Longing for Childhood

    Today as I sat in my office and heard one of the kids in our children's center crying his eyes out, I realized that there are things I really miss about being a child.  Okay, yes, I realize that sounds odd: I'm hearing a child crying and I'm missing childhood.  But at the moment that I had that realization, I truly wished I could have been crying my eyes out too.  There are too many moving parts in my life right now and expenses piling up this month that are deeply worrying.  I have felt like I can't draw breath over the last few days because of all the many different things that have demanded my attention: sick kids needing to go to urgent care, the car breaking down again, the cat also needing to go to the cat eye doctor (an hour's drive away) for possible melanoma of the eye, helpers hired for a problem with our backyard who need to be supervised and paid, window shades and material for drapes needing to be bought to block out the intense heat that's been making our kitchen and family room into a sauna, people in my circle of influence being hurt and offended who need consolation, compassion and perhaps a different understanding of comments and events, issues at Presbytery that need addressing yesterday, trips out to the airport and even an overnight "step away" that just went wrong as well as my regular work...And all of this hit at once.  

    As I sat listening today to the boy crying I thought, I want to be able to do that.  I don't want to have to be responsible in every single moment, following the rules and expectations when I just would rather be having a temper tantrum and hoping someone like the teacher outside with the crying boy was there to hold and comfort me.  

    I miss other things from childhood too: daily nap time, snack times that don't add pounds to one's body, the tiny squabbles that erupt from concerns no bigger than who gets to play with what toy in this moment rather than over how to pay the bills.  I miss being able to just be whoever I am, and say whatever crosses my mind rather than needing to be thoughtful and intentional about saying the right thing in the right way.  It's exhausting striving always to live up to others' expectations as well as my own.  I miss being able to just BE. 

    Don't you feel that way at times too?

    I found myself saying to my kids today that I look forward to retirement because at that point I'm just going to say what I want to say and act how I want to act, but I know it's not true.  That time of being exactly who we are and saying exactly what we want to say has passed.  It was a gift we didn't recognize we had when we had it, and now it is gone.  I care too much about what other people think and feel to be able to return to that obliviousness or carelessness.  I don't ever want to be someone who is thoughtless in the face of other's potential pain, so I won't choose that, ever.

    But the reflection today did give me two gifts.

     First, it caused me to think about what gifts I currently have that I take for granted and will miss at a later time.  One of those is having meaningful work.  I need to be more appreciative of this time when I can and do work.  Another is a functioning body that allows me to exercise and move in the ways I want.  I also still have a sharp mind, and that too may not be permanent.  I need to pause and remember that these gifts, like all gifts, are temporary and fleeting.  I need to appreciate them now.

    Second, I found myself thinking about how to reclaim some of those things that I am missing from childhood.  How can I express myself more honestly, but in a way that is not damaging or hurtful to others?  Can I take five minutes to cry my eyes out before returning to my work, just to give myself permission to have those feelings and to express them?  How can I create room for my needs as well as the many pressing needs of my family, work and friends?  How can I create some space to step back and breathe?  

    Each age has different gifts.  Recognizing them now can be a gift in itself.  Recognizing them in hindsight can give us insights into what is missing from our current lives that call us to change, to try something different, to adjust.  My yearning today for those earlier, easier times of childhood was a bit of a wake-up call to make some adjustments in my life.  What are your yearnings and longings saying to you?

When Times are Dark

Isaiah 63:7-9,

Matthew 2:13-23

12/29/19

               The story we heard from Matthew today is the other side of Christmas, the dark side of Christmas. 

“A voice is heard in Ramah,

    weeping and great mourning,

Rachel weeping for her children

    and refusing to be comforted,

    because they are no more.”

               This is the part we don’t want to look at, don’t want to talk about, and at some level deeply deny.  In many ways we, as a people, as a faith, as a country even, still believe in a Santa Claus God.  We hold on to the belief that if we are good, good things will come to us.  And if we experience bad things, it is “karma” or rather, it is God getting even with us, punishing us for the wrongs we have done.  The signs that we still believe in this are many, but I think the biggest indicator that we do is that one simple word, “Why”.  When things go wrong we cry out to God and demand a reason.  “Why?” we demand.  “Why are you doing this to me?”  This is often followed by “What have I done to deserve this?” A lesser form is the “why won’t you help me?”  but it still comes down to the same thing.  We want life to be fair, and we want to be rewarded for good behavior.  We also tend to want our enemies to be punished, to suffer for their misdeeds.  But both of these ideas come from a vision of God which just doesn’t hold with either scripture or with our experience.  Today’s scriptures are just one of the times when we see this reality.  Every male child in and around Bethlehem slaughtered.  Did any of these children deserve to die?  Of course not!  But it happened.  Like the Holocaust, like genocide, like all the evil things that happen in this world. 

Our wishes for a Santa Claus God who gives good to the good and bad to the bad just doesn’t play out in real life.  So my answer to you about the “whys” and the “how comes”, my answer in the face of this reality is the uncomfortable reality of free will.  The uncomfortable reality is that everyone has been given that same free will.  My answer to you is the uncomfortable reality that God does not micro-manage us because God wants genuine relationship with us and that means we are not puppets, none of us are controlled by God, made to behave properly, made to avoid hurting you or hurting one another.  If we are allowed to be ourselves, allowed to be who we are, allowed to pick and choose our behaviors, then sometimes, and unfortunately many times within humanity, people will make bad choices, choices that hurt others, choices that deny others’ humanity and deny the truth that we are all brothers and sisters to one another.  My answer to you is the uncomfortable reality that, as Jesus tells us, “the rain falls on the just and unjust alike.”  The bottom line here?

God is not doing this to you. 

Whatever it is that you are suffering, whatever it is, it is not something that God is doing to you.  It is not punishment for something that you did.  We have choices in this life, all of us.  And that means other people make choices that hurt us, hurt all of us, damage life, damage connection, injure hundred and thousands of people, take the lives of children, box them up, treat them like dirt.  God is not doing this.  God is the God of love and life.  If it is not loving and is not full of life, it is not God.  But still these things happen.  Life is unfair.  And we cannot control the choices of other people.

“A voice is heard in Ramah,
    weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children
    and refusing to be comforted,
    because they are no more.”

               So, the innocents were slaughtered, then, as they are today.  Children were killed then, as they are today.  And the reaction and the result was weeping, then, as it is today.  And just as then, when God did not stop Herod from the slaughter of all the babies, it still was not God’s will that those babies be killed.  It was not God’s wish, it was not God’s choice, it STILL is not God’s will or God’s choice when babies are slaughtered, when killings and destruction of God’s people is happening.  It is never God’s will when the children are slaughtered. 

               I will tell you the truth: I often lay awake at night and grieve our world: I grieve the children at the border.  The most obvious, most memorable refugees we know are in this story today: they are Jesus, Mary and Joseph.  I do not understand how you can fail to see them every time we are looking at the refugees at the border, I do not fail to remember that every time we hurt or kill or separate a child at the border, we are separating, killing and hurting Jesus himself.  And it fills me with inconsolable grief.   I also lay awake at night grieving my own children who will surely be destroyed by the climate change we are bringing about.  I know some of you do not believe this.  And you can have your opinions.  But I will also say to you that I cannot understand anyone who would refuse to act based on even the possibility that this is a reality, the possibility that we are reaching a point of no-return from which we cannot save our planet and ALL of our children will be destroyed because of it.  I grieve.  I lay awake sobbing with grief for my own children and potential grandchildren.  And I, too, demand to know why God will not stop the greed that I see as the only reason for not acting to save our beautiful world.  And I weep for the children that will be no more if we do not take action now.

               But just as in the slaughter of the innocents, God does not stop the evil from coming.  God does not stop those who have their own motives.  God does not make people see, or make people choose life, or make people care for one another or the planet.  God tells us to love, but God does not make us love.  And so, many of us now are weeping for our children, for, whether they are the children at the border or our own children affected by a dying planet, they are and will be no more.

So, where do we go with this?  Where on earth is the Good News in this?

There are two: first, God is still there with us in all this mess: “In all their distress he too was distressed.” As the passage from Isaiah told us.  God is with us in our pain, helping us to bear it, carrying us, loving us through the darkness.

But the second is that just as free will leads some to buy their heads in the sand, and others to act with greed and selfish inclinations, for some to act out violence and hatred and rage against their own brothers and sisters, and to inflict cruelty and yes, evil, onto the world, freewill also opens doors for good to come in, for light to shine, for hope and grace and compassion to shine forth.  Free will allows some people to choose love, no matter what is happening, and to love with a ferocity that is greater than their own lives, with a willingness to live out their love even to death.  Free will allows us to choose God, goodness, and love no matter what we are facing.  And that is a gift indeed.  Because as Mark 8:36 tells us, “what does it profit a person to gain the whole world only to lose their soul?”  the opposite is also true, some people lose their lives and are willing to sacrifice themselves for the good of all and in doing so, they gain their very souls.

I found myself reflecting on this as we were lighting the candles for the last Taize service of the season Monday evening.  The candles we use have a very short lifespan.  They burn for maybe an hour, maybe an hour and a half, and then they are done.  So, as we were lighting the candles, many of which had begun their burning the previous week, I felt in some ways that we were fighting an uphill battle.  We’d light two candles and one would snuff itself out, running out of wax or drowning in the little wax that was still there.  We’d replace the candle and by the time it was replaced, another would have gone out.  David and I together were standing at the communion table lighting candles as people were coming in, and even with both of us working, we’d get a few done and another would burn out, needing to be replaced.  But despite the darkness that kept engulfing each little place where a candle stood, even though candles burnt out quickly and our ability to keep the light going needed constant attention, when we finally said, “well, we need to start the service, the candles that go out will just have to be out for the rest of our time today,” even as we said this and let them be, the light from those that were strong was enough.  It was bigger and brighter than the ones that had burnt out.  There remained more candles that were lit and burning than were out, even ‘til the end of the service.  And the ones that burned shown strong.  They pushed the darkness away for that time.  The light would not be put out, nor the darkness overcome it.  And in that is my hope.

There is a story written by Robert Fulghum in his book, It was on Fire when I Lay Down on it (New York: Ivy Books, 1989), p 171, that I would like to share with you this morning: click for story

God is the light.  God is the light.  We are mere reflections of that light.  But our job is to be strong and vigilant and to keep spreading the light: love, compassion, grace, the memory that we are ALL God’s children, all brothers and sisters to one another, all in need of love and healing, all called to be the ones to bring that love and healing.  We are called to spread that word and spread that light to all who will hear.  Once we have spoken, once we have shone our lights, it is not our job what happens then.  It is not up to us whether or not it makes a difference, whether or not it changes anyone.  That part is up to God.  Our part is just to keep shining the light.  Today.  Everyday.

I end this with a poem that was sent to me from Jan Richardson:

Blessed Are You Who Bear the Light

Blessed are you

who bear the light

in unbearable times,

who testify

to its endurance

amid the unendurable,

who bear witness

to its persistence

when everything seems

in shadow

and grief.

Blessed are you

in whom

the light lives,

in whom

the brightness blazes --

your heart

a chapel,

an altar where

in the deepest night

can be seen

the fire that

shines forth in you

in unaccountable faith,

in stubborn hope,

in love that illumines

every broken thing

it finds.

- Jan Richardson

from Circle of Grace: A Book of Blessings

Watching our fledglings leave the nest

         I've been feeling very down lately.  Anxious, sad, stressed, depressed.
         Lonely.
         I couldn't figure out why.  Yes, we've experienced an important family death lately.  But I felt that didn't really account for the level of my anxiety and sadness.  It certainly didn't make sense to me that I'd be feeling lonely while surrounded by family, while reconnecting with family folk I haven't seen in forever, while anticipating my daughter coming home from school for winter break.
        But then I remembered that it was that time of year which is always hard for me, or has been for the past 9 years.  9 years ago my life changed radically and I went from being a partnered person caring for my three thriving kids into a solo mom dealing with tragedy and stress and loss and trying to help my kids through the same.  This time of year, every year, I feel this way.  I think that our bodies remember, our bodies house those memories associated with season and time, even when we don't consciously remember what is triggering our feelings.
        But this year is also different for me in another way.  My eldest daughter has "gotten it together," is leaving the nest, is spreading her wings, making friends at school, not calling as often and certainly not needing my help or support as much. She is learning well how to "adult," and she is stepping into doing what needs to be done on her own, she is living her awesome, beautiful life in ways I don't even begin to understand.  She is connecting deeply to others, to her peers.  She is doing it right.  She is doing what we all hope our kids will do - stepping into being her own person and taking flight.
       The truth is that I am struggling with it.  When I became a mother, even though I was working and still had friends and other family to occupy my time, I moved into a new identity.  My primary identity became that of being a mother.  I love being a mother.  I think about my children constantly, even when I am not with them, they are the lights of my life, my biggest joys, my greatest gifts and the raising of them has been my biggest accomplishment.  This became doubly so when I became a solo mom.  They were where my focus had to be.  Their concerns became my largest challenges.  Their needs and fears and sufferings took the largest part of my attention. Truthfully everything I did, and have done ever since, including working, has been to make sure they have what they need and are okay as they step into life.  I had to do this, or they would not have become the healthy, happy, well-adjusted kids (in the face of and despite great crisis) that they have become.  The fact that my eldest is thriving in school and in her life is in part a testimony to the depth of love and support I gave her that has enabled her to bloom, to work through her losses, and to grow into a beautiful young woman.  I know this.  I can't take full credit, and I won't.  We were surrounded and continue to be surrounded by a community of helpful, caring people and they have credit too.  Eldest herself also needs to take a lot of credit, for being willing to do the work, to grow, to learn, and to step forward.  But I can claim a piece of it.  They know they are loved beyond measure.  They know they are more important than anything to me, and that I would do anything to make sure they are healthy and happy.  That knowledge and that experience has made a difference in their ability to move and grow and live.
       Still, I find myself feeling a little bit like Shel Silverstein's Giving Tree.  When they were born I gave them my apples, fed them off of the sweat and tears of my work and my care.  But when we went through crisis I gave them not only the branches, but my very trunk so that they might survive and thrive.  Again, I made a choice to do what I believed was necessary for them to be okay.  And it has paid off for them.  But now I am the stump, especially where my eldest is concerned.  I am waiting for her to come home and rest for awhile on that stump that is me before she leaves again for other adventures.  And this is a sad and hard thing for me.  I won't change it.  I will not ever choose to hold her back from her dreams and adventures, from her living her life as fully as she can.  But I am lonely for my eldest daughter.  And, at some level, for my other two children as they become independent teen-agers.
       I think about the olive tree in our back yard.  We cut down this huge olive tree because it was blocking the window, causing problems on the roof, was creating great mess both in the yard and tracked into our house, and, most importantly, it was creating pollens which were making my son (with his allergies to olive pollen) very sick.  We cut it down to a stump, and yet it has not given up.  Hundreds of new branches continue to sprout from the sides of the stump each year.  Each year that tree makes it clear that it belongs there and has no intention of dying.  I know that I can choose to be a stump like the olive tree: to find new ways to grow and thrive once my kids are gone.  I can invest more in other relationships now and to find my purpose, meaning and identity in my work and other activities.  I can and I will.
       I also know, though, that this still involves grief. Every change is a loss at some level.  And grief is a natural part of watching our kids grow and leave the nest.
       Today I am grieving my daughter.  Even as I am proud of her and grateful for who she is becoming, I am grieving our closeness, her needing me, her dependence.  I am grieving being the person she was closest to whom she loved the most.  I am grieving the primary identity I had as Eldest's mom.  I will always be her mom, but it can't be who I am first and foremost anymore.  My life has to be more about other things now, and less focused on her.
        I know most parents go through this, and I know that I, too, will survive it.  Being a parent is about self-less love.  We don't do it to have people always around us who will love and care for us.  We give of ourselves and watch the blooms grow that are our children.  I am so grateful to be mother to my three wonderful kids.  The grief is just a small part of that.  But I am naming it today in the hopes that others who might be feeling similarly know they are not alone.  And to name for myself that the sadness I'm feeling is okay.  It's a testimony to the depth of the love I gave and give still.  And for that I am grateful.

A ramble on crisis, strength, and children.

           Recently, my kids and I were watching one of the many science fiction movies in which a father must choose between going out to save the world or staying at home to care for and raise his kids.  As always in these movies (because there wouldn't be a story if he chose otherwise), the father opts to sacrifice his time with his children in order to save the world, leaving them for years and sometimes life-times, to fulfill his mission.  And we all nod and agree that, of course, that is the right choice.  We don't give it a second thought.  And we see the man as the hero the story makes him out to be.  After all, he gave up so much for the sake of the world.
          So did the kids.  And they had no say about it, no choice about it.  There are victims in these stories, victims whose fates we don't see or acknowledge because, after all, the fate of the world is so much more important than a couple kids.  Right?
          Everytime I see one of these movies I find myself angry.  Why was it that it was only that person, that man, who could save the world?  And why was the cost the kids?  And why do we fail to see that or to care about the kids, except as losses to the hero?  Despite what these movies show us of strong and happy children growing up confident in the knowledge that their dads are heroes and that the kids themselves are loved and just have this little inconvenience, this tiny self-sacrifice that also puts them in the categories of heroes for giving up their dads in exchange for the salvation of the entire world; despite what the movies show us, the reality of kids growing up without a parent is very different.
        Here are just a few of the statistics:  taken from The Fatherless Generation
         

• 63% of youth suicides are from fatherless homes (US Dept. Of Health/Census) – 5 times the average.

• 90% of all homeless and runaway children are from fatherless homes – 32 times the average.

• 85% of all children who show behavior disorders come from fatherless homes – 20 times the average.  (Center for Disease Control)

• 80% of rapists with anger problems come from fatherless homes –14 times the average.  (Justice & Behavior, Vol 14, p. 403-26)

• 71% of all high school dropouts come from fatherless homes – 9 times the average.  (National Principals Association Report)
• 
  
• 75% of all adolescent patients in chemical abuse centers come from fatherless homes – 10 times the average.

• 70% of youths in state-operated institutions come from fatherless homes – 9 times the average.  (U.S. Dept. of Justice, Sept. 1988)

• 85% of all youths in prison come from fatherless homes – 20 times the average.  (Fulton Co. Georgia, Texas Dept. of Correction)

       These are just a few of the many statistics based on many studies that show what happens when kids grow up without their fathers, for whatever reason.  While the heroes may have saved the world in one way, what harm have they passed on to the world through creating homes with fatherless children?  What radiating damage was caused by this choice?  

       As I watched this movie with my kids, I made a comment that I felt the choice the dad made was wrong.  I was surprised that my kids all disagreed with me.  They said they felt the dad had made the right choice.  I argued with them that it wasn't fair to the kids.  "Maybe, " was the response.  "But the kids will be stronger because of it."  Really? That's not what the studies show.  They don't show stronger kids, they show broken kids, damaged kids, kids ready to inflict the same pain on the world that the world inflicted on them. "Are you stronger?" I asked my kids who have lived without their father for the last 5 1/2 years.  

      "Yes,"  they all answered, "we are."

       No, they aren't.  That is a myth we tell ourselves so that we can feel better about the fate life has handed us.  That is the story we proclaim to make the tragedies of this life acceptable.  But as the mother who lives with the victims of their particular tragedies, as the one who cares for them and watches them every day, I can tell you about the wounds they carry in great detail.  Since I don't want to betray their confidences or tell their stories, I will name the one that is most obvious: the fortresses my children have built around themselves, thick and strong, are what they identify as personal strength.  But I see those walls for what they are: they are walls made of fear, they are a way to hide from the world, they represent a commitment to refuse to allow others into their inner sanctums so they will not be hurt again.  Those walls do not represent strength, they represent brokenness and fear.  And that truth is painful for all of us, every single day.

       I love our stories, our cultural myths, that say that we grow from trauma, that we grow and become better, stronger people because of the crises we've experienced.  But the truth is that I believe that growth and improvement in reaction to large traumas is rare, an exception that comes with a great deal of commitment, courage and intentional choice to bring good out of pain.  I see those people who grow and become better folk through their traumas, especially the huge ones, as the exception to the rule rather than the norm.  I've been blessed to know some of those people who have taken their traumas and allowed them to make them better people.  But I also know far too many people who have become bitter, or entrenched in their one-dimensional belief systems, or become fearful and angry because of what they have gone through. And even those people who have grown through their traumas still carry scars, still carry trigger points.  I don't know anyone who has gone through a substantial crisis who walks without a limp, who is not damaged in some way. When it comes to children, these traumas are especially difficult to work through.  The very fabric of who each child is becomes changed, becomes resewn, rewoven into a different tapestry.

       My kids are not who they would have been had they not gone through their experiences.  Kids in war torn countries, kids living with poverty, kids growing up in abusive homes or in terrible situations will never be who they would have been otherwise.  No amount of counseling or education or family support can give them back the childhoods that they have lost, or can take away that limp that defines them. These defining childhood stories change way too many kids for the worst, taking away from them a sense of hope or joy or possibility.  That breaks my heart.  

       And while I have always valued the stories of growth and change and strengthening, I wonder what we miss by repeating these stories to ourselves.  Wouldn't it be better to acknowledge the truth that these childhood traumas are severely damaging and that rather than believing good comes out of them, it would be better to work hard to limit those traumas in the first place?

       Life is hard, and we won't be able to stop all trauma.  But perhaps facing the true damage is a better choice than living in a denial bubble that says we are strengthened through the crisis, especially when it comes to our children.  Perhaps this has to start with the stories we tell.  Perhaps the next story I see about a father leaving to save the world will focus instead on the children left behind; on their story.  Or perhaps the next story will focus on the choice the parent (male or female) makes between saving the world and being with his/her kids.  Perhaps in the next story, the parent will choose to stay with the kids and to find someone without small children who can save the world in their place.  And maybe that next person will do a better job anyway.  And the parent who chooses to stay behind will be a hero to the kids for choosing the kids, for choosing to love and care for and raise them.  That is a story I would love to hear.

Can we change those early messages of rejection?

       A while ago I posted a quote on Facebook and asked for thoughts/comments.  The quote was "By the age of five you've either learned that the world is good and everything and everyone in it stretches out toward you with love.  Or you know that you're a reject.  No one ever unlearns that first lesson."
       The responses to the quote varied though there was universal questioning of the absoluteness of the sentence. "No one" is a phrase that is almost always problematic.  A few people were distracted by the author of the quote, making comments about who she was and whether or not her opinion was important or to be valued. (Notice I'm not naming her here... it is, again, distracting.  It was the idea I was interested in, not who said it. And while who a person is does affect what an idea means or the place of orientation that dictates the idea, sometimes an idea is worth considering for its own merit or lack of merit, distinct from the person who said it.)  The people whose first lessons taught them that the world was good tended to respond by saying the idea was patently false. I understand that. Their early experiences were positive.  They want that positive world view for everyone else.  They are hopeful that it is something all of us can obtain.  They learned the world was good, so the idea that it might always remain a bad, scary, or rejecting place for some folk is not an idea easily accepted.  But it is the responses and thoughts of those who learned otherwise, who were taught that they were "rejects" on whom I would like to focus this blog post.
        People whose early training inclined them towards feeling unsafe in the world were not all in agreement.  Some stated that with a great deal of work they were able to work through those early training sessions and to come out on the other end.  Others said they agreed with the sentiment on the whole, and that, despite the work they'd put into it, their initial reaction to most situations tended to be one of defensiveness, mistrust.  These folk, all very thoughtful, insightful, self-reflective and deep people, said that they choose to act in the world as if it were a safe place, a place of grace and compassion. They choose that way of behaving, despite the fact that the internal alarms yell something different to them.
       Children are very resilient.  We know this.  We also know that early events impact us more than anything else can.  They become part of our DNA in a sense, part of our make-up.  As brain studies show, path ways in our brain thinking and chemistry get emphasized, cemented even, early on in our life times.  Once a path way is formed, especially one that is a response to trauma of any kind, training our thinking to go a different way, to respond in a different way, to follow a new path way can be very, very difficult.  Depending on how deeply those early path ways were carved, re-training those thoughts to not automatically follow the deep gullies dug through out thinking can sometimes be near impossible. We all receive many messages as children, from different sources and in different ways. We know the value of a good care giver and role model for children who are living a hellish home life or who have survived a trauma of great proportion: it can make all the difference in the world, turn a life around, change the way a child moves into adulthood when there is something positive, someone affirming, when an adult takes the time to offer a different possibility, a different world view.  We know of stories of kids who have lived through hell but turned out okay because of someone who took them under their care and reflected back to them a different image of who they are than the one they had originally been given.  But we also know of kids who never have that alternative reflection, who don't ever have someone to tell them that things could be different, that they could be different, that there is good and love out there.
      When the early messages of rejection are strong, many kids' reaction to that message is so negative in itself that they begin to create and recreate the unsafe world around them. They become the bullies that first victimized them.  They act out the violence or abuse that they have experienced. Then it becomes even harder to change that initial message. They end up in gangs, and later in prisons, in a cycle of abuse and abusers, of violence and rejection.  This is the reality for too many of our kids, though truly, even one kid living through a hellish childhood is one kid too many.
      The bottom line is that trauma and early rejection are hard to overcome.  For some it is harder than for others.  And for some it is nearly impossible.  I'm reminded of a story in the book Leaving Northhaven by Michael Lindvall in which a pastor is reflecting on the life of a young man who was adopted early on but who was born with fetal alcohol syndrome.  Jason had lagged behind his peers, had been completely impervious to direction, was not changed or impressed by any kind of discipline or correction because he could not live beyond the moment.  He had no internal moral compass, but coveted approval from anyone, which eventually led him into a bad gang of kids and finally led him to a lifetime jail sentence.  The parents who had adopted him loved him but could not overcome the condition he was born with.  The story continues, “Ardis, Jason’s adopted mother, had told me that some shocking percentage of FAS (fetal alcohol syndrome) kids end up in prison, that they still loved their boy, but had come to accept the hard truth that they could never have heard when they were young, namely, that their love – unbounded and powerful as it might be – could not conquer all….The boy was an incarnation of all the things that cannot be fixed.  Perhaps his parents love had somewhat deflected his heedless course, but it was never enough.  Jason was Jason.  He was the emblem of that which we may fear the most; not evil, not even death, but the terrible truth that love cannot conquer all.  Like Jimmy and Ardis, Jason’s parents, I once struggled to believe that this was not so, namely, that love – faithful enough, deep enough, tireless enough, bottomless love – could not but win.  Now I sat in an eight-by-eight room in a prison across the table from what looked for all the world to be a loss….Some broken things just cannot be fixed.  There are broken people who cannot be healed in this world, neither by our love nor our cleverness….Some wounded souls heal; but some go to their graves pulled into the earth by darkness no mortal love can ever lighten.”

      We all carry scars from our early years.  Some are easily worked through.  Others are more serious.  Serious ones can prevent us from living the lives we would choose to live, whether that scar be a lack of self-worth, a message that we can't do better, a belief that the world is against us no matter what, a vision of the world as evil and violent, a message that we are rejects, not acceptable, not okay, that we can't do what we want or whatever that message may be. There are sometimes (often based on economic and national privilege) opportunities to fight these early messages, to work through traumas and to strive to live a life not controlled by our early experiences. But not everyone has those chances.  And some people's genetic make up mixed with those early traumas make a true recovery extremely difficult if not impossible.  I understand that we don't want to believe that there is anyone beyond healing. But the stories of our world show us otherwise.
       Personally, I imagine I will continue to work my entire life against early negative messages.  And while I would hope for something different, I have come to accept that I will watch my children spend their entire lives fighting their early experiences of trauma as well. We do the best we can do. And we hope to learn how to avoid imparting these messages to other children.  Faith helps.  But it doesn't fix everything.  Love helps.  But it too, has limits, at least in this world.  The early years of our children are so important.  Spending time working to make those early years the healthiest possible for each child will go a long way, not only towards healing individuals but in healing communities, nations and the world.  We have a long way to go.  But looking towards the children is an important start.
     

Children's Sunday Sermon

Luke 18:15-17, Matthew 18:1-5

The disciples thought Jesus was too busy to bother with children, but they were wrong about that.  Jesus enjoyed children very much and the Bible tells us he was happy to spend time with children.

With the children ask: Children are very important at our church too.  Do you know this? 

Why do you think that children are important here?

How do you know that children are important here?

I want you to think of things the church does for kids and youth here. These don’t just happen on their own – people make these happen.  Who leads these programs? Why do you think all these people do this?  What is the main thing that you have learned here at church?  The folk who work with you here believe it is important for children to know and love God.  They want to share the love of Christ with you.

What do you give back to the church?  Back to God? 

Harder questions: What more should the church be doing for you?  What don’t we do that you think would be helpful to you?

What other thoughts do you have about today’s scriptures or about kids and church?

--

After the christening of his baby brother in church, Jason sobbed all the way home in the back seat of the car.  His father asked him three times what was wrong.  Finally, the boy replied, "That preacher said he wanted us brought up in a Christian home, and I wanted to stay with you guys."

            One of my pastor friends told me about a time he came to an intersection at which the lights were down and a police officer was directing traffic.  But as Leroy approached the intersection, he saw the officer doing this (one hand in “stop” and one hand pulling traffic towards him).  He was really confused by this gesture, as I’m sure any of us would be.  Was he being told to stop?  Was he being told to go forward? 

            Today’s scripture passage calls us to welcome the children to Jesus – to not turn them away from Jesus, to not declare that Jesus is too busy for them.  But I think, like the officer that Leroy encountered in the street, many of our churches send very mixed signals to our kids.  I think this is at least one reason why our youth often stop coming to church and as young adults and adults then rarely return.  What are some of the ways that churches do this, that churches send our children mixed messages?

            Churches declare that they want more young people in church, and then some work very hard to invite them to come.  But when they get in the door, what do these churches do?  Often churches don’t welcome children into worship – they send them to Sunday School, and often the Sunday School feels to the children like just one more day of instruction.  Some churches use translations of the Bible that are written in archaic language that the children don’t understand.  This, too, excludes them from Jesus. They cannot hear the message, they cannot understand the message. Churches do this with prayer as well.  At a SAFE service, I asked the children what the words to the Lord’s Prayer meant.  I asked them what “art” meant (Our Father who “art” in heaven), I asked them what “thy” and “thine” meant.  I asked them what “hallowed” meant.  The children don’t know these words because they aren’t modern English words.  They aren’t in use in our vocabulary any place except in an occasional prayer in church.  We have come to associate these words with holiness so we insist on using these words.  But “thine” was actually the ultra familiar term for “your” – when it was part of the English language, it was even less formal than “you”, not the way we insist on using it as a holy and formal word now.  When we insist on using old language and old translations for prayers, not only do we fail absolutely to capture the original Biblical meaning of the prayer (which again, was one of closeness and familiarity) but we also fail utterly to welcome our children to Jesus by using a code language in our prayers that they cannot and do not understand.  How is it welcoming children to Jesus to insist that they talk to Jesus in a language they don’t speak and can’t understand?

            Sometimes the “children’s time” in churches is really meant for the adults rather than the kids – the kids pick up on this when that happens and feel un-included when it does.

            In some places where children are included, they are expected to be absolutely silent and inactive in church.  While teaching good church behavior to our children is important, expecting them to be something they are not and cannot be is a way of excluding them from Jesus.  They can’t sit completely still or be completely silent.  When we accept this about them, even as we encourage and try to teach good behavior (just like at school), we welcome them to Jesus.

            Parents, grandparents and others can also be uncomfortable talking to our children about our own beliefs, why we do what we do, why we believe what we believe, and, more importantly, what difference it makes in our lives to have the faith we have and to be the church we strive to be.  Choosing to share with our children our faith stories and beliefs is crucial to inviting them to have faith lives of their own. 

A Sunday school teacher asked her children as they were on the way to church service, "And why is it necessary to be quiet in church?"
One bright little girl replied, "Because people are sleeping."

Being aware of the messages we send to the children by our actions as well as our words, sharing with the children our faith stories and why our faith matters to us, incorporating our faith in all aspects of our lives, radically, and showing how our relationships with Jesus make a difference in our lives – these are the ways that we welcome the children to Jesus, that we invite Jesus into their lives, that we open the door for them to be children of faith, passionate about their beliefs, and willing to live and to die for them.    

Judging Others, Part II: Special Children

Dear Parent,
          I hear your extreme pride in your child as they go across the stage at graduation.  I hear it as a small group of you stands up to cheer on your kid, your special progeny, as they graduate and move on to the next adventure.  What joy it is for that entire group of people to celebrate your loved, outgoing, popular child as they are lifted up by the full 15 seconds of whooping and cheering and calling of her name as she marches across the stage, looking slightly embarrassed, but more, looking confident and sure in her place as number one kid of all the kids who have crossed the stage this morning.  She knows she is more loved, more valued, because of the loud cheers that accompany her as opposed to all the other chidren who were simply applauded as most are.  But then the next child walks across the stage, and not to be outdone, her family also stands and cheers loudly, even louder, if that is possible, to show that in fact it is their child who is more loved, more valued, more important. This happens a third time, with an even bigger group of people standing and calling and whooping, this time for almost a full minute.
           And then a fourth child crosses the stage -  A child whose sole parent, his mother, works a job that she cannot miss this day.  A child who has no extended family, and whose mother works such long hours that friends and extended community are not easily made and therefore rarely come into the picture.  And as the light applause follows his walk across the stage, I see the tentative smile as he takes his "diploma", followed by the crestfallen look of unease and distress as he steps down and quietly returns to his seat.  Here is a child who has not won the "most popular child of the year" award.  He is clearly not the most loved, most valued, most celebrated.  And he knows it.

           As I watched this painful display at my child's graduation I found myself thinking about the many ways in which we lift up one group of people over another.  We know that girls, people of color, LGBTQ folk, immigrants, Muslims are treated in ways in our school systems that often lead to lack of the same quality of education and the same treatment as others.  We know this.  We experience it.  We know it is not right.  It is unfair.  It is something that must be combatted and fought.  Do we also see that we additionally separate and raise up kids who are more extroverted, who have more family connections, who are more popular, who have more social skills, in ways that hurt and harm less outgoing, less talented, less connected children as well?  There are simple solutions to this.  It would be so easy to applaud all children the same and then take your child out to a party to celebrate them with their family afterwards, to give them the special attention and kudos they deserve away from the children who may not have this luxury.  But we don't do this.  We still seek privilege and specialness for our own kids in ways that can hurt others.
          I am blessed that my child who walked across the stage was confident in herself.  She was one of the first to cross and she had two adults come to her graduation, both of whom are introverted enough that the whooping and cheers were not going to happen to single her out, but she is strong enough to be okay with that.  Still, the face of the boy who had no one there is burned into my brain. I wish there were a way to communicate to other parents that sometimes singling out of our own child for that kind of public praise hurts others.  That again celebrating and lifting up of your own child might be done in a kinder way in other places and at other times.  But I don't think we are ready to hear that as a community.  So I will simply learn this lesson for myself and when I see a kid who does not receive that kind of special praise, perhaps I will be the one to yell and cheer for him or her.

Raising Kids Alone, Part II

On October 2, 2015 I wrote about being a solo parent from the perspective of recognizing that it really does take a village to raise a child and that we are all called to be part of that.  I shared the struggles, the challenges, of trying to raise kids alone.

But I found myself today reflecting on this in a different way, from the perspective of the gifts that I experience in being a solo parent, as well as being the solo head of house.

I have found that my children are much closer to me than they were before.  The downside of this is that I worry they have not done the "growing up and away" that kids are supposed to do, or at least not as early or as fully as other kids.  But while I have a bit of concern about that, I also really enjoy the closeness I share with my kids. They talk to me.  I know not every parent experiences that from their kids.  They share with me their fears, their hopes, their dreams and their frustrations.  They ask for one on one time with me and we value that time together, both individually and as a family.  We are close in a way that I see only shared by other solo parents with their kids.

Secondly, I get to make the kid and parenting decisions on my own.  There is no debating, the decisions are mine to make. I shared the downside of this before which is that I know I sometimes make mistakes with those decisions, or I don't always choose what is ultimately best for my kids (though I try hard to do so). None the less, there are times when it is simply easier to not have to make every decision about the kids with someone else.

Thirdly, while I have had to learn some things I never really wanted to learn, on the other hand, I've learned many things that I now value knowing.  Even more, I've learned how to DO things that I never expected I would learn how to do.  I had no desire to learn how to mow a lawn, but I know how to do that now.  I had no desire to learn how to fix basic household things, or how to hang outdoor Christmas tree lights, or how to change the furnace filter, but I know how to do these things now.  I know many women learn these things without becoming single moms.  And because I believe in equality, it embarrasses me at some level how traditionally our roles ended up being divided in some ways. But they did. Not anymore.  And finally, I never thought I would learn how to do this:

     Cutting hair and shaving heads (sometimes he chooses to have a shaved head) just never made the list of things I expected to learn how to do.  But I do it now for my son on a semi-regular basis.  (As an aside, my son's crabby face is not because he doesn't like having his hair cut.  He didn't like that his sister was watching. (sigh).)

       Yes, being a single parent is tiring at times.  I can become overwhelmed when everyone has immediate needs at the exact same moment.  But there are huge gifts as well.  And for today, I am grateful for the life I am leading this day.

Sunday's Sermon: Generation to Generation

Ezra 3:10-13

Luke 15:103, 11b-32

“Why do grandparents and grandchildren get along so well?  They have the same enemy – the mother”.  (Claudette Colbert from Brown, H. Jackson,.Wit and Wisdom of the Peanut Butter Gang. Nashville, TN: Rutledge Hill Press, Inc., 1994).

               Today I want to spend some time talking about generational differences.  How do we communicate across the generations?  How do we teach across the generations?  How do we form community with different generations?  How do we do worship which speaks, teaches and empowers all who come, across the generations?

               I believe that it is more than possible to do worship that touches and moves and is positive for people of many ages, but I also think that before we can make that possible, we have to start by understanding one another across those generations.  This is not always an easy task.  I have come to believe that we are all the ages we ever have been, meaning that while I stand before you a woman in my 40s, I am also still a person in my 30s, 20s, teens and even a child.  We have all of those parts of us, so in one way maybe it is easier for me to understand a young person that it is for them to understand me.  But at the same time our society and culture are constantly changing, so the world that we interacted with as children, the issues we dealt with as young people are very different from what today’s young people face.

               This morning I want us to spend some time looking at and understanding some of those differences.  But because I am limited by my own generation, I want to ask you for your help this morning with the message.

               Towards that end, I want to start by asking you, in this fairly intergenerational congregation, what do you, personally, have a hard time understanding about people of a different generation?  I’ll give you an example, to start us off.  I don’t understand, have never understood some of the fashions of different generations.  On the upper end, I think Polyester is extremely uncomfortable and don’t know why people wear it.  On the younger end, I don’t understand why kids wear their pants so low as to show their underwear.  I understand how that started – gangs wanted to have ways of hiding large weapons and these baggy pants do that successfully.  But what on earth is the appeal for kids who are not in gangs?  I don’t get it.  What are things that You don’t understand?

               Okay, maybe an easier question, what is something in your current life that you feel people of other generations don’t understand or have a hard time understanding? 

               The two Bible passages I shared with you today reflect those differences in generational experience and understanding.  The book of Ezra talks about what occurred after the destruction of the first Jerusalem temple.  The temple had been destroyed at least 49 years, but now, Ezra tells us, God was at work again and the people of Israel were finally able to begin rebuilding the temple.  They laid the new foundation for the temple, and everyone was rejoicing.  But the older people, and the priests who knew the stories of the older temple were also weeping.  Their experience was different.  On the one hand, here was a new generation, excited about what it could do, excited that it could build again, form community again, be a worshiping people again.  But on the other hand, here too was an older generation for whom this new temple foundation brought memories of the past, of the glory of the temple that was destroyed, of their loss of that temple, of the loss of that space, community, and experience.  Yes, a new temple would be built.  But it would not be the same.  It could not be the same.  As some of the other prophets, Haggai, for example, recount, this second temple was nothing like the first.   The young people had not been alive to see the previous temple, they were not alive to suffer its destruction.  But for the older people, this new temple was a reminder of what could never be again.

               For the older people, the new also reminded them that the temple was not the indestructible house of God that they had once believed it to be.  With the destruction of the first temple, their entire understanding of their world had been wrenched from them and changed irreparably.  No longer did they see their God as one who would, against any odds and at any price, live in the temple and save them from other peoples and their other gods.  There was much here to grieve as well as to celebrate; much that a younger generation would not, could not understand.

               In the story of the prodigal son, the misunderstanding between generations flowed in both directions.  While Jesus is telling a story and does not go into detail about the feelings of those in the parable, we can imagine how we might have felt as each character in the parable.  As a parent, what hurt would we feel if our child asked for his inheritance while we still lived, then took that inheritance and left.  How could we understand that?  What would cause a son to do that?  As the younger son, what anger would cause us to leave in such a cold way?  And how, as the younger son, could we possibly understand the father, his feelings, his potential actions as we crawled back to that father in shame, begging to be a hired hand?  What total lack of comprehension we might have felt as the older son on discovering that while we had done exactly what we were “supposed to do” for our father, without any seeming reward, our younger brother, who had been hurtful, rude, and selfish, who had left the house and squandered away what father had given him, had then been given a party after returning home!  Neither son could know, or could understand what it was like to be the parent; the depth of love, the depth of pain, the depth of rejoicing their father felt.  The father in turn did not know the pain, the shame, the hurt their sons suffered from their own actions.  Each was in a unique place, each generation suffered its own unique sufferings, each rejoiced and experienced its own unique experiences.

               Those barriers of understanding often keep us talking and “hanging out” with those who are closest to us in age and experience, and that is understandable.  We share with our peers a common history that makes conversation easier, that makes communication smooth.  Talking to our own peers, there is much that is assumed which we don’t need to make explicit.  There is much, not only in content, but in style of communication that makes it affirming and comfortable to share with those close to us in age and culture. 

               And yet, we have so much to learn from each other.  God has created us to be born, to live, to grow, to die, and to do so in community with people of all different ages and experiences.  We have been given a wealth of resources in those different ages, and different approaches to life.  There is so much abundance here in this room because we are multi-generational, a bit multi-cultural, because we come from and with very different experiences and backgrounds.  We can learn from our children what it means to really trust.  We can learn from them what it is to be completely genuine and vulnerable.  We can learn from people older than us that experience can teach wisdom, we can learn history.  We can learn patience and perseverance. We can learn more than we imagine from people of all ages.

               The book, Wit and Wisdom from the Peanut Butter Gang (see above citation) highlights some multigenerational wisdom, and I thought I would share with you some of these marvelous quotes, particularly about people of other generations, from children of all ages.

               Katherine, age 13 said, “I can remember what flavor of ice cream my grandmother and I shared at Disneyworld, but most of the time I can’t remember what day it is.  I guess it depends on what you think is important.”

               Adult Harold Hubert said, “Children need love, especially when they do not deserve it.”

               Kara, age 13 said, “Once you’ve lost your parents’ trust, it’s hard to earn it back.”

               Adult Rebecca Richards said, “Oh, to be only half as wonderful as my child thought I was when he was small, and only half as stupid as my teenager now thinks I am.”

               Shanna, age 14 said, “Parents should come with instructions.”

               Adult Mignon McLaughlin said, “Likely as not, the child you can do the least with will do the most to make you proud.”

               Jamie, age 16 said, “One of the greatest gifts my parents gave me was their love for each other.”

               Writer Pearl Buck said, “The young do not know enough to be prudent; and therefore, they attempt the impossible – and achieve it, generation after generation.”

               Sarah, age 12 said, “You should be careful around those younger than you.  It is surprising how much of an impact a word or action can make on them.”

               Lois, age 11 said, “You always have time for someone you care for.”

               Finally, I’d like to read to you “on Children” by Kahlil Gibran (The Prophet. New York: Alfred A Knopf, 1995):  “Your children are not your children.  They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.  They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you yet they belong not to you.  You may give them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts.  You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.  You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.  For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.  You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.  The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.  Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness; for even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.”

               God has given us each other in all our diversity as a gift.  But God has also given us the free will to choose whether or not we will embrace this gift.  It will take time and commitment to get to know those around us who are older, younger, different than ourselves.  We may not quickly see or learn the gems of wisdom and experience we each have to share.  But one of God’s greatest gifts to us is the gift of each other, across all boundaries and ages.  It is worth the time and energy of getting to know people. 

               Coming back to your part in helping me with this morning’s message, I have one more question for you.  If you could share something with all the other generations about your own generation to help them understand you, what would that be?  What wisdom would you share?

               Finally, to leave you with one more piece of wisdom from the peanut butter gang, “children are a great comfort in your old age – and they help you reach it faster too!” – Lionel Kauffman.  

Raising kids....alone

       There was an article posted on Facebook recently that was the musings of a divorced mom sharing her struggles and angst with the role.  She was sharing how it is hard to have the kids all by herself at times, and then just as hard to have to share them with someone who removes them from the home for a few days at a time.  She valued the kids having time with their father, but missed them when they were gone.  Still, when they returned to her and she had them all on her own, she found her energy was short and she often wished for help.  And I found myself just thinking how different it was to be not only a single mom but also a SOLO mom - a parent who has full custody, full responsibility, full time being a single parent with my children.
     My experience is not unique.  Parents whose co-parent is deployed oversees, or whose spouse has died or is incarcerated, or single people who adopt all share this experience.  Sometimes they have one child, sometimes more than one.  Sometimes they have all straight A stellar kids, sometimes they have a special needs or especially challenging child like I do. Whatever our circumstances there are many of us.  And yet, one of the factors that I think most of us share in common is the overwhelming SENSE of being alone - of trying to do it all ourselves when we simply don't have the time, energy or resources to be able to do that.
     It takes a village to raise a child.  Yes, it absolutely does.  And yet, we live in a culture that emphasizes independence, that separates people into their houses and boxes and buildings.  We live in a place where asking for help is often taken as a sign of weakness, and where it is not really tolerated on a long term basis.  I have asked for help with the children in the past, from people who have offered help, and yet have been greeted with "I don't want you to become dependent so the answer is no".  The whole idea of being "dependent" is incredibly feared, stigmatized and seen as one of the ultimate "bads" of our society.  It is a little more acceptable to ask family to help, rely on relatives, especially when it comes to the raising of kids, but even then, I've overheard countless conversations with older people that basically come back to, "You shouldn't have to be helping your children raise their kids.  You raised your own already. You are done with that." And, truthfully, it is not just those helping who resist the "village" idea.  We live in a place where advice given on child rearing is often resented.  We don't know everything, and yet we are supposed to, and somehow when we are given advice we take it as a personal insult to our lack of innate knowledge about the best ways to rear children.  I've also heard of numerous situations in which kids become attached to the "help", and then the parents replace the helper because the parents become envious of those deep connections to their kids.  How does all of this work with the true wisdom that it does indeed take a village to raise a child?
       As a solo parent, I make all of the decisions for my kids on my own: where they go to school, what they eat, what clothes we buy, who watches them when I work, what they can watch on TV, how much media time they are allowed, what activities I will enroll them in, where we go for vacation, whether or not we pray at dinner and at bedtime, who we will spend our free time with, what influences they will be exposed to, where they will live and play and study and work.  I do it all on my own.  I can consult with others, but the ultimate decisions are mine.  I am aware that I often get it wrong.  I don't pay them enough attention because I work too much.  And when I do have time and attention to give them, I am not always in the best spirits or give them the kind of attention they really need and deserve because I'm worn out.  I probably let them see way too much of my own moods, frustrations and fears because there just isn't another adult in my home with whom to share those things.  I do an adequate job, but not a great job.  They aren't abused.  They are fed and housed. They are loved, and they know it.  
       But I know it isn't enough.  And there are moments at which I am all too aware that I am just simply not enough.  There are moments in which I make a decision and worry that it isn't right.  But more, I'm aware that the limited resources I can give them, regardless of the decisions I make, aren't enough.  It takes a village to raise a child.  Where is this village that we talk about?  Where are the villagers who can be called on to help raise each child?
       In the Presbyterian church, we baptize people of all ages, and that includes infants.  We do this because for us it is a sign that God chooses us even before we are old enough to understand it.  We also have rules around that.  A person cannot have their child baptized in a Presbyterian church if the parents are not members of the church.  The reason for this is that a big part of our understanding of baptism is that it is a commitment from the faith body to be the "village" that raises the child.  A big part of the ritual is a promise from the congregation to raise the child as a child of God.  The congregation promises to support, love, nurture and raise each baby that is baptized in its midst. Sometimes people move, but the promise is made on behalf of all congregations to which that child might belong.  Sometimes people come in to my office whom I have never met and who have no intention of attending church and ask me to baptize their baby.  I understand that.  It usually means something very different to those individuals - they are worried about the baby's salvation or afterlife, usually.  That isn't what it means for Presbyterians, so in those cases, I usually encourage the person to find a different denomination to baptize their child who might have that other understanding.  But I digress.
        The point is that in our churches we make promises to each child baptized in our midst that we will help raise them.  How seriously do we take those promises?  How deeply do the parents whose children are baptized in the church take in that promise of help and care and nurture for their kids?
        My sense is that it is not taken with the seriousness with which it was intended.  I say again, with absolute conviction, it takes a village to raise a child.  The "myth" that we should be independent is simply that, a myth. All of us are interdependent. We are all connected and to believe that you are independent or even SHOULD be independent is to believe a lie.  But it extends even beyond our daily reliance on other people into the bigger picture that our connections go deeper than we know. When you are hurting, I am hurting.  When your kids don't have enough attention, my community and my world is lessened.  And when we offer care and love and support to one another, all of us are enriched.  I have more energy and love to give when my kids are loved and cared for.  And you are more able to care for others when I have the energy to care for you. When I have enough, all of my interactions with others are more positive, and that extends outwards. It is circular. and it deepens.  I'm reminded of a song I learned at church when I was little, "Love is like a magic penny.  Hold it tight and you won't have any.  Lend it, spend it and you'll have so many, they'll roll all over the floor!  Love is something: if you give it away, you end up having more!"
        I am deeply grateful to those who have chosen to be part of the village raising my children.  I am grateful every day for those who offer help and who take an active interest in my kids' lives.  I hope that you are enriched by it as well.  But for me, it is absolutely essential for all of us.  It takes a village to raise a child.  And as we build that village for our children, we are blessed to find ourselves part of a community that nurtures and feeds and "grows" us as well.