Of Mess and Moxie

by Jen Hatmaker

  It’s nonsense. Really. Rather than fantasizing about greener grass on some other side, water your own grass first, because there is no marriage, no union that doesn’t have its share of aggravations and struggles. None, I promise. There is no man or woman immune to selfishness, mediocrity, laziness, or failure. Sure, Other Guy can seem quite shiny in that other yard (as could you at first), but a permanent relocation discloses the truth: grass is pretty much grass. Add in bills, parenting, and the lame responsibilities of real adulthood, and that shine wears off lightning fast. That grass is fake, untrampled by the wear and tear of an actual shared life. It is a lovely illusion that looks beautiful from afar but becomes sharp and artificial to the touch, if not initially, eventually. The ensuing wreckage will outpace the fantasy.

  Between two people willing to work—and mutuality desperately matters; one soldier cannot win a marriage back alone—to fight for connectedness, to be honest and humble and say hard things and hear hard things, most marriages can be restored from even the worst breach. If you are lonely in your own marriage today, you are not alone, first off. Scratch under the surface of most unions, and you’ll find a familiar song of struggle, one most of us have sung or are singing. It is no simple thing to commit to one person for your whole life and make it work. Mother Teresa was on to something. But I’ve seen God restore marriages that even I, the eternal optimist, declared doomed, beyond repair, in the grave. All I’m saying is that healing is possible between two truth-telling, committed people willing to hope for resurrection.

  But please hear this: I never prioritize marriage over the healthy souls of the two individuals inside it; abuse, neglect, betrayal, violence—there are good and right reasons to leave sometimes. Not for one second do I think God would sacrifice your health, safety, or dignity on the altar of marriage. He did not create this beautiful mystery to protect an abuse of power. Sometimes one or both partners is so broken, the only healthy option is to dissolve and find individual healing. Marriage is not designed to make you forfeit your soul.

  But when two people with bad habits, irritating routines, and personal baggage decide to look each another in the eye, own their own junk, defer and prefer the other, and work like it is their paying job, they can still gross their kids out by French kissing after twenty-three years and manage not just to love but to like each other too. It is absolutely a miracle, worth every millisecond of work, and one of life’s most surprising and greatest gifts.

  HOW TO (PART TWO)

  HOW TO PREPARE THE PERFECT MEAL EVERYONE IN THE HOUSE WILL LOVE

  1. Go through all the recipes you’ve pinned on Pinterest but have never made. There are approximately 3,847 of them. Take your time.

  2. Make a list of meals that are “winners.” You never knew your Crock-Pot could be such a champion.

  3. Prepare the grocery list of all the ingredients you don’t have at home. This comprises around 92 percent of the required ingredients. You have never, in fact, bought bean sprouts, pomegranates, shrimp paste, or pickled beets. You aren’t even sure what a kumquat is, but the picture on Pinterest looked pretty.

  4. Go to the store.

  5. Realize you forgot the list. WHY? Why is the list so hard to transport?

  6. Buy another box of Lucky Charms, because that is what is for dinner. All week.

  Programming Note: This gaffe might actually save you from the inevitable headache called Making New Food for My Family to Hate. Because you know what makes children happy? Lucky Charms for dinner.

  HOW TO GET IN SHAPE

  1. Buy an exorbitantly expensive outfit. Spend more on this than on the last six items of clothes combined, because a sports bra capable of containing your Golden Globes costs around $729 apparently.

  2. Sign up for a ClassPass and head straight to that barre session your friends won’t stop talking about. They can’t all be wrong.

  3. Lie there in confusion for forty-five minutes trying to find “the tuck” (which feels strangely similar to the way you hunch over your computer). What even is this? Someone made this class up. Who ever heard of barre? Is everyone too fancy for blue-collar sit-ups these days?

  4. Feel like a baby giraffe when the instructor tells you to “tuck and plank” at the same time. (This instructor is a bad person. There is no way she is saved.)

  5. Try not to look at yourself in the mirror because it is not your friend at this juncture. It is not kind. It is not giving you good news today.

  6. Debate sneaking out no fewer than forty-seven times.

  7. March your well-contained Hindenburgs next door for the new 450-calorie nonfat Starbucks concoction. Your friends are whack.

  HOW TO ENSURE PEOPLE FEEL COMPELLED TO POP IN FOR A VISIT

  1. Don’t do the dishes for a day and a half.

  2. Toss your children’s toys in every walking path of the house.

  3. Put a piece of toast with peanut butter under the couch throw pillow so as not to be noticed until a guest is comfortably sitting down.

  4. Place someone’s underwear in an obscure but visible area.

  5. Succumb to your child’s demands for hard-boiled eggs, so your house smells like a diaper pail.

  6. Dump four loads of laundry on your couch; this is obviously intended to be a folding zone for the clothes, but they will likely just become couch companions for the day, like another member of the family.

  7. Have one or more children running around either covered in Sharpie, in tattered panties, or stark naked.

  8. And, by all means, do not shower that day.

  9. Happy hosting!

  Programming Note: The above steps should ensure imminent drop-by company, but if these measures fail to summon the new friend you are trying to impress or your mother-in-law, start screaming like a lunatic at everyone or enjoy a complete Mom Meltdown, and your surprise guests will certainly be standing on your doorstep listening in on your crazy.

  HOW TO GET UNINVITED BACK TO A HOME DECOR STORE

  1. Run in with your toddler for a “quick errand.” Be sure to estimate this task as taking five minutes or less, which will ensure you don’t bring in the diaper bag or any other tools of the trade.

  2. Get distracted looking for a price tag on an item that caught your eye. (These stores trick you into betraying your five-minute timetable, and you would do well to commit that to memory. There is never a five-minute trip through Bed Bath & Beyond. Never. This is a unicorn. This doesn’t exist. This has happened never. I’m trying to help you.)

  3. Hear gasp from a bystander, and look up to see your son’s bare behind and a hearty stream of urine trailing from the cart into a $48 decorative basket. You don’t understand why he had to drop his underpants to his ankles, but in addition to soiling the home goods, he has now displayed his bits and bobbles for all to witness.

  4. Panic as you realize step 1.

  5. Watch the tee-tee run down the shelving unit and soak the towels below before pooling in a delightful puddle at the end of Aisle 7.

  6. Calculate your expenditures to around ninety-five dollars of urine-soaked home items that now belong to you.

  7. Congratulations. You can show back up to this store in five years.

  HOW TO FIND A FAMILY PET

  1. In an attempt to ward off the campaign, have your children read Where the Red Fern Grows, Old Yeller, and Sounder. As a diversionary tactic, you want them to prematurely mourn the dog you do not want to purchase.

  2. Understand that all promises to feed, walk, care for, and pooper scoop for said dog are false. These children are liars. They will fulfill their promises for approximately two months, at which point all bets are off. The dog is yours. It is your next child. Make your peace.

  3. Visit the local shelter’s Open House. Overestimate your willpower.

  4. Look into the dark, loving eyes of the calmest dog there and fall hard. Throw in the towel. You’re done. The campaigners have won.

  5. Spend hours constructing an outdoor kennel for your new adoptee. After all,
you are a woman with boundaries, and the dog will be living outside. This is obvious. You’ve made yourself clear here. A dog? Fine. But not an indoor dog. This is just how it is. Dogs are meant to live outside. This is a part of their breeding. They are outdoor animals like wolves and turtles. This is God’s will.

  6. Bring your pup home on a below-freezing day. Without emotion, allow him to “spend just his first night inside,” because you have boundaries but you are humane, for the love. Just this once while he gets used to you.

  7. On night two, realize this dog is never spending a night outside in his life. He owns everyone, you included. The dog is the victor. Go ahead and buy expensive pet food online full of probiotics for his digestive health. Change your Facebook profile pic. Rearrange your day so he won’t be alone. Get a loyalty card at PetSmart. Make him a pallet at the end of your bed. You’re a goner.

  HOW TO HAVE THE SEX TALK WITH YOUR ELEMENTARY-AGE KID

  1. When asked where babies come from, first say God.

  2. When pressed, say Jesus.

  3. When she wants to know how this actually works, have a small, internal panic attack. No one told you about this awkward moment when you were all, I can’t wait to be a moooooom! Your mom just put a diagram on your nightstand with a box of tampons when you were twelve years old. You have no home training here.

  4. Politely excuse yourself, grab the books you ordered two years ago for this moment, and send your husband in to do the heavy lifting because submission.

  5. Listen at the door to lots of hilarious explanations and many, many uses of the words penis and vagina. Stifle laughter as your child calls it a bergina. Scold yourself for calling it a “bird” all these years like a weirdo. You’ve ruined her chance at ornithology.

  6. Mask intense concern when husband comes out asking for a dry erase board and two dolls. This tutorial is obviously terrifying, but the only alternative is you talking about “special hugs,” which was the next card you planned to play.

  7. Fall flat on the ground when your daughter asks if sex “feels like a hot dog,” and your husband replies, “It’s more like a summer sausage.” She can’t unhear that. She is going to therapy. Start saving.

  8. With all your might, maintain a straight face when she comes out forty-five minutes later, solemnly pats your arm, and says, “I kind of wish I didn’t know that. Thanks for going through that mess to create me, Mom.”

  HOW TO MOTHER ADULT CHILDREN

  1. Allow them to live past their teenage years. Congratulations on completing step 1!

  2. Smile and choke back the “I told you so!” when they finally understand something you’ve been saying for years. This is really hard. Practice not rolling your eyes in the mirror. Show restraint like Jesus.

  3. Resist the urge to yell, “What an idiot!” or its Christian cousin, “You reap what you sow” when they encounter hardships after ignoring your wise counsel, which they sought and pretended to listen to over homemade pie.

  4. Laugh when they reminisce about your Mom Fails without citing their crazy-inducing shenanigans, as if you just spontaneously lost your crap. No, Adult Child, you sneaking vodka under the babysitter’s nose or driving your truck into a light post while dishing up an elaborate lie regarding a pothole did not at all contribute to the Mom Fails.

  5. If they have children, forget that you ever raised any kids and keep your reasonable but hopelessly old-fashioned suggestions to yourself, as they likely contradict the plethora of “experts” now available on Snapchat.

  6. When said adult children have teenagers, comfort them as they navigate step 1, and graciously receive any tearful apologies for their childhood and young adult behavior (see steps 2 and 3). This is also the stage where it’s safe to explain step 4, because at this point, they are finally all the way on your side. They’ve crossed over. They know the truth like only raising your own teenagers can deliver. They are here in the Land of the Knowing. Open wine and offer a toast for surviving each other. Call your own mother, and apologize again.

  7. Always have the ingredients to make pie in case they stop in for a visit to request advice they may or may not take.

  HOW TO GET THE PERFECT PROFESSIONAL PICTURE OF YOUR PRECIOUS ANGEL BABIES

  1. Spend an exorbitant amount of time picking outfits that are just right. This should take entirely too much time, money, and energy. They need to coordinate but not match. Comb Pinterest for ideas to steal. (Southern mamas, check local rules about the age cutoff for boys in smocking or knickers. Pictures are forever. Please refrain from dressing your sixth-grade son in knee socks.)

  2. Make sure they are groomed but not “I just this day got a haircut” groomed.

  3. Scout out the perfect location, and time it just right for blooming tulips and late afternoon light. This should gobble up at least four afternoons.

  4. Adjust naps slightly and time your forty-five-minute drive to the location so they can nap a bit on the way.

  5. Load kids into the family truck not wearing their picture clothes. Don’t forget the picture clothes, and don’t forget to put the picture clothes as far away from kids as possible.

  6. Play classical music on the way, meditate on a psalm, pray, promise Jesus all sorts of obedience if He will procure some goodwill. Remind Him that you are a good person and you don’t ask for much. You just need this photo shoot to work, because it is costing five hundred dollars and the only pictures you have of their childhood are on your iPhone.

  7. Get to the spot, change kids in the way back, grab your sippy cups and nonstaining snack bribes, and set the angels down in just the right place. Try not to micromanage the photographer but fail fairly epically.

  8. Keep your tone light and airy as the kids start fighting and whining: “No worries, everyone! Ha ha ha ha! Everything is great! You’re doing so great! You look great! Look at Mommy! This is so fun! We’re having so much fun here!”

  9. Realize all three children looking at the camera at once making a normal face is a fantasy. This photo shoot is doomed. You try everything. You dance like a monkey. You promise the moon and the stars. Soon, your bribes turn to threats: “Smile right, or I’ll give you something to cry about!” You have sweat pouring down your back into your underwear. Your anxiety has permeated the atmosphere, and even the photographer despairs.

  10.Get the proofs back two weeks later. They are mostly a disaster. Your children look like robots. Or like human children who never learned to smile naturally and only know how to grimace, scowl, look off camera, fake smile. They look like well-dressed, miniature serial killers.

  11.Use candid iPhone shot of your family at a football game for your Christmas card.

  Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.1

  — ZORA NEALE HURSTON

  CHAPTER 12

  SANCTUARY

  I have a colorful father-in-law. He grew up in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, as a quintessential 1950s teen, a track runner and football player at UT in Knoxville, then straight into the army where he retired as a first sergeant twenty-four years later. I regularly keep my notepad handy when we’re together, because, out of the clear blue yon, Bob Hatmaker will jumpstart conversations like this:

  “When I was a teenager, Bobby Tichner and I used to go squirrel hunting before school. We were always late to school, but at least we got fried squirrel that night!”

  “It was 1965. I was in Germany, and I found a couple of I-talian girls . . .”

  “In 1957, I visited my friend Mikey Ryder at Tulane during Mardi Gras. Everyone had bottles up their sleeves. I remember about thirty minutes of it.”

  These stories are endless and delightful, a daughter-in-law’s thrill and a writer’s dream. Most of Bob’s tales are wildly entertaining, but there is some real tenderness too. He told of his small church in rural Tennessee where he and his buddies were surrounded by deacons, pressed on all sides, and terrifi
ed into receiving salvation during a church service. Strong-willed and resistant to spiritual bullying, Bob alone refused to “walk the aisle.” The pastor threw his hands up and proclaimed, “Well, I’ve done all I can do with this one. I guess he’s going to hell.” Bob walked out that door and never looked back.

  It was the last time he went to church regularly—more than sixty years ago.

  Who could blame him?

  Sometimes the one place we should all be most welcomed is the very place we are most rejected; the house of healing becomes the inflicter of pain. Much like any betrayal, the more considerable the source, the harder the loss. No one can wound us more than those supposed to nurture: our parents, our spouses, our churches. The chasm between expectation and reality is particularly grim in supposed safe places.

  As I’ve written often, my history with the church is complicated. It spans my entire life and, like any long-term relationship, has had its ups and downs. As a pastor’s daughter and wife, I’ve seen too much behind the curtain to idolize the church. It is a form meant to bring order to and strengthen the Good News; it is not the Good News itself. It is only the wineskin, not the wine; one of the containers, not the substance.

  It’s an important distinction, because for many, it is tempting to worship the church, removing the inherent safety of the sanctuary and prioritizing the structures instead, at which point the people become a commodity instead of the body. By definition, a sanctuary is “any holy place of refuge” and, more specifically, “a sacred place where fugitives were entitled to immunity from arrest.” In other words, the guilty, the outcast, the refugee, the criminal, the desperate—all safe from harm or punishment under the steeple, protected within its four walls.