I was not raised a Christian. I've always been open about that fact. When I was younger, I offered this information in a laughing, joking, "Could you really think any different?" manner. As a twenty-something, I offered this as an excuse when my few devout friends tried to witness to me. How could I possibly believe in a god I knew nothing about? When I first began attending church, I said this as fast and as frequently as possible in a convoluted attempt to decrease expectations from my fellow churchgoers. Today, as I approach my third anniversary of really believing in and accepting Christ as my Lord and Savior, I still offer this line: as an excuse, an explanation, and a reminder to myself that it's still okay to struggle. I wasn't born a Christian and I wasn't raised a Christian, but I am determined that - when my time comes - I will die a Christian.
I've attended church every Sunday that I've been in my "home" town since that fateful Easter when Tracey, Ellie, and I attended church together for the first time. I've gone to Sunday school many of those Sundays, participated in a few classes of varying topics, volunteered, and now I work for my church. Together, we have baptized our daughter and commited ourselves to raising her in the church for as long as her faith continues to lead her there. However, my faith is not complete. I don't really believe that anyone's faith can be "complete" to the fullest sense of the word, but this sense of incomplete faith has persisted in my soul in a sense of unrest, angst, discomfort, and even anger. Lately I find my struggles perpetuated by my determination to participate in my church, and I find myself struggling all the more.
My first solution was to stop believing. I didn't believe in God for the first twenty-five years of my life, so surely I could return to not believing, right? After all, not believing provided me with many more answers than questions. However, in a feeling totally unfamiliar to me, I found that I couldn''t not believe. Christ is not simply something I believe in; He is a part of me. He made me, and He is ingrained in my every breath, my every moment for eternity. When I first realized this, I was shocked. After all, my first months in church were more of a "Fake it 'til you make it" than a total commitment to faith, so what had changed? Why could I not return to my adolescent mindset? I want to say something brilliant here about how I grew up, I had an epiphany, and I embraced Him. The reality, however, is that He embraced me. When I was ready to believe, I didn't go to Him. He came to me, and He stays with me even when I try to run away. As I will always remember a classmate saying in Sunday School, now more than ever, "Let the glory be to God."
My next solution was to try to find answers to everything. I tried to absorb spiritual subject matter everywhere I went. I recognized verses from the Bible, spoke more and more to devout Christians about their faith, and immersed myself in my religion. I found more questions than answers, and so my struggles continued. Reading the Bible can inspire me and comfort me, but it does not give me the answers I need. This, too, was a shocking moment for me. If the word of God cannot answer my questions, what can? Exactly how far was I supposed to carry my (blind) faith? I was too embarrassed to admit my inability to really absorb the Bible, so I argued with it. I denied passages, reinterpreted others, and looked to multiple sources until I found a translation that worked for me. I pursued this until the day came that I learned one of the pastors at my church, one who has played a very significant role in my joining this church, has (somewhat openly) stated that he, too, does not believe the Bible is the direct word of God. He offers many explanations of what he does believe the Bible to be, but the direct word of God is not one of them. This was a huge relief! If a pastor, a man whose entire being is devoted to sharing the word of God, does not accept the Bible as a complete and perfect text, how can a mere layperson do any better? I can't, and the reality is that I don't have to.
Most recently I have found myself at a crossroads with the various paths disappearing. I can't stop believing in God, and I wouldn't want to if I could. I can't fully accept the Bible, but I can not accept every single word as the word of God and still be a Christian. I pray and find comfort. I pray and witness miracles. I pray and He answers. For now, I think that's more than enough. I feel now that declaring myself a Christian without any struggles would be, for me, a shallow faith. I still have a lot to learn and a lot of growing to do, and my only real struggle is not in believing in Him, but in accepting that faith is not an answer in a book. It's not a prayer to be memorized. It is a lifelong journey that I, a person with too little patience in all too many areas of life, have committed myself to taking. I won't ever be done with my struggles, and I won't ever be done with my journey, but I am believing more everyday that the true gift here is that He will take this journey with me.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Child Care, Take Three
As many of my (four) readers know, I recently had to take my daughter out of her preschool. After approximately eighteen months of entrusting the owner and her staff with my daughter's care, it became apparent that the owner was more interested in the financial side of the business than the safety side of childcare. Much to my dismay, I had this realization exactly three days before the new semester started. Cue: panic.
For those of you who have never had children, it can seem fairly easy to choose a daycare. On paper, they're all the same. The state decides how many children they can have per caregiver and room size, how often the children must be fed and how much, how often the children must take naps, and what qualifies a person to be a licensed childcare provider. The state regulates all of this, and the insurance companies take care of the rest.
The reality, however, is that choosing a daycare center is (on a much more serious level) like trying a new hair stylist. You know how you want your hair to look, just as you know how you want your child to be treated. You can bring pictures (talk to the teachers), point out hair colors (talk to the owners/directors), look at pictures of other styles the stylist has done (drop-in visits, talk to parents), explain endlessly how you take care of your hair (your child), but the reality is that once you are in the chair, you are at the mercy of the stylist. If you really do your homework, you've still only improved your chances slightly. You watch, you ask questions, you offer reminders about your previously agreed upon arrangement, but you still have a fifty-fifty shot of asking for Demi Moore and leaving with Dickie Moore. Ouch.
With this optimistic attitude in hand, I have spent approximately forty hours in the last four weeks researching schools, asking for referrals, visiting schools, and ultimately leaving schools no closer to having a place to take my daughter. Some schools are easy to cross off (What do you mean you won't tell me the name of the owner?!?!?), yet others slip all too easily into a potpourri of, "Can I really leave her here?"
In order to answer this question, I have tried to put together my smaller questions as I toured the schools, certain that I'm only ever a few "right" answers away from finding a safe and happy preschool. Instead, my well-intentioned questions are all too often turned into conversation fodder for the owner and director to laugh about as they assure me that I don't really need to worry about those little things. Yes, because heaven knows I don't really need to know who is watching my daughter for the hour and a half before her regular teacher gets there. That would be no.
On the whole, the entire process has been almost comical in its lack of productivity where schools are concerned. There was the school she used to attend where all extracurriculars were offered during the 'insignificant' lessons that later turned out to be counting and phonics. Then there was the Montessori school where we actually let her try it out for two days. On the first day, the director escorted me back only to find the children watching a movie on a television that, surprise, the director didn't even know they had. The second day was no better when the teacher could not find my daughter's hat or mittens, couldn't explain why her sleeping bag was on a table in the corner, and wasn't entirely sure whether the kids had been outside that day. Don't call us, but we probably won't call you either.
From there the schools began to pass in rapid succession: the "preschool" with no formalized curriculum, the next Montessori school that wanted $1,800 up front and four weeks notice before leaving the school, the next Montessori school that had an owner on hand who couldn't tell me anything about the curriculum they used and then explained that the children running freely around the school were actually her students that she was supposed to be teaching at that time. From there came the highly reputable school with a two-year waiting period (she'll be in Kindergarten by then!), the smaller school that had an 80% negative feedback record, and, of course, the 'new' school that did not have any extracurriculars established yet because they were "shocked" at how "quickly" they were growing. The school, which is designed to hold up to 320 kids, has been open for six months and has a grand total of twenty kids enrolled. This is the same school that required the children to wear formal uniforms despite having the director and assistant director in ripped jeans and "uniform" t-shirts. However, they were more than happy to take my daughter's name, birthdate, and Social Security number on the spot to begin her enrollment process! I'm afraid that won't be possible.
All of this brings us to today, when I finally find myself satisfied with a nearby school and ready to enroll her. I've got my hairstyle in mind, picture in hand, and colors chosen, and I'm ready to take a seat. I can't expect Demi Moore-hair and I know that, but hopefully, there's a nice middle ground (Mandy Moore? Julianne Moore?) along the way. With forty hours in and only a handful of schools I haven't been to in the greater DFW area, I need this one to work. If not, I may find myself fighting to expand my analogy - what is the "wig" equivalent to preschool anyway?
For those of you who have never had children, it can seem fairly easy to choose a daycare. On paper, they're all the same. The state decides how many children they can have per caregiver and room size, how often the children must be fed and how much, how often the children must take naps, and what qualifies a person to be a licensed childcare provider. The state regulates all of this, and the insurance companies take care of the rest.
The reality, however, is that choosing a daycare center is (on a much more serious level) like trying a new hair stylist. You know how you want your hair to look, just as you know how you want your child to be treated. You can bring pictures (talk to the teachers), point out hair colors (talk to the owners/directors), look at pictures of other styles the stylist has done (drop-in visits, talk to parents), explain endlessly how you take care of your hair (your child), but the reality is that once you are in the chair, you are at the mercy of the stylist. If you really do your homework, you've still only improved your chances slightly. You watch, you ask questions, you offer reminders about your previously agreed upon arrangement, but you still have a fifty-fifty shot of asking for Demi Moore and leaving with Dickie Moore. Ouch.
With this optimistic attitude in hand, I have spent approximately forty hours in the last four weeks researching schools, asking for referrals, visiting schools, and ultimately leaving schools no closer to having a place to take my daughter. Some schools are easy to cross off (What do you mean you won't tell me the name of the owner?!?!?), yet others slip all too easily into a potpourri of, "Can I really leave her here?"
In order to answer this question, I have tried to put together my smaller questions as I toured the schools, certain that I'm only ever a few "right" answers away from finding a safe and happy preschool. Instead, my well-intentioned questions are all too often turned into conversation fodder for the owner and director to laugh about as they assure me that I don't really need to worry about those little things. Yes, because heaven knows I don't really need to know who is watching my daughter for the hour and a half before her regular teacher gets there. That would be no.
On the whole, the entire process has been almost comical in its lack of productivity where schools are concerned. There was the school she used to attend where all extracurriculars were offered during the 'insignificant' lessons that later turned out to be counting and phonics. Then there was the Montessori school where we actually let her try it out for two days. On the first day, the director escorted me back only to find the children watching a movie on a television that, surprise, the director didn't even know they had. The second day was no better when the teacher could not find my daughter's hat or mittens, couldn't explain why her sleeping bag was on a table in the corner, and wasn't entirely sure whether the kids had been outside that day. Don't call us, but we probably won't call you either.
From there the schools began to pass in rapid succession: the "preschool" with no formalized curriculum, the next Montessori school that wanted $1,800 up front and four weeks notice before leaving the school, the next Montessori school that had an owner on hand who couldn't tell me anything about the curriculum they used and then explained that the children running freely around the school were actually her students that she was supposed to be teaching at that time. From there came the highly reputable school with a two-year waiting period (she'll be in Kindergarten by then!), the smaller school that had an 80% negative feedback record, and, of course, the 'new' school that did not have any extracurriculars established yet because they were "shocked" at how "quickly" they were growing. The school, which is designed to hold up to 320 kids, has been open for six months and has a grand total of twenty kids enrolled. This is the same school that required the children to wear formal uniforms despite having the director and assistant director in ripped jeans and "uniform" t-shirts. However, they were more than happy to take my daughter's name, birthdate, and Social Security number on the spot to begin her enrollment process! I'm afraid that won't be possible.
All of this brings us to today, when I finally find myself satisfied with a nearby school and ready to enroll her. I've got my hairstyle in mind, picture in hand, and colors chosen, and I'm ready to take a seat. I can't expect Demi Moore-hair and I know that, but hopefully, there's a nice middle ground (Mandy Moore? Julianne Moore?) along the way. With forty hours in and only a handful of schools I haven't been to in the greater DFW area, I need this one to work. If not, I may find myself fighting to expand my analogy - what is the "wig" equivalent to preschool anyway?
Monday, February 14, 2011
Home Alone 3: Attachment Family in Texas
I am a mature adult.
I am safe in my home.
I can take care of myself, daughter, and dogs.
I am woman, hear me . . . whine like a little girl from under the blankets with my flashlight?
That, too.
Today my husband flew to Las Vegas for work (cough, cough) leaving me behind to take care of our family. No problem, right? Our daughter is three, reasonably well-behaved, and very good at articulating her wants and needs - ALL her wants and needs. We have four dogs, three of whom would be more than happy to defend us against all intruders large and small (and one dog who is more than happy to let the others do the defending, thankyouverymuch). My retired-Navy dad is ten minutes away, and my sister is only an hour out. With my emergency response system firmly in place, I am not too proud to admit that I'm still more than a little afraid of the dark whenever my husband isn't home.
It's every bit as irrational as it sounds. My husband is a wonderful man in every sense of the word, but he's no Chuck Norris. He doesn't know martial arts, doesn't own a weapon (at my request), and hasn't regularly participated in sports in at least five years. Still, there is something about a second adult, particularly male, that makes the entire house feel safer. Now, however, the reality is that he is out of town and I've seen my last hour of sleep for the next five days.
I'll do what any self-respecting imitator of Macaulay Caulkin would do. I'll stack cans by the door (that my dogs will surely knock down), leave all dog-barriers between me and my daughter down (for my dogs to eat us out of house and home), and sleep with a baseball bat under my pillow (that I will undoubtedly drop on my foot before this week is over). I'll call someone every morning and every night as though the twelve hours in between are not enough time to break into my house and do any number of unmentionable crimes. I'll check the locks regularly and leave lights on in the windows, and yet with all of this foolproof defense in place, I still will not sleep.
Here's what I will do instead. I will jump at every. single. sound. My rationale will be that if the sound is so loud that even I can hear it, it's probably something to worry about. I will check on my daughter three times per night instead of one. I will close the blinds to hide the inside of my house from the outside world only to open them again out of the unreasonable fear that closed blinds will make it look like I'm trying to hide something. I will read book after mind-numbing book before finally giving way to sleep . . . just in time to awake to the blaring rooster that lives in my alarm clock.
As a comfort to myself, I will do things I can't do when my husband is home. I will let the house get messy during the day, but knowing me I will then clean it every night because I can no longer stand the mess. I will buy my coffee in addition to making it at home, but then I'll undoubtedly feel guilty for spending $5 on something I can make for $1. I'll consider buying new clothes and spend hours looking at shopping websites, but the aforementioned exhaustion will prevent me from actually retrieving my wallet to punch in my credit card number.
I will repeat this routine everyday for four days until I will finally reach that moment where I brace myself in front of the mirror, throw my shoulders back, chin up, and prepare to admit that I, at the ripe old age of 28, am still afraid of the Boogey Man. Just as I start to form the words, however, one of two things will occur. Either my husband will finally come home, staving off the humiliating confession for a few more months, or, more likely, another noise will occur and I will abandon the mirror in my thirty-second dash to the top of the stairs, fully prepared to rescue my daughter from danger. Then, when I realize that I lost my epiphanous moment of honesty to "danger" in the form of a thirty-pound puppy lunching on Barbie Buffet 2011, I will collapse on the ground and accept the fact that sleep will only come in a huddled ball in front of my daughter's door (at least until my husband comes home).
I remember bravery. I remember being a self-sufficient, self-respecting adult. I would like to say that I can build myself back into the person who could walk around late at night without a fear in the world, but at the moment it's only Day One and I'm already too tired for such a battle. Instead, I'm off to drag my pillow and blanket to the top of the stairs in the unlikely hope that I'll still find a way to sleep in my own bed. What can I say? I like to kid myself (and the Moment of Honesty is still four days away).
I am safe in my home.
I can take care of myself, daughter, and dogs.
I am woman, hear me . . . whine like a little girl from under the blankets with my flashlight?
That, too.
Today my husband flew to Las Vegas for work (cough, cough) leaving me behind to take care of our family. No problem, right? Our daughter is three, reasonably well-behaved, and very good at articulating her wants and needs - ALL her wants and needs. We have four dogs, three of whom would be more than happy to defend us against all intruders large and small (and one dog who is more than happy to let the others do the defending, thankyouverymuch). My retired-Navy dad is ten minutes away, and my sister is only an hour out. With my emergency response system firmly in place, I am not too proud to admit that I'm still more than a little afraid of the dark whenever my husband isn't home.
It's every bit as irrational as it sounds. My husband is a wonderful man in every sense of the word, but he's no Chuck Norris. He doesn't know martial arts, doesn't own a weapon (at my request), and hasn't regularly participated in sports in at least five years. Still, there is something about a second adult, particularly male, that makes the entire house feel safer. Now, however, the reality is that he is out of town and I've seen my last hour of sleep for the next five days.
I'll do what any self-respecting imitator of Macaulay Caulkin would do. I'll stack cans by the door (that my dogs will surely knock down), leave all dog-barriers between me and my daughter down (for my dogs to eat us out of house and home), and sleep with a baseball bat under my pillow (that I will undoubtedly drop on my foot before this week is over). I'll call someone every morning and every night as though the twelve hours in between are not enough time to break into my house and do any number of unmentionable crimes. I'll check the locks regularly and leave lights on in the windows, and yet with all of this foolproof defense in place, I still will not sleep.
Here's what I will do instead. I will jump at every. single. sound. My rationale will be that if the sound is so loud that even I can hear it, it's probably something to worry about. I will check on my daughter three times per night instead of one. I will close the blinds to hide the inside of my house from the outside world only to open them again out of the unreasonable fear that closed blinds will make it look like I'm trying to hide something. I will read book after mind-numbing book before finally giving way to sleep . . . just in time to awake to the blaring rooster that lives in my alarm clock.
As a comfort to myself, I will do things I can't do when my husband is home. I will let the house get messy during the day, but knowing me I will then clean it every night because I can no longer stand the mess. I will buy my coffee in addition to making it at home, but then I'll undoubtedly feel guilty for spending $5 on something I can make for $1. I'll consider buying new clothes and spend hours looking at shopping websites, but the aforementioned exhaustion will prevent me from actually retrieving my wallet to punch in my credit card number.
I will repeat this routine everyday for four days until I will finally reach that moment where I brace myself in front of the mirror, throw my shoulders back, chin up, and prepare to admit that I, at the ripe old age of 28, am still afraid of the Boogey Man. Just as I start to form the words, however, one of two things will occur. Either my husband will finally come home, staving off the humiliating confession for a few more months, or, more likely, another noise will occur and I will abandon the mirror in my thirty-second dash to the top of the stairs, fully prepared to rescue my daughter from danger. Then, when I realize that I lost my epiphanous moment of honesty to "danger" in the form of a thirty-pound puppy lunching on Barbie Buffet 2011, I will collapse on the ground and accept the fact that sleep will only come in a huddled ball in front of my daughter's door (at least until my husband comes home).
I remember bravery. I remember being a self-sufficient, self-respecting adult. I would like to say that I can build myself back into the person who could walk around late at night without a fear in the world, but at the moment it's only Day One and I'm already too tired for such a battle. Instead, I'm off to drag my pillow and blanket to the top of the stairs in the unlikely hope that I'll still find a way to sleep in my own bed. What can I say? I like to kid myself (and the Moment of Honesty is still four days away).
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