Better Make It A Double

for neither reason nor justice

This past Sunday, we were leaving for church, and as I walked around to the driver’s side of our car, I realized that someone had tagged that whole side with bright blue paint. Other cars had been tagged too, with expletives and territorial scrawls. It must’ve happened between midnight and daybreak, because I’d come home late the night before.

I sighed, knowing in my gut that this act was probably part of a recent trend. There is a group of boys in our neighborhood that we’re losing. We’re losing their integration within this community as they grow older and band together by staking their claim in ways that are destructive to their neighbors, in wannabe gangs, threatening body language, and vandalism. Cars and garages tagged, an alley garbage bin set on fire, eggs thrown at front doors in the twilight of days end. A group of boys walking three or four abreast down the sidewalk, swearing loudly, not moving aside for strollers or dog walkers, their big dark coats intended to make them look bigger, like something other than the largely prepubescent kids they really still are. I’m worried about them now, and I’m even more worried about a few years from now.

Three years ago, I knew a couple of these kids by name. A few of them live directly behind us on the other side of the alley with their mom, and they were nice, friendly kids when they moved in. They spent hour after hour playing basketball, laughing and hollering and pretending to be their favorite stars. Last summer, one of them put up a flyer for lawn mowing and raking, and when I called to make arrangements for some Fall raking a few months later, it was clear that his heart wasn’t in it. His cell phone voicemail had loud, obscene rap music, and when I finally got a hold of him, he said, “Maybe Saturday afternoon”. I don’t think he wrote down the address, he didn’t show, and that was that.

I left the flyer on my fridge for a long time, often puzzling over it. It was so earnestly put together, with little illustrations and lots of exclamation points. What happened this summer? What sense of community pulled harder on him than what he already had? By summer’s end, the group of kids playing basketball in the alley behind me as I weeded or played with the boys grew bigger. They often swore, loudly. I called them on it once or twice, trying to find a balance between wanting it to stop and not wanting to give the impression that I considered them the enemy. They did oblige, but they wouldn’t look at me. Now, I see them walking in groups of four or five, making the rounds, knocking over a neighbor's ornamental animals with a swipe of the arm, looking for trouble and for connection that is entirely based on peer group relationships.

As I was driving to church, thinking about all this, the normal, understandable anger that can result from having one’s property vandalized didn’t come. Mostly, I’m just sad. I am a Christian, and for me, that means taking the words of Jesus seriously. Turning the other cheek. Loving your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you. If that doesn’t mean anything in this situation, with kids only a decade older than my own trying on roles that will likely only invite punishment over love, then when does it? What does it mean to love these angry boys?

I’m not convinced that being a parent necessarily makes you a better person, at least in the short term. So many of the people who are truly dedicated to making the world a better place, really devoting their lives to it, are single by choice,  necessity, or both. I do think, though, that mothering my boys has given me a hint of the essence of God’s love for us – a truly unconditional love that we can’t shake no matter what we do, that isn’t based on reason or justice. That is, after all, how most of us love our children. It is an extremely tall order, but I think that Jesus wanted us to share some of that kind of love with everyone we encounter, starting in our hearts, in prayer, but also in action. We are to be a people of mercy; we are to be extending grace to the people whose paths we cross. I believe that in that possibility lies the healing of the world. Mustering the courage to live up to that isn’t easy, and it’s often the details I am unsure about.

I will, of course, follow the standard protocols: file a police report over the phone, talk to my Block Club leader, leave the porch light on at night for a bit. I don’t know exactly who tagged my car—my neighbors and I just have a rough idea of the direction these acts are coming from. But much more than proof or justice, I am still searching for something more both more concrete and more spiritual. These young kids are ultimately responsible for their own actions, as we all pretty much are, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that we’re also failing them as a community. Court dates and juvenile facility sentences are no real answer to that problem—they may make us feel better, but the payoff is low and the cost is tremendous. I’m pretty sure that the kids in the alley behind us come home to an empty house every day. I am aware that their mom works two jobs and takes care of her niece at night so her sister can work the night shift. There is no-one to take these kids to sports leagues and the like, city money is tight, and there’s not much left over for diversion programs anyway. After the elementary grades and sometimes before, schools are often anonymous, overcrowded, and chaotic. I'm pretty sure that none of them have much, if any affiliation with a faith community. The pull of the least savory aspects of popular culture is everywhere for these kids, who often spend hour upon hour playing violent, desensitizing video games. Some of the kids around here show the telltale facial structure of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Often, they are not expected to be anything other than thugs, like the good-for-nothings one of my neighbors referred to them as. As a community, we are reaping what we have sown.

On Monday, I took N with me to get the car washed.  I had some anti-graffitti spray that a church member had given me to try, but I wanted to start with a clean car. Since first getting a car seven years ago, I’ve always gone to the same full-service place in the middle of a part of South Minnea*polis often referred to as the ghetto, mostly because the fumes bother me if I do it myself, and they do a good job there. This place has been around since at least the 1960’s, and looks it, with a big, pink flashing sign made of actual light bulbs pointing the way inside. It’s usually pretty quiet, but on Monday, it was full of people wanting a clean car on the first reasonable warm day in weeks. As usual, N and I were the only light-skinned people in the building. From the heated viewing area, N took great delight in watching the car move down the tracks and through the various contraptions. When our car was almost done, the manager summoned us. Shaking his head, he asked what we were going to do about the spray paint. I told him my plan, and he offered to have one of the workers buff it off for $10, saying that the anti-graffiti chemicals would probably eat the paint underneath it. Gratefully I accepted, and N and I watched from the back. Waiting for the next car to towel off, the manager said, “Whoever did that needs a whooppin.” The guy next to him folding towels said “The dude needs him some church.” A third worker, waiting with a bottle of glass cleaner in each hand, said, “He needs a job.”  I laughed, and the manager laughed, and said, “The dude needs him some church, a job, and a whooppin.”  He then made N, who was  squirming in my arms, scared of the noise the machines made now that we were out of the safety of the viewing area, laugh by making funny noises. As we were leaving, I helped N back into the car and saw that the man who’d done such a good job of cleaning up our car had left a sucker on the booster seat for him. Love for my neighbor was easy under these circumstances, even among a community of people who don’t look or talk like me and my family.

At my pastor’s suggestion, I’m going to tell our neighborhood community police liaison that should one of the vandals be caught, I’d be interested in participating in our city’s Restorative Justice Program, a program that allows willing offenders to hear directly what the effect of their infraction was, and make restitution within that same community. It’s a partial answer to some of what’s wrong with our criminal justice system, and I hope that the funding hasn’t dried up for that too. I’m also thinking that it may not be possible to reach out personally to these particular kids at this point, though I’d welcome the opportunity. It is always possible, though, to reach out to kids in the neighborhood in one way or another. As we move closer to the winter solstice, as we close in on more light and longer days, as we wait for the birth of God’s only son, I want to spend more time thinking about what Jesus’s words mean for me in  my life, what it means to be the light of the world in our neighborhood, in our alley, for those of God’s children whom we have failed to effectively embrace. 

 

signs of winter

The Eloi*se Butl*er Wildflower Garden, the beautiful enclosed garden where the boys and I have spent several mornings or afternoons, is now pretty much closed for the season. There is one last weekend day that it should be open, and I think we’ll go, but after that, just like every year, the garden will be left to the native flora and fauna until spring, as sure a sign of winter's coming as anything. The 15-acre garden and bird sanctuary, the oldest in the nation, is a bit of a lovely secret. It is surrounded by a high fence and a lockable gate on either end, tucked away in an also beautiful park that has clear views of downtown, but looks like it could be far from any city. J and I were married in that park, in a wooded glade under a giant burr oak. We had our reception at the top of the hill behind it, in a building built in the 1920’s by the Works Progress Administration.

I think it would be fair to say that the location represented the fact that J and I can find God anywhere, but perhaps most easily through witnessing the vast abundance of creation. A church building can’t contain that in the same meaningful way for either of us, though the group of people assembled that day certainly represented what we knew then as our family, related or not. Coming back to the place we were married is a joy – alone or together, and we’ve done it often since that June day seven years ago. Now we’re usually accompanied by two little boys who don’t yet understand the significance of that place for us, but seem impressed by its beauty all the same.

The garden is just behind that glade, up a hill and on the other side of a marsh inhabited by bullfrogs and wood ducks. I think people go to the garden in hopes of seeing a riot of many kinds of flowers – all that abundance in its glory, like you see in the wildflower calendars. In fact, that isn’t really what you find there—Minnesota not being Switzerland,exactly, or even Montana.

There are wooded areas, a small marsh, hills and meadows. There are many flowers, rare and common, buzzing with insects. There is a spectacular view at the very top of the highest hill. But what’s really spectacular about this garden isn’t the grand canvass of trees and flowers, but the details. The wild ginger, the mushrooms on rotting logs, the insects that you know must belong to some native plant, but that you’ve never seen before. My boys start to giggle every time they go through the gate, because the path is so springy from the thick layer of wood chips, spread carefully by volunteers to keep us on the path and prevent damage to the garden. The garden is a reminder to me to look – to let down the defenses we city dwellers need to survive the constant assault on our senses. The first thing I usually notice is the wonderful smell of decaying leaves. As I walk, I notice birdsongs, the texture of bark, lichen, and rusty tannin pooled in the marsh, the tiny detailed flowers that would never show up in a landscape photograph.

None of that takes any explaining to my boys – they don’t know how not to see and listen and observe, at least for now.

I love to think about the garden in winter. It must be beautiful covered in snow, its paths unmarred by heavy human footsteps, the birds and other animals growing a little bolder every week as we leave them be for awhile. It must be quite a shock to them when the gates open up again in the spring. When those gates open, we’ll come again, delighted to see the shoots of green promise under the trees and all over the meadow, careful of the birds as they worry over their young, and happy to stretch our legs and amble a bit after a long Minnesota winter. Meanwhile, I’m very grateful to visionaries like Eloise Butler and Theodore Wirth —people who made efforts and choices on behalf of  what might happen even after their lifetimes. When my boys are a little older, I hope to teach them about that too, because that was another reason J and I chose this particular park for our wedding. It represented what could happen if a group of people sacrificed and made an effort on behalf of something for a greater purpose than only our perceived immediate needs, having a longer vision than that of our own lifetime. That is, after all, what we do when we set out to build a family.

 
Isaiah 55:12

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.

 

listening

I think this is the longest I’ve ever gone without posting. I even let my second bloggiversary come and go. Mostly, I’ve just been overwhelmed with way too much to do, way too many meetings and appointments,and family obligations, and that September feeling of everything starting back up at once. Fall is coming early here, orange leaves already starting to litter the streets, that strange Minnes*ta in-between stage when we have both winter coats and sun hats hanging on our coat hooks. We’ve started our new Early Childhood Education class, Sunday School, and an every-other-week MOPS class. Our little routine has potential, with lots of fun, loosely structured activity for the boys as well as a bit of built-in respite for me. We’ve successfully moved O upstairs, and that is going well. N is getting more sleep, and is less cranky as a result. Work is going fairly well, after a difficult spell. Yet, I’m feeling anxious, impatient, and rushed much of the time. I’m haven’t been sleeping well, I haven’t been feeling particularly creative, or inspired. I feel haggard, a bit off-kilter, and hungry for some quiet time with less responsibility.

When I got to church this morning and saw what the Gospel reading was, I almost laughed out loud. It was Luke 10:38-42 – the story of Jesus visiting Mary and Martha. I always identify with Martha in that story, it seems. I mean, really, the meals have to get cooked, and the floor swept, don’t they? Isn’t it rather unfair to refer to a woman’s daily work as “distractions”? It almost seems as if Jesus is asking us to have a reckless faith, a faith that has no idea what’s around the bend. Thinking of putting down my To-Do list and casting aside my worries and busyness to simply sit at the feet of Jesus and listen is rather terrifying.

And when I’m done listening and praying, won’t my To Do list still be waiting for me? I am stubborn as hell, and part of me says, “No, Jesus, I won’t have that kind of faith. I’ll go to church on Sunday morning, and teach my children about you, and pray before bed and at meals, and try and be a disciple in the way you have taught us, but please don’t ask me to cast aside my worldly concerns and have faith that it will work out, that there is anything to be gained from just stopping, listening, breathing, praying...”

That scripture, and its accompanying sermon, spoke to me today, though. My faith is what orients me, what tells me which way is up. My sense of a God deep within me and part of all that is around me is what holds everything together: the miracle of God’s grace, the knowledge that I am loved by someone so much greater than I, that I am forgiven simply for having asked to be, and that any effort I make to live out my faith can start just where I am. God doesn’t love me for everything I do, or for how much I accomplish. That is something I take on faith, anew, every day that I remember to listen for God’s quiet voice.

I planted bulbs in the back yard this afternoon, and after gamely planting a few irises and species tulips, the boys lost interest and went on to their own games. It occurred to me then that my boys don’t even know how to have a To Do list. They don’t know how to do anything other than assume things will work out, that everyone will get where they need to go, get fed, and still have time to laugh and roll around on the floor. Easy for them, I suppose – J and I do all that! Sometimes my frustration with them is a bit like my irritation and impatience with Mary.

It is a bit ironic then, that those same children have taught me more than any person ever has about simply letting go, giving up my distracted agenda, and having faith. If there's anything I've learned, it is that no matter how many books I read or how much time I spend preparing, I really have no idea what’s around the bend, or how it will all happen. Right now, the boys still require enough supervision that time spent together is often simply that – and in filling that time, I cannot help but see things through their fresh eyes; hear things that I’d tune out without their presence. 

The boys have complicated games together these days, and today’s fantasy involved designating part of the yard as “Mexico”, another as the “water”, and another as the “truck highway”. They ran their trucks along the highway, pretended to try and keep the trucks from falling into the water, and collapsed together, into a giggling heap, over and over, before running back to the other side to start again. For a solid forty minutes, I stayed in the garden planting bulbs, an activity this gardening enthusiast has always avoided until now because of back pain. I flicked worms to the hens milling around me and occasionally made smiling eye contact with my running, laughing children. I didn’t need a prayer guide, or a quiet chapel, or a little house in the woods. I didn’t need beautiful music, or a cleared schedule. I was just able to pray, one simple word welling up within me, over and over, spilling out all over the black soil, and the tiny yellow bulbs that will bring life and color and joy to my garden mere months after they were planted:

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…..


 

courage

I cried a bit through much of our church service last Sunday, and was tempted to cry through Adult Sunday school too, but I sort of pulled it together. What is wrong, you ask? Nothing, really, but it was an emotional morning, and I wasn't the only one shedding tears. Our pastors, a husband-wife team who had been with our church for the last decade, almost six years of which included me, received their sending blessing as they make their way to a new church in rural Canada.

They will be very much missed. Both of them connected often with J and I to see how we were doing during the difficult pregnancy and after, and we were grateful for their prayerful support of us. They were so good at connecting with people in a basic, human way - extending themselves, listening, asking questions so honest that they were hard to start answering and hard to stop answering. The boys especially connected with the male half of our pastor team, and they talked with me in earnest tones on Sunday about the fact that he is leaving. "He is not going on a trip! he is going to a new house, and he will never, never come back!"

It is such a strange kind of loss, a beloved pastor's leaving. It is effectively permanent, since it isn't considered especially healthy or wise for a pastor to maintain too many relationships within his former congregation, and though we got on well, we weren't in their most inner circle. We in the congregation need to move on too. We have competent interim leadership, but it will take a long time to see what fills the giant hole left in the wake of their absence. Of course, as a small church with a very committed base and a fairly flat hierarchy, it is really up to all of us to decide how to do that and put our heart and soul into it. I feel up to being a part of that challenge, even as we grieve this loss together as a church body.

Today was also our boys’ first day ever of Sunday School. Now, I know that may not seem like a huge milestone. It’s not kindergarten, or even preschool, after all. They were only apart from me an hour longer than usual, and I was in th building the whole time. Still, though, it was a big deal for all of us. First of all – for me it just represents such a huge difference in how the church experience has been for me since the boys were born. In the first couple of months after they were born, we couldn’t really go to a germy, crowded place at all. Then, when they were a bit older, I needed a volunteer to help me get through the service, since J was across town, playing the piano at the church where he works. The volunteers were wonderful, but it just got harder and harder, as the boys started having stranger anxiety, getting louder, nap schedules interfered, and so on. The 2 parents: 1 baby formula in church is a pretty good one, I’d say. I often felt scattered and stressed during the service, and longed to be able to focus on what was happening. Then, the boys  started walking, and were technically allowed in the nursery, but we didn’t have a paid nursery worker in the nursery yet, and N wanted nothing to do with being left with a stranger for an hour. I spent the next 6 or 8 months in the nursery with them, but missed church myself almost every week. It got easier, slowly, and they’ve gone to the nursery just fine since last Spring. It’s been such a blessing to sit with other Christians in church almost every week this summer. We haven't missed a week unless someone's been ill or we were traveling. I had missed it very much, even though I’ve connected with church members through commission work and in other ways.

So now, dropping my boys off for nursery time during worship, taking them for a potty break and to go get a cookie, and then back to the nursery for Sunday School of their own, where they’ll learn their first bible stories and hymns, feels like a big deal. They are in very capable hands. The boys have a wonderful, warm teacher who adores them. Miss Andi brought them to me in the library as my own class was finishing up, and said they’d done really well. They sat nicely for story time, did a craft with the other 2-4 year olds, and sat on the steps in the sanctuary at the end for 15 minutes of singing with the combined elementary groups. They are the youngest 2 in their class, they did great, and they did it all without me. Hallelujah!

This is the boys right after we got back from church:

What's your sticker say, N?

Oh, is that where I get that?

"some pretty awesome, radical, sh*t", a faith story

Believe it or not, amid all my liberal, decidedly left-leaning, tendencies, I have a somewhat conservative side. I am frugal, and careful with money. I believe in faithfulness and commitment, though I don’t care to prescribe who ought and oughtn’t have a fully and equal opportunity to commit to one another. I am a committed churchgoer in a church that is both open and tolerant, but also un-ambivalent about living out the message of Jesus Christ.

Yes, that Jesus. The one who stood on the Mount and, as a 40-something drunk hippie once said to me as he offered me a toke and told me his life story, “said some pretty awesome, radical, shit”. Turn the other cheek. The least among us are not only worthy, but also blessed. You cannot serve both God and money. Love your enemies – love them.

My own, small faith was planted, as the proverbial mustard seed, by my grandmother as a child. We still lived in the Netherlands, and stayed with her from time to time. My Oma was the only person in my life with a religious faith, though she is fond of saying that although she loves her Heavenly Father with all her heart, she doesn’t have much regard for His groundskeepers. We kneeled together every night, my mother remaining downstairs, preferring to ignore this unwelcome development. My somewhat eccentric Oma smelled of tiny cigars and a modest suppertime swig of gin as she started with the words, thanking God for our day, for our meals, our home, and for all the people that love us, the exact prayer I now share with my boys every night before bed. In her whispered prayers with me, kneeling together before my bed, her arm over my shoulder, I learned of a new possibility:
That I wasn’t truly alone in the world, ever, and that the reason I wasn’t alone was because something Good was always with me.
That even if I couldn’t make sense of the world, someone could.
That being kind served a larger purpose, could make, in fact, a new world.
That my parents didn’t know everything.

We moved to the U.S. when I was seven, and that mustard seed took on many forms, even perversions, which certainly weren’t helped by a couple of years of Catholic School. It wasn’t until I was 19, living on my own in an apartment, pretty broke and formerly homeless for a bit, that I had the chance to again have a nurturing relationship with a person of faith. When I was homeless for a short while (which, yes, I realize is a huge topic I haven’t written about much, but I will someday, and you can get a little background here if you wish), I started attending a weekly youth supper at a local Episcopal Church. It was always a good meal, and a very non-threatening atmosphere.  I kept attending even after my existence became less precarious, and I developed a friendship with one of the priests there, asking him pointed questions and challenges over mashed potatoes and green beans. Eventually, I wanted a fuller relationship with that church and its believers. One of the kitchen ladies became my de facto Godmother, and I was baptized in that church, the first person ever to cross the divide between being a recipient of its good works and a member of the church itself. J and I were married by that priest, when I was 26. In the end I left that church, at 27, having never felt quite like I’d found my actual church home so much as that I’d found my faith with the help of good friends. I will forever be grateful for that church, with its well-heeled, kind, white-haired ladies and it’s intellectual well-referenced sermons, its beautiful interiors, its magnificent music. What I desired, though, even felt led to seek out, was something a little closer to the ground. I wanted a church where I could know pretty much everyone, where children were welcome and their exuberance was both tolerated and welcomed, where those “good works” were for each other as well as the larger community, not only some poorly understood “other”. I didn’t grow up with the liturgy, and so it hadn’t cast its spell over me, and didn’t have the power to keep me there.

I found all this and a host of qualities I didn’t know I needed or desired in a small urban Mennonite Church in my neighborhood. When I first wandered in on a Sunday morning at the listed time, I had no idea what to expect. I wondered, in fact, if there might only be a handful or very old men and women warbling out a few hymns, part of a dying tradition. The heavy brown door was always closed, there was no signage beyond the service times, and the landscaping was minimal and uninspired. I knew the Mennonites were a peace denomination, and this intrigued me. That, and the fact that I am just a curious person and this little church was 2 blocks from our house, were enough reason to visit. I walked in to a building filled with people, children running everywhere, a few folks in front practicing the morning’s hymns. The pastor greeted me, and someone else handed me a bulletin with a genuine smile. The morning began with some collective housekeeping, a hodgepodge of announcements about protests and potlucks, events and social engagements that the whole church was invited to. I was surprised by the sermon, an intriguing mix of intellectual and personal, asking me to actually live my life as if Jesus was serious when he said all that “awesome, radical, shit”. I came back, then back again, and after 2 years, I joined this church with my whole heart and soul. I found a new kind of home there, another kind of “for better or for worse”.

While there is no choir in our church, we sing beautifully together, and, in the Mennonite tradition, in harmony. The church is made up of a curious mix of “ethnic Mennonites” with rural, agricultural roots and an uncanny amount of advanced degrees, and folks more like me, peace-focused, left-leaning, Jesus-loving Christians who aren’t at home in quite the same way anywhere else. It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve caught up to some of the cultural subtleties, as well. We tend to keep things simple, including in appearances, and most of the women don’t wear make-up, though this is never discussed, and no one who wore lipstick would ever be judged for it. We are rich, poor, and in between, but displays of wealth are extremely rare, though quiet acts of kindness or generosity are not. Mutual aid is an important part of our tradition, and we take care of each other, sometimes even financially. When I was in the hospital on bed-rest, I couldn’t eat what was on the menu, because I have celiac disease and the nutritionists were clueless on how to give me anything but mashed potatoes and green beans, day after day. My church fed us several times a week for months. The church youth group planted my garden that summer, and people came to help, in shifts. They prayed for us most every Sunday, giving an extemporaneous update on our progress during the Prayers of the People. I have never felt so cared for and loved, as I did during that, the hardest time of my life, the time when I almost lost my children and then didn’t.

I spent much of that time reading and praying the Psalms, but I also kept coming back to the words of Jesus. It was then that I first really realized that those words need not be an abstraction, but that we, God’s people, needed to join together in order to carry them out, imperfect "groundskeepers" or not. Our pastor reminded me that understanding isn’t something that happens all at once, including understanding of how God is working in our lives at present. A good part of faith, it seems, is simple patience.  I hope to be worthy of that task, but know I am loved, as a child of God and by God's other children, regardless. I know that my life ought to be a testimony of God’s blessing, to the poor, the meek, the hungry, the persecuted, but that the person in need of my time and efforts might as likely be sitting next to me in the pew or halfway across the world, and that they are equally important.

_____________________________________

Bub and Pie’s recent post prompted this telling of my faith story, a story that is, as yet, unfinished, as I think perhaps it should be. There is plenty of value in talking about some of the important topics associated with religion, and also of discussing some of the less savory aspects, such as intolerance and oppression, and the ways religious beliefs get used for terrible purposes. I haven't written about faith all that much, though, so I wanted to start with a faith story. I started out wanting to write my own ten reasons I love church, and I certainly share many of hers and have at least that many to count, but this came out instead. Since faith is something I’d like to write more about about, maybe I’ll save that list for later, but I do want to say that while my faith is specific to a particular brand of a particular religion, I do not believe that Christianity has a monopoly on wisdom, and I do believe I have a whole lot to learn from people who have a different belief system. If you have a faith story, whatever your beliefs, leave a link in the comments, and I'd love to go read it.

Pacem

A week ago Friday, I kissed my boys, put them down for a nap, gratefully kissed my spouse, and hopped in the car, suppressing girly squeals of exuberance and freedom as I turned up the music and turned onto the highway. I had light provisions with me; some books, some food, and my pillow. After a stop-off to hold my sleeping niece for a bit, I headed north to Pacem in Terr*is, a local hermitage an hour out of town. The further I drove, the deeper I breathed.

My life is noisy, busy, fun, intense, and full of static. There are 3 adults, 2 small children, a cat and a dog living under in our little house, and while that proximity is a wonderful, convivial thing for the most part, I crave time alone that I don’t get. Ever. Motherhood has helped me to learn a few things about myself, and one of those insights involves time alone. Truly alone, with no-one in the house including sleeping children. Time that isn’t about to do lists, or that little feeling of victory before bed that makes me glad I got so much knocked off the to do lists, but leaves my multitasking brain spinning and me unable to sleep. Even on the extremely rare occasion that someone takes the boys out of the house and leaves me alone on it, I usually use it to clean the nursery, the one job I can’t do when they’re napping or asleep for the night.

When I was in college, I used to spend whole 24-hour periods entirely alone in my apartment, save for the occasional walk around the neighborhood. I’d cook, and doodle, and study, and make notes, take baths, organize things, sleep. I’d listen to music while lying on the floor positioned exactly between two speakers. After such a retreat, I’d come back into the social world bearing a deep peace, a peace that came from not bearing the electric hum of the city, and from taking the time to listen to my own psyche, my inner world becoming less apart from the real world. A retreat reconnected everything, rebalanced my ability to evaluate how I spent my time, made choices, and prioritized. Even before I became a Christian, retreat was a spiritual balm. Even as a child, I spent hours alone in my room, alone walking in the woods, alone in the house whenever I got the chance. Being completely alone is how I refill my well.

Perhaps it sounds indulgent. The thing is, while I truly value my family, my friends and their company, I don’t get energy from being in large groups of people. It's a mistake for me to spend the little "time off" that I have with groups of people, and doing that without time for solitude leads to a kid of spiritual depression. It’s all the different interactions, the chaos of it, and the conversations floating in and out that drain me. I’m also a bit shy, more so than people realize, I think. I cover pretty well by using humor, but I’m more genuine one-on-one.

For me, church is the one group experience that serves as a genuine exception. In church, we are all focused on somewhat the same thing, all sitting or standing together trying to center ourselves and give of ourselves spiritually. I feel energy in the prayers and hymns, all mixing together, with focus and intent, but also with surrender. It is easy to shut out the noise of my life and focus on God in church. It is easy to pray amongst other prayers. The quality of my prayer life outside of church (where, I believe, it belongs in large part) is a casualty of my currently noisy life in general. I carry what I’d like to be praying about like a ball and chain around my neck, dragging it another few feet every time because it’s easier than taking the time to breathe and unload my burden. When I was single, I used to start my days that way, sometimes praying before I even opened my eyes or became fully awake. Praying was a way of coming into full consciousness.

I’m not a big believer in telling God what to do when I pray. I prefer to share my thanksgivings and burdens with God, also sharing the names of whom I wish to surround with prayer or know better how to help. I don’t ask God to help me get a job, cure a relative's cancer, or take away my back pain. I ask God for wisdom, for endurance, for peace. Sometimes, if the words don’t come, I simply visualize or pray the Psalms.

Traffic was heavy on the way to Pacem, but eventually the highway gave way to a curvy road and the obscene brand-new suburban developments gave way to woods and farms. As I turned into the dirt drive that leads up to the hermitage, I had nervous flutters of anticipation. What if I couldn’t sleep? What if I couldn’t relax without any to do list or set agenda? What if I wasted my 24 hours of alone time pacing back and forth, missing my family and watching the clock? While this sometimes happens to people in solitude, and is perhaps necessary in some cases, I needn’t have worried. I checked in, met briefly with one of the staff members who relayed the mission to me and asked me if I wanted the staff to pray for anything. Peace, I said, and patience. I was driven to my cabin and given a basket of fruit, bread, and cheese.

In addition to what you see here, there is just a simple twin bed and on the side of the cabin there is a screen porch with an Adirondack chair. Before “retreating”, I walked back up the road and had a meal at the main house with the staff and other hermits. There are 24 cabins, but hermits are expected to be silent and leave each other alone everywhere but at the main house. Of the 12 other guests at the table that evening, 2 others were also mothers of twins. We joked that we didn't need to explain our need for a little quiet and rest. Another mother gently took me by the elbow as I was leaving and said, “You need to be here, you deserve this time, and it will help you in the rest of your life. Do not feel guilty about taking this time for yourself.” It was exactly the affirmation I needed as I battled feeling of self-indulgence and guilt. I realized yet again that in taking care of ourselves, in valuing ourselves, mothers break a taboo of sorts, based on the sacrificial virtues of motherhood. The big statue of Mary at the entrance struck me as a mite bit ironic.

In my cabin, I sat on the edge of the bed and jotted down the contents of my ball and chain. Family members and friends, J, my children, prayers for my church, our neighborhood, our city, our country, our planet. On a separate piece of paper, I made a similar list, but wrote “my role in” or “my relationship with” before each one. After organizing my thoughts, I sat in the rocker and looked out the picture window, letting my vision go blurry, and finally my eyes shut as I rocked and prayed. When I was done with the first list, 2 hours had gone by, and it was almost dark. I lit the gas lamp, ate and drank a bit more, read a little, and went to sleep. I slept from about 10:30 until 9 the next morning, longer than I’ve slept since before I got pregnant.

That morning, the sun had clouded over and given in to a steady and calming rain. I made some coffee on the little gas burner and ate some crackers, fruit and cheese for breakfast. After tidying up, I went back to the rocker and watched the rain for a bit, just feeling my breath go in and out, deciding that I’d rather be outside walking the trails, rain or not. My body, with it’s broken back, has always done walking best. I cannot run or ride a bike, but I can always walk, efficiently, and for long distances, with a purposeful stride. I put on my hiking boots and parka and hiked for well over an hour in the rain, praying my way through the second list, the rain coming down all over me as my prayers floated up and became part of these woods, this spongy trail under my feet, the break in the clouds through which rays of sun broke through the raindrops, illuminated. Where everything had looked brown the day before, everything looked green that morning- the grass, moss, trees just about to leaf out. I felt no pain as I walked, just peace. As I came back to my cabin, I looked down at the soggy prayer list in my hand. All the ink had been washed away, leaving only streaks of blue.

I made tea and warmed up just in time to watch the hail come down. I ate lunch on the bed, a blanket around my shoulders. When "hermits" leave Pacem In Terr*is, they prepare the cabin for the next hermit. I followed the list on the wall, emptying and cleaning the commode, changing the sheets, dusting the wood tables, chair and cross, sweeping and dust mopping the floor, praying for the next hermit’s time here. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a doe through the window. I sat down and watched her, rocked a bit more, then walked up to the main house, handed in my key and drove home.

I had been a bit worried about N, who was mad at me for days after the last time I left him. I purposely planned a shorter time away this time, and he was happy to see me, perhaps a tiny bit miffed that I dare leave him, but mostly just happy to have me home. That fact is a giant relief to me, because it means that I can do this again. Pacem In Terr*is isn’t very expensive or far away, and it really isn’t out of the question to do a night or two away every few months.

Taking the time to retreat, pray and rest, is not only about that time, but also about being able to take some of that with me back into my regular, noisy life. And I have, so far. It’s been a busy week, I’m sick, my back hurts, and I haven’t slept very well. Nonetheless, I’ve felt a cleaner joy when I’ve been with the people I love, a renewed appreciation for the resurrection all around me as we move into Spring, a less inhibited love for the beauty and soul fullness of my children’s exuberance, however much patience it requires to manage. I haven’t woken up praying, but I’ve found myself praying as I hang up the wash, put the dishes away, or take a shower. I have felt less harried, more generous, and less fearful. It is the letting go of fear in particular that has been a true relief to me, as the longer I go without taking time for reflection, the more fear about everything from personal finances to the state of the world gets a stranglehold on my life. For me, fear is the persistent illusion of control. It doesn’t help me, and its release is a tremendous gift, a gift that allows me to be a better person who is more able to give of myself joyfully.

Yesterday, I took the boys to church on the light rail, the three of us singing all the while and talking about the trees and the bird calls and waving to the kids on bikes. Sticky from the already warm day, I walked them to the nursery just before the service. N, who has cried and yelled “mama” as I left him for as long as I’ve been taking him there (though he’s reportedly fine shortly after I leave) had a purposeful look on his face. He ran inside, grabbed his favorite toy cars, and looked back at me with a little smile. “Bye, bye, mama” he said. We grinned at each other, I kissed them both, and I left to take my seat in the pews. I had no intercessions for God yesterday, putting them aside for a moment to unload the sheer gratitude that overwhelmed me. Gratitude for my children; my beautiful, wonderful, healthy children. For a family that supports one another; for J, and my mother in law and my sister in law who make some occasional respite possible. For being at peace with the size of my family, for coming to some recent peace with the difficulties of the past few years. For learning to know myself and love myself a little better. For a life partner that does his best to know and support me, whose company is a joy, who I want nothing more than to walk side by side with for decades to come. For a church family that supports me, humbles me, and teaches me, helping me learn how to be a better, more spiritually disciplined person.

For hope, and for peace, and for quiet.

“Be Still, and know that I am God”

Psalm 46:11