The Kids

Courtesy of Destinee Blau Photography.

Religion not for Children? My Response.

Yesterday I read a BlogHer blog post that really got under my skin. You might ought to check it out if you'd like to understand completely where my thoughts are coming from. Here's the link:

Stop Inviting my Kid to Church: Religion is Not for Children

All caught up? Good.

I was 16 years old when I had an experience that solidified my certainty that God knew exactly who I was. I had always known who He was, but this experience took our relationship one step further. I knew Him... and He knew me. It's a personal experience, one too personal to share in such a public forum, but it was real and good and validating and has stayed with me as a defining moment in my life, even 15 years later. I was prepared for such an experience because from the earliest days of my childhood I was taught about who God was. I was taught to recognize Him in the beauty of the world around me, in the love that I felt in my home, in the joy and happiness that I found in playing outside or snuggling inside. I was taught to recognize that God is everywhere, that God is love.

As a child, I was never told that if I did not believe a certain way, I was going to hell. I was never told that my friends who didn't believe as I do were going to hell. I was never told that those who make different choices than I do, who live different lifestyles than I do were going to hell either. I was taught to be tolerant, to be kind, to be compassionate and forgiving.

I acknowledge that their is a brand of toxic Christianity that exists that judges and belittles and demeans. I am a Mormon that grew up in the Southern United States. I have experienced such discrimination first hand. In high school, I had a boy tell me he didn't want to date me anymore because his preacher told him I was going to hell for being Mormon. Notes were regularly left in my locker, inviting me to be saved, informing me that prayer meetings were being held on my behalf. Such gestures were particularly frustrating because I considered myself a person with a strong sense of who Jesus was and what role He played in my life.

I won't try and tell anyone that all Christians, or all people of faith in general are perfect, but I will assert that to paint us all with one big brush--to push us all into a box of intolerant narrow mindedness, to imply that we are all scaring our children into following our footsteps with tales of fire and brimstone simply isn't fair.

When my husband and I teach our children about God, we teach them that they have a right, even an obligation to study and pray and ponder so that they may learn for themselves. Of course, there is a level of blind obedience that exists with young children. But ultimately, each of my children will reach an age where they will have to decide for themselves what they believe. I guarantee when that day comes, they won't have a mother standing over their head threatening damnation if they happen to choose a different path.

The thing is, I feel this way not in spite of my faith in God, but because of it. Because the God that I know is good and gracious and kind and loves us all. And that's what my children are taught in church.

Reverent Children are Weird*

*In a question and answer session with the former General Relief Society President of the LDS Church, Julie B. Beck, someone asked how to encourage reverence in their children. Sister Beck responded that we had to do the best we could, but not to worry about it. "Reverent children are weird," she said. I love her for that remark.

Three weeks ago, I had an experience at church that was terrible in every sense of the word. It wasn't life changing or earth shattering or linked to any major consequences, but in the moment, it hurt a great deal. I hesitated to write about it because I didn't want to speak negatively of another person, but I think it might spark a discussion that could remind us all to think about how we treat people, as well as how we react when people treat us.

I'll set the stage for you. Our chapel is small - about six rows deep, with three sections in each row, moving across the room. If packed full, it would probably seat about 100 people comfortably, though we never have that many in attendance. I expect some people think I'm crazy for it, but I sit in the front row. I do this because the front row is closest to the door and inevitably I will need to escape with one or more of my children during the course of our Sacrament meeting. And also, my husband currently serves in the Branch Presidency (the lay leadership of our congregation) which means he sits up front, on the stand. When I am in the front row, I am close enough to my husband that one of the boys can go and sit beside him if need be. And he is close enough that he can parent the children, JUST BY LOOKING into their eyes. We don't need to mention the fact that I also generally arrive at church 2 to 5 minutes late every single Sunday. Since there are seven of us, it would be difficult to squeeze in anywhere else besides the front row which is generally empty until we get there.

So. Front row. One mom. Six children, one of which is three weeks old. Another of which is a 2 year old. Another of which is a 5 year old. Am I sounding desperate yet? Now, I think Ivy is a pretty delightful 2 year old. She's funny and spunky and generally a pretty happy kid. Like most two year olds, she doesn't like to sit still and she is absolutely incapable of remembering to whisper for longer than 45 seconds. These things make church challenging on the best of days, down right impossible on others. But we go and we manage the best we can and we pray that all those around us will be forgiving and tolerant, perhaps especially so in the weeks just after a baby is born when our entire family is trying to adjust to the extra responsibility and activity that comes from another addition.

For all these reasons I was completely bowled over when just after the meeting closed my first Sunday back at church, a woman that I didn't know approached me with a not so nice look upon her elderly face.

"I hate to be so bold," she said. "But someone has to be bold with you..."

She then went on to tell me how absolutely disruptive Ivy was for all of Sacrament meeting. She was loud and distracting and made it so that she and her husband weren't able to hear for the entire meeting. She told me that she had children that were young once, and you have to discipline them, you have to tell them to be quiet. You have to be firm, and she didn't see me one single time tell "that little girl" to be quiet. It was so terrible, she didn't think her husband (who wasn't a member of our church and was visiting) wasn't ever going to come back.

As I stood there with my three week old baby in my arms, I was absolutely speechless. I've come up with quite a few things I could have said since then, each thick with the same "boldness" that she used when addressing me. But in the moment, all I wanted to do was cry. So I did. I escaped to the nursing mother's room and cried while Jack nursed. I was embarrassed, I was angry, but more than anything else, my feelings were hurt. I have less of an issue with the fact that this woman told me my kid was loud. I know she's loud. I sit with her every single Sunday. But to tell me that the reason she is loud is because I wasn't parenting her as I should have? That was hard to hear.

By the time Jack finished nursing, I was feeling a little better. I vented to my husband and to my friend Valerie, both of whom were firmly in my corner. Had this woman every attended church in a place where there are 25 nursery age children and 65 primary children? In our branch, the two youngest children in our congregation both belong to me. Ivy is usually in nursery by herself. I know she's loud, but she's not near as loud as 25 two year olds. And let's not even begin to talk about the fact that this was my first Sunday back after having a baby--my first Sunday trying to juggle six children through an hour of reverence. I could go on, but I expect those of you that are mothers are feeling enough indignation that I can stop.

Three weeks later, I can look at the situation with a little more kindness. Kindness doesn't change the fact that I feel this woman was wrong. But I can, at the very least, acknowledge that I understand where she might have been coming from. A few years ago, I frequently visited a woman that was hard of hearing. She explained to me that many Sundays she sat in the congregation and for an entire hour, wasn't able to hear a single word of the meeting. She would leave frustrated and disappointed that what she expected to be an uplifting experience fell far short. She also explained that when you wear a hearing aid, the device picks up the sounds that are closest to you. If a noisy child is in between you and the speaker, your hearing aid will pick up the child, leaving you to wonder if the speaker is talking about the fried chicken he wants to have for lunch. Both the woman who confronted me and her husband were, for lack of a more delicate way to put it, OLD. I don't know that they were wearing hearing aids, but it's a very logical possibility. Couple that with the fact that this woman, who IS a Mormon, had brought her husband to church, who is NOT a Mormon, and it's easy to see how she could have been frustrated if he wasn't able to gain any spiritual insight because of the distracting two year old in the front row. Especially if he usually attends a different church where children are kept in childcare and are not in attendance with their parents. I also have to admit that my filter for how much noise requires the removal of an offending child is probably a little thicker because if I leave the meeting with one child, I am leaving my remaining children in the meeting to be attended by those sitting around me.

All this to say, church with six children is hard. Though, my run in with this woman, who isn't someone that regularly attends in our area, is most definitely an isolated incident. Generally, I'm surrounded by fellow branch members who understand that with my husband sitting on the stand, I may need an extra measure of tolerance, or a willing set of extra hands or arms to hold a baby or help an older child. There are so many that love and support my family. We feel lucky to live where we live. But because I love these people, I would hate for their Sunday experience to be diminished because my family is noisy. There has to be a balance, I think. If my experience with this woman has taught me anything, it's to make sure I strive for that balance and not take advantage of the kindness and tolerance of others.

How do YOU find a balance and what would you have done in my situation?

My Writing Goals - Out Loud and In Print

I wrote my first book in just under nine months. Beginning to end, proofed, edited and sent to publisher. Funny how nine months seems like plenty of months to grow a baby, but I'm wondering how I ever managed to grow a book in so short a time. But I was driven and excited and my children were all old enough that my nights were pretty much free and clear for me to write or sleep, according to my own will, and not the demands of a nursing infant. And so I wrote.

When it was finished, my life suddenly became full of other things. I had my fifth baby, and then my sixth. I worked on my schooling. I served in church. I didn't try to stop writing, but somehow I wasn't finding (or making) time for it. A part of me, the wordy, listens to conversations in her head, writes late into the night part of me had fallen woefully silent. 

14 months went by while I was waiting to hear back from the publisher that was reviewing my manuscript. I think a part of me was afraid to write something new because I wanted to see if my first book was even good enough to warrant any future effort. I realize this was ridiculous logic. Where would any writer be if one rejection stopped them from ever writing again? But so consumed was I in my waiting, that writing just didn't happen. 

When acceptance finally came (Yay!) I told myself I had no reason NOT to be writing. I was good enough. My book was going to be published. Why not write another, then another? But life was so busy and the new baby, and then the other new baby, and the older kids, and the housework and this, and that, and always something else... I hardly had free time to scratch my nose, much less write a novel. 

It's been 14 more months since my first manuscript was accepted. I've certainly written some. I'm well over one hundred pages into my next manuscript and you know what? I think it's good. I love my characters and the conflict is good and I think I'm moving in the right direction. But it's taking too long and I want to do better. I want to write more. No, I need to write more. 

So this is me making a commitment. This is me saying that while I will always put my children first, I might not put the laundry first. (At least not every day.) I've had so many conversations with other writers about the struggle to find the balance, to make your writing priority without letting it take over your life. At the same time, a certain measure of sacrifice is required. I have so little free time as a Mom. When I have it, I'm going to have to make a conscious choice about how I want to spend it. So here we go.

1500 words a day. 

Manuscript Deadline: September 30

I'm gonna do it, yo. You heard it hear first.

Care for an update on that first manuscript I mentioned up above? Heh. Me too! Still slated for a 2013 release, but details beyond that are yet unknown. The good news is that we're nearly half way to 2013! 

Just Write? Or maybe Just Sleep.

Last night Jordan came to the top of the stairs and mentioned that he didn't have any clean clothes to wear the following day. I glanced at the mounds of laundry now cascading out of my laundry room and into the kitchen and sighed. I was hardly surprised. It's hard to do laundry one handed and since so much of my time is spent holding or nursing or changing a baby, I don't have two free hands very often. I told Jordan I would make sure he had something clean to wear, even though I knew it meant I would be awake for at least another two hours, sorting, then washing, then finally tossing into the dryer.

But then, maybe two hours wouldn't be such a bad thing. The baby was sleeping, recently fed and settled. Was it possible that I would have two full hours where I quite legitimately needed to be awake, night time hours that I could justifiably dedicate to something other than sleep? Was it possible that I could sit down and actually do a little bit of writing? I felt lighter just with the thought of it. I hurried through my evening routine, checking on the kids, washing my face, brushing my teeth, all while thinking about the characters in my current work in progress. I longed to find them, to reconnect, to make something more of their story. I rushed to the laundry room, sorting through until I found a pair of Jordan's shorts, then cursed when I realized that there were wet clothes in the dryer, AND in the washing machine. But no matter. More time to write, yes? I restarted the dryer, then moved to the couch where I nudged the dog out of the way and settled comfortably onto the middle cushion, the one with the hole in the back that makes you feel like you are surrounded on all sides by couch. I opened up my laptop, my fingers itching to write. It was exciting to connect with the other me--the me that writes novels even though with six children there is so little time and even less energy, especially when one of those children is only four weeks old and still wants and needs so much.

And then it hit me. I was stationary for the first time in hours. It only took a moment for my body to remember how tired I really was. Even the strongest desire to write can't compete with a nursing mother's need to sleep. But I couldn't sleep. The laundry... my characters... Jordan's need for clean shorts...

...

...

...

The baby woke me up at 2 AM. My fingers were still positioned on the keyboard, my head tilted awkwardly onto the couch cushion behind me. I'd been sleeping for three hours.

Sitting up. Ready to write. Dead asleep.

I closed the laptop with a weary sigh and went to get the baby. His tiny fists were clenched, his face red as he reminded me to hurry. He was hungry and in case I'd forgotten, I was the only one who could do something about it. I snuggled him close and stroked his cheek as he started to nurse. He grunted once, then twice, then sighed as the milk started to flow. He was content.

And me? I was content too.

(linking up with Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's Just Write.)

A Book Review: The Harvest of Grace

I received a copy of this book from Waterbrook Multnomah's Blogging for Books program. The only compensation I receive for this review is the pleasure of talking about books. Because books are fun and they make me happy. 

The Harvest of Grace, by Cindy Woodsmall is actually the third novel in a series of Amish romance novels called the Ada's House series. I know. Nothing says fun like Amish romance, right?

Um, guess what?

I totally loved this book. Having not read the first two books in the series, I wasn't sure how jumping right into book 3 would feel. Right from the start, I felt perfectly at home. While characters from previous novels are present, even vital in this third installment, the main characters and the main love story is unique to this book and thus easily read without feeling lost.

Here's the thing about romance novels. The point is for two people to fall in love. Most of the time, you know which two people are supposed to wind up together. You know there will be some sort of conflict that threatens to keep them apart forever and ever. You know that in the end, love will conquer all and everything will end with a great big happily ever after. You don't read a romance novel because you expect something different. You read because the process of falling in love is fun--because the journey is worth reading about. Well wait. Not in all romance novels. In many romance novels the journey is never, ever, ever worth reading. But in this book? It's totally worth it.

The Harvest of Grace is full of engaging characters that are easy to love, and easy to feel invested in. There is a wonderful contrast between the simplicity of Amish life and the complexity of human experience, no matter your religion or family background.

If you like a good romance, without the smut that so frequently fills the pages of most mainstream romance novels, based on The Harvest of Grace, I would most heartily recommend Cindy Woodsmall's entire series.

Life with Six (AND new pictures of Jack)

I went to the grocery store yesterday. It was my first time venturing out anywhere beyond the pick up line at the school so it felt a bit like a grand adventure. Jordan was still at school, at Science Club, so I only had the five youngest with me. I strapped the baby into a front carrier, put Ivy in the cart, and urged the other three to stay close, follow the cart and keep their hands to themselves. We managed surprisingly well. Jack slept the entire time, Ivy didn't try standing up in the cart one single time, and I only had to remind the others to stay close 372 times.

In the checkout line, the man bagging my groceries looked, counted and then asked, "Are these all with you?"

"Yes, they're all mine," I answered.

His eyes grew wide. "Were any of them adopted?"

Funny, funny man. It IS funny because my kids aren't actually all that close together in age. I know women who have six kids in eight, even seven years. It took me 11 years to get this many, AND I cheated and had two at once.

Still, I do feel six kids has catapulted me into a realm of big families that even with five kids, we didn't quite reach. I feel this keenly when all 8 of us are in the minivan... every seat occupied, without an inch of spare space.

Or when I catch strangers counting my children as they see us walk by.

Or when I realize that I have a new baby, and a baby monitor in my bedroom, at the same time. BECAUSE THERE'S ANOTHER BABY SLEEPING UPSTAIRS.

I went to get my haircut the other day from a woman I was meeting for the first time. I told her I'd just had a baby a few weeks before. She asked me if it were my first. Heh. I try and answer as casually as possible when I say, "No, my sixth."

I've often joked that I'm going to make business cards, or even a t-shirt that says, "Yes, they're all mine. Yes, I have figured out what causes pregnancy. Yes, I had them all on purpose, and NO, I wouldn't change a thing."

I wouldn't change a thing. That I know most of all. I stood at the kitchen sink yesterday, washing the last of the dishes. The baby was asleep, the boys playing basketball and the girls jumping together on the trampoline. For a blissful, quiet moment, I was alone. The silence was interrupted when Henry burst into the house, red checked and breathless, his little fist clenched tightly around a handful of flowers and clover.

"These are for you, Mom," he said.

I thanked him and kissed his head, and he darted happily out the door. I remember as a kid, walking home from the bus stop and gathering the same white flowers, knowing how happy they would make my Mom. I imagine she tossed quite a few handfuls of sweaty, wilted flowers into the trash after I'd moved onto another activity and would no longer notice their absence. But I don't doubt what those simple bouquets meant to her, because I now realize what they mean to me. It's not life changing stuff. They're only weeds, after all. But they are a reminder that to be loved by your children is an incredibly rewarding, lovely thing. I remember how much my heart wanted to make my Mom happy with those silly flowers. It kind of makes me feel like a rock star to think that my kids feel the same way about me.

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And also, have you seen these yet? I shared them on Facebook already, but in case you don't subscribe to Facebook updates, (which you can remedy over in yonder sidebar area) I'll share them here too. This baby? He is a literal slice of heaven.

Photos courtesy of my amazing friend Destinee, of Destinee Blau Photography. She spent an entire afternoon with us last week and took pictures of the entire family. If you click over to her blog, she's already shared a sneak peek of the family shots as well. I'll share more on the blog in the next few weeks. For now, a bit of newborn bliss.