On Maybe

My AC and Sam,


As your mother, I've uttered the two-letter-word you loathe so many times: At the store, on requests for more computer time, on pleas for a later bedtime. You've even crowned me "The Queen of No." It's a title I take on willingly. It comes with it's perks - you're not surprised when you hear the royal decree. And, of course, there are some drawbacks - you've assumed the Queen of No married the King of Yes, which means you try the royal patience at times: when "We" say no, you forget it's the royal we, and that the Queen and King rule the land together.

But "no" and "yes" are a whole lot more definitive than that word I loathe - maybe. In fact, you've decided that a maybe from me is just "waiting on a no," and a maybe from dad is a "go ask your mom so she can say no."

Maybe bothers me because it lacks a backbone. A maybe often means "I'm just afraid to say yes or no when prompted." It doesn't request more time to think. It doesn't lend the speaker to more information. It's sitting water. It stagnates. It breeds growth of a whole bunch of procrastination and stinks of passivity.

I love what Jesus says about maybe. After his sermon on the mount, he tells his disciples "Let your yes be yes and your no be no. Anything else is just evil." I used to think his rhetoric was a bit much, but as I grow older, I realize how right this dude was.

Because yes lets me move forward and so does no. Maybe is fine, sometimes, I GUESS, but often, maybe tells me I'm scared to be a truth teller.

Being an adult means saying what you mean and meaning what you say (a little Brother's Bear lyric for ya). It means being honest, right in the moment, with the person in front of you. This doesn't mean you always have to make split-second decisions.  It means being willing to say "I don't know" or "Let me think about it" or "Give me more information." ANYTHING that lends you to wisdom. 

We live in the south, where the plain truth can be a little buttery: it looks pretty stable, but put some heat on it and you'll be left with little substance. We're taught here it's better to be nice than honest, and that a disagreement is a fight. We'd rather sit in a room where the truth is stifling with us rather than uttering hard words that air the honesty out. But no one lives well like that. Not for long. 

I want us to be a family of truth-tellers.  Irish philosopher Pete Rollins says this about the truth: 

“There is a deep sense in which we are all ghost towns. We are all haunted by the memory of those we love, those with whom we feel we have unfinished business. While they may no longer be with us, a faint aroma of their presence remains, a presence that haunts us until we make our peace with them and let them go. The problem, however, is that we tend to spend a great deal of energy in attempting to avoid the truth. We construct an image of ourselves that seeks to shield us from a confrontation with our ghosts. Hence we often encounter them only late at night, in the corridors of our dreams.”


He says our ghosts can become poltergeists that haunt us forever. The ghost of truths never spoken, of feelings left unheard and promises left un-kept - they keep us up at night. They sweep across the room when our minds get quiet, their presence always looming. 

Sam, you hate when people feel awkward. You would rather say something untrue than make someone feel exposed. And your compassion for others makes this so sweet and special. But you have to be willing to say the hard things when it's necessary. You hate to say no when it might cause someone pain. 

"Mom!" you yelled as you jumped in the car after school. "I got a birthday invitation!!!" You're a new kid on campus this year, so this was a pretty big deal. Yes, there is a rule that all kids have to get an invite if they're given in class, but that wasn't the point. The point was you got one, and you beamed. 

We got home, you tore open your backpack and marched in to the fridge. If it goes on the fridge in our house, it's big business. It's a commitment. I glanced at the date, then over to your soccer schedule and said, "Sorry, bud. It's a no. You've got a soccer game that day." 

And your whole body sank. You then prepared your case: "Mom, I knew I had a soccer game. I just thought I could skip it. Because I have soccer every Saturday. And so I told my friends I'd just not go." 

"Who'd ya say yes to first?" I asked. We locked eyes and you said, "Mom, this is important, though." And I agreed.

"But who did you say 'yes' to first?" I repeated.

You sighed. "My team." You paused and then your voiced quickened, "But my friends will be so mad at me. Because I said maybe I could go. And they'll think I lied. Because I can't go."

"You 'maybe'd' early, dude," I said. And I hugged you. "Your friends will understand, because they're not in charge at their houses, either. If you want, you can say your mom is making you go to soccer instead."

You looked me in the face and replied, "No. I won't do that. I'll tell them I have soccer, and it's a commitment. And I can't forget I said yes to my team first."

It probably seems so silly now, but this is a soft, easy moment to learn this lesson. To an adult, it's simple: this is a scheduling issue. But to a 9-year-old, this is a tough moment: it's a people issue. You knew that when you went to school the Monday after the party, everyone in your class would be talking about it without you. And you'd feel brand new all over again. You knew that these first feelings of friendship were precious to you, and you were so afraid to let them slip away. In this, you had to find a way to do what was right, even though it wasn't your first choice. And you knew your "maybe" misled your new tribe.  Because in your mind, maybe meant yes.

This isn't just a 4th grade problem. It's a people problem.

We often forgo what is right for what will gain us power and influence or comfort. We shirk responsibilities and commitments the moment we're enticed by something shiny and new. But when we say yes to someone or something, our yes needs to stick (unless it's unhealthy, then we have to say no, even if it's hard and hurts).

Why are we so afraid to say the things we have to say when we need to say them? Because it's hard. Because it hurts. Because it means we have to live with a choice we've made.

But by not making choices,  our choices get made for us anyway.

When I was a teenager, a dude I was dating asked me to marry him. Can you imagine? No high school diploma, but he had our futures all planned out. We would both get jobs, an apartment and (squeal) if I wanted, I could go to junior college. Now, there's nothing wrong with all of those things, except that sounded like death to my future before it even began.

I looked at his young, beautiful face, shining with a hope he'd imagined into a certainty, and shook my 17 year old head. No. Of course no. And we broke up. Because it wasn't just a no for now, it was a no for always. And I knew it. I couldn't drag him along with the hopes a maybe can bring when I knew he was just waitin' on a no.

No is powerful. And it leaves room for a whole bunch of yeses to come. When I look at our lives together, I know my yeses were the ones I'd keep.

So, may your yes be yes. And may your no be no. And may you have the courage and wisdom to speak truth, even if your voice shakes.

On Being Hangry

AC:

If there's one thing we all know in this family, it's that we share a deep, generation-to-generation resemblance when it comes to being hangry. My grandmother, your great-grandmother, was only 4 foot 9, but when she was hungry? Oh my goodness. She turned into a 10 foot-tall monster of angry. I would watch her usually sweet disposition turn slowly sour as she neared noon without lunch. It was invariable. We'd be out shopping, usually at Garden Ridge, her favorite, and she'd start stamping her toes at idle shopping carts, tsk-tsking at babies who (probably as hangry as she) began to squirm in their carts, and it usually culminated in our checker doing a less-than-adequate and certainly less-than-timely job of ringing up her items.

Anna Claire, you and I have inherited this not-so-appealing trait. Neither of us get hungry - we don't feel hunger in our stomachs. Our blood sugar gets low and our frustration slowly mounts. The worst part? Neither of us can really identify the cause of our enmity in the moment. Sam and Dad, though, they see us coming. Your signs are pretty tell-tale: it usually involves something your brother either did (and shouldn't have) or didn't do (and certainly should have) or could possibly do to upset the delicate balance of the situation (Shouldn't he know by now that you are going to want to play the Autobot? You are not a Decepticon and you never will be!). And the tears begin to roll. It's not rational, of course, but in the moment? In the moment, you can't tell which way is up and begin drowning in your loathing. Sam, though? He merely gets up, backs away from the scene, points in your direction, and mouths: "Feed her."

And I casually mention that I've got apples or chips and salsa in the kitchen. You brood in, shoulders hunched, and begin to munch. Five minutes later, you've returned to us: our calm, pleasant little Anna. It's that easy. You were just hungry.

But if a person only met you in your state of hunger, that person would think you're a cranky, petulant little monster. That person would not want to be near you. When a person is hungry or tired, that person isn't herself. She's the most primitive version of herself. She operates out of a great need. And even if she's trying to be diplomatic or kind, that hunger drives everything.

Sometimes, it's actual hunger. If a person is hangry, feed her before you judge or criticize her. Make sure she's well-rested and safe. Then you might just get to meet the person in front of you.

But sometimes hunger is something else. It's something you can't see or name.It can't be cured with a sandwich.  Sometimes, a person is in a place, a state of life, where the hunger runs deep - so deep, in fact, she can't even name it herself. I know. I've been there. And every person who met me in this time in my life, this dark time, this time where I was searching, grappling with who I was, they never really met me - the real me. They met a version of me that was perpetually dissatisfied, generally unhappy, and searching for the source of my rage.

We'd just made a huge move to another state, I'd resigned from my position as a teacher-leader at a campus, and in one weekend, I'd left my job, my first house, all my friends and extended family, and was a stay-at-home mom in a truly foreign place. To say I was lost was an understatement. And I had no idea how much this move would change me - how much of my identity was found in my home, my job, the people I felt I'd lost.

I tried. I embraced the city, I joined mom's groups, I met some truly beautiful people. But I was devastated. More than feeling alone, I began to feel a slow, gnawing ache in my belly I'd never before experienced. I could only identify the anger, though, because anger is the easiest of all emotions to see. It was always there, under the surface. I became sarcastic and critical. I'd start projects and never finish them. I took two jobs that I quit within months.  It took about a year before I realized and was able to name my state: I was hangry. I'd spent the last 8 years of my life having an identifiable role, having responsibilities, having a place, having control. And I'd forfeited it without recognizing my deep need to be industrious and respected. I'd had a job since I was 15, and suddenly, I couldn't name what I did, who  I was, what my days were worth. And I had alienated so many people. I began, slowly, advocating for a great change in myself. I reached out to people I respected. I asked a lot of questions, did a lot of crying, and finally was able to face the deep hunger: I needed to let go of who I thought I was. I needed to accept myself without exceptions and become comfortable with an identity that wasn't tied to what I could accomplish or who thought I was important. And I realized that all along, there were people who were feeding me joy and patience and a great deal of grace. And when I began accepting these mercies, I slowly began to feel full again. It was only then I could give.

Hanger is real. It fills the house with rage. I can't imagine sitting at a table to feast while on-lookers, bleary-eyed and starving, desperately pined for a seat at the table. Darlin' if that was happening, we'd give up our seats, immediately, wouldn't we? And yet, that's what occurs all around us, every day. There are people who long to sit at a table of acceptance, equality, to feel a measure of safety and to fill their bellies until satisfied because they are human begins who deserve to be seen and known and loved. There is room at the table for all of us.

We meet people every day who are hungry. Perpetually. Their hunger could be situational or it could be generational: an ache to feel full, to feel safe, to feel home. Our job is to feed. Our job is to sit at a table and pass the plate. Our job is to dole out heaping portions of grace and generosity. And none of us are fed until we all get enough.

On Upstanding

Oh, Anna.

You're growing up so quickly. Most parents feel immense internal conflict at watching their children age: on the one hand, thrilled that they've kept their kids alive for this long and on the other pining for the diaper days.

As you approach another birthday week, I find myself amazed by your wisdom.

January 20th marked another Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. memorial holiday. As we approached the weekend, we rejoiced in having a Monday off together as a family. The cheer, however, was short-lived, as the conversation unfolded like this:

"Mommy," you began, "Mr. B says Dr. King is a hero. He worked hard to make all people live together in peace".

"Mr. B. is right, sister. Dr. King was a great man. He even went to jail and died working to change laws and help make sure all African American people have rights to live in a safe place and go to great schools."

A look of horror spreads across your face and I immediately recognize my mistake. As is my unfortunate habit, I've said too much. Again.

"Mr. B didn't' tell us he went to jail," you began to tear up. "Mr. B. lied to us. He didn't tell us Dr. King died, either." And you began to sob. You cried for two hours. You asked so many beautiful questions: How could this happen? Why did people hate Dr. King so much? Why do people need to hate each other?

And I realize this is the first time for you. You've never before seen abject vitriol, less the devious disdain from a villainous Disney character, and you don't quite know how to be. Because you go to sleep at night feeling safe and loved and unafraid.

You're so heart broken you refuse dinner. You stare at your food through tear-brimmed eyes, and I won't stop you from your rage because it is righteous and holy and good.

After we clean up, we head to the couch and you lay your head on my chest. Your body is draped on mine and it is heavy and tired with grief.

There aren't words a parent can give for a feeling like this. There are no words for the ugly. And I hold you without speaking. We stay like that for a while - silent.

Anna, every morning, when I walk you to school, I say the same goodbye: "You're a good listener and hard worker and a kind friend and I'm always already proud of you." It will get old some day (Sam already shows signs that it is wearing on him), but I'll do it every single day. Because that's the voice I want you to hear when you're wondering who you actually are in this world.

And you'll forget, as we all do, that you are these things. You'll get tired or hungry or angry at the ugly of this world and you'll forget who you always already are. I won't always be here to remind you, of course, because life is like that. But when I'm gone, and you're tired and hungry and angry at the ugly, I want you to remember these things.

You will listen to the hopes and fears of others and you will know that all people deserve life and love and home. You will work hard - whatever that means for you - to spread your precious love and joy to others who have forgotten that they, too, are all these things. And you'll offer up the gift of brave and endless friendship with your whole heart.

And sometimes, you'll suffer great losses because that's just a part of the deal.

But when hurt happens, and it will,  I want you to cry tears of holy anger and grieve with the grieving - without shame. Your heart is broken because things are broken, and we only heal when we honor the wounds within us.

And please remember, no matter what happens, I am always already proud of you.