Question?

I remember the summer of 2006 very well.  June, July and August left Richmond, Virginia in a muggier standstill than I had bargained for.  I had left college, gone on, graduated as almost-22 year olds should, but for some reason I felt more certain that college had indeed, left me. Wiser people encouraged my melancholy self that summer with true words, the gist of which went: "The best is yet to come."  I shook my head certain that the best was over, and sincerely wondered whether life would ever get better than freshman year tailgates.   I guess tailgates were once so perfect because I was present to the novelty of being free and me and on my own more than ever before.  Still, I didn't quite know what I was about other than, well, the tailgate. Suffice it to say that I'm not so sure that shell of an ideal was enough to thrust my entire future onto like I did. Wise people that summer: thanks for your patience with me.  

Whenever life feels big and small all at once like it did then, I am comforted by the presence of children. Maybe because their lives are big and small too.  They are tiny and trusting and needy in a very small way, but their promise and the life they bring is great. That summer, I had two little ones by my side, five days a week.  At the time, Walker was four and Mckenzie was two and I took care of them as best I knew how. I remember the routine things that chipped away at those hazy mornings.  Mostly, it was Walker's "why's" that went like this: 

"Sarah why are we taking the green car instead of the big car?"

"Well because your mom has the big car, and remember I always drive the green car." 

"But I like the big car, better." 

"Walker, I'm sorry but if we don't drive the green car then we'd have to walk to the pool and that wouldn't be very fun." 

"Why...why...we have to walk to the pool and that wouldn't be very fun?"

"Well we'd have to walk to the pool because we'd have no other way of getting there and it wouldn't be very fun because it's one hundred degrees outside." 

"Why...why...why...wouldn't it be very fun because it's hundred degrees outside?" 

"Well, because when it's one hundred degrees outside we'd get really hot and sweaty." 

"Oh." 

I'd think he was quenched. 

"Sarah?"

"Yes Walker?" 

"Why are we taking the green car?" 

That was before we had buckled up. 

If you're thinking that the on and on drove me b-a-n-a-n-a-s it didn't. I'm not trying to sound like I have such a way with kids or anything, it's just that Walker was a bit of kindred spirit, so I had extra patience. And that summer, with my looming future and all, I felt the "why-oh-why?" too. This circle game was round-a-bout yes, but so are true, four year old questions. He didn't have enough agenda to make them all straight-shooter and intentioned.  And the point was, after all, the questions. Beyond that, I learned, somewhere down into July, that my point to Walker's questions was this: telling Walker that he asked good questions, no, rather: "Walker you HAVE good questions," because until he spoke them out, they belonged to him, so:  "Thank you! Thank you Walker for asking me such smart questions," that must mean that:  "You, YOU are smartest four old I know," so now, as we are driving down River Road, almost to the Westwood Club, he feels safer, I can tell, and sits up taller with every: "Walker, I hope you ask me more questions."

Because you see, in between his little, jumbled up four year old ways were much, much bigger questions, that somehow, someway, were sneaking into my 22 year old questions that I felt only lying on my back in my bed, in the dark, blinds drawn. "Am I worth answering?" "Will you still love me if I ask one more time?" 

There is something tenacious about doubting-- even abrasive. Just trust! I had heard, before.  But sometimes I cannot. So I speak from my heart with questions that are real and sincere and of me, oftentimes so much so that they break my heart.  So I've found with this risky curiosity, that the doubts soften, and we live into them, growing softer and stronger.  

I cling to children that are growing into their questions this way like my four year old friend. The ones that are shedding their doubts, their defenses and their fears that they might get in trouble or go unnoticed.  They are undoing themselves so they might know how to tie themselves back up again. Please, let us encourage the undoing and not silence it. They are growing strong in their very vulnerability. An opportunity and window of existence that if we must re-create later in life, well we, just must.  Discovery and awe are too much a part of being human to just exist over it completely.  But if we're honest, it's most natural for our children.  Sacred even.  

So, let's remember to be curious with children, for children, to our children, even.  We do not have all the answers. The moment we think we do, we have drifted too far from our four year old self into a straight-shooting, rather planned out, small-windowed world. 

Blessing Hearts

I'm a fan of Southern culture. Now, if you are a born-and-bred Southerner (I am not), the charm may be less conspicuous to you.  Yet having grown up in a quite lovely, but altogether rough around the edges corner of New England, I will tell you that I like the niceties.  Some Yankees that I know (slash die-haaahhhd Red Sox fans slash avid skiiahhhss slash Hahvaaad grads) are quick to call the friendliness phony.  It very well might be. But, it also might not be. Besides, most days I like warm and friendly people and unless you catch me in some nightmare, I usually am one.  So, to my Down-Easters, I say: "Don't worry, they don't want anything from you."

I'm not even sure that a memoir would do the differences between Waco, Texas and Boxford, Massachusetts adequate justice. Sometimes driving around, I'm obliged to re-articulate to myself how it is again that I ended up here, because it just feels, so, well, random.  Remember, Sarah? Remember?  You were working in that cube and you felt like a caged bird or something, and you wanted an adventure and liked the idea of cowboy boots, and "y'all" and social work and here you are. When I tell myself that story, sometimes I feel pretty cool and fly by the seat of my pants, and sometimes I feel like a flake. Maybe there's not a difference.

I sound flippant.  Let me clarify.  Even when I feel my feathers in the wind, I am filled with divine peace and gratitude. I am convinced that God led me to this sweet little spot in the center of Texas, and has graced me abundantly with community that has helped me to heal and trust and believe in a God that has come and is coming and wants me to be a part of it all. 

Still, the culture shock is funny.  And I'll be frank: as much as I'm a fan of southern hospitality...the "m'ams", and the "dowhat now's?" , and the little grocery baggers who say these things to you as they help you out of the HEB, I still miss many things about my roughish and rustic New England town. Am I allowed to miss it and not want to go back? Because I do.  I deeply miss it but am quite content staying right here. 

I'm also hopelessly nostalgic so sitting with the memory can be fun. Let me indulge for a moment:  I liked that the houses were all two-story clapboard colonials. I liked that there were lots of windy roads and stone walls, and town commons, and things and places and buildings established in the 1600's. And, no offense to barbeque or anything, but I liked that there could be things at a party besides well, just that.  Or beans.  There will be always all sorts of beans as long as I am in Texas. 

So, this brings me to the real reason I started writing. The point, if you will, though I usually hate dragging in the point. I used to think the expression "bless your heart" was really odd.  If you didn't know that it's Southern, I'm here to tell you it is.  Sort of like the equivelant of "wicked" in the North.  Perhaps, such expressions could be a greater metaphor for their respective regions. I won't go there.  

I first heard "bless your heart" when I was at my friend Lauren's house in Memphis.  She had a rash on her arm, and her mom kept looking at it and "blessing her heart." I'm really not a literal person, but I did keep thinking, why is she saying that?  And like many idiomatic enigmas I come across here in the South, I first, wonder if it's a Southern Baptist thing. But, "bless your heart" is not.  It's more of a thing that you say with a smile and an emphatic twang and it's mainly just for fluff. I never really liked bless your heart because I thought that it meant something bad or gossipy or rude was on it's heels.  Not that I never participate in these things, but if we're going to be sassy, let's call it what it is and not guise it with the blessing of the heart. 

So, I've found a new-found love for this expression.  Do you want to know why?  On Christmas Day (yes, I worked on Christmas Day), a seven year old boy came into my office.  He is the quiet type that speaks with insight when he does in fact, speak.  And unfortunately, in the chaos of my work environment, I get to listen less frequently than I wish.  He said: "Miss Sarah?"  I said, "Yes?" He said: "I made something for..." I looked up, and he was pointing at me.  I said, "What do you have?"  He showed me this: 

And, I melted a little bit.  What do you even say besides, "I'll put it up on my door!"  I have never met a more sincere blesser of the heart.  He's allowed to say that one :) 

Remembering

About a year ago, I came across a bit of spiritual wisdom that resonated well with me.  I don't remember who it was or where it was, but it stuck.  The gist was: mundane religious habits and habitual acts of worship oftentimes feel silly, basic even, in light of our extraordinary God, but even so, they are important. Why? Because they help us to remember.

And we are so forgetful, aren't we? 

I'll speak for myself.  I know I am quite easily distracted by the newest, brightest (and often fleeting) idea, hobby, fashion, relationship or the like.  And quite frankly, living in new inspiration feels far better than singing the doxology every Sunday or tithing every month. But even so, the habit still helps me to remember.  Once again, in between the lines of the song, I think or sense that my God does not change, and that He is with me, and that He is the Love that will not leave.  And even when I do not feel close to Him, the practice keeps me anchored at least for a little bit. I have learned to trust the motions and God's working in them, albeit that my heart does not always sing.  

I thought about this idea of remembering when I framed a picture from my trip to Africa and put it on my desk at work.  Random, I know.  Hear out the connection.  I am not a linear thinker.

For two weeks in May, I went to Rwanda.  I experienced a nation pulled by the tension of two deep attachments: fear and hope.  I played with Rwandan children.  I learned Rwandan dances. I shopped at Rwandan markets.  I worshipped with Rwandan people.  And then I left.  

I think about Rwanda often and feel a little confused.  I am not trying to be dramatic, but I really do. I came back to the United States on June 3rd, and everything went back to normal.  I did not cry about my trip, or have a hard time reconnecting to my friends, I did not become overwhelmed by the daily abundance we experience here in the United States.  I'm not even sure that I was all that jet-lagged.

So, I think this "confusion" comes in part from the smoothness of my transition. I know that many people have a rocky transition, but I did not. I hope this doesn't make me a bad person. But, I think I just forgot.  Gosh, I am embarrassed by how easily I forgot the richness of dancing in the rain, or holding their hands, or watching them smile. 

So, when I framed the picture of me with six Rwandan boys that you see above, it felt funny. It felt funny because I am distant now, and it would be silly for me to think that I fostered a deep and meaningful connection when really we just shared a meal one afternoon in late May.  But, I framed it anyways, because I want to remember.  

And I believe that the experience was rich enough, deep enough, pure enough, that it will continue to bear fruit, even though I am far from it.  At least I hope so.