Stepping on Cheerios

by Snyder, Betsy Singleton;

  No dummy, Mom had read a lot of the works of biggie Protestant theologians, including Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s The Cost of Discipleship. As my parents and the professors discussed the implications of following a Lord who promised liberation of the oppressed, my mom began to better understand the reasons the seminary had encouraged the students to be involved.

  “But,” Mom finally said in the meeting, “if this cause is as central to discipleship as you say, then why aren’t there any professors going to march with the students?”

  Boom.

  Faculty representatives from the Perkins School of Theology were on the next bus to Selma.

  God’s limitless love is scary. If we let our kids open up their tender, unspoiled hearts to the world, anything can happen. Yet people who faithfully follow a divine dissident like Jesus can’t be all sweet and no spice. Sisters, there has to be some hot sauce.

  Less Comparing, Please

  Not long ago, I was having coffee with a new mom who is also enjoying the experience of triplet babies. She’s doing great. Remarkable, I think. As we visited, she mentioned that one of her babies sleeps a lot. Fantastic! She wondered aloud if too much tummy time had lessened this baby’s progress in lifting her head. The other two seemed to be further along.

  That’s how it begins. We worry endlessly about our children and where they are on the pediatric growth chart and countless other ways to classify. Americans are preoccupied with every sort of bracket. (That’s why it’s called March Madness, all that crazy guessing about who’s best.) Ranking is one of our truly neurotic national pastimes.

  I get that it’s hard not to compare people in the same family, especially for those who have more than one child or who are surrounded by obnoxious people who are habitually measuring. Even if parents manage to avoid it, comparisons, real or imagined, erupt amongst individual children. And believe you me, they will remind you every day what you did for someone else instead of them. My boys love to tell me how unfair I am. When the report cards come home, I pray the grades are all the same, but, of course, they are not. So I pray they are pretty close. It’s OK! I love you too, Woody. You don’t have to push Buzz out the window.

  It’s probably no accident that coveting is listed as a top-ten sin. It’s the ultimate comparing of who you are and what you have and then believing contentment is found outside your unique you. Wanting what other people have—even a more “normal” life, whatever that is— can drive you cuckoo because fixation on what we think we want or need, as well as frequent comparisons with that person’s life over there, sucks the joy right out of life.

  I’m going to put some of the blame on Pinterest, Zillow, and Houzz, the apps on my phone that equip me to compare my house, closet, kitchen, porch, and, therefore, my life to someone else’s. If I spend too much time in the company of my helpful apps contemplating upgrades, I will believe that everyone else has a better home, kids, and pocketbook than I have.

  One of my favorite home-decorating books is by a woman who says perfection is overrated. This sister actually believes there’s beauty in the lived-in and loved-on and just about used-up. We’re not going to find joy or authenticity or contentment when we constantly look for the next big thing.

  There’s a great story about how Jesus was confronted by a woman, actually a momma, who invites him not to give all the attention to the firstborn (see Matthew 15:21-28; Mark 7:24-29). Spunky, huh? She comes from a Gentile area near Tyre and Sidon. In other words, she’s not Jewish. And yet, as Jesus escapes with his disciples for a little rest by the beach, this woman finds them, talks their ears off, and will not—I mean, will not—shut up.

  This outsider momma has come to Jesus for her daughter. The girl is having some problems, some demons, she says. Who knows what they are? Stuff parents worry about. Anorexia, bullying, Snapchat. She’s not leaving without some help for her child. After all, she’s someone’s mother. Jesus used a cute little children’s illustration to tell her that his priority is Israel, the first child, but she pushes Jesus with a snappy comeback. He said, “ ‘The children have to be fed first. It isn’t right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.’ But she answered, ‘Lord, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs’ ” (Mark 7:28).

  Touché, Sister! Teachable moment!

  I think Jesus had to admire her zinger response. I know I do. Besides, it seems fairly Rabbi worthy, right? Ultimately, the story doesn’t give us every detail of this cool encounter, but I like to think the woman’s challenge encouraged Jesus to go even further in his boundary-breaking ministry. Take the three-pointer, Lord! She may not be from the house of Israel, but she’s gonna call on the Son of David because, I think, she gets it. Jesus can cross over and make the family bigger. That’s really reaching people who may be beyond your comfort zone. Jesus is always going across, through, and beyond the predictable range of grace, where comparisons collapse into a heap of unconditional love. I’ll take those crumbs any day.

  Let Your Freak Flag Fly

  I live in Little Rock, Arkansas, home of Central High School. It is a key site of a major event in the American civil rights movement. The group called the Little Rock Nine are the African American students who in 1957 helped carry out the Brown v. Board of Education Supreme Court mandate to integrate all schools “with all deliberate speed.” It was not smooth at all, and the students faced horrendous discrimination and harassment. What happened was unspeakable, but we have to speak so that we don’t forget.

  Paul McCartney gave a concert in Little Rock and got to meet two of the Little Rock Nine. Along with John Lennon, McCartney wrote the song “Blackbird,” specifically hoping it would encourage those living in the midst of the volatile march for desegregation and civil rights.

  Blackbird singing in the dead of night;

  Take these broken wings and learn to fly;

  One of the most important ways I know to help my kids be all God intends is to go against the herd when that herd attempts to hurt or harm other humans. In my tradition, we confess that God inhabited the skin of a Jewish homeless peasant, whose wings we broke. (We humans are good at mishandling one another.) Yet out of that brokenness God offered a new day and new relationships, even a new family, a colorful, rainbow family.

  Jesus crosses over and unites us, but we’re tasked with sharing that good news. That’s why I intentionally swim upstream, looking for diverse friends in a divided world. It’s called “witness,” and I suppose sometimes others may think I’m a freak; but I think I’m on the really colorful Jesus squad. I must be doing something right because my oldest was devastated when his two dearest friends in school were in different classes this year. And he’s the minority friend with his white skin and blond hair, which he wishes would stand up tall and proud like his friend’s frohawk.

  Difference is everywhere. I look in our freezer to see what ice cream flavors are there: the Great Divide (chocolate and vanilla), chocolate chip cookie dough, mint chocolate chip, pistachio almond, and, occasionally, cherry vanilla. And there are also the various frozen creations at least thirty days old that some little boy concocted to see how glaciers erode. How about that? All different.

  CHAPTER 6

  SELFIE

  Love your neighbor as yourself.

  —Luke 10:27

  We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.

  —Jane Austen

  Confession: I sometimes refuse to shower and get cleaned up on the grounds that, even when I have the time, it’s rebellious to run errands without any makeup, with hair in a clip, and wearing sweaty gym clothes. Scrumptiously self-indulgent.

  In my big, small town, it’s nice to go unnoticed at the hardware store or the post office because sometimes I just want to be alone. Yep, I love those hotspots, the smell of metal and the good old days of stamps. Before Penn’s week-long church-camp experience all by himself, I had to explain the concept of stamps to him and the reality that we wo
uldn’t be communicating for four days—except for the miracle of mail—like, from the mailbox.

  Honestly, not getting dressed to go out is one of my off-grid strategies. While I love people, and I’m always running into people, I don’t always want to talk about anything. I don’t want to talk about how my family is, which is hard to avoid. Oh, and my husband was in politics. And there’s that thing about me: I am a pastor, and I have been to a lot of church potlucks and functions. Believe it or not, sometimes I don’t even want to talk about the church or why suffering exists if God is all loving. I have my limits. Do you see these sunglasses? They are my version of being a Jesuit. Sometimes I simply want to concentrate fully on getting my toes done and tackle powering up the rolling balls in the salon massage chair.

  Actually, it’s a luxury to choose not to shower. When the boys were tiny, I didn’t always get a regular shower. I wanted one—a good long one—but it wasn’t always possible. I was more concerned about other people’s hygiene. Truly, I obsessed over it. It was self-preservation of the most primitive kind. Germ warfare.

  When the triplets came home, I put carafes of hand sanitizer in every place human eyes might spot them. With four little ones, I thought I needed squirtable pure alcohol or something pretty close, to avoid illnesses that might spread throughout the entire household. What would happen if everyone got sick? The ship and the captain might go down. That was a nutty notion, but, in those days, I could not mentally survive if I considered contagion beyond a certain level. So I lovingly said to everyone who crossed our home’s threshold, “Did you see the hand sanitizer? Right there? See it?” I’m sure they were on to my rigid, desperate, take-some-prisoners message and strained smile. God bless those helpers who came and went, but they weren’t actually living with the little germ vectors, were they? For heaven’s sake, they could go home.

  Early on in mother land, with four small babies, I was in survival mode, like the way I didn’t want to get sick and tried to control germs. I think a lot of moms feel as if they are hanging on. Can I stand up? Can I walk? Can I change diapers? Perhaps obsessing about hand sanitizer demonstrated that I set my own bar of self-care a tad too low. Oh, well. Exhaustion explains a lot of mental and emotional misfires.

  One evening, tornadoes were swirling around our house because we live in a place that apparently creates and likes that kind of excitement. Victor was in DC. My middle brother, Tom, came by to stay and keep watch as the storms passed through, just in case we needed to evacuate all four children to a safer place in the house.

  I was fortunate to have Nanny Rho, our tinies’ helper, spending the night with us. Penn’s sitter, before the triplets were born, dropped by because my oldest had a horrible stomach bug and had to be put in the bath almost every hour to get clean again. I was desperately trying to keep everyone separate because I was still pumping my milk and breast-feeding. At one point, little Penn’s lower abdomen rumbled mercilessly. We all heard it, then silence. Finally, Tom said, “Whoa, The China Syndrome,” referencing the old movie about a nuclear meltdown. Tornadoes, triplets, and thunder down under.

  The Quest for Selfie

  Having children is not only a life adjustment but also a whole new way to learn what it means to be self-concerned and self-interested. Because we’re women, we may have the idea that we’re created for self-sacrifice, giving up big swaths of ourselves for the betterment of the people in our lives, whether spouse, kids, family, friends, or work. My spiritual tradition hasn’t taught me to believe God created me, a woman, only for others, but some Christians suggest as much. I disagree, choosing to believe God delights in creativity and love more than utility. Even so, too often, I’ve bought into the idea that I’m more useful than lovable.

  Here’s a familiar example. Predictably, I get energized by a project in my home or at work, and the next thing you know, I’m overdoing it, driven to see something completed, done, finished. While signaling strength on the outside, strength I don’t always feel, I send myself to the end of the line, depleted. Of course there are loads of times I am glad to give to others with love when it’s needed or even wanted, but giving until there’s little left of yourself is discounting God’s own creation— you—and taking off your own oxygen mask.

  I’m so glad God created therapists and healers. Through them, I am slowly and steadily learning that if a plane loses altitude and you have idiotically placed your child’s oxygen mask on before your own, that may be the last thing you ever do for your child or anyone else.

  I’ve seen oxygen masks. Not attractive. Not comfortable. They are definitely not trending as a fashion accessory. Although I’m more comfortable wearing one these days, that doesn’t mean I don’t get busy doing things that aren’t really necessary. Metaphorically, I often cram my mask in the depths of my closet, under my 1984 Madonna tapestry jeans, where I forget about it and no one knows to ask me if I’m still breathing because I can wave and smile. On my deathbed, I’ll probably be waving and smiling. There are times when, like a lot of women, I don’t want anyone to see me needing to breathe, which is totally unspiritual and unloving toward myself and a really stinky example of Christian living. We think we don’t look good in oxygen masks, and we certainly have a hard time admitting they help us. But we do need to breathe, even if it’s just so inconvenient.

  I’ve seen Kim Kardashian in all her glory. In fact, most of us have seen Kim and her sisters in all their glory. When Kim Kardashian Tweets her bum, it’s just so full of herself. Certainly, I want all of us women to be proud of our bodies, every kind of body, and to care for our bodies. So here’s to Kim and her busy buns that look good. But we also need to ask Kim to scoot over so that we can love on all types: sturdy, delicate, and in-between. I don’t mean we should celebrate exclusively a variety of female body types, but rather a way of being fully who we’re meant to be, who God calls us to be, not only as spouse, mom, sister, and daughter, but as ourselves, completely.

  When I was a lot younger and more sensitive, I was married to someone who told me my ideal weight was 115 pounds. Because I wanted to keep his love and please him, I let him define me for a season, but it turned out to be a vicious cycle. I came too close to developing an eating disorder because I thought way too much about how much I ate, or didn’t, rather than being healthy. If we live by the judgments and expectations of others, we may begin to chop off a part of the self, then another part until, well, there’s not much left. When we’re willing or allowed to share only our presentable selves, rather than our trippy selves, our excruciatingly vulnerable selves, our quivering-mass-of-doubts self, as well as our obvious victorious self, we’re not living fully, wholly, or faithfully.

  What we need to do is practice valuing who we are becoming at each stage of life.

  Sisters, you’ve probably guessed that I’ve not yet graduated summa cum laude from the school of self-care, but I have some ideas about what self-care is and what it’s not. No matter who you are, you need “selfie hygiene,” and I’m not talking about a quick fix found on a pop-up ad. We don’t need any more suggestions about what to wear past thirty and how to apply makeup past fifty. Can we please just pause that stuff? And, my sweet Sisters, those harmful, external messages that bombard us are yet another reason why we need to practice crafting our very own selfies. We live in a way crazy-pants world, but we can learn to craft self-care that matters and sustains us.

  Jesus as a Study in Selfie

  I remember the first time I saw a long stick with a phone attached to the end of it. We had taken the boys to Disney World, a first trip to the Magic Kingdom. I watched as people pulled out their selfie sticks and captured scenic landscapes of Cinderella’s castle with themselves in the foreground. I learned that my camera had a broken lens the first day at the park. I was really annoyed with myself for not checking out my camera before the trip. I was annoyed that Victor is not “in charge” of my camera. And I was annoyed that I had no idea about selfie sticks. I failed in setting up the best way to capt
ure the memories, which meant I was judging myself, feeling guilty, and struggling with unrealistic expectations for a working mother of four. Ruminating about taking quality pictures was not going to get me in the moment.

  Jesus was so good in the moment. He was almost always really with people. As you read along in the Gospels, it’s fairly clear Jesus was specifically tending people, teaching them, correcting them, eating with them, loving them—you know—like a parent. He pays such close attention to who we are and what our needs truly are.

  Every day, then, Jesus was available to folks. But that’s also why he sought retreat and quiet, either in the mountains, on the other side of the lake, or at a good friend’s home where he could chill out and eat some home cooking. I can’t see Jesus ever saying, “No thanks,” to Martha’s mac and cheese. That’s so rude and not in the moment or caring for self. I can’t remember ever reading a Bible story, not one, about Jesus saying anything like, “Can’t sit and talk. Can’t stay. I’m just too busy.” It’s true that he was busy, and sometimes he was even delayed in getting to his next stop, but mostly he let encounters unfold. It doesn’t mean he didn’t ask pointed questions about who we’re called to be, but Jesus lingered and helped others get comfortable in their own skins, love themselves, and put themselves in the picture.

  When we were at Disney World, my husband ate ice cream nonstop. OK, a lot. This tallish, health-conscious, attractive man ate Mickey Mouse ears (vanilla ice cream shaped like Mickey and dipped in chocolate) every day. About two in the afternoon, we had to locate a food cart in Disney World and take a Mickey Mouse ice-cream break for Daddy. While I loved being with my children at this ridiculously commercial playground, there was nothing like seeing my husband thoroughly enjoying nibbling Mickey’s ears away every day. I’m not sure I got any pictures of Victor and his ice-cream habit, but I’ll never forget it, because I was there, fully. It’s one of my sweetest memories, that and watching Aubrey raise his hand to fight the evil Darth Vader, whom he fearlessly defeated during a light saber duel.