We’re not finished figuring out our sacred practices as the boys grow and we get older, not by any means. As our family identity and story unfold, we search not only for the pacifier, the lovies, or the smell of rosemary that roots us and comforts us, but also for the game changers and the steady practices that will make us stronger and better humans.
Come in This House
When my mother opened the door to greet any of her family or close friends, and whoever happened to be hanging around the door, she’d say, “Hello, Darlin’! Come on in this house!” It meant not only that she was glad to see whoever was at the door but also that they belonged. She had their back and a glass of sweet tea with lemon.
Sister says a version of this welcome when we bring our boys to her house. “Look who’s here! It’s my boys!”
Words carry the power to provide security, safety, and hospitality. Jesus was exceptional at this sort of neighborly practice, making himself available to those who might be disconnected outliers.
Jesus announced he had sinners covered, even tax collectors like Zacchaeus, saying, “Man, come on down from that tree. We’re going to talk eye-to-eye. I’m eating at your house today!” And when some folks at Simon the Leper’s table were having dinner, they scolded a woman and called her wasteful when she anointed Jesus with precious oil. Jesus retorted, “Leave her alone.” He declared her ritual a moment of spiritual awareness, ministering to him before his death, and an act that would always be remembered.
Porches, doors, tables, and words of welcome are sacred materials with which to build families and relations.
Some years ago, we finally had enough money to redo the pool in our backyard. Believe me, the cement pond wasn’t impressive. The coping was falling in, the paint was peeling, and the tile was falling off. It seemed romantic when we bought it; starlit couple nights, a glass of wine, and all that. But we had other household issues to consider when children and expenses started piling up.
When we finally got it rehabbed, my husband declared that we would begin having weekend afternoon swims with whoever might want to join us. He invited friends who were single parents, people we didn’t know from our neighborhood, families from school or the ice rink, a little boy who rides his bike to our house without his parents on occasion, and, frankly, whomever he wanted to invite. The pool rally became his ritual, a gift to our kids and others, and a place to gather with no strings and lots of love.
One Saturday, I had chores to do and wasn’t around until late in the afternoon. When I got home, I found eleven children in our pool. Some were diving off their dads’ shoulders, others were jumping from the sides, and some were nibbling snacks someone had laid out, all under the watchful eye of an assortment of people—Christian, Hindu, agnostic, white, black, brown, single, and married. I was somewhat horrified at the sheer number of people, wondering if we needed a permit of some kind for this size of a gathering. At the same time, I was quietly overjoyed by my husband’s desire to welcome people and create neighborly rituals for our boys to participate in and remember.
To be honest, I need rest from people because I’m a pastor and I do people nonstop. I’m not all-in every time my spouse wants to send out the call for a pool party, but that’s OK. I know these get-togethers are crazily sacred and chaos to be cherished. Our guests may not find me offering freshly baked brownies at the door when they arrive, but everyone is welcome.
In the very last chapter of the Gospel of John, Peter and some of the disciples decide to go back on the Sea of Galilee for a little fishing, just like the old days, as was their habit and vocation. When reading that passage, I’ve always thought that the followers were struggling with what to do next, not sure how to move ahead without the physical presence of Jesus. Yet when they gather and fish and eat together, it comes back to them—the memory and the purpose to feed a bigger world.
Ways and Words to Soothe the Savage Beast
Mom used to drive me crazy with a proverbial phrase that completely reversed a negative dynamic. OK, my negative dynamic.
I hadn’t thought of it for decades until, one day, my oldest was in a giant pout. Penn’s bottom lip was out so far he could have carried more stuff than my biggest bucket-style bag. I wanted to scold him and lecture him. I wanted to tell him how good his life is because I know that always works great with kids who have very little ability to compare their experience to that of others. At least when they are, say, five years old. It’d be great if we could transplant the hard life learnings that way, but we can’t. And when I’m a big, fat hot mess and impatient from too much work, giving to others, and without enough self-care, it’s hard to put my foot down in workable ways and not in my mouth. I had to reframe the moment. Add a bit of light and salt.
Suddenly, Penn’s horrible, even affected mood struck me as funny, as did his contorted little face. So, as sweetly and annoyingly as possible, with sugar, honey, and fructose on top, I looked him in his angry, sad eyes and said those wonderful words that my mom used to say: “Smiling comes so easy. Do not wear a frown. If you feel one rising, always smile it down.”
Naturally, the key ingredient in reciting this bit for maximum effect is to say it in the most sickening Glinda-the-Good-Witch type of voice as possible.
And what happened when I said the magic words? Low and behold, it was like an angel of the Lord appeared and placed a coal to his sullen lips because that grumpy boy broke a smile without any harsh words. Courtesy and points scored, Grandma.
The people who spend a lot of time being emotionally healthy, God love them; know that my mom’s gift was a simple proverb to diffuse the situation. As our kids grow, we can model our favorite methods for handling stress and chaos. Everyone has a sweet spot. Some of us learn we can sit with a purring cat or splash cold water in our face or exercise aggressively for five minutes to take the edge off, but humor passed down is like a bottle of champagne uncorked, full of concentrated positrons unleashed for just the right moment.
When I’m with my siblings, we have a litany we recite of Mom-isms that bond us from the Matriarch down:
“I’ll give you something to cry about.”
“I’m no short-order cook!”
“Do you think I was born yesterday?”
“Just scrape off the burnt part.”
“Who do you think you are?”
“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all!”
“Put some calamine lotion on it.”
The Recipe
Even though Mom died, many of her words and habits live on through us, but how do we sustain that sassy spirit and continue to celebrate the family that remains? One of my brothers decided we should institute the Annual Sibling Christmas Cocoon Cookie Bake-Off.
Mom had perfected a cookie recipe, and for years she baked and gave out those cookies the weeks before Christmas. Each of us was given a tin of homemade shortbread cookies, which had been rolled between her fingers in the shape of a cocoon or crescent and doused in powdered sugar. There is not another Christmas cookie that compares, not in our family.
That’s why, very early in January each year, all of my siblings and I make an enormously big deal out of our competition to see who can deliver the best cocoon, one worthy of the name. Our event is always held after Christmas when we’re less harried, so that we can all bring a soup or dip and a big platter of our own version of Mom’s classic cookie. There are real-live judges, a blind tasting, the countdown, the reveal, and the honorary platter, given to that year’s grand champion, followed by a stream of Facebook posts and boasts. The siblings’ meal together is for the big people, but my children help me with baking the cookies, and they get the message. Remembering, eating, loving, forgiving, and laughing are to be done consistently: daily, weekly, in small ways, in big ways, and with others.
No matter what’s happening in life, Jesus has some guidelines for building community and family. I think we ought to try them regularly, though not necessarily in any specific
order.
Take, eat. Be nourished together with me, says Jesus.
When rejected (or defeated), shake the dust from your feet, literally, and move forward.
Similarly, pick up your mat. (The family may need exercise.)
Light a lamp for self or others, or maybe a nice candle.
Be salt; spice it up.
Wash when dirty.
Anoint with oil.
Head to the hills.
Don’t pile up what you don’t need. (It’s so exhausting to take care of.)
Listen to stories.
Remember what’s important.
Note
Diana Butler Bass, Grounded (New York: HarperOne, 2015), 179–81.
The Famous Singleton Christmas Cocoon Cookies
(as written out by my Mom)
2 sticks of softened butter
⅓ cup powdered sugar
2 tsp. water
1 tsp. vanilla
2 cups flour
¼ tsp. salt (optional)
1 cup chopped pecans
Cream butter and sugar; add water and vanilla. Mix well. Blend in flour, salt, and nuts. Chill four hours and shape into crescent shapes. Bake on ungreased cookie sheets at 275 degrees for about an hour. Remove from pan and roll in powdered sugar!
CHAPTER 9
THE WISDOM OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness doesn’t extinguish the light.
—John 1:5
Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one remembers to turn on the light.
—Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
I love to drive a stick shift. Go ahead. Call me old-fashioned, but I can drive cars anywhere in Europe, surely a necessary skill. Booyakasha!
Actually, a long time ago, I chose a Zen car experience: to be one with the transmission. That’s why it nearly killed my NASCAR spirit when we traded in my ancient Saab convertible for a van to haul kids. Suddenly, I felt like that teacher in The Magic School Bus books. Similar to Ms. Frizzle, whose name I physically resemble, I was hopping around our family time zones (known as The Schedule) on a bus full of sticky, sassy, cramped kids.
Vans don’t promote Zen car experiences because they are filled mostly—at least mine is—with screaming boys “touching” (that is, elbowing and punching) one another and accusing one another of multiple offenses every two seconds; not to mention the stuff I’ve found under the seats and in cup holders. Think fermentation. A friend got me a referee shirt and yellow flag to throw, but it’s hard to foul people when you’re driving. The alarming reality is that you never truly know what’s happening behind your driver’s seat. See no evil.
Once, I took my church staff on a continuing education trip in my van. The children’s minister was in the back. He pointed out that someone in our family had written on the back of the leather seats. I had no idea. Yet another incident beyond my control. “Oh yeah,” he said, very nonchalantly. “That’s chieroglyphics” (a mashup of children and hieroglyphics) explaining the enigmatic symbols scrawled by sneaky young children on your most expensive items. If Google ever gets those autonomous cars out there, there will be a power shift.
Finally, Sisters, I got another standard-transmission car that made room for all the boys who no longer needed car seats, just boosters. They love to ride in Momma’s car. Not long ago, we pulled into the driveway after a trip to the store, just me and two boys singing and car dancing all the way home. I was headed into our house and enjoying myself tremendously when Wyatt yelled that the car was moving without a driver. I turned to look and was stunned to see my nonthreatening little car going backward down our driveway toward the street. I dropped my ice coffee, my purse, and my sacks and phone, and I chased the car until it was almost in the street, where I grabbed the door, hopped in, and applied the brakes. Penn was still in the car. Somewhere in my head, in a matter of seconds, I thought that, maybe, I’d only lose my foot and save Penn.
It’s how we talk about and model handling the dangers and disasters that will ultimately equip our children.
That’s the thing, isn’t it? How do you keep these buggers safe? After Penn was born, one of the first overwhelming inclinations I had was to protect him at all costs. Suck it up, Buttercup. You’re in charge. And even when I thought I was being very careful, the most bizarre, scary, and unpleasant things happened because life doesn’t go as planned.
Take, for instance, the time I had Penn in a baby marshmallow chair, a fairly new product that we’d gotten from someone at a baby shower. It looked helpful to me and was said to help with a baby’s sitting-up muscles. I squeezed the baby inside the snugly, squishy, short seat, watching as his fat baby legs protruded. He looked very perky and happy. He was supposed to stay put.
While carefully watching him lounge on the large kitchen island, I turned for the proverbial one second to retrieve something from the sink when I heard a loud thump. He’d arched his back, popped out of the puffy chair, and fallen facedown next to the chair, but still on the island. If Baby Penn had gone forward, he’d have fallen on our brick floors. Brick is hard.
I grabbed up my crying child, “Oh Baby, Oh Baby! Momma is so sorry, so sorry.” After a few minutes, he smiled and laughed, like the whole thing was some silly test of my nerves. I’d gotten a reprieve, but I was mad at myself and the scary chair. Bad chair!
That was not the last time there was an equipment malfunction. Another time we had to cut our baby out of a bathtub seat contraption when his legs were stuck into the wrong holes. My husband used pruning shears—yes, pruning shears—to literally cut out our screaming baby from his tub and to calm his hyperventilating mom.
At four, Wyatt cut open his head while removing his shirt. Yes, we had a clothing accident. He leaned forward and banged his head on the table, perfectly slicing open his hairline and requiring stitches.
At two-and-a-half, Sullivan secretly sucked on a cap from a bottle of milk while I was strolling him (and three others) through the National Air and Space Museum. We were having a good time until a stranger told me the baby was choking, which I couldn’t see.
Each time there’s some drama, I consider what might have happened, what could happen, and what has happened to other families in a split second. My stomach goes knotty and my heart beats like I just fell from one of those parachute rides.
In my ministry, I have known parents who have suffered through the loss of a child, sometimes because of a sudden illness, an undetected aneurysm, an incident of choking, or a fall from a tree.
Bad Stuff Stinks, but It Demands Notice
When I was a young associate pastor, I often gave the message for the brief children’s time during morning worship. Most adults, especially parents, either cringe during this time or find it delightfully entertaining.
It’s not usually described as the “serious” part of worship. Once, my friend Susan, a talented teacher, loaned me her crazy Halloween hat to wear as I described All Hallows’ Eve and its connection to All Saints’ Day. Another time, I hid a “lost” sheep in the chancel area and encouraged the children to do everything they could do to find that one poor sheep gone astray.
One Sunday, I decided to talk to the children about something scary that was all over the news. I didn’t want to frighten them, but I believe there are times when we need to model how to deal with difficult realities so that our children are equipped to cope emotionally with bad news and to respond as Christians. After all, in my tradition, our baptismal vows ask us to be ready to confront the powers and principalities—the bad stuff around us: Do you renounce the spiritual forces of wickedness, reject the evil powers of this world, and repent of your sin? Such promises leave us little room for retreating below a blanket of comfort and denial.
Here was my difficult topic: I spoke about the American Embassy bombing in Nairobi, Kenya, but I promise I spoke carefully. I talked about a hard thing not only because the horror was all over the news but also bec
ause our own United Methodist bishop was in Kenya at the time. What we know now is that particular act of violence signaled the beginning of a new, volatile conflict around the world. (Dealing with terrorism and its proponents would not go away quietly or be tucked in a safe pocket.)
In those few moments with our church’s children, I wanted to reassure the children regarding the images they might be seeing on television. I also wanted to explain that good things were also happening in Kenya for hurting people because The United Methodist Church was at work on their behalf in that country.
The next week I got a call from some parents, very fine people, who were disturbed that I had mentioned the bombing during the children’s time. They explained that church is a time of escape, safety, and security for their children, not a time for harsh and brutal reality.
At the time of our conversation, I had no children, so I wondered if I would feel as they did. If I had my own beautiful children, would I think, as I did then, that it was much more important to acknowledge inexplicable horrific events and proclaim that God was with us even during the bad times? Or would I also naturally desire to shield my children from the harshness and violence of the world?
The year before the Nairobi bombing, J. K. Rowling’s first novel, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, was released. I purchased the book for my youngest nephew. After the third book was released, I bought the available books for myself and read them during my vacation. Eventually, as each was released, I read them all and have continued to read them with my boys. Let’s just say that my children rock when it comes to playing Harry Potter Trivial Pursuit. Here, I pause to brag. After we opened the game and began calling out Potter-themed trivia questions, Aubrey correctly identified the name of the obscure love potion mentioned in Professor Slughorn’s Potions class: Amortentia. He beamed. I felt as if he had won the Pulitzer Prize for Literary Awareness by a seven-year-old.
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