“So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice? In that dramatic scene on Calvary's hill three men were crucified. We must never forget that all three were crucified for the same crime--the crime of extremism. Two were extremists for immorality, and thus fell below their environment. The other, Jesus Christ, was an extremist for love, truth and goodness, and thereby rose above his environment. Perhaps the South, the nation and the world are in dire need of creative extremists.” -Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Letters From Birmingham Jail After suffering through a lengthy winter, I soak in the backyard sun, cleaning out my perennial flower beds. I enjoy the process of pulling out dead leaves and stems to give new plants room to breathe. One week I look at a pile of dry, brown debris, and the next week I witness the glorious debut of a colorful symphony of tulips. The fresh beauty we uncover when we get rid of decay is a miracle to behold. This is the work Christians need to be willing to do -- to pull our own weeds, to get rid of the parts that have stopped growing, to create room for fresh growth. That pertains to the Church’s relationships with race as well. After years of living in predominantly white areas in Iowa and Missouri, my journey brought me to a more diverse world in St. Paul, Minnesota. My children, teen boys adopted almost seven years ago and born in Ethiopia, deserve a world of richness in color and culture. Through my experience as the mom of kids of color and our transition to an urban area, I listen as I work on uprooting previously held beliefs and prejudices. I listen to the voices of my Christian brothers and sisters of color who have been othered by those in the Church, who have suffered in the prison of a church culture that never felt like home to them. As a professor I’ve listened to the voices of my college students who write heartbreaking essays about their own loneliness as minority students on a predominantly white Christian campus. I’ve engaged with them in conversation about their experiences in their dorms and their classes where they sometimes suffer from exclusion. In the news and through social media, I listen to the experiences of people of color as they recount their stories of being profiled when shopping, when waiting for a friend, when taking a nap on campus, when checking out of a vacation rental, when taking a college tour. This process of listening has pushed me to pull out the decay from my own heart. I’ve examined my previously held beliefs. I’ve thought about the times from my past when I’ve othered someone who doesn’t share my cultural experience and the times when I’ve applied a stereotype. In painful ways I’ve questioned my own unconscious biases and thought deeply about my own privilege. And when I discover things that make me uncomfortable, even in my own heart, I am pulling out the dead to make room for new growth. Yes, this can be painful. I have not yet perfected this process, but I continue to try. The beauty in new relationships and worldviews is certainly worth it. Our rebirth in Christ promises newness (2 Corinthians 5:17), but that only comes after death. In other words, in order to be resurrected, we must first die (Romans 6:4). Jesus himself explained in John 12:24 that a seed can only produce fruit after it has fallen to the ground and died. The work of racial reconciliation in the Church will require the same. Ingrained culture and preconceived notions need to be uprooted and discarded in a holy fire if we want healing and bridge-building to take place. This takes time and effort and a continual focus on the ultimate knowledge that we all bear the image of the Father. Of course this work doesn’t happen in isolation; I rely on the Holy Spirit as my instigator. This requires cooperation and a willingness to respond to conviction. My voice is one among many, and my words are not new. There are other voices with more experience and knowledge than mine. That is why I listen and then dig in to do the work in this continual process of removing the deadness to make room for fresh new life. It is my prayer that more in the Church will do the same. The miraculous beauty of reconciliation and redemption is worth it. Lord Jesus, giver of all good gifts, give us today the gift of listening. Give us ears attuned to stories of injustice, and like You, give us the courage to speak boldly for love and truth. Amen.
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If I’m going to be completely honest, in many ways I saw our return trip to Ethiopia as a task to be checked off my to-do list. Sure, I love the people and culture and food of Ethiopia, but I also knew that a return trip was going to be difficult. I often felt like a saleswoman pitching an idea to my sons. “Oh, it will be so good for us all to go back! I want you to be proud to be from Ethiopia! The weather is beautiful, and you’ll get to miss three day of school. What’s not to love!?” In trying to sell to them, I was also selling the idea to myself.
Other adoptive parents had told me that a return trip helped their kids feel more grounded, anchored. They reassured me that their adopted children came home feeling more confident in who they are and proud of their heritage. But I also had my own list of worries, lengthy, as usual: How would they handle the language barrier? Would Ethiopians judge us for not helping them retain Amharic? What about the abject poverty? Would that make my sons feel guilty when looking at our American abundance? My oldest son chose to go by his American middle name several years ago, but in Ethiopia we would return to his Ethiopian first name. Would that be difficult for him? I love a lot of things about God. I’m grateful beyond words that I am free from sin and death in Christ. I love the beauty of His creation and His people. And on this trip, over and over again, I was in awe of God’s ability to take my doubts and make something beautiful. From the second we got off the plane, this trip was better than I expected. I won’t share lots of details out of protection of my sons’ privacy, but I can share some of the simple goodness that made the trip better than anticipated. Other than our first day of extra fatigue, none of us experienced jet lag in Ethiopia. We immediately switched to the new time zone and slept through the night every night except one. Our guest house was perfect. Our room was small, but the hospitality was generous and the pancakes delicious. The boys made sweet memories trying to teach the guard to dribble a basketball that we left behind for him to enjoy. We ate so much injera -- at an amazing tibs stand, at traditional restaurants, in homes with cherished friends, at our guest house. Every bite was a delicious taste of “home” for all of us. And we never got sick. Not once. Not from the food or the water or the bumpy roads or the city exhaust. We were healthy and safe, and that is cause for celebration. On our second full day in Ethiopia, we left the city for the first time. With Solomon, our treasured driver and friend, behind the wheel, we drove south to visit Adadi Mariam, a rock-hewn church just a short drive outside of Addis. With a soundtrack of Teddy Afro and fistfuls of kolo, my favorite Ethiopian snack food, we raced by donkeys carrying loads of hay, farmers harvesting teff, and children helping in the fields. We stopped at a roadside vendor for sips of homemade beer and vodka, and we explored fields with volcanic rocks. Solomon paid to let the boys ride on a donkey cart, and after our visit to the church, built in the 12th century, we stopped for a coffee ceremony with a local family. This generosity was just the precursor to several other acts of selfless giving the four of us experienced, stories that we will tell and retell in the coming weeks and years. I’ve thought of Jesus’ teaching about the widow’s mite several times in the last week. Another day we drove north to the Portuguese Bridge with stops along the way for honey wine, avocado juice, and apple-bananas. The night before we had seen hyenas in the wild, and this day we saw baboons running free. We spent lunch on Thanksgiving Day overlooking the Jemma Gorge with misir wat and injera substituted for turkey and mashed potatoes. The view and the company were the best, and the gratitude was bubbling to my surface more than ever before on Thanksgiving Day. While in Ethiopia, I had a dream that upon our return, I was unable to talk of the trip without crying. And initially that was true. On the flight home I choked back tears several times because I was so overwhelmed by God’s goodness in all of the stories that were woven together during our short visit. We had questions answered that we hadn’t even planned to ask, and we saw pieces of the puzzle fall perfectly into place. On our first Sunday back at church, I couldn’t talk of our experience without tears; the words felt unspeakable, the experience too holy to name. And that’s God for you. He takes something that we see as an obligatory task on our to-do list and turns it into one of the best experiences of our life (and I'm not exaggerating). Water to wine, ashes to beauty. Victory from the grave. Since returning home we’ve faced some struggles. My self-diagnosed Seasonal Affective Disorder has been in full swing as I ache for the sunshine and 70s of Addis, and my boys have had to dig their way out of a homework hole after being gone for a few days. Our hearts ache for friends old and new in Ethiopia. But the trip wasn’t a dream to wake up from; it was a destination we can return to. And I promise that we will. Today I am missing the sun. Several weeks ago I broke my sunglasses, and I have yet to replace them because the weather has been so gloomy as of late. I sit by my window providing feedback on the endless stack of papers, revising lessons for several courses, and feeling overwhelmed by the news and the to-do list and the Google calendar counting down the days until a family trip to Ethiopia in November. The view outside my window matches my mood. If I’m not careful, I can easily let the gray impact me on a deeper level, so I try to stave it off. Today that means worship music from Housefires and Aaron Strumpel and a brief break from work to practice gratitude. As a wise mentor once taught me and I teach my sons and students, gratitude evaporates frustration. Join me in the comments if you’d like. What are you grateful for?
Several years ago I wrote an essay on a different blog about my struggle with anxiety and depression after my boys joined our family. The writing was shared a lot on the internet, and I received so much support and positive feedback as a result. I was brutally honest in a way that I didn’t allow myself to be in public. Here’s an excerpt: My chest often feels tight. My hands often shake. My thoughts are less coherent than usual. My inexplicable tears come more frequently. My hope feels lost when it should be "built on nothing less." Last night I asked Chris if he had noticed a change in my moods and emotions lately. "Don't be mad," he answered, "but yes." I wasn't mad. He was just confirming what I already knew. I went on to share that I was starting medication for situational anxiety, and it was scary to put those words in writing for the world to see because mental illness comes with a side of stigma in this country. But I wrote the words, and I shared the story because I didn’t want others to feel like they had to suffer in silence. Since then I was able to stop taking the medication, but you can bet that I would take it again in a hot second if I felt myself falling into that pit of despair again. It was difficult to walk into my trusted doctor’s office and tell him how I was struggling, but I would do it again because I know that depression and anxiety are real, and they aren’t my fault. Somedays still I feel myself in a place of darkness. Really I’ve always been prone to moments of deep melancholy. I remember in high school sitting in my room and listening to “Fake Plastic Trees” by Radiohead on repeat and deeply feeling my feelings. I was actually just in the same space yesterday. When those days come, I don’t find joy in things that usually bring me joy. I can’t find something to look forward to. On those days I want to walk out of my house and never come back. The things that normally cheer me up -- my favorite music, a good cup of tea, a walk with my dog -- don’t make a difference. I feel despondent and inexplicably gloomy. It’s hard to admit this because I still like to wear the mask of the perpetually optimistic girl. I hold on during those days, though, because I know it’s a short season. Last night I went for a walk and prayed and looked for joy in small places. I crawled back out and see more light today. I’m grateful for that. But sometimes we can’t crawl back out. I remember what that felt like, when the joy didn’t come in the morning. When the place of darkness didn’t just stay under the bed and or in the closet but came out and made its home in my heart, stealing my joy and tinting my view of the world with a perpetual gray filter. Today I’m writing and crying and listening to music and shaking my fist at the sky because just this week we lost two bright stars, Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, to suicide. I’m crying because suicide rates in this industrialized, modern country have gone up 25% since 1999, and I can put names with some of those statistics, names of those I knew, shared meals with, taught. I’m also crying because all of the evidence points to a higher risk of suicide for adoptees. Right now I’m looking at the photo of my sweet children on their last day of school. I sent them off to the bus for a fun day of adventure with friends, but nagging in the back of my mind is the thought that as much as I try, I can’t always protect them from the demons that hide in their closets. This isn’t a place to tell their story, but I can just say that trauma has left a deep thumbprint on their brains. I’m writing this because maybe someone in my circle is struggling and needs to know that people care (National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255). Maybe someone reading needs the nudge to seek medication to help with the very real struggles of mental illness. Maybe someone is reading who doesn’t struggle with depression but needs the reminder to be intentional about sharing love and showing care. Yesterday on my walk I turned a corner down a road I normally don’t walk on, and I was greeted with a front yard full of peonies of every shade of pink imaginable. Peonies are my favorite flower ever, and that sight felt like a gift. So many moments are a gift. NPR had a beautiful tribute about Anthony Bourdain today. I would love for these words to someday be said about me: ...he treated the world as if he had not given up on it. He treated it as if, at any moment, it might open itself wider, reveal a crack into which he hadn't ever slipped, with pen and paper, with a flashlight and a fork. And he might be able to help other people understand what was inside. 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. Last week marked the end of my first full year as an adjunct English professor. Per my usual, I pause to reflect and lean into my ever-present, mid-life, existential crisis. My new job this year has come with perks perfectly balanced with aching desires for more. College students are awesome. Really, truly. Some of my best memories of my life occurred during my college years, and engaging with these young people at this time of their life is a treasure. We've had conversations about my own faith as a college student, about life as a minority student on a predominantly white campus, and about why Black Panther completely lived up to the hype. The future is bright because of young people like these. Like college students, college campuses also fill me with joy. There is something sacred about the hallowed halls of academia. I swear I can hear the whispers of generations past when I enter Nazareth Hall. This spring I have purposely parked farther away so I can enjoy a few extra steps on campus. Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend for a brief minute that I'm 19 again. The logistics of this gig were perfect, too. With the age of my sons (13 and 14), working part-time was spectacular. I didn't have to miss a single sporting event this year, and I didn't feel like laundry would get the best of me. With time to run errands and take care of things at home during the day, I was able to be present with my kids and husband in the evenings and on the weekends. Sure, we're not spectacularly rich, but rediscovering balance has been delightful. However, I am in my late 30s, and I'm still not 100% sure I know what I want to be when I grow up. I'm kind of tired of teaching writing. Okay, maybe I'm not tired of teaching writing. Maybe I don't love teaching academic writing. Maybe I want to help students craft a particularly delightful personal narrative or work out their passion for creative nonfiction. I don't really care to read another proposal or evaluation essay for a few months at least. And while I love working in a Christian environment, I'm discovering more and more each day how unwelcoming various spaces are for people of color. This last semester I was particularly mindful of what our campus is like for the students of color, and because the student body and faculty are predominantly white, I heard several stories from the minority students about their disappointment in college life. They have felt unwelcome and othered. It makes me discouraged and feel utterly helpless. I want to effect change on campus, but I'm not sure where to even begin. Yesterday at church the ministry call at the end of the service was for women who felt like they had a calling on their life that wasn't being fulfilled, possibly because they had been belittled because they were women. Maybe they had been passed up for opportunities because of their gender. Maybe they just felt "less than." With a bit of discomfort, I stepped into the aisle and joined my sisters up front. I hugged the woman next to me who said, "Might as well be all women, right?" And she was right. I stood in the front of church and cried because I'm in my 30s and I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I graduated from high school thinking I could be a teacher, a nurse, or a social worker. And that wasn't because my parents belittled me or my teachers didn't feed into me. That happened because I was a product of culture and environment. I have moments where I love teaching, where I feel like I'm doing what God created me to do when I am interacting with students. But I also have this itch, you know? Like there's more. This spring I attended a House committee meeting at the Minnesota capitol, and I dreamed of being a legislator or lawyer. I want to own a bookstore and work at a greenhouse. I dream of writing a book. I'm always aching for more. And maybe that's just the More that we're all craving on this side of eternity as we yearn and ache for the Kingdom to come. Maybe it's not an ache that would be fulfilled with a change in career but more like a life-pulse that will always be here, that I must push into and through and allow it to make me become a better me. Maybe vocation isn't so much about where my paycheck comes from but more about learning how to live in this skin that I'm wearing for now. Maybe. Facebook told me that today is National Sibling Day and that Cambridge Analytica stole all my personal data. Seems like a day to celebrate!
Basically, I have the two best siblings in the world, and no one can disagree. So there. I was the youngest by a few years, so I was equally parts spoiled and annoying. Mostly, family folklore says I was annoying. My earliest childhood memories include being dangled over the banister by Doug and struggling for breath as I suffocated (nearly) to death in the toy box. I had apparently gone TOO FAR, so he emptied out every. single. toy and then shoved me in and sat on the lid. I fully blame him for my claustrophobia and greatest fear of being buried alive. (I could also maybe blame the Days of Our Lives storyline in which Carly was buried alive by Vivian. But then we would have to also blame my mother for letting me watch DOOL at such a young age.) I'm guessing Brenda was equally annoyed by me. On the night of her junior prom, I was delegated the essential task of taking the traditional photo of Brenda and Rich (now her husband of over 20 years!) in front of the fireplace. Mom and Dad were already at the high school prepping for their chaperone duties. I, however, was clearly (and justifiably) angry that earlier that same day Brenda had refused to let me sleep in her full-size bed that night. Instead I would be forced to suffer another night in my comfortable twin bed that was just the right size for me. So because I was so deservedly angry, I posed Brenda and Rich in front of the mantle and snapped the photo. This was the pre-digital era, so imagine their surprise when they picked up the printed photos a week later to realize that I had snapped the perfect photo....from the neck down. I'd like to say that I got better with age, but that doesn't seem to be the case. When I was a freshman in college, I spent a month in Paris studying the language and culture. And also the male German tourists and the wine. Doug and Brenda drove several hours to retrieve me from the airport in Chicago. I spent the first six hours of the trip sobbing uncontrollably in the backseat because I was so desperate to return to the beautiful language and culture. And also to the male German tourists and the wine. I was an inconsolable mess of "I DON'T WANNA GO HOME!" So because they truly cared about my cultural development, they planned stops at the boyhood home of Ronald Reagan and the birthplace of John Deere. While I may not have been excited at the time, today I can look back with gratitude that I had these essential experiences in American history. (Excuse the photo quality. This was still the pre-digital age.) Despite my annoying tendencies, my siblings are two of my best friends today. Doug took me to a Billy Joel concert where I cried like a baby during "Piano Man." I can also attribute my uncanny knowledge about Larry Bird to Doug. He played the trumpet when I walked down the aisle, he routinely provides free medical advice, and he sends the best texts about our shared love of podcasts. (Give Revisionist History and Heavyweight a listen.) He loves me and my husband and my kids, and he makes a mean gin and tonic. Basically, he's the best. Brenda (a.k.a. B) brought her firstborn to visit me in my tiny studio apartment in Cedar Falls where we watched classic musicals on DVD. She sings the best harmonies to the Indigo Girls on roads trips, and she didn't even freak out when I cried at her 40th birthday party because post-adoptive depression is REAL. When I told her we were thinking about moving to Saint Paul, she didn't complain for one second but instead, in the fashion of our Grandma Dorothy, she encouraged and supported us every step of the way. Basically, she's the best. So today I raise a glass to Doug and Brenda. We don't always get to choose our family, but seriously these two are my #1 pick! (I'll write a blog for Cambridge Analytica some other day.) Facebook reminded me of this post from almost SIX years ago. That means in just a few days, we celebrate SIX YEARS as a family of four. What a delightfully hard and beautiful journey. These were the last words I published before becoming a mom.
----------- When I was nineteen, my best friend Christa and I would perch ourselves (sometimes precariously...) on stools with colored bottles purchased at a garage sale used as microphones. Our song of choice was usually something like "Angel of the Morning" or "Leavin' on a Jet Plane". We preferred this version by Chantal Kreviazuk. I would try to blend in some harmony while Christa belted out the melody. The song was simple; really so was my life. Our biggest drama was picking out what matching outfits we wanted to wear to the party that night. Boys would come and go out of my life at that time. I kissed a lot of frogs and a couple of almost-princes before I met Chris. Tonight I was in the shower thinking about that song, thinking about the jet plane that I will leave on tomorrow with my husband and favorite life partner to bring home two beautiful boys (photos coming soon!). The lives of all four of us are on an unalterable path that will surely contain many bumps. I've done some crying in the past few days for various reasons, but now my bags really are packed. They really are ready to go. I looked at the spider veins as I shaved my legs in the shower tonight and thought, "That nineteen-year-old girl couldn't be me." The crows feet laugh lines next to my eyes weren't there during those college. I definitely wouldn't (or at least shouldn't) fit into the same tight clothes I wore back then. And sometimes I want so desperately to go back. Back to the time when my biggest challenge was squeezing in 30 minutes to study for a biology test or remembering to tutor the cute baseball players for a French credit. It was so simple. So easy. It was all about me. But now a few years have passed. Yes, sometimes I want to go back to the stool with the fake microphone and the pretend audience of fans. I want it to be all about me. It's not anymore, though. Nope. Tomorrow when I leave on the jet plane, I will remember that this story really isn't about me. It never has been. So I take a deep breath, recenter, close my eyes, and leap. I don't know the final chapter, but I trust the Author. 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. “The good outweighs the bad.” That was my youngest son’s response as we discussed our family’s move from Northwest Iowa to St. Paul over the weekend. In many ways, the move was most difficult on him. He had a fantastic group of sweet friends who shared his interests and innocent sense of humor. This boy is not interested in being the most popular boy in school; he is concerned with having a good friend or two, ones who truly know him. Of course friendships take time, even for 6th grade boys, but he is getting there. It’s brought great joy to watch him emerge from his shell during these past few months and find his place in this new world. We’ve been living in St. Paul for ten months now, and after two months of silence on my blog, it feels like a good time to pause and reflect on what this move has done for our family. After several years of running his own business, Chris initially took a job for a medium-sized corporation here. It wasn’t the best fit, but like he always does, Chris stuck it out with a genuine smile on his face. After several months there, he took a job with the banking software company he used to work for back in our Missouri days. In an ironic twist, he now works from home, meaning that we could live nearly anywhere. But we’re here now, and St. Paul feels like home. It’s a very snowy home right now, but home nevertheless. In really practical ways, our world is filled with more diversity. During the boys’ basketball season this winter, they have never been the only Black kids on the court. We went to the theater on opening weekend of Black Panther, and my children were far from the only kids of color in the theater. Their church youth group is a sea of color. This week my youngest will attend The Wiz with this theater class, and in two weeks both boys will attend the Timberwolves-Warriors game with friends from church. Life is rich with culture and experience. Now we are in an era of nuance and identity, of providing them the opportunities to figure out this crazy “who am I?” thing. Figuring out who you are is hard for any middle school student. You have to navigate friendships and relationships while juggling homework and extracurriculars. Now we throw social media and technology into the mix along with the struggle to figure out what it means to be Black in America and how that differs from Ethiopian culture. We are trying to help the boys find their ways in all of those worlds while also helping them figure out what it means to be raised by white parents. They practice new words and experiment with different worlds. Of course we still push them to be themselves and find their identity in Christ. Their heads must be swimming. My boys are crazy resilient with wicked senses of humor, and I couldn’t be prouder to be their mom. I pray each day for wisdom and abounding grace for all of us, and He is faithful. |
AboutTeach. Archives
September 2020
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