Lessons Learned from the Poolside

Over the summer my kids took swimming lessons.  One hour a day the littles tested their courage kicking and splashing, daring themselves to try harder each time, be a tad bolder, go a bit deeper.  And as they splashed and stretched and grappled and learned, I did some stretching and learning of my own, too.

We were a rag-tag bunch of moms, crowding around picnic tables watching our children through wet windows and sliding glass doors.   A motley crew from various towns, all ages and stages of motherhood.  At first glance, all we seemed to have in common was the shared goal that our children might conquer the waters below.  And yet, despite our apparent differences, over time a community began to form.

We'd greet each other day after day, towels in hand, polite smiles on our faces.  We'd greet one another with friendly hellos, inhaling the smell of chlorine wafting on summer breezes.  We'd discuss the weather and other "safe" topics, like toddler naptimes and eating preferences. Some moms were more chatty than others, one wearing the face of dogged exhaustion, a newborn sleeping obliviously upon her weary chest.  Another scribbling frantic scholastic notes, grad-school text book perched in her lap.  Others struggled corralling wiggly toddlers missing their naps while many just looked relieved to have a small break in their otherwise chaotic day of mom-challenges.

The vibe of the group felt a bit awkward and contrived, much like the first day of school, where everyone wants to blend and "fit in".  Some people escaped to the quiet safety of their cell phones, while others fled for the isolation of their cars.  But the rest of us hung in past the awkward, willing to be there, to give interaction a go.


And then one afternoon something changed.  One of the ladies, a more vocal mom of the group, took a risk.  She casually mentioned how she had "scored big" at the Good Will, buying back-to-school clothes at half price.  And in that moment, at those simple words uttered, an unheard sigh of relief spread across the group.  In the moments that followed women opened up about financial stresses and strains, one asking for the location of the nearest dollar store, another complaining of rising prices.  In a flurry of excitement moms opened up about cable bills, grocery store budgets, the insanity of gas prices.  And then they went even deeper.  One mom shared her guilt over working full time, another her feelings of failure in dealing with toddler tantrums.  Over the course of an hour, these moms shared their hearts, their worries, their struggles, their fears.  Community was born.  All because this one brave soul who was willing to take a leap of faith and try at being real.


Amazing things can happen when one is willing to take a risk. It's like this gift that gives the rest of us permission to struggle, to admit we don't have it all pulled together.  To share how life gets hard and how motherhood, work, family and obligations pull and tug at our hearts, muddling minds and threatening sanity.  Because of one brave soldier, willing to put her real right out there for all to see, hearts connected and friendships were born.


It's a beautiful thing to behold, this thing called community.  It's what we all crave, what we yearn for--a feeling of belonging and connection.  It's what we're supposed to have, how God made us to be.  And all it takes is just one brave soul, risking a little embarrassment to try and connect, setting fears and fakery aside.  Getting down to matters of the heart--the stuff of us all.

I wish I could say that one brave soul was me, but it wasn't.  But maybe next time it will be.  And maybe next time it will be you, too.  For when we are willing to show up and be real, to share our broken, scared, scarred up places we feel a little less alone.  We realize we're all in this struggle together, this thing called life where mountains of pressure loom large and expectations tug on our shoulders threatening to pull us right down.  But when we take the plunge, we help one another to grow, to learn, to listen and love.  Our hearts get a little bigger and softer in this simple act of exposure.


As the weeks of lessons came to a close, the kids wrapped them up with a jump off the diving board.  Each child needed to decide whether they'd jump right in, trusting someone would be there to catch them, or if they'd instead smile, wave and back away.  Some of the kids amazed us all as they jumped right off the diving board without a moment's hesitation, brave adventurous smiles stretching wide across wet cheeks. We clapped and admired their courage. Others took baby steps, knees knocking a bit while fighting the urge to run away.  We clapped just as hard for these sweet ones, knowing all too well about conquering fears and taking a risk.  And then it was time for my own scared-brave boy to stare down the edge of that board.  It took not one but two tries for him--not ready at first to take the leap.  A look of teary-eyed disappointment spread across his little face but then-- he tried again.  Determined  to conquer his fears my first born willed himself off that plank.  With a mix of fear and resolve in his eyes he jumped.  Hot tears sprung to my eyes at his victory as I realized we all need to practice diving right in.

I encourage you to take your knobbly-kneed jump, the one that holds you back and keeps you safe--and yet isolated.  There is such beauty and hope and love in the depths below.  Just do it. Take your leap.

The Space Between

I wake up, throat burning, eyes bleary from shedding big fat tears of mom-worry.  Today is the day my sweet little boy, just 3 months old with the mouth like mine and the eyes like his, is getting cut open.  He has a hernia which needs repairing.  I feel helpless, aware of how little control we have over what life brings.  The big life and death moments, these are the things we cannot rule, the things that matter most.

My sweet boy is hungry and I cannot feed him.  Belly needing to stay empty for surgery, my eyes plead apology as I gaze down at him.  He grins wide, not realizing what this day will bring.


Hand in hand, my husband and I bring our 4th born to the hospital, searching for courage but finding little.  We whisper frantic prayers, trying hard to stay calm.


It's standard procedure.  Should only take an hour.  Happens all the time.  They bounce right back.  These phrases bring little comfort, but we cling to them nonetheless, willing to try on anything that  cloaks the pain and worry.


Down the hall we march past other kids and parents.  United in our stress, we don't need to speak.  We exchange knowing glances finding comfort in fellow faces lined with anxiety.  And the children--waiting so brave. The little blond boy, pale faced, hugging a Garfield stuffed animal plays video games.  The sweet little girl with the pony-tail swinging and dress twirling about, prances across the waiting room while worried parents hover nearby, pained smiles across their faces.  They glance at our baby carrier and wince.  A baby.  We silently wonder what each one is here for--what little broken places need fixing.


We walk the corridor to the pre-op room and I lose it.  You never realize just how much you'd sacrifice for your child until you're confronted with their frailty.  I would give anything, do anything to avoid my sweet little boy being taken away--life in the hands of a surgeon we barely know.  And I know this kind of love comes from elsewhere.  From Love Itself.  From love on a cross.  And every painful brush with death I've had comes to mind--thoughts of eternity looming too close. I find myself dangling in the uncomfortable space between Earth and Heaven, where the separation feels thin, like moth's wings.  When your heart just might burst from the momentousness of it all, and you're broken open to life's bigger lessons, delivered in painful packaging.

The nurses try their best to console and pass boxes of tissue, because they know.  They see these looks every day.  They wear crazy happy shoes of tie-dye and zebra stripes, don teddy bear scrubs and name tags with shiny stickers.  Anything to make this place feel more like a warm happy place instead of this space between.  Despite their efforts to comfort, the clock on the wall looks cold, metering time much too slowly.  It cares not for solace, wears no face of pity.  It just keeps pace-- this rhythm of life and death.  Tick tock.  Tick tock.  My little one is taken from my arms, crying hysterically from hunger and confusion and now its time to wait.

We all deal with these moments differently.  The man eating crackers by the handful, tossing crinkly red wrappers in the bin nearby.  The brunette woman sipping hot chocolate, glancing nervously at her iphone, a welcome distraction.  There are muted chuckles across the room--and I understand the times when you just can't help but laugh instead of cry.  A man in the room next door faces Mecca, alternately bowing and clutching his chest, eyes closed, whispering reverent prayers.  I can't help but stare in awe at this private moment between a man and his faith. The space between brings us all to our knees and I stare at my empty baby carrier, waiting, wondering.


Surgeons come with reports for some--just a little longer now.  Things went very well.  The face of relief is universal and I want to reach out and celebrate right along with those whose wait is over.  They hug teddy bears tight and wipe tears of relief, unable to contain broad smiles of joy.  And though it's only an hour it feels like an eternity and finally our smiling face comes to greet us, too.  Everything's fine, the hernia was large, you can come and see him now.


Down the hall, sighs of relief rise in our throats.  We pass other children, some recovering, some entering their own space between.  There's a brave bald-headed little girl being wheeled away and mingled with my own relief is the pain of others right here in this place--the place where life and death come together.  My heart aches for this girl and the others like her, and I am faced with my sense of helplessness once more.  The pain of this world is too large, too real, too present.  The banged up, broken, ripped up places inside us all that need stitching back together and the knowledge that only He can truly repair it.

I hold my sweet groggy boy in my arms, a hazy fog taking over from exhaustion and emotional overload.  My mind is fuzzy but my heart swells big as I hold my little boy to my chest, wires and monitors still attached.  The computer screen throbs signs of life but I know the biggest signs of life are the throbs of love we feel here, in the space between.  Thankful for another life lesson of sacrificial love, the universal language, this bumpy road of motherhood brings, I prepare to take my little one home.  Though relieved my heart still aches for the others in this place--the ones still wearing their faces of bravery and worry.  I want to tell them it will all be ok, but I don't know that and who really does but our Maker?  The elevator doors open as the clock on the wall keeps metering out the moments--the big, the little, the ones that make you yearn to reach out and grasp the hand of the kneeling man and the girl sipping cocoa.  Here, in this sacred space between we are all swirling together like tie-dyed shoes, trying our best to love and to live.  In the space between, we are One Body.

 

"So in Christ we, though many, form one body, and we all belong to each other."

Rom. 12:5

Shared With:

 Imperfect Prose

On Why We Really Need Community

In light of the (in)RL Conference I had the privilege to attend (at home, by myself-- but not really by myself since I felt the connection of women all around the globe gathering on the subject of community!  A beautiful thing!) I've been thinking about what community has meant for me over the past several years.  I wanted to share with you the importance of community--how it can grow you, nourish you and change you in amazing and surprising ways:


I walk into the first MOPS meeting of the year feeling like 14 year old just entering the halls of high school. But instead of fretting all night over what I should wear to look cool, I've fretted all night over my not-yet-sleeping through the night 2 month old. I'm still brand-new to motherhood.  I'm tired. Clueless. Lonely. I feel like I should have a big tattoo splashed across my forehead reading: "clueless tired new mom without a mom friend in the world."


These moms have probably been moms for years. They all have toddlers running around-- they're probably all getting a full night's sleep. I bet they have oodles of friends that meet at parks and coffee shops. Why on earth would they want to be friends with me? What do I have to offer--the new girl with the newborn, desperate for connection.


I do have ONE mom friend. She lives almost an hour away and we've been friends since grade school. She's been a mom for years so she knows what she's doing and listens to my sleep-deprived woes and fears. She mentions that she runs a group called MOPS and encourages me to attend. The group is far away but I feel like I'd drive across the country in order to connect with somebody, so here I am.


I find my one friend and she greets me with a big hug and smile. Then several other women also greet me with warm smiles and show me around. I make my way to a table full of other equally nice women and settle in. We exchange pleasantries and sip coffee.


What I didn't realize at the time was that this was the first day of being a part of community. A community of women with whom I could share and trust. Women who I could count on when things got hard. Women who I could laugh with, cry with, ponder with and really be myself.

photo source

Over the course of that first MOPS year I opened up in ways I never would have imagined. Sharing the really hard things I never thought I would discuss. As we worked our way through book discussions on the topic of family life, we discussed our own walks of life--out trials, our pasts, our worries. I found myself pouring my heart out about the loneliness I felt.  About how scared and overwhelmed I was as a new mom with no friends.  How I didn't have help from parents--but rather a set of worries over my mentally ill mother who, at the time, was in and out of hospitals. On how I had no parental role models to turn to--those wonderfully built-in "free babysitters" full of wisdom and concern who you can call at 1:00 in the morning wondering how to hold the baby so it will stop crying and which brand of pacifier works best. I shared how I didn't have a clue about what "happy family life" looked like save for what you find in a book, having grown up with a mess of a childhood: schitzophrenia, alcoholism, divorce, latch-key loneliness cutting like a knife.

I poured out my heart on how I afraid I was I'd screw it all up. On the pressure I heaped on myself to know everything there was to know about parenting--all from textbooks and college courses, none of it yet experienced. How I wanted to breastfeed but couldn't, and all of the expectations and disappointment I carried over my failure.


These women listened. They cried with me. They offered advice when I needed it. And best of all they got it. These women were not perfect "Stepford" Wives" who had it all figured out and wanted for nothing. These women had broken scared places, too, just like me. Difficult in-laws, husbands working long hours leaving them to parent virtually alone, and pasts that hurt and haunted. These women also felt scared, tired, overwhelmed and lonely-- just trying to get through another day. It  turned out I wasn't the only mess in the world.   In fact, I was pretty much just...a normal new mom. And with this realization I no longer felt so scared, worried and alone. And neither did they.


I took a risk, sharing my heart and my past. Sure, I could've been rejected, snubbed. I could've poured out my heart just to heave it left there dangling and exposed. But sometimes it takes a risk to get what you really need. I really needed connection.  In order to get it I had to put myself out there.  Chances are, when you put yourself out there, someone will connect with part of your story. The details and circumstances might look different, but our feelings are so often the same. And that's exactly what we really need to share--our feelings, our hearts. The importance of community is to give yourself breathing room. A place to just be you--wherever you are.


Seven years and two kids later I've grown a lot. Learned to let go of those old fears and perfectionism. I've walked through periods of grief, loss, change. And through it all I had a wonderful community to share it with. A community that helped me become the person I am today. Over the years my community changed--I found a MOPS group closer to home, joined homeschool groups, bible studies that began and ended.   But there was a always some sort of community out there for me to embrace. A community of women to share with and learn from.

So if you're feeling really lost or alone, if you're a new mom, a veteran mom in a new town, or someone going through tough times and needing some support, I urge you to find a community. Find a MOPS group, bible study, church group, meetup group, cooking club, sewing circle--find people to be real with. Just do it.  Do it for yourself. You won't regret it.

sharing with:

(in)courage

Thought-Provoking Thursday