The Value of the True Friend

It's hard to believe that one week ago today, the world fell away beneath my feet as I discovered I would lose most of my part-time employment come January 1.  Since then, life has been a slow-motion sprint to line up a replacement job for the spring. 

Husband and I have done this sort of free fall before, back when we didn't have three extra mouths to feed, when surviving on my retirement-benefits-and-insurance-blessed salary alone was relatively easy.  I would go out to work each day while husband stayed home faxing resumes, making cold calls, and cooking dinner.

Three months' worth of new recipes later, he finally found a job.  I look back on that time period as both miserable and blessed--blessed because we had time together and miserable because of the circumstances we were going through made it impossible to enjoy that time since we had no inkling of where this rabbit hole might take us or when we might reach the other side.

What I remember most about this season, though, was the sudden silence.  Friends and colleagues whom we regularly interacted with socially vanished without a trace, virtually overnight.  Even the "friends" my husband had faithfully mowed the lawn for after they moved away months before their house sold suddenly stopped calling, stopped sending Christmas cards, stopped responding to emails.

Overnight, the doors shut, the backs turned.  We were modern-day lepers.

Today, the circumstances aren't the same, but still, when I learned of my job loss, all those memories and feelings of abandonment came flooding back to the forefront.  I re-lived when friends proved false and close friends proved more so, when our expanding network shrank back to just our two families supporting us with prayer and love.

Back then, I had sworn I would never be that invested in someone outside my family again so if it came back down to just husband and me in the end, it wouldn't matter.  And here I was, not even a decade later, realizing how invested I had allowed myself to become since then.  I was both fearful and grieving at the thought of our inner circle being reduced to just us for a second time.

Then, the emails, texts, and phone calls started.

Instead of silence and an empty inbox, I would awaken each day to find someone praying for me, a boss going above and beyond to help explore other options, an old friend offering to have her contact hand deliver my resume, and still another two writing a recommendation for me within hours of the asking.

I wasn't being abandoned.  I was being loved.  I was learning the value of true friendship in spades.

No, my circumstances have still not changed, although I'm still seeking and praying, ever-believing that He will provide.  Even so, it feels like they have changed, simply because I've been blessed with so many who have chosen to reach out to me versus to turn and walk away.

It's a not so subtle reminder of just how important it is for me to continue doing the same, reaching out to others so they, too, can know they're not alone, no matter what they're going through.

Twelve Weeks Notice

 

I've always known my employment was uncertain.   My title, itself--adjunct--just screams dispensable, insignificant. 

In academia, adjuncts are the third world sweat shop employees toiling away invisible in the dark corners of every college and university basement.  This part-time employee is offered no health benefits, no retirement, and no promise of future employment beyond the present term.  What's more, full time professors look down their nose at adjuncts as second rate educators not sold out to the craft.  Consciously or not, in the eyes of the full timer, quantity of courses taught determines an educator's quality.

I know this...because I once sat on the mighty throne of the full time instructor.  I, too, discarded the opinions of most adjuncts because they were less impacted by departmental decisions and didn't understand what a real teaching load required.

Then after the birth of my son in 2006, I turned in my throne to join the ranks of the lowly and downtrodden.  And there?  In all honesty? Despite the hours I have to work while others sleep and the hats I must juggle as a stay at home mother, here, I have continued to thrive.

My decision to leave full time employment was one I'd always known I would make.  Even before husband and I married, I communicated that God had called me to stay home with my children.  When I was hired at my first secure full-time position, my boss knew I was 101% dedicated to him, the college, and my students...until I had a child, and then, I was a goner.

Yet, by the time our first son was born, husband had already lost his career, so my decision to be a stay at home mom was more an act of love for my child and of obedience to God than a preferred choice.  I was giving up a fulfilling job I truly loved, a fabulous camaraderie with my peers, a retirement plan, insurance, and a steady paycheck complete with merit raises and the possibility for advancement.

It was a giant leap of faith, but I squeezed my eyes tight shut and stepped off the cliff into the waiting hands of my God.  Since 2006, I have watched His finger tracing a seemingly insane path for me to follow as He has opened doors for me.  The result is that I've been able to earn a good living as a part time adjunct for three community colleges around the state--all online, all at night while staying home with my young children during the daylight hours.

Sure, my employment has always been contingent upon student enrollment, which is dependent upon the economy.  Some semesters have made me feel like Jack Sprat's wife.  Others have been lean. In fact, just this past Spring saw the door close on one of my three jobs.  Even with that river dammed up for two semesters, God made way for a stream of other smaller opportunities to flow towards me...and taught me how I could survive with much less.

Yesterday, though, I found my faith being tested once again.  A two minute phone call left me without two of my part time jobs, effective January 1.  In short, I was receiving my twelve weeks' notice.  And this time, I couldn't just wait for the system's new rule to change, couldn't just find ways to squeeze that much money from the family budget.  I would need to find a new job.

I sobbed with my husband, prayed, planned, questioned, and sobbed some more.

Twenty four hours later, I see shadows that God's hand is not idle, even if when I look a second time, there's nothing there yet to fill the void.  When applying last night to a job posting at a Christian online university, I suddenly found myself faced with an empty java box and a simple request for me to write my statement of faith, no fewer than two paragraphs, please.

I couldn't help but smile at the irony.   My statement of faith.

I've learned to not have faith in my connections, my education, and my experience; they simply aren't enough.  Here I am with nothing but faith, knowing no one who can provide for my family's needs except God, Himself.  All I can do at this point is walk by faith for if I walk by sight, the oppressive despair of the situation will keep me firmly sunk into my sofa. 

One foot in front of the other (even if sometimes, those steps look more like tear-laden stumbles) I walk. Waiting. Anticipating. All the while believing my help comes from the Lord.

There is no other choice but to believe and wait...even when the road looks so very dark ahead.

A Modern Mother's Scarlet Letter

Last week found this mother approaching a nervous breakdown of sorts, you know, the kind all mothers entertain on those days when everything needs a do-over yet there's no time for such frivolous things.

It started when my oldest, Wyatt, left one of his two homework folders at school for the umpteenth time this year, then confessed that his reading textbook was also "missing."  This fact was confirmed not an hour later when I received an email from the teacher.  Did I have the book at home?  Uh...no. And yes...I was sure.

Then came that son's continued inability to remember to practice his typing each afternoon, even when I reminded him.  Since school started, he'd gone from 17 word per minute back down to 13, all because he kept "forgetting."

But the straw that broke the camel's back was yet another pair of stinky socks left on the living room floor.  These were the white tube socks with the emerald green writing on the toe, identical to the pair I'd found earlier that day in his bedroom...along with the other pair in the Egyptian bathroom...and the third pair on the washroom floor.

Socks, it seems, had a mind of their own and a deep desire to avoid the dark recesses of the clothes hamper so they could, instead, frolic in freedom around my house.

And in that moment of pure insanity when I would have gone screaming out the backdoor had I only been able to muster the energy, the daily activity chart was born.  X's were bad.  Check marks were good.  Peer pressure from siblings was golden.

Yet, days later, here I was again, marking another "X" on Wyatt's chart.  I sighed deep, knowing it wasn't that he intended to be disobedient.  He is just my absentminded child, so much like his father in that regard.

Still, with a lost textbook, homework unable to be completed, and a chart full of X's, I felt like sewing a scarlet "F" for "failure" on my maternal chest.  Add to that a twin sister who wanted to whine or lie about everything and a twin brother who kept being intentionally mean to his sister, and I closed my eyes to a vision of myself standing on the scaffold of shame like a modern-day Hester Prynne as other mothers averted their eyes and shook their heads at my bad mothering skills.

This mother was obviously doing everything wrong.

My scarlet failure blazed brighter at suppertime when, as usual, two out of three children were less than thrilled with what I had cooked.  The evening conversation whirled around me in tones better suited for outside than the gathering table.  The children and husband were happy, completely oblivious to the strain that had tugged at my temples all week and that even now threatened to spill over in tears.

Then, Emerson began reciting his Bible verse that sat in the center of our table.  Not be outdone, Amelia did the same.  Somewhere along the way, Wyatt spoke up, saying we needed to pray for his friend at school whose grandmother was in the hospital.  He described how she had broken her arms when she had fallen.  We could pray for her tonight, right?

My breath caught, remembering my friend telling me a similar tale about Wyatt just a few weeks prior.  After her middle daughter had requested prayer for both my friend and a younger sister's "attitude," Wyatt had offered to pray, then apparently prayed heaven down in a mighty way, unconcerned about what others might think as he spoke aloud.

This boy so oblivious and absentminded at times showed a deep concern for others, a commitment to remembering their needs, and a willingness to call upon the Lord in prayer for them.

Maybe my pinning on that scarlet "F" was a bit premature.  Perhaps I'd  tuck it in my drawer for another day.  This wasn't the progress I'd been looking for, but perhaps I'd just been looking in the wrong place. 

A week later, Wyatt's textbook has reappeared in his school desk (see this mom rolling her eyes), his typing speed is approaching what it was before, and we're starting to have more checks than X's on everyone's activity chart, even without this mother's constant pestering.

There are no sudden miracles with raising children.  Nothing is overnight.  Everything is a process.  Some moments are joyful.  Some send me to my knees.  Others send me to my bed to pull the covers over my head.

But even if I can't bring my children up to always be the brightest, the most responsible, or the least absentminded--if I can just raise them up to live for the Lord, to love Him with their whole heart, and to love others in return, I will have done my job. 

What to Do When Your Usual is Already Unusual

My oldest son's skip was a little lighter than usual as he ran down the gravel drive and into my arms for the always-loving but ever-brief hug.

"Guess what!!?!!" he asked, what was obviously a rhetorical question since he didn't even pause a breath for me to reply. "We don't have any homework today.  The Principal says so."

I raised my eyebrows at that one, knowing full well he would have a vocabulary and spelling test on Friday.  Special day or not, we'd be spending time with those two "activities."

He pushed the purple and black tiger striped booksack into my hands and headed off to the hen house to collect the day's brown offering.  Instinctively, I glanced down at the orange laces on his tennis shoes.  Since he'd learned to tie them himself, more days than not, he returns to me with the bunny ears drooping long in the dirt.  Today at least, they weren't dragging the ground. 

I followed behind to help unlock the trapdoor that kept the hens in the yard and waited for him to raid their nests.  Even behind the solid wood door, he kept talking.  "The Principal says we're to do something with our family tonight.....so what are we going to do?"

The school had sent home the brochure a week earlier announcing Monday, September 26 was National Family Day, a CASA supported initiative to promote parents being engaged with their children. 

I smiled at this boy whom I suddenly realized didn't have a clue.  He didn't understand the need for a Family Day because he has no idea what life was like for many families who had no time to spend together.  He didn't understand the need for conversation starters or even the need to encourage eating meals together.  These were just integral parts of his everyday life, not something to be taught, added, or even questioned. 

He and I both knew that as the sun began to dip low in the sky, we would hop on our bicycles and take the short trek a quarter mile down the driveway to the other end of the farm where Oma and Opa would be waiting with the usual Monday night family supper.  Oma, Opa, husband, me, and the three children would eat, talk, pray, laugh, and share of ourselves, forgetting how unusual was our usual in this modern world.

Afterwards, he and the twins would beg for a dip in the swimming pool, even if it were only for twenty minutes, and husband would oblige.  Then would come bathtime followed by each child having his turn both having a parent read him a book and also reading a book to husband or me.  Finally would come that precious time at day's end when daddy would pray individually with each child in turn.

This is our usual.  It is the expected.  So, I was to do something less than usual.

After homework (yes, we did it anyway), I gave the children the opportunity to watch a couple episodes of The Berenstain Bears, something we rarely do in our house.  Instead of going off as usual and catching up on my never-ending pile of housework while they were entertained, I chose to simply sit in the recliner with Wyatt, the two of us barely fitting in that cramped space.

Initially, he wiggled and squirmed as if this wasn't a good choice.  Still, I relished in the few comforting minutes of loving on my boy who is quickly becoming a man.  He might not enjoy my presence, but I would enjoy his.  Yet, when I stood up to go move the clothes from the washer to the dryer, Wyatt suddenly looked away from the screen and asked, "You're coming back to sit with me...right?"

Of course.

I snuggled back down next to him, wrapped my arm around his shoulder, and pulled him close.  Without a word, he lifted that hand and moved it to rub his hair and forehead, a silent request for mommy's loving touch.

In a couple years, we'll have to move to the love seat if we want to watch a show together.  As they turn into tweens and teens, I know it will get more difficult to encourage my children to engage with me, more difficult to continue coming up with creative ways to show them that they are special to our family.

That just means no matter how unusual our family's usual is, I'm still in the same boat as every other parent seeking to make a difference in the life of a child. 

When Nobody Will Ever Know the Difference

For the second time in a week, I was standing at the checkout counter of the dentist office.  Instead of two children full of pent-up energy, this time, all three were with me.  A deep sigh escaped my chest as I looked at my watch.  It was nearing 5:00 and I wanted nothing more than to drive home before the rush hour traffic hit. 

There I stood with my wallet open, credit card in my hand, waiting on the lady at the counter who seemed to be in no rush.   She punched in all the appropriate codes while I listened to the familiar click of her computer keys and the giggle of joyous play taking place just around the corner.  Behind me, the twins giggled and danced in circles, only stopping when I bent forward my head and shot them "the look."  Even my oldest was jittery and kept bouncing his new goldfish ball from the treasure chest.  Without fail, he would not quite catch the rubber sphere and stumbled into a sea of legs to track it down.

After what seemed like an eternity, the brunette handed me a piece of paper hot off the printer.  "Thank you," she said.  "You don't owe anything today."

The punch to my gut was instant.  Yes, I did.  While the dental discount program we are a part of covers the exam, x-rays, and bite wings, I knew it didn't cover Wyatt's fluoride treatment.  I had just paid for the twins' fluoride paint job the previous Friday.  Today, I should be paying another $25 for my oldest son.

A few seconds passed while I reviewed the statement.  Everything checked out right, but that initial punch was slowly transforming into a nauseous feeling, the kind I always get when I know something is wrong but also know I'm not legally bound to correct someone's mistake.  I know I have a choice to make--do the ethical thing or do the legal thing.

In those times, it's like I have a little devil sitting on my right shoulder.  "No one will ever know," he grins.  "It's their fault, not yours.  It's their mistake. Plus, you could really use the extra cash.  Maybe this is just God's way of giving it to you."

I want to just walk away.  I really do.  But I know myself well enough to know that nauseous feeling won't leave me until I set things right.  I'd experienced the same feeling months earlier when the cashier at Hobby Lobby forgot to type in an extra zero when ringing up a price.  I knew then that I'd never be able to enjoy that furniture if I didn't correct her mistake.  Every time I saw it in my house, I'd remember that I'd cheated the store...even if it was their mistake.

I slid the paper back across the counter to her.  "No," I said.  "I owe you for the fluoride treatment.  I paid for it last week for my twins, so I know I owe you today, too."

Another woman in the background heard me and instantly approached the counter.  Apparently, "I owe you more money than you're charging" isn't a concept she's heard much.  The brunette kept clicking, frowning, and scrolling down her computer screen as the other woman leaned over her shoulder and gave directions that sounded more like code than English. 

Finally, the woman in charge looked up and said, "No. You don't owe us.  In the program, the treatment is included free of charge for children under the age of 14.  We owe you.  Can we put the difference back on your card?"

Minutes later, I left the office $51 richer than when I went in.  More importantly, I felt a soul sweetness of peace that spread through all my limbs and made me feel almost weightless.  I couldn't help but smile as I prayed a quick word of thanks for the Spirit prompting me to do what I knew to be right.

Had I chosen to not correct her "mistake," it would likely have never been uncovered, and I would have missed that financial blessing.  Yet, even if the coding mistake later were uncovered and I were refunded the money, I still would have missed out on the soul blessing.

Doing the right thing is always worth it, but God rarely shows us just how "worth it" our morally upright actions are, at least not in such a literal dollars and sense way.  I am thankful that sometimes, He gives me a glimpse of the war going on invisible around me and the difference my one action can make in my life and in the lives of others.

The Different Faces of Love

Two weeks after I said "I do," I learned that I didn't really like my husband.

It was shortly after New Year's and some big football game was on television, so husband had invited my brother over to watch several hours of  grown men throwing around the pigskin.  In preparation for this big game with his new brother-in-law, husband had gone all out with the game-day food and Barq's root beer.

Several hours later, the game was over, and husband began to feel ill, so he marched upstairs and went to bed, leaving our tiny kitchenette a wreck.  The sink was mounded high with dirty dishes; empty bottles and bowls of congealed cheese dip cluttered what little counter space we had; and on the sofa were open bags of chips growing more stale by the second.

The honeymoon was officially over.  

As I cleaned up the mess, I grumbled to myself over how lazy my new spouse was.  I didn't feel my best either, but someone had to clean up his mess.  Within 24 hours, though, I, too, understood why he went to bed without helping.  We both had a bad case of the flu.

Husbands and wives don't always like each other.  And, honestly, why should they?  Even when God mysteriously transforms the two into one being at the start of their marriage, still, they are two individuals, each crafted uniquely by our Creator.

At their best, husband and wife are two halves, one complementing the other as they both struggle through this life.  At their worst, the two halves work against each other or grow frustrated in a failed attempt to make the other half into a mirror image of themselves instead of an equal, but different, counterpart.

In my own marriage, husband and I know each other better than anyone else does.  We routinely see each other at our worst and at our best.  We can finish each other's sentences and even laugh silly at our own private jokes that leave my oldest son grinning in ignorance, begging, "What!?  What's so funny!? Tell me!"

And yet, there are days when we struggle to communicate, when miscommunication or lack of communication is more prevalent than the cozy intimate speech of young lovers.  Sometimes, it's simply hard to be understood.  I would swear we're both speaking English, but it's still not the same language.

Without Jesus and without an understanding that marriage is designed to make us holy versus happy, there's no telling how many miles would separate us by this point.  Yet, that doesn't mean our marriage or any other Christian marriage is easy sailing through untroubled waters.

We suffer from marital stressors caused by lack of sleep, little "down" or "alone" time as a couple, or simply the frustration from an inability to escape a bad job into a more financially secure and less draining place of employment.

In these tough times, what makes the difference in a marriage is the ability to see opportunities for acts of love--to both be open to receive and to give love in return.  And yes, that's even true for those moments when we may not necessarily like each other.

Love is a simple note of apology to a wife (attached to chocolate, of course).

Love is an insulation-covered husband, sweating in hundred degree heat as he tries to finish an office so he can work more from home, spend less time on the road, and, ultimately, take more time with his family.

 

Love is taking your son to school every morning while your wife cares for the two little ones.  Love is honoring that commitment, even on those days when you've worked the whole night before on an emergency project, driven back home simply to spend this time with your child...and then driven back in to work for a full day.

This is what love looks like.

Learning to Include Others in Your Labors

The clink of glass bowls in my kitchen has an effect similar to the bell Ivan Pavlov used on his kennel of dogs.  As I quietly slide out the largest of the translucent cobalt vessels from the bottom of the stack, I know it won't be long before the house will ring with the sound of bare feet slapping on wood plank floors.

Emerson is the first to arrive and start investigating all the supplies I've laid upon the counter top.  A quick survey of the clutter makes it obvious I'm about to cook something.  He looks up into my face and asks that oft repeated question.  "Can I help, mommy?"

"Me, too!?" my daughter's shrill voice echoes as she rounds the corner.  She grabs the wooden spoon from her twin brother and moves in on the melted butter and sugar I've started to cream together.  Down the hall, the third child wakes up from his book-induced fog and realizes he's missing out on something exciting.  Moments later, all three children are circled 'round the gathering table, all arguing over who is going to do what to "help" mommy.

Every measurement must pass through a second pair of hands before it's dumped into the bowl.  Child #1 dumps one cup of flour.  Child #2 dumps the second cup of self-rising.  Child #3 pours in the old-fashioned oats.  Then, I start the cycle again, working to give everyone a turn, to not show favoritism, to give deference to their already-keen sense of fairness and equality.

All three get to take a turn pushing the "PULSE" button on the food processor, each face breaking into a grin as the whirling metal disk shreds the carrots into a stringy mound at the bottom of the bowl.  Then, each must have a turn stirring the mixture.

While one stirs, the other two give advice: don't stir too quickly or you'll stir the flour out of the bowl; don't hold the spoon so high up or you won't have good control; don't forget to scrape down the sides of the bowl so everything is mixed thoroughly.  I have to smile as I listen to Wyatt and Amelia giving poor Emerson the same directions I've given them before.

Satisfied that there is nothing more to do but wait for the yummy bars to come out of the oven, all three once again disperse to the four corners of the house--Wyatt back to living in another world found in his books, Amelia to mothering her dolls, and Emerson to laying train track across the upstairs foyer.

Later at the lunch table when Grandmama asks if they helped cook, they each sit up a little taller and puff out their chests with pride as they take credit.  Despite what I've read in magazines, just because they cook it does not mean they're more likely to eat it...but they're always proud of it.

It would be so much easier to just do this by myself. Instead, I continuously let them help me cook, wash, vacuum, clean--not because I need their particular brand of help but rather because I understand that burning desire to be of use...and I want to encourage them to take pride in their labors, to associate hard work with this sense of accomplishment, to continue offering to help others.

Just yesterday, my mother and I worked to insulate and put up the vapor barrier in the front half of husband's outside office while husband and my daddy worked to hang sheetrock in the back half.  It took two women the same amount of time it took one man to do the same task in the back half of the office.

Was it as neat a job?  Not hardly.  Did I have to ask a lot of (stupid) questions?  Sure.  Did I use more staples than I should have?  Uh....yeah.  (The staple gun and I had compatibility issues.)  Was our vapor barrier hung straight?  Well, it looked more like a bunny slope.

In the end, though, my mother and I felt a huge sense of accomplishment that we had helped our men, freeing them up to do another task we couldn't.  Besides, no one would ever see the zillion staples or the crooked vapor barrier.  That didn't matter.  What was important would be the finished product and the knowledge that we helped make his office into what it will become.

Whether we're four years old or forty or even sixty, we all want to feel useful, to feel needed.  Maybe it is easier to just do it all ourselves.  Honestly, most things are.  But many times, when we deny someone the opportunity to help us, we're also denying them the blessing that comes from their giving of themselves, denying them a sense of pride in their labors and a healthy sense of accomplishment.

Think about it.  If someone keeps being rejected each time he offers to help someone else, one day, he's just going to stop asking.  Is that the kind of world we want to live in?  The kind of household we want to live in?

Had my husband done the work all himself versus having us other three help him, only one man could have felt the pride in looking at the work of his hands and saying "well done."  Likewise, had I chosen to cook by myself, I would have been the only one with a sense of fulfillment at what I had accomplished.  In both situations, by allowing others to help, that meant four people went away filled and blessed, knowing they had helped someone else.

Four versus one.  I call that a pretty good return on the few extra minutes it took to bring the three extras on board for the project.