a belated Father’s Day post for my theologically-minded Dad

In our culture, patriarchy – the social system centered around and continued through the male – gets a bad rap. That’s understandable. I have seen enough evidence in CNN headlines to convince me of the injustices that often accompany this system. But I have to tell you, patriarchy worked for me.

I don’t think patriarchy as a system is broken. The problem is that we have too many bad or absent fathers. Bad fathers abuse the intended beauty of a patriarchal system. Absent fathers wound their children in the deepest ways and the result is a widespread social crisis.

There is a story in the folklore of my family that goes like this. Between 30 and 40 years ago – we’ll just round it off, OK? – my Dad and my Mom went on their first date to Pizza Hut and ordered ham and cheese sandwiches.

They fell in love. At least, my mom was sold. (And when you hear the next part of the story you’ll know why!)

It was on this date that Dad told Mom that he wanted to name his first daughter Felicity after watching an old Western movie. Apparently, a beautiful woman stepped off the stagecoach in a new town and the ripples of voices collectively asked, “Who is that?” The answer was “Felicity” and my dad thought it was a perfect name.

So here I am – named by my dad and living in the blessing of his decision making ever since.

That was the significance of the father in Bible stories: identity, protection, blessing, inheritance, etc. You were known by your father’s deeds and conquests and character. This worked for me.

I’ve always loved the uniqueness of my name. I never remember wishing I had anything different. But I think it is more than just the arrangement of syllables. I loved this naming story as a child because it reminded me that I was thought of before I was born. I was wanted and planned for. No one flipped through a name book on the way to the hospital for me – my Dad gave me the prettiest name he knew.

And my dad didn’t just name me well. He provided for me well – he gave me a home; he taught me how to put myself to sleep; he walked me through decisions as a teenager, not just telling me what to do, but going through the implication of each possible choice and letting me come to my own guided conclusions.

Patriarchy worked for me. Happy Father’s Day!

After a few days of vacation in Dan’s beloved Omaha (hOme-aha to him), I have a few reflections.

These things are sweet:

1. Connection time. Dan and Macy share a birthday. When he greeted her Saturday morning with, “Happy Birthday!” She replied with, “And Happy Birthday to you!”

My youngest sister, Charity, and I spent one morning getting haircuts and then eating lunch at a trendy spot we’d both wanted to try. We even day-dreamed a little together as we drove around. Those are fun times you don’t get often when you live 6 hours apart.

Another evening we gathered around Papa Don’s fire pit and roasted marshmallows for s’mores. As Claire crammed in a bite of gooey mess she chirped, “We should do this every night.”

2. Surprises. First of all, we expected to swelter in the June heat. But it felt more like spring the entire weekend.This was a pure gift, friends.

Second, one of Dan’s cousins had an extra ticket to see Wicked in its final show at the Orpheum theater in Omaha. I went with her, and it blew my mind! Have you seen it? How have you kept this secret from me, world?! During the first big surprise, I inhaled audibly and smacked myself in the chest. For the final and biggest surprise, I slapped the thigh of the young man next to me who was so tall his knees were close to the ears of the lady sitting in front of him. He was on his fourth showing. Now we’re in it together, he and I and the rest of the Wicked devotees. I wouldn’t dare spoil it for you; the surprises are so fun. The story alone was fascinating. (Have you read the novel?) Then add spectacular music, talented performers, and a funny script . . . I was over the moon with inspiration and pure enjoyment. (What beloved story could I re-invent? Now that sounds like a great way to make a living!)

3. Unscheduled, flexible days. Dan and I both work full-time; our kids go to year-round school. Add in sports teams, dance performances, heath appointments, and various church and family events, and we don’t find ourselves with many unscheduled days. We took our time on this vacation. Two of the days we made the choice just to stick around the house and relax. Naps were taken, magazines were perused, movies were watched, and restaurants were enjoyed.

By personality I am tempted, even while on vacation, to look at the event as a means to solving the problems of the world. All the talk time! We could surely plan out our next 20 years together. All the free time! I bet I could finish those twenty-five books on my desk at work. For example, I sat through the first half of Wicked analyzing whether or not it was produced with a post-Christian emphasis on reversing the definitions of right and wrong. By the conclusion of that second half, I gave up. Elphaba soared at the top of center stage singing “Defying Gravity” while lights, smoke, and the rest of the cast accentuated her dramatic climb. I knew my analysis was over. I allowed the story free access to my heart and smiled, clapped, and gasped through the rest of the show.

These were the sweet spots. Do you have vacation plans? I think you should, even if it just means an unscheduled day around the house with the people you love, a movie or series you’ve been meaning to catch, or a quiet drive to a yet-to-be-determined location. Find a sweet spot.

I have this idea in the history of my personal version of the Christian faith that is grounded in a certain truth but bathed in a particular lie. It is the idea that God will only call me to do hard, difficult, even painful things. I say it is grounded in truth because I do not believe that God’s purposes for our lives are all about our health, wealth, and prosperity. I believe He wants us to learn to live well according to the principles of an unseen Kingdom and that may or may not include health, wealth, or prosperity. But it is a lie because by focusing on the inevitability of suffering in this life and the fact that God is not solely interested in my own particular happiness, I forget that God’s plans for me also come from the kindness of a good Father.

I know I am not alone. I know others share this imbalance because I hear it in their decision making, in their explanations about life choices, and in their praise or disdain for the plans others make with their lives. We forget that sometimes God leads us to green pastures. Sometimes he “satisfies us with good things so our youth is renewed like the eagle” (Psalm 103).

It can be confusing. Coming from a place of loss after the birth of premature twins, I feel pangs of sadness when I hear a proud parent say, “Praise the Lord! We prayed and He blessed us with two healthy babies.” Are they wrong? Of course not! It is just that I remember that I prayed too and my result was different. Does that mean I am not blessed? No. It means sometimes life does not go according to what we hope or want or desire. But we are always blessed. We can’t censor our language for every possible scenario. We’ll have very little left to say.

After a day like today, I remember His goodness. Today, the day before Macy’s fourth birthday, we traversed the zoo at her every whim and wish.

“What do you want to see next?”

“OK – to the polar bears!”

All day long. And she never once took advantage of that gift. She simply enjoyed it, soaked in every moment, savored every exhibit. I can’t always give her exactly what she wants. (In fact, even today she was denied the most expensive of plastic toys in the zoo gift shop.) Sometimes I even have to watch her suffer when I wish it could be different. But I never leave her in those moments, and I share her tears and I hope for better days – days like today when even the heat and bugs seemed to stay at bay for our occasion. If I can’t get a better day, I’ll have to hope for an entirely better life, an everlasting one.

He is God in every circumstance,

and I trust Him even in the storms,

but it’s good to have a day to remember that He is also

the God of pleasure and kindness and generosity.

Look what I found in my Ballerina shrub rose:

Those are the tiniest birds I’ve ever seen up close! They are in a nest smaller than my fist. And in truth, I almost ripped out that rose bush last season because it didn’t perform very well. Now look what it houses!

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Meanwhile, we are in the throes of baseball season – throes, of course, being a ridiculous and overly strong word for our lifestyle as we dart between the practices and games of three children, making sure to eat and wash uniforms as needed. It takes a lot to accomplish it all, but I may actually feel most content and happy while sitting on those bleachers soaking in Jesse’s joy on the field, watching the girls dance in the grass nearby, and chatting with neighbors I’ve been separated from over the long cold winter. Good for my soul, I tell ya.

Good for me, but busy. Last night I had the big girls at tee ball practice while Dan prepared to leave for a music gig later in the evening. When practice time overlapped a bit with Dan’s departure time, we decided Jesse (9 1/2) was old enough to watch his little sister (3) for a few minutes alone. I was only a few blocks away. I expected him to turn on Dora and make sure Macy didn’t let the dog eat a bag full of chocolate chips.

But he surprised me. By the time I got home, Jesse had fixed sandwiches for them both, fed and cleaned up Macy, packed his own baseball bag, and they were waiting for us while playing together outside. We loaded up  and actually made it to the ball field early. Early. If you know me, you know this is a small miracle. But the best miracle is what I witnessed when something I grew made the world a little bit better for someone else.

What a beautiful circle – a new nurturing nest in my little shrub.

At some point this weekend, Claire popped her head around the corner of my bathroom door and asked, “Mom, what’s Memorial Day about again?” I answered her before I realized she wasn’t really asking; she was reminding me. “Right, so we’re going to put flowers on Ellery’s grave?”

Right. She remembers every year. Maybe it’s because of Claire’s nudging or because I just added their birth story as its own page here on my blog, but, for whatever reason, I was more eager than usual this year to make the short trip out to the cemetery. Sometimes I forget to think about that tall white marble stone etched with the prettiest name I’ve ever put together; I hate for people to worry that I’m not healed or moving on with the beautiful life He’s given after our loss.

I remember visiting cemeteries with my great-grandmother and feeling a special sacredness about the whole thing – as well as some trepidation. (This particular grandmother got after us for walking across where the bodies were buried . . . is that standard?) I don’t think I’ve instilled that same sense of awe very well, but I did ask the kids as we piled out of the van with our beach bucket full of garden roses to please be respectful.

They did a great job. Granny Grubbs would have been sure the stone was going to fall over and crush one of them while they hugged it, and posed around it, and traced it’s script words: Ellery Blythe White – Our Glory Baby. But it worked for us. Maybe someday we’ll plant some purple petunias or add a smooth rock garden, but for now our simple offering will do. We didn’t stay long, but we remembered.

After college, I worked for a few years in the restaurant business. The people-lover inside me excelled in this industry. I still love the clinking and chattering sounds of a busy restaurant because it reminds me of those happy lunch hours when the diverse people of my city came into my little corner of the world for a turkey rueben and some iced tea. I was at home there.

But later, even in this job that I mostly loved (there were, of course, days that were so busy I cried in the back room wishing it would all disappear), I started to feel unfulfilled. Something was still not quite in place. Around that time, the church school I had attended had an opening for a kindergarten teacher’s aid. It was offered to me and I jumped at the opportunity for change.

I had no idea how much this one change would affect my life.

I always knew growing up that I wanted to be a mom, but I never really felt a mothering instinct. What I mean is, I wasn’t a particularly nurturing person. I wasn’t touchy-feely. I babysat occasionally, but it wasn’t something I did for fun. I just wasn’t very motherly. Now the flip side of this is that I’m extremely confident. I never doubted that I would be a mother and be a good one, I just didn’t have the feelings to accompany that security. (This is a gift and a curse, people, but I press on.)

I went into that first teaching gig with the idea that it would give me a nice change of pace, instead, it gave me a new heart. When those chubby little 5 year-olds walked through the doorway with their too-big backpacks and boxes of new crayons, they also waltzed right into my heart and changed me. As I tended to their needs, taught them the wonders of the letter “e”, and listened to their fabulous tales of recess excitement, a growing sense of nurturing happened in me.

I first noticed it when I heard myself calling them “honey” or “sweetheart.” Then I realized I was thinking about them when I walked through Wal-Mart, picking up new markers when they were on sale or snatching up tissue boxes with cartoon characters. That year I found the heart of a mother because I was acting like one. It would be a few more years before I married, but the seeds of mothering were planted when I was given little someones to mother.

I bring this up for a couple of reasons. First of all, those kindergarteners are graduating from high school this year. I still know most of them and can’t believe how ridiculously proud I am even though I only had them in my care for a year. The other reason is that I think the way this happened for me should give hope to young women who are afraid of becoming mothers as well as the young (0r not so young) women who fear they may never be mothers.

Now that I have a quartet of children myself, I still recognize all those same feelings that were first awakened by my kindergarten class. I mothered them, even though I was not their mother. Mothering is not just for physical mothers. Mothering is a reflection of God’s love for the world. Remember, even Jesus described himself with mothering imagery, “. . . how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings ” (from Matthew 23:37). We need you to mother because it shows us the heart of God.

Don’t worry about whether or not you will be a good mother. If you are in step with the Creator, you’ll know just what to do when the time comes. If you are already a mother but feel inadequate, ask for His help. Look for a mentor. Be hard on yourself in demanding change, but give yourself even more grace. We grow into being good mothers. It happens as we fight our own selfish tendencies and also develop the gifts within us. Be patient and diligent.

And here is my final observation as we head into the Mother’s Day weekend. I’ve been thinking about this lately as I analyze the way we parent our children – the good and the bad. One thing all parents do is dream extravagant dreams for their children. I imagine my girls can do everything that is in their hearts: police officers, dancers, inventors, doctors, etc. I want them to go to college and make a career and have it all. But I know it might not happen like that. My own path was far from traditional; I was married with three children before I went to college. But still my dreams for them are closer to an American dream than anything else, and I don’t know if my girls will go for that.

In fact, as I watch my three daughters tote baby dolls to church on their bony hips, I think I’m seeing a glimpse of the future. I can see the day when my talented, brilliant daughter sits down with me to discuss her future and the first thing that comes out of her mouth is, “I just want to be a mom.” Or sometimes I watch them load the staircase steps with baby dolls as they play “orphanage” and I wonder if someday they’ll be asking for plane tickets to Africa instead of college tuition money.

In those moments I have a choice. I can remind her of all the she could do with her life, the many accomplishments she could attain while she is young and full of potential. Or I could look at her so proud and say, “I know just what you mean. Our world needs good mothers maybe even more than it needs good doctors or lawyers or teachers.” Sure, I’ll know she has no idea what she’s in for – that parenting is more work than most of us imagine before we get there. But she’ll learn the same way I’ve learned – by doing. She’ll change the same ways I’ve changed. She’ll struggle and she’ll succeed. Maybe she’ll not be able to bear her own children or make that choice for herself, but she’ll be a mother. There’s no doubt about that. When we are His creation and we are faithful to doing His work, mothering is a part of us all.

As promised: the Easter boots. Big win this time. The girls loved them, and we were able to take the tromp into the woods without worrying about the muck or mud. In fact, they’ve made appearances almost every day since, even when there was not a puddle in sight. As my friend Stephanie says, “My rainboots make me fearless.” We agree. (Photo credit: Ryan Long.)