Season of Change

The encyclicals I could write about this photo. Not in the vain sense, no, not about how the light is catching the subject in such a way... This photo was taken the summer of 2004. I was in the Hamptons, at a writer's conference, headed up this mosquito-laden hill when my classmate Jay said, "Here, turn around, I'm going to take your picture and I want to catch the grass behind you." And little did Jay know but that I would forget his full name (he had a Jewish surname?) but I would return to this picture every so often to be reminded.

*** I found that conference difficult, even wrenching at times. I had dreamed about attending for years, all of my rockstar idol writers would be there, teaching, being accessible and debonair. I got a scholarship, I got permission from my boss to go. I took the crazy bus to Chinatown, hopped the Long Island Railroad, and took a cab to the campus. Then I walked across the street to a divey hotel and asked if I could borrow some toothpaste. Hotelier gave me his half-used tube. Goes to show. Show what? I don't know. That I was 24? That he was nice? That you never know what you may find at a divey hotel in the Hamptons? Maybe a toothpasteanthropist?

***

I was 24. I was so broke when this picture was taken. I had just gotten a second job to pay down some debt. I was behind on rent. Some of my personal relationships were in shambles, mostly because of my impetuousness. The one thing I had going for me, I felt, was that I could write. All along, even when the math quizzes came back FAIL, I would stroke the lucky rabbit's foot of writing skill, and be assured that all would be well.

Then I attended this conference of rockstars and I felt, well? Trampled in that grass. Like my poems were in a beauty pageant and I was told they had a nice personality.

I was bankrupt.

***

That whole two weeks, I just kept reading Nehemiah over and over. I didn't bring other books for pleasure. Maybe on purpose or maybe because of the circuitous travel I had to make with a rolley suitcase? But I just poured over Nehemiah, and marveled at how he led the skeptics, the underdogs, the unlikelies. I took note of how much rubble was in his way. He surmounted the rubble. The rubble was nothing. He built the wall anyway.

***

When I look at this picture, I see the lines around my eyes and I see the honesty of my skin, no make-up. I see the really bad dye job that I did in haphazard patches. I see my smile, in spite of it all.

A month later, I got baptized. Two months after that, Loverpants and I got engaged. I got out of debt. I patched up some relationships. I made it through the rubble and built a wall.

***

I found my early twenties to be a difficult season of life, but I learned so much about myself and the way that the Lord can work through a willing vessel. In this current season of life, I feel that I am back sifting through a lot of rubble. I've got a lot to purge before we can put our home on the market. I've got some personal relationships that I pray will be healed. I am no longer 24, behind a couple months in rent. I have heftier responsibilities and multiple little lives tethered to me.

My friend Laura told me recently that conflict is just an opportunity for growth, that it's just the tension that arises when some change is trying to break through and flourish.

I am walking up the hill again, undeterred by mosquitoes. Can't turn around for a picture right now. Gotta go build a wall.

Why We Don't Do Santa

This is the post where you decide that the person named Kendra you thought you really liked is actually a complete communist nutter and you should not only stop reading her blog but stop associating with her altogether. Some people have recently asked if Baby Girl is excited for Santa to come. My response on the spot is, "Nah, not really, we don't make a big deal out of the whole Santa thing."

But my more expansive response is: "Nah, not really, we don't make a big deal out of the whole Santa thing."

Ahhh. It's all so unbelievably clarion now, right?

No, seriously, this was a very hard decision. Growing up, my old man Big Pops lived in a state of mania from October 31 to January 1. The man loves holidays, birthdays, and is particularly hysterical about Christmas. Big Pops has not outgrown this hysteria.

Exhibit A: Exhibit B:

In fact, with the addition of grandchildren, I receive daily texts about imminent Christmas specials on ABC and reminders to send him my wish list. Because the statute of limitation for your holiday wish list apparently extends to one even when she is 30 years-old.

So as far as families in which to grow up, I pretty much hit the Santa jackpot. So why would I not want to carry on this tradition for my own wee elfin ones?

Here's the thing. I'm not opposed to the lore of Santa, of presents, of surprises on Christmas morn. But I have two chief goals as a parent, and they are: 1. To lead my children to Christ and 2. To always tell them the truth. Period.

I value these objectives more than anything, I feel the weight of them, I carry them as a burden. I don't see how I can point my children to Christ, Christ who knows their inner thoughts and the intimations of their very hearts, if for a portion of the year, I am cautioning them that "Santa is watching..." I want them to know that Christ is always watching, but not in a way that determines a temporary reward, but with great interest for their eternal reward.

I also have a deep conviction for telling my children the truth. I would definitely say that for a good portion of my life, I had a problem with lying. I have lied to my parents, to the dearest of friends, to bosses, to myself. I was such a crafty liar that at times, I think I began to believe my own lies. Becoming a Christian for me has meant to put an end to dishonesty. To really come before God and be honest about my shortcomings and know how ugly it is to lie, and how beautiful and courageous it can be to tell the truth. I never realized how many opportunities there are to lie to children. When I was trying to ween my daughter off of her pacifier, everyone encouraged me to tell her about the "Binkie Fairy" that took the pacifiers to children in need. It was a surefire way to rid child of the binks. I was determined not to lie, though, and the process was surely painful (see also: How to Lose Your Mind in 9 Days) but for me it would have been more painful had I invented some fantastic tale, and for me, I could see how it would just become a slippery slope every time I needed to get my kids on board with something.

I have no judgment of parents who do the Santa thing with their children. As I mentioned, I reaped the rich benefits of a Santa-crazed upbringing. But I feel this is the right decision for our family. Our children will receive plenty of presents and enjoy many surprises in their lives I am sure. And we will tell them from where they came. I suppose some may say that I'm building an awfully tall soapbox while my children are still so young, but the view looks pretty good from here, so if you need me, this is where I'll be.

Christmas 2008

Christmas 2009

Christmas 2010

Hi from Church Camp

I didn't attend Vacation Bible School when I was little. Catholic doctrine every school day for nine months plus Sunday mass must have seemed adequate for my Jesus learnin'. Summers were for hanging out with heathens anyway, right? Needless to say, I didn't know how to explain Vacation Bible School to Baby Girl. I told her all day that we were going to Bible camp. Girlfriend knows that certain books in our house are called Bible, but I'm not sure she knows the theological weight they carry. What I do know is that every time this one particular gal pal comes over, who happens to be Jewish, Baby Girl goes and fetches her children's picture Bible and insists our friend read it aloud to her. Sneaky little evangelist, that one. Anyway, I wasn't sure if she would dig Vacay Bible Pow-wow Boot Camp Thing since I wasn't able to give her a sense of the what, who, how, why...only the when...but on our way there tonight, she said, "We're going to church camp?" Duh, mama. Why didn't you just distill it like that?

It was a little over her head, the games and skit-making and so forth. And she kept looking for the organist. But there were juiceboxes? So maybe we'll go back tomorrow?