Category Archives: Holidays

Brooklyn, Take Me In

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“I’m still thinking about that man who lied to us,” my daughter said as I tucked her into bed the night we returned from a family weekend in New York City.

My husband and I lived in Manhattan for seven years, throughout our dating and early marriage but before we had children. Only one of our daughters had ever set foot in the Big Apple, and since she was six months old at the time, “set foot” isn’t quite accurate. So, this was our first time in New York City as a family of six.

We stayed for two days and two nights with dear friends who live in Brooklyn with their three children. The best way to describe our family’s relationship with these Brooklyn friends is to say, “We have the same books on our shelves.” This means that, although we see these friends rarely, and although we live “city mice/country mice” existences, when we get together it feels like home.

In emotional terms: We love spending time with this family. In practical terms: Because everyone gets along so well, this is the family to be with if you’re trying to shepherd seven children around New York City.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” — about some of our adventures OUT of Vermont — in The Addison Independent. 

A Good Friday Meditation on the Loss of Logic: Evangelicals, Guns, Life, Liberals, Free Speech, Bacon, and Jesus

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I have a daughter who cares so deeply about animals that we sometimes beg her: “Please, treat your sisters like they’re ducks.”

All animal-care chores in our house fall to this daughter; it is she who feeds our dog, and who wakes up early (some days) to help me with our poultry.

As our family continues down the road of trying to grow more of what we eat, we’re considering whether to keep a few animals for meat. We don’t eat much meat, but nobody in our house is vegetarian. While our daughters are fairly picky about the meat they eat, they agree on two things: bacon, and ham. Ham is an occasional treat, but our family consumes at least one packet of (uncured) bacon a week. Therefore, if we were to pick one food species that would make economic sense, it would be pigs.

Pigs make practical sense, too. They don’t require much in the way of housing, and they’re a short-term commitment (piglets arrive in spring and are ‘harvested” by late fall.)

When the possibility of pigs came up in dinnertime conversation, our animal-loving daughter burst into tears.

“We’re going to KILL them?” she sobbed.

We pointed out, as gently as possible, that she had eaten bacon that very morning. Her response was, “But I didn’t KNOW it!”

“Exactly. And chances are that pig you ate didn’t have a very good life. If you care about animals, wouldn’t you rather know that the animal you’re eating was treated well? That it was allowed to free-range under the trees? That it died as humanely as possible?”

“NO!” she wept. “I don’t want to eat anything that I know. That’s just no way to treat a houseguest! How would people feel if animals started killing them for food?”

We pointed out, as gently as possible, that if she felt this way then she might consider becoming a vegetarian. She shook her head. “No,” she protested. “I really like bacon.”

This same conversation has been repeated numerous times, always with the same illogical conclusion: My daughter rejects the idea of us raising animals for meat – even though she knows these animals will be treated far more humanely than much of the meat in stores or restaurants – while also refusing to give up eating meat. She literally weeps for the pigs while eating the bacon.

As exhausting as it is to argue in circles with my daughter, her thinking reminds me of what’s happening in our national dialogue these days.

Logic entails consistency: Your actions should correspond to your thoughts. My daughter is illogical because she is unable to consistently match her thoughts with her actions. If she truly cares about animals, she should either a) only eat meat that was treated well, or b) stop eating meat. If she continues eating meat with no thought to its origins, then she shouldn’t claim to care about the well being of animals.

That makes sense, right?

And yet.

Exhibit A:

I give you conservative Evangelicals who bemoan the moral decline of our country and long for nothing more than a return to “family values.” According to polls, the majority of this group supported the presidential campaign of a thrice-married man who boasted of adultery and sexual assault in the past, and may recently have unethically covered up other illicit affairs; a man who, as President of the United States, continually spews out puerile take-downs on Twitter.

Tony Perkins, president of the Family Research Council – a mouthpiece for conservative Evangelicals — recently said, “We kind of gave him – ‘All right, you get a mulligan. You get a do-over here.’” Perkins explained that Evangelical Christians “were tired of being kicked around by Barack Obama and his leftists. And I think they are finally glad that there’s somebody on the playground that is willing to punch the bully.”

Oh, right: Punch the bullies, just like Jesus said.

Actually, if anybody was being bullied on the playground, it was Jesus.

According to my reading of the Bible, the only people Jesus punched (verbally) were the religious leaders of his day, whom he called “hypocrites” because they were more concerned about advancing their own power and glory than truly following God. (Sound familiar?) So they executed Jesus; he was threatening their authority, while failing to threaten the Big Bully of the day — the Roman Empire.

It shouldn’t be surprising to John Perkins and other Evangelical Christians if they feel “kicked around.” Here’s what Jesus himself said: “’If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first…. If they persecuted me, they will persecute you also.’” (John 15: 18&20)

Being kicked around makes sense when you’re a counter-cultural troublemaker who’s calling out the hypocrisy of the religious establishment, teaching about justice and mercy, and caring for those on society’s margins.

What doesn’t make sense is claiming to care about morality, except in the case of an unrepentantly immoral leader whom you hope might advance your agenda, or claiming to follow Jesus while grabbing for power and respect.

Exhibit B:

In the wake of a Valentine’s Day shooting that killed 17 students at Florida’s Stoneman Douglas High School, many called for the passage of common sense gun laws on a local and national level – things like universal background checks, raising the age limit for gun purchases, and giving law enforcement more authority to remove guns from people deemed legitimate threats. They condemned the hypocrisy of certain politicians, who send “thoughts and prayers” to victims of mass shootings, but who resist passing stricter gun legislation because they take campaign money from the NRA (the equivalent of weeping for the pigs while eating the bacon.)

In the midst of this outcry, I heard comments from people – some of whom I know and love – to the effect that we shouldn’t demand stricter gun laws, because guns aren’t the real problem in mass shootings. The real culprits are any of the following: mental health, student bullying, parental negligence, violent video games, or an overall decline of American moral and family values. These people weren’t exactly touting automatic rifles, but they were saying, “Why bother with laws when there are also social and cultural problems at play?”

This line of thinking baffled me, because I just can’t see how this is an either-or situation. Should we address societal issues like mental health, bullying, violent content, and discipline? Sure! Should we also consider passing laws that will make it more difficult for troubled 18-year-olds to get their hands on automatic assault rifles? Yes!

The thing is, I’d guess that almost every person (the ones I know, at least) who voices this “Why bother with gun laws?” view, also mourns for the hundreds of thousands of unborn children who are aborted every year. And I wonder how they’d feel if I said to them, “You know, abortion is really a mental health/parental negligence/sexual promiscuity/decline of American moral and family values problem, so why bother changing any laws?”

If you feel strongly about abortion, don’t you want to address all of those things? I would hope that you’re opening your home and your wallet to pregnant women who need support, volunteering at crisis pregnancy centers, adopting children, advocating for better sex education and health care, and speaking out against the sexual objectification of women and America’s unhealthy relationship with sex. But I also bet that you’d like to see some laws that would at least discourage certain types of abortion.

That would be a logical approach. Instead, some people who call themselves “pro-life” appear more invested in the lives of unborn children than the lives of high school students. If you are truly pro-life, doesn’t that mean every life? As in: unborn children’s lives matter, their pregnant mothers’ lives matter, teenagers’ lives matter, Black Lives Matter, the lives of those on death row matter, the lives of those we send to war for our country matter? Otherwise, you’re just proving Barney Frank right: “Conservatives believe that from the standpoint of the federal government, life begins at conception and ends at birth.”

Exhibit C:

Thus far, I’ve focused my critique upon conservative Evangelicals. Inconsistent logic isn’t just a conservative Evangelical issue, though: Let’s consider politically liberal people who claim to embrace justice and tolerance. They believe everyone deserves to be treated fairly, regardless of race, income level, gender or sexual orientation — unless your political views offend them, in which case you deserve to be mocked, muzzled, and ostracized from discussion.

It’s been posited that this sense of superiority among liberal intellectuals contributed to a polarizing divide in our country that resulted in the election of our current President. On a smaller stage, it’s wreaking havoc in my husband’s industry: higher education.

On college campuses across the country, many faculty and students claim to welcome the free exchange of ideas – unless those ideas are odious to them.

Just the other week, I witnessed an exchange on Front Porch Forum, our community’s online bulletin board, which began when a member of the community became confused after our town’s gun safety rally was mistakenly listed as a “March for Life” (which wasn’t inaccurate, but it was part of the national “March for Our Lives.”) This person wrote in asking if the march was to protest the death of unborn children. Another member of our community – a colleague of my husband’s – responded by labeling this person an “anti-choice racist.”

How does such dialogue crushing name-calling get us anywhere?

Ideas, even offensive ones, should be brought into the light and engaged; they don’t just disappear if you kick them aside. History shows that if you force those with whom you disagree into a dark corner, they’ll just get angrier and angrier, and that anger will crystallize their ideas and make them more powerful.

Just as it makes no sense to be pro-only-some-lives, it makes no sense to be tolerant and open-minded only to those with whom you agree.

***

This may sound like a rant, but it’s really a love letter, born out of concern.

I am concerned for the Evangelicals, because we claim to worship the same God. On any demographic survey, I’d be labeled evangelical: I believe in the Bible and I love Jesus.

I am concerned for the liberals, because we tend to vote according to similar priorities; I find the so-called “liberal” concern for justice and marginalized people far more Jesus-like than that of many “conservatives.”

If my daughter continues weeping into her bacon without changing her actions, we will soon stop taking her concern for animals seriously. This is exactly what’s happening on a national level to Evangelicals and liberal intellectuals alike, but their lack of logical consistency reflects back upon things like Jesus, life, mercy, free speech, and justice – things that we should be taking seriously.

I’m not qualified to be writing this, being no paragon of logical consistency myself. I bemoan America’s love of big-box convenience, yet I still can’t seem to stop buying things on Amazon. I’m concerned about screens and social media destroying our culture, but I maintain a Facebook account. I’ve been known to eat animals of unknown provenance. I agonized for months over whether I should write this, while continuing to compose sweet little columns about my children and poultry – fiddling while Rome burned.

Matching our actions to our convictions is hard, because it always demands sacrifices, be they power, control, comfort, or bacon.

So, here is my prayer for all of us on this Good Friday – for conservative Evangelicals, liberal intellectuals, and me:

May our actions align with our beliefs, in the same way that a carpenter in 1st century Palestine said he loved the world enough to die for its sins – and then hung on a cross and did just that. That’s the kind of logical consistency that can change the world.

Christmas, and the In-Between

This is the reflection I gave at our church’s Christmas Eve service last night, for those who’d like to read it. I wish you all a happy Christmas, and peace in the in-betweens.

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You are one half of an infertile couple. For years, you’ve prayed that God would bless you with a child. It seems a good request, a simple request; after all, you’ve been obedient to God, pulled up stakes and left everything behind to follow Him. In return, God’s made some nice-sounding promises about creating a great nation from your line. But the years keep passing, one after another after another, your body wrinkling, sagging, aging past the point of possibility. Sometimes you wonder if God has forgotten you – or maybe you didn’t quite understand Him correctly?

***

You are a prostitute, surrounded by the indestructible walls of a large oasis city. Perhaps you feel trapped by both your profession and your location. There’s not much time to think, though: Your family depends on you. But sometimes you go up to the roof of your house and look out over the city wall, and you think back on all the decisions – some that you made and some that you didn’t – that got you to this place.

***

You are a young widow, left without husband or children in a culture where both are essential to your security and worth. Out of a sense of love and duty – and perhaps lacking better options – you’ve chosen to accompany your mother-in-law back to her hometown. The people here despise your own people group: They deride you as the offspring of an ancient incest. In order to support yourself and your mother-in-law, you become a migrant scavenger, following the field laborers to pick up any grain they’ve left behind. Your back aches, your legs ache, and sometimes you ask yourself whether you’ll always feel like an old rag left out flapping on the line.

***

You are the youngest son in a family with seven older brothers: Seven older brothers who are tall, handsome, and brave. While your brothers go out to the glory of the battlefield, you’re left behind to tend the livestock, to fetch, carry, run errands. As you spend hours in the pasture, watching the sheep graze under the hot sun, you keep a sharp eye out for predators, you write songs in your head, and you wonder whether anybody will ever notice you – whether there will ever be anything special left for you.

 

These are the situations in which we first meet four well-known Biblical characters: Abraham the father of many, Rahab the harlot with a heart of gold, Ruth the model daughter-in-law, and David the future king. These characters have something in common: All are ancestors of Jesus, part of Matthew’s list of Jesus’s lineage.

If you’ve spent time in church or Sunday School, you may be familiar with the happy endings of each of their stories:

How Abraham and his wife Sarah miraculously had a son, Isaac, when Abraham was 100 years old – 25 years after God first promised to make Abraham a great nation.

How Rahab helped two Hebrew spies who were scoping out Jericho, so she and her family were the sole survivors when Jericho’s walls came tumbling down.

Rahab would became Ruth the Moabite’s other mother-in-law, after Rahab’s son Boaz spotted Ruth gleaning in his field and married her.

And David, the runt of the litter, got picked out of the whole lineup of his brothers, chosen by God as Israel’s king.

We may be so familiar with the happily-ever-after aspect of these stories that it clouds our reading, and we view the hard parts through the lens of the coming joy; we like happy endings.

But tonight, I’m not as interested in the happy endings as I am in the in-betweens. I’m interested in the long years of waiting: the helplessness, hopelessness, and just plain boredom that each of these people must have experienced until God graciously delivered them from childlessness, prostitution, destitute widowhood, and overlooked little-brotherness.

And I’m interested in the years that followed, in what happened after happily-ever-after. Because their happy endings weren’t the end of the story: There were still diapers to change, meals to cook, dishes to wash, livestock to tend, heartaches to endure, countries to run.

What got them through the years of pain and the years of mundane? What gets us through them?

The fact is, we spend most of our lives in the in-between. There are moments of amazing grace, of miracles, of salvation. But these are often separated by years of waiting: helpless, hopeless, bored. There are diapers to change, meals to cook, dishes to wash, livestock to tend, heartaches to endure, jobs to do. We have Christmas — and we have the other 364 days of the year.

But here’s the thing: Abraham, Rahab, Ruth, and David were always part of a bigger plan – a plan that dwarfed their own personal happy endings. The baby, the deliverance, the wealthy husband, and the kingdom weren’t the most important things after all – the most important thing was that each of these people was getting the world a little closer to Jesus, adding another branch onto the family tree of our Savior.

So, what does this have to do with you and me?

When Jesus came into the world, he made it possible for God to adopt all of us as His children. Paul writes in Romans 8: “Those who are led by the spirit of God are sons of God….The Spirit himself testifies that we are God’s children. Now if we are children, then we are heirs – heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ[.]”

In other words: We’ve been grafted into Jesus’s family tree. Those who follow Jesus are the continuation of his lineage, the extension of the story that began with Abraham, Rahab, Ruth, and David. Our lives may feel helpless, hopeless, or boring; we may be waiting for our happy ending, we may feel stuck in our mundane daily life, but our lives are being woven into the tapestry of God’s great plan to save the world – His plan that began with Jesus and continues through us. We are part of a story so much bigger than our own.

And the best thing is: We already know that this bigger story will have a happy ending.

The most repeated phrase in the Bible is one that echoes throughout Jesus’s birth, spoken by angels to his mother, father, and a rag-tag gang of shepherds: “Do not be afraid.” In her book Unwrapping the Greatest Gift, Ann Voskamp writes, “All fear comes from thinking that somewhere God’s love will end.” Abraham, Rahab, Ruth, and David trusted in God’s love, which enabled them to leave behind what was comfortable and known, and to take the brave steps of faith that would eventually lead them to their happy endings. God’s love never ended for them: it was there through both the soaring and the mundane chapters of their stories, and it continued on through the generations that followed – all the way down to us.

This Christmas Eve, may we sink into the wonder of this realization that we are heirs of Abraham, Rahab, Ruth, David, and Jesus himself. Let’s commemorate a joyous birth together as family: The birth of this God-child, who is both the miraculous start of God’s great happy-ending plan, and at the same time is a baby mired in the mundane and in pain – a displaced infant on the rough outskirts of an empire who will need to be fed, to have his diapers changed, to become a refugee fleeing genocide.

And the other 364 days of the year, may we live in the knowledge that all the diapers, all the meals, all the dishes, all the heartache, all our days and nights – all of these things matter, because they are all part of our stories, which are all part of God’s great story.

May the assurance of His endless love give us peace and courage, not only in happy endings, but in the in-betweens.

This Little Light

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One week ago, my daughters made beeswax candles for the first time. Before you get impressed, this was not the sort of candle making that involves dipping wicks into a vat of hot wax; our sort of candle making involved ordering sheets of colored beeswax and a spool of wicking. Cut a length of wicking about one inch longer than the beeswax, lay it at one end of the sheet, and roll. Voila!

It’s one of the simplest and most satisfying crafts our family has ever done. Everyone – from our four-year-old on up – was able to produce nice-looking and useable candles. The older girls got fancy, rolling their beeswax sheets into spiral tapers and cutting shapes from different colors to decorate their candles.

My parents hosted the candle making in their mudroom, perfect because the floor’s radiant heat made the beeswax more pliable. All together, my daughters and some friends spent two hours rolling beeswax on that floor, producing an impressive number of candles.

Most of these candles were gifts for friends and teachers. That’s the beauty of winter candle making: No matter what you celebrate this time of year, it involves candles.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent. 

Missing Santa Claus

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Our family missed Santa Claus this year.

Ever since we moved to Vermont seven years ago, our family has attended the “Very Merry Middlebury” festivities in downtown Middlebury on the first Saturday of December. This annual celebration, designed to welcome the winter holiday season, includes a hot chocolate hut, horse-drawn carriage rides, a scavenger hunt for themed ornaments in Main Street’s shop windows, and various craft fairs. The Sheldon Museum’s spectacular model train diorama is open to the public, as are the impressive entries in the Vermont Folklife Center’s gingerbread creation contest. Inspired children can make (and eat) their own graham cracker “gingerbread” houses at Ilsley Public Library.

Santa Claus himself begins the day, riding into Middlebury atop a town fire engine.

We look forward to the Very Merry Middlebury tradition every year. But this year, there was some consternation among the adults in our family when we noticed that the schedule listed Santa’s arrival at 9:15 AM.

Click here to continue reading this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.

Dead Mom Walking

This is my birth story: The story of how I became a mother for the first time. I wrote it five years ago, in honor of International Women’s Day, and it appeared in the On the Willows blog. 

I am posting it again because the other day this article appeared on my NPR news feed, featuring a mother who had the exact same conditions that I did, but whose birth story didn’t end as happily. When I first wrote this story, I was focusing on child and maternal healthcare elsewhere in the world, in less developed countries, but this NPR story happened RIGHT HERE, in my own country. 

Today is Mother’s Day, and for the past couple of days I’ve been walking around thinking about mothers who won’t have the chance to be celebrated today, because their birth stories ended badly. I dedicate this to them, with the prayer that we will advocate for quality maternal and child healthcare throughout the world AND right where we live. Every mother should have the chance to celebrate Mother’s Day. 

Me, about two weeks before Fiona’s birth.

It’s a miracle that I’m sitting here, typing this right now, because I should be dead.

That’s not an exaggeration; I’m not trying on a dramatic opening line for effect. I should be dead, and in any other time or place, I would be.

I’ve never written about the circumstances of our first daughter’s birth before, because my husband Erick was the one writing all the updates during and after, so here goes:

I had a fairly easy, uneventful first pregnancy. No morning sickness, no notable symptoms of any kind aside from an insatiable craving for movie theater popcorn. When they took the 20-week ultrasound, the doctors noticed that our baby was a little on the small side, but nobody worried much about it. “You’re a small person,” they said, by way of explanation.

Then my doctor went to Korea for six weeks. The two substitute doctors I saw in the interim noted that the baby was still measuring small, “But you’re a small person,” they kept saying. Other than smallness, both the baby and I seemed healthy.

When my regular doctor came back and the baby was still lagging behind in size, he was nervous. This doctor, who saw me through three pregnancies, is long on brains and short on bedside manner — which was fine by me. Imagine a very, very pessimistic, Korean Mr. Miyagi, and you’ve captured him. (His introduction to genetic testing was: “Sometimes, baby is born with no brain.”). He sent me to a specialist in high-risk pregnancies for another ultrasound, and he prescribed a weekly non-stress test (where you sit for an hour while a nurse monitors the baby’s heart rate — then it was boring, now I’d call it a vacation). The baby continued to measure small, but everything else was a-okay. I tried to eat more and move less.

Skip ahead to Saturday, November 17, 2007 — two weeks before my due date. I noticed my heart racing a little bit that morning, and my ankles and feet were suddenly very swollen, but I didn’t think much of it; both seemed within the realm of normal third trimester symptoms.

The next morning, which was to be the day of my baby shower, I woke up with what I thought was heartburn. Again, a normal pregnancy discomfort. Skipped church, did some work on the couch, sent Erick out for Tums and 7-Up. A few hours later, when the heartburn seemed to be getting worse, Erick suggested I call the advice nurse. I did so, reluctantly: I have this fear of annoying nurses with silly concerns, which comes from decades of people-pleasing. But I figured that maybe she could hook me up with some prescription-strength Tums. “You’re pregnant with chest pain,” the nurse told me bluntly. “You need to go to the ER.”

We obediently went to the ER (me looking at my watch in annoyance to see how much time was left until my baby shower). When the intake nurse took my blood pressure, it was much higher than usual — much higher than it had been at my checkup three days earlier. I noted this, but he told me that increased blood pressure was normal in late pregnancy. The EKG was normal. I was sent to the outpatient clinic.

It was at this point that my “heartburn” became excruciating. The people in the waiting room thought I was in labor, and, having been through three subsequent labors, I can tell you that the pain was right up there. I remember very little from this point on, just that they took my blood pressure again and it was even higher than before. Suddenly, a nurse was running with me in a wheelchair over to Labor & Delivery, cursing the people at the ER who hadn’t thought to send me directly there in the first place.

The Labor & Delivery nurses hooked me up and started running tests. These nurses were amazing; I remember asking them two things: “Can you please make the pain go away?” and “Do you think I can make my baby shower? It starts in 30 minutes.” They made the pain go away, but one of the kind nurses said, “Honey, I think you’re going to miss your baby shower.”

It turns out I had sudden, severe preeclampsia. Preeclampsia is pregnancy-induced high blood pressure. In my case, preeclampsia was combined with a condition called HELLP Syndrome, which is an acronym for Hemolysis (the breakdown of red blood cells), Elevated Liver enzymes, and Low Platelets. Possible outcomes of this combo include hemorrhage, liver and kidney failure (my “heartburn” was, in fact, my liver swelling), pulmonary edema, stoke…and death. The only cure is to deliver the baby immediately. Fiona was delivered via emergency c-section. At 37.5 weeks, she was full term, but she weighed in at 3 lbs. 11 oz.  She spent one night in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for observation, and was released the next day, completely healthy.

The first picture ever taken of Fiona.

Because I was recovering from a rather traumatic birth, and because I suddenly had a 3 lb. 11 oz. baby to care for, I didn’t initially spend a lot of time reflecting upon what had just happened. And I still don’t, since that baby was followed very quickly by three others. But here’s what I know now:

The causes of preeclampsia and HELLP Syndrome are unknown. Researchers currently suspect insufficient blood flow to the uterus, immune system problems, or poor diet as possible causes. My case was a little strange, both because of its sudden and severe onset, and also because I had only one of the usual risk factors for preeclampsia: that this was my first pregnancy. Nobody has ever been able to explain Fiona’s tiny size, other than that it must have had something to do with the preeclampsia. (And our other three daughters weren’t exactly linebackers when they were born).

According to the Preeclampsia Foundation, preeclampsia affects at least 5-8% of all pregnancies, and HELLP Syndrome accompanies 15-20% of cases of severe preeclampsia. While preeclampsia rarely causes maternal death in the developed world these days, it is a leading cause of worldwide maternal and infant deaths. Conservative estimates are that preeclampsia is responsible for 76,000 maternal and 500,000 infant deaths worldwide per year.

It’s not just the numbers that get me. Since Fiona’s birth, I’ve read several accounts of preeclamptic women in third world countries who died (along with their unborn children) while waiting for medical care outside of health centers. I’ve even read of a woman who died from preeclampsia in this country during the last century. So, every once in a while, I will stop and think, “If I’d been born in just about any other time or place, I would be dead right now. And so would Fiona.”

Erick and me with Fiona, the day after her birth. You’ll notice I don’t look so great, because I wasn’t.

I’m writing this on March 8, International Women’s Day. (It’s a shame I didn’t write it in time to actually post on International Women’s Day, but that’s how life is these days). Thinking about International Women’s Day got me reflecting on Fiona’s birth, because even though this is a personal story, the conclusions I draw from it are quite global:

1. I am so stinking grateful for health care. Sure, the hospital made a few snafus in my case (they should’ve sent me to Labor & Delivery right away, for instance), but Fiona and I were able to get quick and appropriate medical attention to save our lives. The nurses and doctors who cared for us were competent and compassionate, and during most of the experience I had confidence that everything would turn out okay. It did; I came out on the other side, and followed up with three completely normal and healthy pregnancies, labors, and deliveries. So I think of myself as a “Dead Mom Walking.” Then I look around and realize that I know a whole lot of Dead Moms Walking: women who, like me, would be dead had they not received appropriate medical care during their pregnancies and deliveries. I bet you know a bunch of Dead Moms Walking — you may even be a Dead Mom Walking. Childbirth is, and always has been, a very risky proposition; it’s a luxury that, in this time and place, most of us go into it covered by the assurance that everything will likely be well.

2. I think it’s absolutely unacceptable that so many women in the world don’t have access to the health care that I do. Why are so many women and babies still dying from a condition that my baby and I lived through? A condition that can be cured by a timely c-section? Why are some of these women dying on the sidewalk outside of health care centers? I can imagine why; if I’d had to walk to the hospital, or if we’d had to take time to figure out how to pay for my care, or if the hospital didn’t have the capacity to do c-sections, it would have been too late. I believe this reality fits squarely into the definition of “injustice.”

There are a few excellent initiatives and organizations involved in preeclampsia research, and working to address the imbalances in maternal health care, like the aforementioned Preeclampsia Foundation, The United Nations Foundation, and the Million Moms Challenge. I wish there were more. I would love to see those 5- and 6-digit death figures diminish to near zero: more Dead Moms Walking, less dead moms. If I were First Lady, or Miss America, or Angelina Jolie, this would be “my issue.” And I guess, even though I’m just me, it still is my issue.

Fiona today.

When You Feel Like Your Family is Killing You: Thoughts On Washing Feet (and a Little Bit of Politics)

Have you ever felt like your family was killing you?

I don’t mean killing with intent, of course; I’m talking about a slow and steady nibbling away at your emotional, physical, and spiritual health. The sense that your blood is flowing directly into their veins, and your breath is being sucked up by their lungs. The fear that it might really happen: You may not be able to take one more step, answer one more question, or get out of bed tomorrow morning. The joy-sucking realization that you’re giving and giving, they’re taking and taking, and the equation will probably never be balanced.

I have felt this way. My neck and shoulders become cement and I feel like I’m carrying three times my body weight — the combined total weight of my people. My people, who want me to answer “How long does it take to get to the Moon?”, slice them an apple for snack, listen to their latest piano piece, and admire their newest Lego creation — all at the same time. My people, who throw themselves down screaming in front of a whole schoolyard full of people when I won’t carry them to the car — because I’m already loaded down by three backpacks. And that was just yesterday.

The endless dishes, crusty countertops, overflowing baskets of laundry, popcorn and Cheerios crunching underfoot: These things seem to sit on my chest and crush my breath.

Many’s the time I’ve longed for a diagnosis — not a terribly bad one, of course, but one in which the doctor says, “I’m sorry, the only cure is for you to spend a week in bed, in total silence.”

The last time I felt sure my family would kill me was two days ago, in the pre-dawn hours between Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Earlier in the day, when I wasn’t homeschooling two daughters, shuttling everyone else back and forth from activities, or hosting two little friends who were over to play, I was hustling to get five apple trees and two blueberry bushes — which had arrived the day before and needed to be planted within 48 hours — into the ground.

When I collapsed into bed that night, I was looking at about six hours of sleep before I had to wake up and do it all over again.

At about 12:30 AM, the screaming started.

One of our daughters was scared. So scared that she woke up two of her sisters, who had to be soothed down. So scared that she couldn’t sleep.

At 1:30 AM, after three trips up and down the stairs, doing all that I could to comfort and reassure (prayers, back rubs, silent meditation, etc.), I dragged my pillow and an extra quilt upstairs and made a “bed” by pulling two beanbags together.

My neck and shoulders had become cement, and I settled in for a long, sleepless night on the floor. My daughter continued to cry on and off, and I cried, too.

They are killing me, I thought. This is SO UNFAIR. 

It wasn’t until the next day that I realized the parallels between my night on the floor and this Easter holiday that we’re celebrating.

(I’m going to write a little bit about Jesus now. If you don’t celebrate Easter, or don’t believe in Jesus’s spiritual legacy, please don’t stop reading; This is a story to which I think anybody can relate.)

***

In the hours between Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, the Bible tells us, Jesus also spent a sleepless night. Jesus also cried. He was stretched out on the hard ground of the garden of Gesthemane. He’d just celebrated the Last Supper with his disciples, and he knew he’d been betrayed by Judas – one of that chosen family of disciples – to Jerusalem’s religious leaders. He knew that those leaders were coming at any moment to arrest him and lead him off to death.

The differences between Jesus and me are clear. Jesus never said, “This is SO UNFAIR!” He was distressed. He asked if God could take away what was coming. But, unlike me, Jesus didn’t whine.

Also, unlike me, Jesus actually was about to die.

***

After this realization hit me, I recalled the conversation I’d had with my daughters the night before.

We were reading about the Last Supper in the Gospel of John. We read about how, before Jesus celebrated the Passover meal with his disciples, he took off his robe, put on an apron, and washed their feet. Their filthy, smelly, walking-on-dirt-and-dung-strewn-1st century roads feet. He told them to be servants like him; to wash each other’s feet and love each other.

Next, Jesus predicted that one of the disciples would betray him. When asked who would do such a thing, Jesus dipped a piece of bread in wine and handed it to Judas Iscariot. Judas promptly left to collect on the 30 pieces of silver he’d get in exchange for Jesus’s life.

“Wait,” one of my daughters interrupted, “So, was Judas there for the foot washing part, too?”

In all my years of reading about the Last Supper, I’m embarrassed to say, this thought had never occurred to me.

“I guess he was,” I answered. “The Bible says Jesus was gathered with all his disciples. Judas was a disciple, so he must’ve been there the whole time.”

And it felt like a punch right to my gut: Jesus washed the filthy, smelly feet of the man he KNEW was going to cause his death.

***

As I staggered around, exhausted, that morning after my sleepless night, I thought about how Jesus, knowing he was actually going to die, washed the feet of his murderer and spent a sleepless night of agony without whining.

I am far from being Jesus, but maybe I could try to cultivate those same attitudes with respect to my family.

Maybe, just maybe, we could all try to cultivate those same attitudes with respect to each other.

***

It’s not just our families that cause us sleepless nights: Especially now, at this particular moment in history, it’s almost impossible to keep from worrying over the state of our nation and our world. Terrorism and genocide headline international news. Political parties — and their supporters — refuse to listen, talk, or work together. Emotions are high in my own little town over a controversial speaker who was recently invited to speak at Middlebury College.

These things can slowly nibble away at our emotional, physical, and spiritual health.

Everywhere you look, we are divided: nation against nation, race against race, gender against gender, party against party, humans against world. The list goes on, until all the “against’s” crack open and release a flood of vitriolic social media posts, strident position statements, nonsensical legislation, and anxiety-provoking newscasts.

I have been divided against myself as well. Shortly after the U. S. Presidential election, I read something online — I can’t remember who wrote it — the gist of which was: “Now, more than ever, we need writers to give voice to what’s going on.”

I’m a writer, I thought, so I guess I should write about what’s going on. Otherwise I might be complicit; I might become part of the problem.

I wrote a couple of posts about the state of our nation. People who agreed with me were complimentary, and those who didn’t agree either don’t read or stayed gracefully silent.

But I never felt quite right about these posts. So, for the past few months, I’ve stuck to my usual subject matter: Vermont, my children, birds and trees and weather, quaint happenings in our small town. All the while, I’ve felt terribly guilty that I wasn’t addressing Bigger Things.

As I thought about sleepless nights, Jesus, foot washing, and family, I realized the source of my angst: By adding my political opinions to the mix, I feared becoming part of the problem. By choosing sides publicly, I would be complicit in deepening the already deep divides between us. Because at the bottom, the problem isn’t Trump, or ISIS, or Charles Murray: The problem is that we are all picking our sides, digging in our heels, writing our posts and statements against each other.

This is not to say that we shouldn’t care about injustice, or that we shouldn’t speak or act against assaults to human rights. This is to say that we need to choose our issues and how we address them with care.

And it may be that the most important things we do to fight injustice are not done publicly, or on social media. Things like washing feet.

Jesus showed love to Judas, who was about to kill him, by washing his feet. I don’t want to cheapen this act with an overused word  like “love” or “grace;” but perhaps if we applied a little more of  “whatever it takes to wash the feet of your killer” to our lives, our politics, our world, we might see radical change.

“But, Faith,” you say, “Jesus did that, and he was killed anyway.”

Yes, he was. And — regardless of whether you subscribe to the resurrection or the religion that arose after his death — I think most would agree that the world was radically changed.

***

So, for now, I will continue to write about things that are true and beautiful: Vermont, my children, birds and trees and weather, quaint happenings in our small town. And I will continue trying to do “whatever it takes to wash the feet of your killer” when I feel like my family — both the family in my house and my family in the world — is killing me. Given the choice, I’d rather live out what I’m for, rather than write about what I’m against.

Happy Easter.