The Cultivation of Character

They say that to grow a character...to really overcome things such as prejudice, dishonesty, and selfishness you have to work it like a garden. Get down and dirty and take hold of those pesky intrusions of fallacy and uproot them. Like weeding...I hate weeding.

As a young child it was my most dreaded job and unfortunately one of my mothers most popular hobbies was to create elaborate English herb gardens and flowerbeds that grew weeds in abundance. Secretly I believed that she gave birth to three strong children simply to use them as serf labor in her grandiose schemes of turning the Montana wilderness into something tamed and "civilized". Which of course in her defense, as an adult, I do understand was not the case.

Weeding is just so un-pleasant. It's boring for one, and infuriating for another, there is nothing more frustrating then laboring hard over a bed of dirt to turn around two days later and have it all for nought. There is something awful about getting dirt jammed under your fingernails, and the feeling of dry dusty dirt drying on your hands is not high on my favorite sensations. Yes, I truly dislike weeding, which may explain why I haven't even attempted a garden in my adult life, which is also because I seem to have a cursed brown thumb that could kill even plastic plants. I have never been successful, not even once. In keeping a small green thing alive. I've even killed African Violets, which my mother assures me is the most hardy and un-killable plant there is, as they are in fact..from Africa and do survive in some of the most inhospitable conditions possible. But that is no match for my plant killing skill apparently. There are no African violets in my house at the moment, if that tells you anything.

So yes, I'm not great at growing things, and I hate weeding. Which is ironic, because in the development of character as a garden plot...I am in great need. More then the average person out there I think. I have always considered myself selfish. More then most. I have had a great knack of getting what a wanted through-out my life for which I am not proud. As well as sometimes being a bit of a bulldozer when I have something in my sights and ashamedly at times have left the wreckage of the ends justifying the means in my wake. Again, I am not proud of this. I could go on with other arguments to substantiate my claims of being more selfish then most, but am also guilty of a fair bit of pride so will stop before it is to embarrassing.But motherhood, doesn't allow much room for selfishness it appears...or if it does, I haven't found out how. I know this because motherhood hurts. It hurts in the selfishness department and by this I know I've got to weed.

I have always feared that somewhere I've missed some "goodness" gene, or at least a natural mothering gene. I felt this first during pregnancy when, I heard other expecting mothers profess love for their unborn children in glowing terms of endearment and express that whatever discomfort they may be experiencing, be it vomiting, back pain, leg cramps, loss of sanity, loss of sleep, loss of memory...whatever it was, would in fact all be worth it once they saw that little child. I'll be honest, I wasn't so sure. I felt like a host planet to aliens and resented the invasion of my body. Which of course I felt guilty about. And I feel guilty now, when young new mothers talk about the joys of motherhood and how life is so much better now that they came along, and how did they ever live with out them. I'll be honest, I remember how I did. Life was easier then...Dustan and I actually knew how to communicate fairly well, I got a lot more sleep, I didn't feel like I was on a hair trigger of insanity, and it was fairly easy to complete everyday tasks. I actually felt like I knew what I was doing most days, and was a dependable, reliable, on time kind of person, who's house was respectable at most points, and appearance was mostly professional. Not any more! And guess what, it hurts a bit. It hurts to be knocked down to size, actually to feel like you've been knocked down to miro-size. It's painful to feel like you are divided and lacking on all fronts and failing miserably in some. I hate to say this because I don't hear it often from other mothers so I feel a bit like a chicken with its neck out...but I've got to say it just in case there is a mother anywhere in the world who feels like me and needs to know she isn't insane. Or if she is, that she isn't the only one.

And to encourage her to hang on, just do the next thing, keep working hard, and praying harder...and to hold so tight, to the precious little moments that slip in during those insane days. The moments of a little hand squeezing your finger, the calm that ensues in a hysterical child from your touch and yours alone, for the little imp smile that makes them so hard to be mad at when you find them putting all their toys in the toilet bowl, and for the beautiful face that is a part of you. These are God's gift to remind you, you were in fact...made to be a mother.

I am angry

Today I am angry.

I've taken a keen interest in the recent news frenzy of doomsday coming on May 21rst. Not because I believe it, but because my job surrounds me with wide eyed teenagers who live on the computer and look to me for some spiritual input.

I've heard the arguments of the times of Noah...that a day is as a thousand years in the bible...and that the time to be ready is now. And I've marveled at how it so often in a mix of truth and error that confusion is bred.

I've followed the story of the Doomsday spokesperson of NYC, Fitzpatrick. who spent his entire life savings of 140 grand to pay for advertising in the subways and buses of NYC. And today I saw the pictures of a confused and deflated man, checking his watch as a loud, jeering man with a wiry black beard, stands next to him and sneers into the camera as he holds up some of Fitzpatrick's flyer's. And it makes me angry.

My heart breaks for him and bristles at the callousness of humanity to mock a man who is down. We all have much to learn.

I stood in a checkout line the other day and listened to the checker and bagger go back and forth about the validity of the Bible, the concept of prophecy, and the Second Coming. And I prided myself that I had the reassurance the there would be no end of the world on May 21rst because of my knowledge of the Bible and the fact that it says no man knows the day or hour. And I was silent.

But as I loaded my groceries in the car a slow wave came over me, questions that made me think. Does it really matter if the world doesn't end tomorrow? Do I somehow rest in complacency because I know it won't happen? Would I give all I had to spread the word and stand publicly in Times square if I was truly convicted? Have I become lazy in "truth".

I do not believe in the method of Fitzpatrick, or the message that he taught. But I cannot point a finger or mock a man who has sold out for hope and now lost it all. I can only be convicted of my own responsibility to know what I believe.

I wonder what drives humanity to find the weaker man, to kick someone who is already down? Somehow the golden rule has been forgotten. Who has never been wrong? Who has never been prideful? Who has never been awkward or alone? Let them take up the dirty job of hate. As for me, I will never claim to have been immune from any of these things. And today, as Fitzpatrick wakes up bewildered and alone...I will pray. Pray for healing in a man who is broken, pray for hope when its hard to see, and pray that someday...God will come.

The Evolution of Man

She lays on his arm, her tiny head engulfed by his broad hand. He has black grease stains up to his elbows that soap didn't take off. It's clung to the callouses on his fingers like black ink spots would on men who write stories, and it tells his story.

A hard working man's man who loves cars, and sports, and getting dirty. Who doesn't have time for frills or fluff or delicate things. But you wouldn't guess it now. Because she is nothing but delicate and perfectly at home there. And he handles her as gently as a person could and holds her with a tenderness that cannot be rivaled, for she belongs to him. She is his child.


He used to worry about the frailness of babies, used to worry about the diapers, and demands, and needs of those mysterious things. But you wouldn't guess it now, because he has stepped up to the plate and taken that ball home...changing diapers in seconds, dressing, burping, feeding.

I watch him kiss them, listen to him gurgle and coo, and hear him tell extravagant stories to two little big eyed babies...and I wonder at the evolution of this man from just a guy...to father.

It's time to go now and he scoops her up with a deftness he has previously always shown in anything physical, and walks out the door, only to return seconds later and ask..."is there another binki? this one doesn't match her outfit."

A Mother's Heart

Today we laid to rest one of our youth, 21 years old, talented, passionate, and smart. Gui Sobral. His smile has graced our lives, his energy contagious. The only son of dedicated and loving parents, killed in a twisted car crash a week ago. And for the first time in my life, I felt something new, something unexplainable, something so much bigger then myself.
I watched as his mother supported by someone on each side stepped up to read a poem she had written, the kind of raw emotion, grief, loss, pain…the stricken look of devastation, of lost expectations, of memories, of love. I watched as childhood pictures flickered across the screens, simple pictures to us, but to his parents, parts of their lives, parts of everything that he had been. Glimpses into a lifetime of love. And I saw her anguish and something intensely foreign began to well inside of me.
I have to be honest; I haven’t felt attached to this pregnancy. I’ve felt invaded, taken over, not in control. I’ve resented the days and nights of sickness, the limitations, the tiredness, I’ve felt claustrophobic and trapped. I’ve laid awake at night and wondered if somehow I’m missing some vital mothering instinct that is supposed to be apparent in all females. I’ve heard those around me who are pregnant, gush about their feelings of passionate love for their unborn, their excitement, that glow. And I’ve been jealous of it. Worried really. People have asked me everyday how excited I am, and I’ve answered with caution and a simple smile…”I’m getting there” when in reality, I feel very far from it.
But today, I sat there…in that pew and an emotion started to well from within the very depths of my being, a understanding, an agony. As I felt the kicks of my own children, and heard the wail of a mother who had lost hers, I felt it…what must be, has to be, a mothers heart. Nothing so intense, nothing so clear, nothing so pure in feeling , in emotion, has ever overcome me. I had to hold on to the seat, literally, to keep from rushing to a woman I don’t even know, to grasp her to me, to weep with her, to hold her in her loss, to help feel a pain I am now only beginning to understand. And in that moment, I loved my children, they are not just what lives inside of me, but they are why I live. I will be from this moment on, always a mother. They are mine, a part of myself, my responsibility, my inspiration, my motivation, my heart.
They lower Gui into the ground, and as they do, my babies kick. And I feel a holy fear of the sense of protectiveness I feel for these unborn children of mine. A complete abandon of any sense of sacrifice to big or to great for those that I call my own. There is nothing, nothing, that would be to big, or too much for me to give or do, to protect them, to uphold them, to see them succeed, to see them live fulfilled and happy, to have them understand my love. There is nothing that I could even call a sacrifice, because it is what I want to do. Because today…I am a mother.

A Whole Box of Positive

I just couldn't remember...one line or two lines? I sat there on the edge of the bathtub holding the pregnancy test thinking rather blindly that I thought it was two lines for positive, but that just couldn't be right, because there were two lines on that little sucker and well, I couldn't be pregnant.

I had woke up feeling very odd that morning, and on a hunch had rummaged through my bathroom drawer for that old test I had had from a previous scare years ago. I had long since thrown away the box, and had no idiot proof reference in the instruction book ,that actually gives you a little picture of what it's supposed to look like if it's positive.

I googled the question "what does a positive cvs pregnancy test look like" and wouldn't you know it. Dozens of other women had the same question. And wouldn't you know it, they said it was two lines. And wouldn't you know it, I didn't believe it. I woke Dustan up and told him we needed to go to Rite aid THIS MINUTE and get some pregnancy tests...he was a little to stunned to argue and off we marched. We got a box, and I mean a box of pregnancy test and brought them home.

In a daze I went through the entire box and blinked unbelievably as one after another came up positive, within moments. I'm not a swearing person, I'm a pastor and I was raised with a clean mouth policy...but there is something about finding out you are pregnant that kind of makes you want to swear. I certainly thought it, if I didn't say it...."$&%*"what have we gotten ourselves into. Visions of sleepless nights, screaming children in checkout lines, snotty noses, and dirty diapers whirled through my head. Loss of freedom and flexibility seemed to creep in from the dark corners of my mind as we looked at that bathroom windowsill...at the lineup of our future. A whole box of positive. Yep, a whole box. Not one, not two....a...whole....box. And then Dustan took pictures, and gave me a huge, and told me I was going to be a great mommy. And I cried, because I was so darned sacred. Dustan was all smiles and laughter...and I didn't talk for three days.

Six weeks later we found ourselves in a small maroon and teal office waiting for the Doctor to give us the first glimpse of our baby. He did his job with ease and professionalism right up to the point where he paused and said, "huh". We froze..."look at that, there are two." I wish I had a picture of Dustan's face...the color drained, the eyes dilated...I argued with the Doctor, "no, you don't understand, that is not possible. There are no twins in my family, this was not planned, I'm not an older mother...there can't be twins." He very factually replied that one out of every eighty couples have twins without fertility drugs...ONE OUT OF EIGHTY! Why have I never heard that statistic?!? And then we heard two little heart beats, and visions of forty little fingers and toes flashed through my head, of two little blue eyed blonds, and I laid my head back on that table and laughed and shook my head, and laughed some more....and Dustan didn't talk for three days.

The Thing I Fear Most

There is not a lot in life I fear. This is not always a good thing.

When I was just barely big enough to reach the measuring line, stretching my spine as much as I could, I lived for the roller coasters that would go fast and upside down. My mother would stand next to the track and wait for me as I went over and over on the scariest rides with my big cousin. My cousin taught me to wait for the first car and put my hands in the air to make it more exciting, which I did, because more exciting was good.

I've been bitten in the face twice by dogs, once it resulted in several stitches, mainly because I had no fear and put my face right down to that cute, snarling, snapping dog.

I used to climb out my window in Montana in the middle of the night in summer, and roam the dark woods by myself, or lay in the meadow in my night gown and feel very small...and liking that feeling

I've looked bears in the eyes, held a giant bangle tigers head in my lap, played with snakes, and let spiders crawl up my arms.

When I was eighteen I went sky-diving and as I scooted along the bench to jump out of the open door thousands of feet in the air, I just remember being excited, no fear. Not even a little.

I love rock-climbing, and mountaineering, where you can dangle your feet over the side of a ledge thousands of feet up and look at the world below.

I love when your skis leave the ground, and there's nothing but empty space between you and the ground, and just being so close to flying.

I love the feeling of the unknown, the excitement of being surrounded by foreign things, foreign faces, a foreign tongue, and not knowing how in the world I can get from point A to point B. I love that.

I don't fear death. Graveyards are some of my favorite things, I like to lay in a quiet one near my house, deep in the woods and think of how peaceful it will be to rest.

I love driving my motorcycle to fast, feeling the power as an extension of my body, pushing the limits. Being a little wild.

I thrive on public speaking, large groups, and mental challenges. There's not much in life I fear.

But there is one thing that makes my throat go dry. My palms sweat, my breathing speed, my knees weak. And that is something now that I cannot avoid...it is a fear that is growing inside of me, moving within myself, a part, a extension of me....I am terrified of having children.

It's not the labor, the deliver, or the copious amounts of pain that frighten me. I say bring it. But it is the unshakable feeling of being helpless in what my children inherit. It is the overwhelming fear of seeing my weaknesses in my children, and knowing that I am responsible.

It is one thing to have weaknesses that you do battle with daily; that is one thing. It's humbling, and humiliating, and frightening. But it’s something altogether different to watch the people you love most in life, struggle with what you have developed in your own failures. How will I explain my struggles to my children as I watch them deal with them themselves? How will I find an excuse to excuse the suffering that they most endure because of what they have gotten from me? These are questions I cannot answer. I fear.

But the clock keeps ticking, and my body tells me I am changing...and sooner or later I must face this fear. My only malady for my dilemma is that there must be, has to be...grace. And also...that they may turn out like their father.

Get a breath...live.

I was born dead. Not a very glamorous start, blue, wrinkly, and no heartbeat. My mother always said that I was her miracle baby. When I was small this somehow gave me the idea that I was worth something, I had purpose, and was meant to be here. But age makes you feel that that might be a form of pride, that really you are just like everyone else and by some freak of nature you beat the odds and pulled through.

My parents are remarkable people and didn’t seem to do anything normally. I was conceived in the middle of some African desert probably in a tent, camped out beside wild animals that really enjoyed eating people; nothing like a little fear to shake up the love life. This was the same trip that my parents Land Rover broke down in the middle of the Serengeti, where wild Hyenas’ stalked my father as he tried to fix the car, and my two older brothers cried in the back seat as small toddlers afraid of the lions roar in the bush. This was the same trip that my father, in his characteristic pursuit of perfection in all things, in effort for perfect photograph, got charged by an elephant, rhinoceros, and ran over by a giant silver back gorilla; with my very pregnant mother in observance. It’s not to shocking then that my mother’s pregnancy was complicated.

My parents had taken a short stint as missionary’s in Rwanda, Africa, where my grandparents had been working as the same for the past 15 years. My two older brothers were two and four at the time and my mother was thrilled to be expecting another, maybe this would be the girl she longed for. It was rough from the start. Only a couple months into her first term she had a massive amount of blood loss and severe cramping, a bad sign, she knew from a previous miscarriage. A trip to the international hospital confirmed her fears as the doctor shock his head and told her she had lost her baby. “We need to do a DNC, its best for you and will clean out any toxins that may be a harm to you”, he said. My mother is a firm believer in the natural course of all things. “If is bad”, she said, “it will come out on its own”.

A while later she was back, this time because she was still sick every morning and wanted to know why. Wouldn’t you know it, I was still hanging on.

It was most likely in an attempt to stay within the comforts of my mother’s womb that I managed to wrap the umbilical cord around my neck multiple times. Or maybe it was an indication of my early interest in rock-climbing, using what was available as a belay device. Either way what was supposed to be the link to my life force became the thing that would take it.
Before the invention of high-tech camera’s that can assess the problems and issues with babies in the womb, the doctors were forced to make their best guesses. On repeated visits in and out of the European hospital in Rwanda, my mother was told that her child did not seem normal. The heart-beat was irregular and didn’t sound right. Understanding the negative affects of a dysfunctional heart in development the doctors warned her of the chances her child would be abnormal. Abortion was always an option they said. “Sometimes it’s the best for both the parents and the child”. “We’ll take it in any shape” my mother replied. Realizing that this pregnancy would be complicated, my parents made the decision to return home to the United States.

On delivery day, July 28th, my mother went into contractions, but something was terribly wrong. With each contraction, my heart rate plummeted sometimes almost disappearing on the black and green monitor. It was clear to the doctors this was an emergency situation and that my life was in the balance, C-section was in order and quickly.

I have pictures of that operation. I don’t quite understand how my dad did this, but he suited up and treated the whole thing as a photo opp; my mom out cold, the doctors slicing her right down the middle. They were in such a hurry that they cut through a major artery, sending blood in a pulsating geyser across the room where it hit the wall in a grotesques rendition of modern art.

For several pictures all you see is blood, then a small bluish lump. That’s me! No heart beat, not breathing, strangled by my umbilical cord. It wasn’t that long, maybe several seconds, but to my dad, it must have been a long time before he heard that first scream. My first lusty breath, granted by the skill and persistence of the doctors and I imagine my own will to survive. It’s in each of us, no matter how small, beat the odds, get a breath, live.

There I was, alive and breathing. The girl they were hoping for. Back from the dead, ready to take on the world. As long as taking on the world included sleeping, eating, burping, and pooping, and as long as my parents were on hand to meet my every need. I was ready.

When my mother came to, her joy on seeing me alive couldn’t help but be dampened by the caution and concern the doctor’s showed about the consequences of lack of oxygen to my brain for the first several moments of life. What the ramifications of that would be, would have to be seen over time. My parents spent the first several months of my life looking for defects and dysfunctions’ in their child. Over time I would develop some… I seemed to be incapable of keeping my room clean during my teenage years...