Carry On, Warrior

by Glennon Doyle Melton

  I told Craig to move out of our home immediately and explained that I wouldn’t speak to him until he went through an intensive treatment program. He went. He was awakened. He decided to fight for our family with his new self. His truthful, out in the light, whole self.

  While he was gone, I decided to divorce him. Then I decided to forgive him. Then I decided to kill him. Then I decided to stop deciding things. I am learning to listen to the still, small voice telling me not to run—not today at least—and I am taking each day as it comes. One at a time. Carrying on.

  I remember what our pastor said about Easter. That even the shriveled, lifeless bush can bloom. That Easter Sunday comes after Saturday; the Resurrection after the Crucifixion.

  Craig and I are in the Saturday of our marriage right now. We’ve started the hard work of healing and waiting and grieving and raging and holding each other. When I want to turn away or run away, which is all the time, I remember what Adrianne told me the night I bought my new bicycle. When you feel like you’re falling, she said, steer into the fall. Lean into it instead of away, and you’ll be all right. My favorite thing about life is transformation, and I don’t want to miss Craig’s. As a Zen master once said to Geneen Roth, “Enlightenment is seeing one thing through all the way to the end.”

  I read somewhere that God sends us partners who are most likely to help us heal. This rings true to me. It’s just that sometimes the healing is so hard that one or both partners can’t take it, so somebody bails, or makes it impossible for the other partner to keep on loving. I understand this completely. Healing is so painful. Thankfully, when we turn away someone who would have helped us heal, God sends another. I don’t think he punishes us. He gives us lots and lots of tries. God is Forever Tries. I think He sends our healing partners in all different forms, not just spouses. He sends sisters, girlfriends, strangers, authors, artists, teachers, therapists, musicians, and puppies until one or several partners stick. But if we want redemption, we have to let one stick, eventually. We have to sit through the pain long enough to rise again.

  Last night Craig and I went out to dinner, just the two of us. We sat down and Craig pulled out a notebook and a pen. He said, “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. I want to know everything. Every little thing. And I want you to know me. The real, honest me. We’ll take it slow. . . . Where were your parents working before you were born? How did they meet again? I’m going to take notes and study them later. Don’t make fun of me. I want us to know and remember everything about each other.”

  Happy Easter.

  Unwind

  There was a couple who’d been married for twelve years. The first two years were good, happy even, but then the kids came and work got hard and money got tight and the shine wore off each of them. She used to see strong and silent, but now she saw cold and distant. He used to see passionate and loving, but now he saw dramatic and meddling. They allowed themselves to become annoyed with each other, so they stopped being careful. They stopped taking care of each other because they decided they needed to look out for themselves.

  The distance between them grew longer and deeper until it felt impossible to touch even when they were in the same room. One day she said to her girlfriend, I just don’t love him anymore, and it felt terrifying and exciting to say. Then he said to his buddy, I don’t know if I ever loved her. And their friends asked, what about counseling? But it all seemed tangled up too tight to try to unwind.

  She got home from work one evening, fed the kids, and put them to bed. She was tired to the bone. He was late again. Late again. And even though he was late and the house was a mess, she knew that he would walk in the door, pour himself a glass of wine, and sit down at the kitchen table and relax. He’d sit and relax. She couldn’t even remember what relaxing felt like. She was always either going like hell or sleeping. Somebody had to keep the family running.

  She stared at his bottle of wine on the counter. Then her eyes wandered over to their wedding photo on the wall. Clueless, she thought. We were clueless. But happy. Look at us. We were happy. We were hopeful.

  God, please help us, she said silently.

  Then she walked over to the counter and poured his glass of wine for him. She put it next to his book on the kitchen table—the place he loved to sit and relax—and she went upstairs to sleep.

  He tiptoed into the house fifteen minutes later. He knew he’d missed the kids’ bedtime again, he knew she’d be angry again, and he prepared himself for her steely silence. He hung his coat and walked into the kitchen. He saw his glass of wine, and his book, and his chair pulled out for him. He stood and stared for a moment, trying to understand.

  It felt as if she was speaking directly to him for the first time in a long, long while.

  He sat down and drank his wine. But instead of reading, he thought about her. He thought about how hard she worked, how early she woke to get the kids to school and herself to the office. He felt grateful. He finished his wine and then walked over to the coffee maker. He filled it up and set the automatic timer. 5:30 a.m. It would be ready when she came downstairs. He placed her favorite mug on the counter. And then he walked upstairs and quietly slipped into bed next to her.

  The next morning, she woke up and stumbled downstairs, exhausted, to the kitchen. She stopped when she heard the coffee maker brewing and stared at it for a few moments, trying to understand. It felt as if he was speaking directly to her for the first time in a very, very long while. She felt grateful.

  That evening she allowed her arm to brush his as they prepared dinner together. And after the kids went to bed, she stayed up and they assumed their TV-viewing positions on the couch. He reached out for her hand. It was hard, but he did it. She felt her hand find his.

  And things started to unwind. A little teeny bit.

  • • •

  Look. I know it’s hard. It’s all so damn hard and confusing and complicated and things get wound up so tight you can’t even find the ends sometimes.

  All I’m saying is that somebody’s got to pour that first glass of wine.

  Because love is not something for which to search or wait or hope or dream. It’s simply something to do.

  MULTIPLYING

  Don't Carpe Diem

  Every time I’m out with my kids, this seems to happen:

  An older woman stops us, puts her hand over her heart and says something like, “Oh— Enjoy every moment. This time goes by so fast.” Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize the moment, raise my awareness, be happy, enjoy every second, etc., etc., etc.

  I know that this advice comes from a good place and is offered with the very best of intentions. But I have finally allowed myself to admit that it just doesn’t work for me. It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life while I’m raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways, to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I’m not in a constant state of profound gratitude and ecstasy, I’m doing something wrong.

  I think parenting young children (and old ones too, I’ve heard) is a little like climbing Mount Everest. Brave, adventurous souls try it because they’ve heard there’s magic in the climb. They try because they believe that finishing, or even attempting the climb, is an impressive accomplishment. They try because during the climb, if they allow themselves to pause and lift their eyes and minds from the pain and drudgery, the views are breathtaking. They try because even though it hurts and it’s hard, there are moments that make it worth the hard. These moments are so intense and unique that many people who reach the top start planning, almost immediately, to climb again. Even though any climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous, exhausting, killer. That they cried most of the way up.

  And so I think that if there were people stationed, say, every thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers, “ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NOT, YOU SHOULD B
E! ONE DAY YOU’LL BE SORRY YOU DIDN’T ! TRUST US!! IT’LL BE OVER TOO SOON! CARPE DIEM!” those well-meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from the mountain.

  Now I’m not suggesting that the sweet old ladies who tell me to ENJOY MYSELF be thrown from a mountain. They are wonderful ladies, clearly. But last week, a woman approached me in the Target line and said the following: “Sugar, I hope you are enjoying this. I loved every single second of parenting my two girls. Every single moment. These days go by so fast.” At that particular point in time, Amma was wearing a bra she had swiped from the cart and sucking a lollipop she undoubtedly found on the ground. She also had three shoplifted clip-on neon feathers stuck in her hair. She looked exactly like a contestant from Toddlers and Tiaras. A losing contestant. I couldn’t find Chase anywhere, and Tish was sucking the pen on the credit card machine WHILE the woman in front of me was trying to use it. And so I just looked at the woman, smiled, and said, “Thank you. Yes. Me too. I am enjoying every single moment. Especially this one. Yes. Thank you.”

  That’s not exactly what I wanted to say, though.

  When Dorothy Parker was asked if she loved writing, she replied, “No. But I love having written.” What I wanted to say to this sweet woman was, “Are you sure? Are you sure you don’t mean you love having parented ?”

  I love having written. And I love having parented. My favorite part of each day is when the kids are put to bed and Craig and I sink into the couch to watch some quality TV, like Wife Swap, and congratulate each other on a job well done. Or a job done, at least.

  Every time I write something like this, readers suggest that I’m being negative. I have received this particular message four or five times: G, if you can’t handle the three you have, why do you want a fourth? That one always stings, and I don’t think it’s quite fair. Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why is it that the second a mother admits that it’s hard, people feel the need to suggest that maybe she’s not doing it right? Or that she certainly shouldn’t add more to her load. Maybe the fact that it’s so hard means she IS doing it right, in her own way, and she happens to be honest.

  Craig is a software salesman. It’s a hard job in this economy. He comes home each day and talks a little bit about how hard it is. But I don’t ever feel the need to suggest that he’s not doing it right, or that he’s negative for noticing that it’s hard, or that maybe he shouldn’t even consider taking on more responsibility. And I doubt his colleagues come by his office to make sure he’s ENJOYING HIMSELF. I’m pretty sure his boss doesn’t peek in his office and say: “This career stuff, it goes by so fast. ARE YOU ENJOYING EVERY MOMENT IN THERE, CRAIG???? THE FISCAL YEAR FLIES BY!! CARPE DIEM, CRAIG!”

  My point is this: I used to worry that not only was I failing to do a good enough job at parenting, but that I wasn’t enjoying it enough. Double failure. I felt guilty because I wasn’t in parental ecstasy every hour of every day and I wasn’t MAKING THE MOST OF EVERY MOMENT like the mamas in the parenting magazines seemed to be doing. I felt guilty because honestly, I was tired and cranky and ready for the day to be over quite often. And because I knew that one day, I’d wake up and the kids would be gone, and I’d be the old lady in the grocery store with my hand over my heart. Would I be able to say I enjoyed every moment? No.

  But the fact remains that I will be that nostalgic lady. I just hope to be one with a clear memory. And here’s what I hope to say to the younger mama gritting her teeth in line:

  “It’s helluva hard, isn’t it? You’re a good mom, I can tell. And I like your kids, especially that one peeing in the corner. She’s my favorite. Carry on, warrior. Six hours ’til bedtime.”

  And hopefully, every once in a while, I’ll add, “Let me pick up that grocery bill for ya, sister. Go put those kids in the van and pull on up. I’ll have them bring your groceries out.”

  Clearly, Carpe Diem doesn’t work for me. I can’t even carpe fifteen minutes in a row, so a whole diem is out of the question.

  Here’s what does work for me:

  There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It’s regular time. It’s one minute at a time, staring down the clock until bedtime time. It’s ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, four screaming minutes in time-out time, two hours until Daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow-passing time we parents often live in.

  Then there’s Kairos time. Kairos is God’s time. It’s time outside of time. It’s metaphysical time. Kairos is those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day, and I cherish them.

  Like when I actually stop what I’m doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the curves of her teeny elf mouth and her almond brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving, but I can’t hear her because all I can think is: This is the first time I’ve really seen Tish all day, and my God—she is so beautiful. Kairos.

  Or when I’m stuck in Chronos time in the grocery line and I’m haggard and angry at the slow checkout clerk. But then I look at my cart and I’m transported out of Chronos. I notice the piles of healthy food I’ll feed my children to grow their bodies and minds, and I remember that most of the world’s mamas would kill for this opportunity. This chance to stand in a grocery line with enough money to pay. And I just stare at my cart. At the abundance. The bounty. Thank you, God. Kairos.

  Or when I curl up in my cozy bed with my dog, Theo, asleep at my feet and Craig asleep by my side, and I listen to both of them breathing. And for a moment I think, How did a girl like me get so lucky? To go to bed each night surrounded by this breath, this love, this peace, this warmth? Kairos.

  These Kairos moments leave as fast as they come, but I mark them. I say the word Kairos in my head each time I leave Chronos. And at the end of the day, I don’t remember exactly what my Kairos moments were, but I remember I had them. That makes the pain of the daily parenting climb worth it.

  If I had a couple Kairos moments, I call the day a success.

  Carpe a couple of Kairoses a day.

  Good enough for me.

  A Little Advice

  I don’t believe in advice. Everybody has the answers right inside her, since we’re all made up of the same amount of God. So when a friend says, I need some advice, I switch it to, I need some love, and I try to offer that. Offering love usually looks like being quiet, listening hard, and letting my friend talk until she discovers that she already has the answers. Since I don’t offer advice, Craig and I find it funny that people ask me for it every single day. Craig once asked what I make of that, and I told him that I think friends ask me for advice because they know I won’t offer any. People need a safe place and some time to discover what they already know. So I just try to hold space and time for folks.

  Recently, a dear friend called during a very hard day. She had made a parenting mistake. A parenting mistake is doing something opposed to what you believe is best for your children. I have a friend who is very health conscious and would call four frozen pizzas a horrible mistake, while I just call it dinner. Parenting mistakes are different for each mama. So when a friend tells me she made a mistake, I don’t measure it against my beliefs and say: OH PUH-LEASE. THAT’S NOT A MISTAKE. I’LL TELL YOU WHAT A MISTAKE IS, MISSY. Competing about who’s the worst is as much of a drag as competing about who’s the best.

  In this particular case, my friend had become tired and hopeless and spanked her child. She considered this a mistake because she doesn’t believe in spanking. Please, baby Jesus, let us not debate the spanking issue. It’s a mistake for some and not for others. This particular friend, who is as precious as water in a desert, was devastated. She asked me for advice. I immediately switched that to a request for love.

  I told her what I do when I make a big or little parenting mistake, which is se
veral hundred times a day. I try to remember two things:

  #1.Who I am

  #2.My most important parenting job

  First, I remember that I am a human being, and human beings make mistakes. Almost constantly. We fall short of what we aim for, always. We get impatient. We get angry. We get selfish. We get extremely sick and tired of playing pet store. That’s okay. It’s just the way it is. We’re human. Can’t fight it. Elephants gotta be elephants and people gotta be people.

  Then I remember what my most important parenting job is, and that is to teach my children how to deal with being human. Because most likely, that’s where they’re headed. No matter what I do, they’re headed toward being messed-up humans faster than three brakeless railroad cars.

  There is really only one way to deal gracefully with being human, and that is this:

  Forgive yourself.

  It’s not a once-and-for-all thing, self-forgiveness. It’s more like a constant attitude. It’s just being hopeful. It’s refusing to hold your breath. It’s loving yourself enough to offer yourself a million more tries. It’s what we want our kids to do every day for their whole lives, right? We want them to embrace being human instead of fighting against it. We want them to offer themselves grace. Forgiveness and grace are like oxygen: we can’t offer it to others unless we put our masks on first. We have to put our grace masks on and breathe in deep. We have to show them how it’s done. We need to love ourselves if we want our kids to love themselves. We don’t necessarily have to love them more; we have to love ourselves more. We have to be gentle with ourselves. We have to forgive ourselves and then . . . oh my goodness . . . find ourselves sort of awesome, actually, considering the freaking circumstances.