We live near this lovely lake, and I've walked around it more times than I can count since we moved nearly a year ago. In the summer you can watch kayaks and hear live music from the pavilion. Right now spring is singing its "Hallelujah Chorus" with blossoms spilling onto the sidewalk and trees bursting out in their new leaves. It's a splendor. Tonight as I made my second lap of the day, I also paid attention to the people. I think I saw every shade of brown and black. I saw moms with various skin tones pushing their little ones in strollers and watched children from different ethnicities zoom around on their bikes. Amongst the chatter of the birds, I heard at least three different languages. It was a lovely reminder of the exact reason we uprooted our family almost a year ago to relocate here in St. Paul. Diversity is a lovely thing. I rejoice in the different species of ducks in the pond and the many varieties of trees showing off their blooms and blossoms. I praise God for the beautiful skin tones seen on and the myriad of languages spoken by His people. How boring if we were all the same! Earlier today, however, I was reminded that not everyone feels the way I do. My youngest son, 13, is away for the week on a trip with his school. He is brave and kind and funny, and I was excited to send him out in the world. I was also a bit sad as this is the longest I have been separated from him. Bravely, though, we sent him off on Monday, excited for the start of his new adventure. This afternoon, however, our principal called us to report that a student from a different school told my beautiful son with skin the most perfect shade of mocha to "go back to Africa." For the rest of the afternoon I stewed. I posted on Facebook where I received so much love and support and shared anger from other family members and dear friends. I cried a few tears because I want so badly to check in with my son, but he's three hours away from me, and I won't see him until Friday. Ultimately, I felt disappointed more than anything. I'm disappointed that it's 2018 and this is the climate in our country, where it's becoming more and more unacceptable to peacefully protest the fact that racism is still indeed alive and well. I'm disappointed that parents aren't doing better by their children, raising them to share love and admiration for diversity rather than to spout hatred for those who are different. I'm disappointed that I couldn't send my child on an innocent school field trip to the wilderness without incident. Really, we can do better, can't we? I will continue to work for that. I have to. (As an essential side note, please, parents of white children, talk to your children about diversity and race. Teach them to use their voice like my son's friends did yesterday. They were the ones who reported the incident, and I am so grateful for their care for my son.) In the meantime, tonight Chris and I took a walk around the lake. Occasionally Chris would compliment a stranger for her adorable dog, and I would smile knowingly at a mom with a rambunctious child. We stopped to watch the ducks with others, sharing the experience without speaking a word. I didn't hear one person criticized for looking different or for speaking another language. No one was told to go back to his/her country of origin. We were just humans enjoying the perfect spring evening. And that's what I want. Humans from all walks of life enjoying beauty together. Maybe it's too much to ask on the grand scale, but it will continue to be my hope. On Friday I will process with my sweet boy and hug him, even as I empty his stinky laundry from his duffel bag. I will love on him and tell him he is precious and cared for by so many in the world. I will promise that love will always win, even if our victories on this side of Eternity feel small.
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I don’t have any tattoos, mostly because it just seems so...permanent. I have been intrigued, however, by a tattoo displayed by one of my favorite singers, Karin Bergquist of Over the Rhine. At a concert years ago she shared a tattoo on her arm with a quote attributed to Theodore Roosevelt: “Comparison is the thief of joy.” I bought the concert t-shirt with that same quote because, well, a t-shirt isn’t as permanent as a tattoo. The words stuck with me, so I might as well get the tattoo. I could use the permanent reminder. I repeat the phrase to my children at least monthly as they lament the fact that we don’t go out to eat as much as _________’s family, that we don’t allow as much screen time as ____________’s mom does, that we implement an earlier bedtime than _____________’s parents. But then I find the nagging whisper of doubt enter in. Maybe we should have more screen time. Maybe I am too restrictive with social media. Maybe so-and-so’s mom is right; teenagers don’t really need a strict bedtime. And why am I still making them eat broccoli? I find my comparison to other parents stealing my own joy. In several conversations with other parents during the past months, I’ve repeated my belief that right now truly is the most difficult time to be a parent in the history of the world. Maybe that’s hyperbole, but most days it feels true. I read articles like this one that outline the very-real dangers of online pornography. I see studies like this one about the escalation of teenage depression that conclude that “all signs point to the screen.” So we make tough parenting decisions in an attempt to keep our kids safe from dangers. We say no to smartphones still, even though I’m sure my teenagers are the only two in the world that don’t have one. Or at least it feels that way. We set limits on social media access and talk constantly about the permanency of our online words and how tone can’t be interpreted correctly through text or direct message. I live in this tension of wanting to keep them safe and inoculated forever and simultaneously realizing that my job as a mom is also to prepare them for the dangers they face while also understanding that their prefrontal cortex isn’t fully developed. Throw in the dangers of school shootings, the frustrations with grades and homework, the worries about the junk food they’re inhaling, the concern for their hair and skin care routine (a special “problem” as the white mom of Black boys), and I have a recipe for certain anxiety with a sprinkling of sleepless nights. When I compare myself to other parents, I’m doing it all wrong. I’m not doing enough. I’m doing too much. I am making all the wrong choices. Damn. Deep breath. “Comparison is the thief of joy.” If I couple that with 1 Peter 5:7, I feel like a more grounded parent: “Casting your anxieties on him because he cares for you.” He cares for me, and He cares for my kids. More than I do, even, and that’s a hard equation to wrap my non-math mind around. But it’s Truth. So maybe I need a tattoo after all. |
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September 2020
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