. I’ll express myself according to my preferences, choices and beliefs now. Sure, they might change, but I can’t wait until I’m older to have an opinion about something. Besides, preferences, choices and beliefs often change. That girl who was afraid to express herself years ago wouldn’t recognize the woman she is now, and that’s kind of a good thing.

There are some things inside of me that will never change because they are part of the inherent me. And some of those things have been silenced by fear or shame or the “shoulds” from others.

Another question from Morrison begs for answers:

What percentage of you is original like you were born to be, and what percentage of you is owned by society’s systems and institutions and formulas for fun and happiness and rules for right living that don’t allow for the sacrament of your own strangeness?

Honestly? I never wanted to be weird. I was the girl who wanted to blend in, fade from memory, go unnoticed. I don’t think I really wanted that, but I think it’s what I thought I deserved. I didn’t think I was special or remarkable in any way. I thought I was so forgettable that after high school, I re-introduced myself to classmates I’d been in school with for years. I didn’t think they would remember me, even though our class was small.

Weird wasn’t cool, or so thought, but do you want to know a secret? We’re all a bit strange, if only we’d embrace it. I love how Morrison calls it a sacrament of strangeness.

I’m a holy weirdo.

That’s what this birthday is about for me–embracing my strange, unique, incomparable self; celebrating the woman I am and the woman I am becoming.

My original title for this post was going to be something about 38 not being great, but I think I’ve changed my mind. Maybe this year won’t be the best ever or one of ridiculous transformation, but I don’t think that matters so much anymore.

What matters is how genuinely I’m living out my unique, God-made self.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

I want to be like my daughter when I grow up

I left work on a Monday afternoon, 35 weeks pregnant, answering the question from a co-worker about how long I was going to work with, “As close as possible to when the baby comes.” A day earlier I had confidently declared that we still had “plenty of time” to get ready.

Maybe you can sense where this is going.

Sometime in the next 12 hours, I would wake to a dampness in the bed. Actually, do you remember the movie Juno? It hadn’t been that long since we had seen it, and there’s a scene where her water breaks and her eyes pop open and she’s instantly on high alert. It was just like that. Something had happened, and I was both sure and not sure that it was my water breaking.

I did what they said to do, and when I couldn’t stand the anxiety anymore, I woke up my husband.

“Honey, I think my water just broke.”

I remember he was groggy, and not necessarily excited to be woken in the middle of the night. I called the doctor, still not sure if this was actually happening. Our apartment at the time was still undergoing some repairs. We had no baby supplies to speak of. Because we still had time. The doctor agreed we should head to the hospital to check things out. My husband drove the speed limit, and I remember telling him we could go a little faster.

A nurse confirmed that my water had indeed broken, and what happened next was a blur. I remember hearing them talking about whether or not I was going to be able to stay there. I thought that meant they were going to send me home, but Phil gently reminded me that, no, what they were deciding was whether I would need to be moved to a bigger hospital because the baby would be five weeks early. Our pediatrician made the call that I could stay. We called our families, and I called in to work. I think we may have even called our landlord to see if work on our apartment could maybe possibly be expedited.

My mom and grandma hightailed it the three hours between us, stopping off at a Target or Wal-Mart close to where my husband and I lived and began buying up baby supplies.

A whole day passed with me stuck in a hospital bed waiting for something to happen. Phil went back to our apartment to pack a bag of stuff for us. We were that unprepared for the birth of our first child. I don’t remember everything we did that day. He might have even went to class. As the day went on, I wondered how long it would be before we met our baby.

—

I feel like I’ve told this story before, but it doesn’t get old for me. I want to repeat it so many times that I never forget. I want my daughter to know the story of her birth, her coming into the world.

—

Around 11 p.m., just as the nurses were switching shifts, things started to change. I felt the beginnings of contractions and a check of my cervix showed evidence of dilation. Progress.

The rest is also a blur. I remember asking for a tiny dose of drugs, which just ended up making me feel drunk and not really helping with the pain. I remember the contractions increasing in strength. I remember how quickly everything happened. A few hard pushes and our daughter was born into the world with wisps of red hair. She was a surprise all around. I was sure we were having a boy. And I never expected to have a child with red hair.

She weighed more than 6 pounds and didn’t spend a day in any kind of NICU. She was early, but she was ready for life.

Our whole world changed that day, and it hasn’t stopped changing.

—

That baby girl turns 8 tomorrow, and I can hardly believe the years have passed so quickly. I know I’m supposed to hold on to the memories and enjoy the moments, and I am, mostly. I don’t want time to stop or go back, but I also don’t want to miss the moments. The important ones and the everyday ones.

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She’s 8 tomorrow and she’s who I want to be when I grow up. How is it that our children teach us so much about ourselves?

This morning, she loaded up her treat bags for her class, along with ones for some of her special teacher and assistant friends. She grabbed an extra  notebook to give to the bus driver. Giving gives her joy. She would share anything she had with anyone (except maybe her brother when she’s in a mood, but even then, she usually gives in and lets him have some of whatever it is).

She has a new classmate who doesn’t speak much English and she has checked out half a dozen Spanish-English books to try to learn some words she can use to communicate with her new friend.

Recently, she wrote a play she wanted to share with the class. She told her teacher all about it, and the insecure part of me thought, “Oh, honey, don’t bother the teacher with that.” Schools have enough to pack into a day, and this extra thing my daughter wanted to do seemed unnecessary. (My writing card should be revoked!) Her teacher graciously asked her to type it up and e-mail it to her, giving her an example of how it should be formatted. Our daughter pecked away at the computer over several days typing lines of dialogue she had written herself. When it was finished, I e-mailed it to the teacher with a note of thanks, remembering that my own pursuit of writing was because of the encouragement of teachers like her.

I’m not yet sure of the status of the play, but I’m so proud of my daughter for offering it to her class. I don’t want to crush the creativity in her. As if I could. It practically bursts from her. She dresses in mismatched patterns and socks with as many accessories as possible. She wears dresses most days, and one time when there were large snow mounds at school, she led a couple of boys in sliding down the mounds, even though they ended up covered in mud. She was so pleased with herself.

At a birthday party for a friend

At a birthday party for a friend

She has a stubborn streak, and a lot of big feelings. (She comes by them honestly.) And we are going to have some tough days ahead, I know. But her confidence and stubbornness and, though I hate to use the word, her bossiness, will serve her well in a world that still wants to silence women. She is stronger already than I will ever be.

Her birthday is the biggest deal every year. She is the star for a day, and she soaks up the attention. She has so much love to give, and she seeks out friends wherever she goes.

No, she’s not perfect. Don’t let that be your takeaway from this. But she is ours, and she inspires me to be a better person. Because of her, I want to hold back my unkind words. Because of her, I want to try new things because she is adventurous and daring. Her life will make me a prayer warrior yet.

I didn’t know a thing about raising a daughter when we brought her home from the hospital. In fact, I was sure the nurses were making a mistake letting us go. We had the added fear of jaundice with her, and three days after her birth, we were in the hospital overnight while she chilled under a bilirubin light. It was the scariest moment of my life at the time. In three days, my heart had already left my body and was joined with hers, and even though eight years have passed, my heart still beats a little harder when I think about someday letting her go out into the big, wide world all by herself.

I imagine it will be one of the hardest things I ever do.

But she will never be satisfied with a small, quiet life. We are opposites in that way, and there are times I do not understand her at all. But motherhood is nothing if not a constant lesson in things we don’t know.

She is a gift to us, and we aim to treat her as such. She is on loan for a short time. We will do our best to prepare her. We will fail, sometimes.

I can’t wait to see what she will become.

And I don’t want to miss these days of her becoming.

Because of her, I am becoming, too.