Long Days

Nothing reminds you that you are not out slaying dragons more than cleaning toilets.

Or vacuuming. Or folding laundry. Or spending an hour and forty minutes on the phone with Sprint to figure out how to upgrade your cell phone (though they were very nice).

I left a corporate job in December of last year to pursue playing with kids, running super long distances, and writing a trilogy. I was not slaying dragons there either, but like many of my unpaid friends, it is still tempting to introduce myself this way: “Hi, I’m Lauren. I used to work as Project Manager in the Design department at …”

It is as though what I am doing now is not sufficient in and of itself. The truth is what I am doing now is much more satisfying, though doesn’t sound as glamorous.

The year leading up to my “career change” was fraught, filled with so many cultural shocks both inside and outside of the church alongside my own internal battles of calling and faith. It was a year of sharpening clarity where I delved deep into my purpose, my spirituality, and my roles as a woman and a mother.  Just about the time I was ready to burn it all down, I read LongDays of Small Things: Motherhood as a Spiritual Discipline by Catherine McNiel.

In her book, Catherine invites me into a space that is uniquely sacred. And uniquely feminine. In the midst of a cultural backlash against systems of oppression for women, I soak in the gentle, but strong reminder that the feminine is created by God and in God’s image and is therefore God ordained. Catherine unpacks the divine nature of mothering, the spiritual celebration of our flesh. She reminds me that life has never been and will never be sterile or even particularly clean. Not literally or metaphorically. She celebrates the feminine images of God and invites me to connect with them. It is like drinking from an ice cold hose in the middle of a hot, humid summer day. So refreshing.

It is interesting that Catherine crafted her book around spiritual disciplines, a topic I have only ever heard taught by those not actively raising children. She then invites me to see my experience as the expression of all of them. Of the discussions on spiritual disciplines, two hit me most strongly. The first is her discussion on Service.

Ironically, now that I am home, there is this assumption that because I am a mom who works in the home, I can somehow, magically volunteer in a million different ways. Presumably this is because just working as mother (or as a mother with a full-time paying job) is somehow not service. It’s exhausting and guilt tripping and a huge turn off. The truth is my hands are full of service, and my most important constituents are the ones that leave their hand prints all over my walls. If I fail to serve them, then I have failed in service all together. There are plenty of voices in the world telling me I am not enough… I need to do more. Catherine reminds me that God’s voice is not among them. Her book invites me to re-frame my focus on service and rest in the satisfaction of a job well done.

Perseverance is my other favorite discipline. I’m a distance runner, so of course this speaks to me. My thirties have been a decade of seeking emotional health for myself and, in turn, my family. Even so, I am still in process. The process, though beautiful, is often a long slog with a slowly changing landscape. Catherine reminds me that “it is not ease but challenge that shapes our character into strength and beauty” (Long Days, 140). But in life, like in running, slow progress is still progress. Through the practice of perseverance, I have been working on my mind, my soul, and my body. After fifteen years of working in a corporate job, I have finally found my passion and the courage to pursue it. The beautiful gift is that I have begun a new journey. I have a new goal to strive toward.

Now my days are filled with many small, inconsequential things with a long run and a side of writing. The days are sometimes long, but every woman I know has long days of sometimes very small, inconsequential things. Sometimes, when we are lucky, the long days are about much bigger, grander, life shaping things. In those days, the hard work and tedium finally pay off. Until then, Catherine’s Long Days ofSmall Things encourages me to soak in the sacredness of my daily experience. 

Tired From This Endurance Run

I don’t usually post political commentary, and I have always committed to maintaining a positive presence online. I have been sitting on this post for a week asking myself why I would share my thoughts or what I would want to see come from posting them. I do not want my silence to contribute to propping up oppressive systems or inadvertently supporting ideals that prop up oppressive systems. This post discusses misogyny and the church’s silence in the wake of this oppressive behavior. I would ask that if you choose to read this post and it makes you defensive that you share the post with someone who might see things differently from you, then have a respectful conversation about it.

I’m in training for another marathon and am constantly amazed at what a perfect analogy distance running is for life. Last week during my long run, I took a break from music to listen to a couple of news podcasts. What a week for women:

Rob Porter, White House Staff Secretary, is accused of physically abusing two women. The FBI knew about it. Apparently, a bunch of other people knew about it too. No big deal though. He was up for a promotion.

John Kelly, White House Chief of staff, defended Porter. In the past, White also defended a Marine Colonel in a court martialing for sexual abuse allegations. The Colonel went on to be convicted of sexually molesting three children.

President Trump also defended Porter, thanked him for his service, and wished him a long and prosperous career.

Michel Cohen, President Trump’s longtime lawyer, admits to paying off a porn star so she would not come forward regarding an affair she had with Donald Trump. Affair. Because his wife was at home with their newborn baby.

Recently I read a novel about World War II (one must ask oneself why this time period has become so popular in the last two years) and had to stop at a certain scene. Jewish women and children, young mothers and their babies, were being marched out to the woods and shot in the heads by the men of their village. These were older, middle age men, too old to serve in the Nazi army anymore, but capable of taking out their communal daughters and grandchildren, their neighbor’s daughters and grandchildren, and killing them in cold blood for an ideal centered on nationalism.  It was chilling, and I found myself asking, “how did it get to that?” Fascist dictatorships begin with those in power bending the rules to suit their own purposes. Is that not what we are seeing from the highest positions of power in our nation right this moment?

It made me think of the older men in my life who have voted a man into power who devalues women so much that he would openly disparage them, protect those who harm them, and hide an affair with a woman in a sex trade industry.  The sad, disappointing, heart wrenching part of all this is that these men, my men, don’t acknowledge the wrong done. They do not speak out against it or discredit those who perpetrate crimes against women.

As far as I can tell, neither does the church.

I am no longer surprised by this. The common thread in all of these news headlines, in literature, and in personal experience is that in this administration, in this country, in our churches, there is no more shame. Misogyny is not questioned. Racism is not questioned. Oppression is not questioned. There is no more shock.

This run is long, and it is wearing me out.

I am not alone. People on the margins - women, non-white Americans, the poor, the disabled - are dealing with so much pain and oppression right now. This is not new. What is new is how open and out there and in your face the perpetrators are. The current administration’s MO is to continually denigrate those populations with downgraded, dismissive and openly hostile language. Or, in the case of the Staff Secretary, they simply ignore the sin. Which leads me to ask the same question over and over; where is the church in all this? Where is the righteous indignation of the evangelicals who helped vote this person into office? *

You know who is marching? Women, people of color, the disabled.

You know who is not marching? The white evangelical church.

And why not? Is this an admission of guilt? At the very least it would seem an admission that the white evangelical church has, unwittingly or not, propped up a system that derives power from holding others down under their collective boot. The “others” being those who live on the margins and in the fringes, those who are vulnerable physically, emotionally, or because there are unjust laws in place that keep them vulnerable.

For years, conservatives and evangelicals have been yelling about morality. Leading up to the election I can’t tell you how many times I heard the pseudo aphorism that Trump was going to restore America. He would be God’s deliverance for this country.  Yet now, after so much evidence to the contrary, there is silence.

Is having an extra marital affair with a person indentured to the sex industry moral?

Is defending a man who beat not one, but two or his wives’ moral?

Is building a wall to keep out others from “sh**hole” countries moral?

Is using language like “sh**hole” (or pus*y) moral?

Are these Christ like morals?

Jesus taught us to honor our spouses. He instituted a system of mutual submission and partnership. He elevated the status of the poor and of foreigners. He defended the oppressed, and he challenged the systems of oppression. He taught the church to share their wealth and live within their means. He espoused telling the truth.

These are not fringy, left leaning morality issues. These are basics of faith. These are the basics of many faith backgrounds, and evangelical Christians are not differentiated for espousing them.

In the book of Esther, the Jewish people are about to be annihilated by a political machination. Queen Esther’s uncle calls on her to flex her position of influence on behalf of her people. Esther balks. What if she fails? What if she loses and it costs her something? Her uncle’s response is to tell her if she does not rise up, she will not escape the fate of her people. But another will rise up to deliver the Jewish people. Who knows but that she has been brought to this position for such a time as this.

Dear white evangelical church folks, living in the Trump era is a painful endurance sport. For the last eight years you have wanted a voice and to be seen. Now there is a voice, and what we see is terrifying. Are you willing to give what you have asked for to the rest of the country? Are you willing to see things from the lens of the other?  Are you willing to rise up on behalf of the oppressed and the marginalized?

If the church cannot do this, we are lost indeed.

*Noteworthy sources on the white evangelical vote:

“Among white evangelicals, regular churchgoers are the most supportive of Trump”, Gregory A Smith, Pew Research Center, 4.26.2017

“Why Christian Conservatives Supported Trump – and why they might regret it”, Sean Illing, Vox, 2.2.2018

“Myths Debunked: Why did white evangelical Christians vote for Trump?” Myriam Renaud, The University of Chicago Divinity School, 1.19.2017

Evolution

In 2011 I staked my own flag in digital ground with a style blog masquerading under the moniker "Lifestyle". I was in the early stages of creative self-discovery following some major relationship shake ups. For the first time, I was exploring what I liked rather than what was expected of me. The blog was fun, and for a time it met a need for creative expression.

Interest (mine) waned toward the Fall of 2012. I was pregnant with my third child and working a full time corporate job. I discovered an inverse relationship with pregnancy and blogging: the baby grew and my interest in blogging about style shrunk. For the past two years, I had been under the leadership of a wonderful life coach and becoming steadily healthier. A focus on my inner world quickly overshadowed a focus on my outer world. The birth of my baby girl was what would eventually be the first death rattle of my style blog.

The years after baby 3 were born were sweet and simple. For the first time, I was able to stay home with my kids, and I gloried in all the baby-ness and stay-at-home-ness. I forgot all about the blog. In Spring 2014 I went back to work super part time.  I was still growing (counseling, groups, books) and getting healthier. Then we had two back-to-back difficult years that propelled me into a new season. To say they were "difficult" would be to diminish how punishing they were. We were tested bodily, spiritually, and financially in ways we felt approached biblical proportions. On top of that, the world had gone crazy-pants sideways. Between the social upheaval and political landscape of 2016, there was nowhere to run from the crazy. Having journaled every day for the better part of my life, I turned to writing.

It started as a series of essays helping me cope with the turmoil I saw in culture, a landscape that was becoming increasingly unrecognizable. Then I wrote a few embarrassingly bad short stories. During the time, I was training for a marathon doing a lot of running in the dark before children rose and the work day began. After I ran, I would get in my car and text myself the thoughts and ideas I had during the run.

One morning a scene like from a movie began playing in my head. I thought, "I should write that down." Then my inner critic - the one I was always fighting to recover from, the one who always told me I wasn't good enough or worth loving - piped in and told me I was crazy. Who was I to think I could write? But then another voice reminded me I had been writing every day for most of my life, and I could surely let it be a short story. So, I began. That was October 2016.

By January 2017 I had 18,000 words, and I was nowhere near finishing. I did some research. Novels start at 40,000 words, epics at 90,000.

I hit 40,000 words, and I decided to tell someone what I was doing. I told my husband.  Then I hit 60,000. A scene turned into a story. A story became a world. And a book was born.

By August 21, 2017 I had put the last sentence in novel that peaked over the top of 110,000 words. It was an incredible vista to stand upon, and on the horizon, I saw the tops of two more mountains. This book would be a trilogy.

It took over 14 years, but I finally figured out that a corporate job was never going to be a satisfying endeavor. Counseling, running and writing helped me get there. Fortunately, I have the support of a fantastic husband. I shudder to think of what it would be like if I didn't.

Here I am in 2018, resolved to see this book through to its full evolution. I have a first draft and am in the editing process. Meanwhile, I have started the next book, that sweet middle child. I have taken more steps to grow as a writer. Last year I joined a local writing group. Those writing friends were the first to hear some of my work. It was terrifying and exposing, and they were incredibly kind and encouraging. From time to time I write communion devotions for my church. With the encouragement of a dear writer friend, I applied and was accepted into a national writing group, The Redbud Writers Guild. Check them out! After some hemming and hawing all last year, I have decided to transition this space as a landing spot for ideas and meanderings of my mind. As before, I plan to keep it positive, loving, creative and encouraging. And honest. Always, even if it hurts, honest.

A handful of years ago, I had no idea I would be where I am now. In that vein, I have no idea what the future holds. I suppose this little digital time capsule will be useful for capturing the journey should any future selves want to look back and remember. In the meantime, welcome to the new Form & Function.

The Year of Acceptance

I have been thinking a lot about what I would do with this little corner of the internet. I found this post from January of 2016 today, and I really liked it. The year of acceptance turned into one year of acceptance, and one year of radical self-acceptance. I'm looking forward to what 2018 has in store for me, and for this little blog...

The holidays are over and I am both relieved and a little sad.  I love the holidays and we have enjoyed this Christmas but I am relieved to be on the other side of the spending mania and media bombardment of what the holidays are supposed to look like.

Now that they are over and I am in their wake, I am reflecting on where I want to go this year, what I am supposed to focus on.  The idea of acceptance has been surfacing again and again since I ran my first marathon in November.  I have prayed about it, journaled about it, talked to mentors and friends about it and I am convinced that 2016 is the year of acceptance.  Acceptance, along with forgiveness, is the last stage of the grief process.  It is a powerful stage full of freedom.  This year I will move toward acceptance in many aspects of my life and I am fully looking forward to the journey.

I got my daughter a Ripstick for Christmas.  This is like a skateboard with 2 wheels instead of 4.  It is deceptively difficult to get the hang of it, but I decided to give it a try.

Part of learning something new, of acquiring a new skill, moving into a new emotional space, growing is accepting where you are in the process.  I lost count of how many times I have fallen down but I tried to stay patient with myself, accept myself for where I was and keep trying.

And I've picked it up.  Maybe not as well as my 8 year old but not too bad for an "old" lady.  It's fun: to learn something new, to prove that I can still learn new things, hard things, physical things.

That's a good start to this year.