Vulnerability, Part 2

Sometimes people comment on how my writing feels real to them, and to me there is no greater compliment. I haven't always been that way—quite so willing to share my missteps and my embarrassment, so I thought I would fill you in a little on why I am the way I am, why I wear my heart on my sleeve and perhaps sometimes place myself in the precarious position to be teased, misunderstood, or even ridiculed.

Many years ago, following and actually even a little before the birth of my oldest child, I went through a period of months where I sunk into a pretty deep depression. I questioned my worth, my direction. My whole outlook was maybe not bitter toward others, but self-loathing. I could see the value in others but not in myself. No matter what I did, it wasn't good enough for the measure I had set up for myself. Really, my hormones had probably gone haywire, and it resulted in a spiritual and emotional battle neither my husband nor I was prepared for.

Not only did I feel lost, but I was in hiding and ashamed. My husband knew, but I hid this spiritual starvation from my close family and even my closest friends. That turned out to be the worst thing I could have done.

Following the healing I received (by the grace of God) and the excruciating pain of grieving my brother's suicide years later, I realized that far too many people feel alone: alone in humiliation, alone in pain, alone in sadness. Much of this isolation comes because we refuse to talk about the very things that matter.

I live in northwest Iowa, an area infamous for the prim and proper persona, where supposedly hair is perfect and makeup is always done before one leaves the house. This is where our kids are always kind and generous, where our houses are dust-free, where our husbands make enough money to make us comfortable but not so much as to call ourselves wealthy. I live in an area where happiness is not only valued but expected because our lives are just so—well, perfect. But you see, all of  this is just a facade which we hide behind because the struggles are here as much as they are anywhere else. We just hide it well. From my estimation, that is a sin of pride.

As I realized that people around me (and if I'm honest, I as well) were hurting from all their perceptions of their neighbors' perfection, I realized that we were being stripped of our joy, and I came across Brene Brown's Ted Talk "The Power of Vulnerability." My friends, it turns out that her research shows that one of the characteristics that allows people to feel joy is their release from perfection, their willingness to be vulnerable with others. And really, isn't recognizing our own vulnerability the only way to see our need for the grace supplied by Jesus' death and resurrection?

Slowly and by measured steps, I have been pursuing vulnerability. I am trying to lift up even my worst traits, the characteristics I'm still working on, the missteps and humiliations, and trying to realize that God can use me even with them, in spite of them, or even because of them.

Don't you think it's possible that our awesome, mysterious, wonderful God can take even those moments and make a lesson out of them? What if your moment could be an inspiration to others? What if it reminds them they are not alone? What if God can use you even in the midst of heartache and pain? What if your vulnerability that is eclipsed by joy can be a change agent for those around you? What if your mess-turned-message is the most important sermon they will hear this week? What if your remembrance of pain allows you an empathy to see others as God sees them?

I am seeing and feeling the truth of it. When I have less to hide, I can have more to give.

Today I encourage you to watch the TED Talk linked above, and I ask God to show both you and me those places where our vulnerability may open the eyes of another to God's incredible blessings of true joy.

Me---A Little Too Vulnerable

Sometimes I wonder if God puts situations in front of us for entertainment value—His, not ours. Or maybe my jokester brother is up there in heaven saying, "Would you please put Tami in this situation?" since he is no longer here with us to make us laugh. I'm teasing, of course. There is no biblical reasoning to say that God plays with our minds.

Today is laundry day. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. questioning whether my boys had clean clothes to wear to school. So I got up and began washing, drying, and folding. I don't mind, really, because I am an early bird anyway.

But today isn't just a simple laundry day. Today I was excited to attend a little birthday party at Laura's Lattes in Canton because one of my close friends just turned 50. Our close knit group of friends doesn't get together often enough, and I miss them.

Anyway, because it is laundry day, I did what any sanity-loving mom does and grabbed the jeans I wore yesterday (for just a few hours) off the floor and pulled them on quickly before I ran out the door. When I reached Canton I stopped at the local pharmacy to buy my friend a present and card, and then was on my way to meet them.

Now, you have to realize one thing. My friends are smart. And cool. And accomplished. One of the first things my friend Nancy said to me was, "Have you been writing?" Accountability—I like that in a friend. One of the last things I said as I left was how I am lucky to have them as my friends. These three friends and I have been laughing and encouraging each other for close to 25 years.

After our two hours of visiting, I hustled out the back door to get home. As I approached my pick up, what I saw on the running board just below the driver's side door stopped me in my tracks. A bunched-up pair of navy blue underwear lay there, looking an awful lot like the pair I wore yesterday.

Uh, yeah. Yesterday's underwear which were likely at one point inside the pant leg of yesterday's jeans which I. Was. Currently. WEARING.

So of course my life flashed before my eyes—or at least my life of the previous three hours. I imagined myself walking through the pharmacy, gracefully trailing my navy blue underwear behind me. Or I thought of myself standing in line for my chai latte at the coffee shop, other patrons' mouths agape behind me and the baristas pointing and giggling as I went on my way. 

Following my brief pause, I grabbed the underwear, threw them into the pick up cab, and laughed maniacally all the way home, likely frightening passersby. I also called two of my sisters-in-law and related the story (I will probably be getting underwear for Christmas for the next ten years). I texted my friends, too, but none will admit to finding my underwear and placing them on my pick up. I don't think I'll ever look the coffee shop baristas in the eye again.

I figure God needed to give me a little humble pie today. Or maybe He thinks I need to die my hair red. Or become a missionary to Africa. Regardless, I got the point, God. No need for a repeat lesson.

All in the Numbers

I have an aversion to numbers, a problem I discovered when in my high school algebra class. Even though I understood geometry quite a bit better, high school was the end of my positive relationship with math. Since then, I have enjoyed posting a number of memes on my social media pages:

The irritation I felt toward numbers didn't end in high school. By the time I reached graduate school, I had to study just enough statistics in order to better understand educational measurement, margins of error, and standard deviations. From there I had to decide whether my master's thesis research would be quantitative or qualitative. Quantitative would have involved collecting data by measurement and then analyzing that data. Qualitative meant exploring human behavior through interviews and observation. I chose quantitative. Just joking.

Numbers followed me to work as well. As I taught high school English for a number of years, I noticed that a gradual shift was happening away from the beauty of literature and creative writing to progress measured by the means of standardized testing. Later, in my marketing work, I learned about ROI, PPC, CPC, all terms related to the number of dollars a business earns or spends. With our farming business, our banker would come out once a year to tally our long, middle, and short-term assets and compare them to our long, middle, and short-term liabilities in an effort to calculate our net worth.

Numbers had become not only a part of my life, but a focus. I had bought into the philosophy that numbers defined me, and unfortunately, through the years I have somehow subscribed to the saying that "If it can't be measured, it doesn't exist." Worth had to be measured.

You see, I weigh myself almost daily, thinking that the number on the scale is an accurate representation of whether I am attractive. On my bad days as a stay at home mom, I sometimes look at my lack of personal income as a failure to contribute to our family's needs. Just as foolishly, I notice way too often how many likes my Facebook status just received. The effect? Many times I have become disgusted with myself because my numbers in various areas of my life don't always add up to what I want them to.

So this morning I did what every Christian should do when faced with a personal dilemma. I looked to my Bible. Surely numbers can't be as important there.

This was the first thing I found:

There you go. A whole book written about numbers. And I thought, you have to be kidding me.

Still, though I am no Bible scholar, I know it well enough to know that the census of the Old Testament and the measurements of the temple and Noah's ark are really not the crux of the Bible message. Nope, the Bible message can more accurately be explained by 5 + 2 ≠ 5,000 but 5 + 2 + J = 5,000. A number of times in the Gospels (Matthew 14, Luke 9, Mark 6, John 6),  we are told the story of the five loaves and two fish and the feeding of the 5,000 people who had been listening to Jesus but were hungry. The disciples asked Jesus how they were supposed to feed the followers, and Jesus took the meager offering of five loaves and two fish, and He made it enough—not just enough, but with some to spare. Now, we can view this as a ridiculous amount of redundancy in the Bible; after all, the story is repeated four times. Better yet, we can see it as something so important that it is repeated four times just to make sure it sticks. What we come with is not enough, but what what we come with plus what Jesus provides is more than enough.

You see, we can keep measuring ourselves with our imaginary yardsticks. We can keep counting. We can keep setting that standard of success just a little bit higher, knowing that the carrot will keep us moving forward. Or we can understand that when we bring what we have, what we have been blessed with, to the table as an offering to our God, He will make up the difference.

That's a whole lot more encouraging than algebra, isn't it?

The Big Fix

This morning as I was getting out of bed, I was thinking about how to spend my spa gift card that my mother-in-law and father-in-law gave me for Christmas. Rather than the massage I had planned on, I mentioned to Jerome that I wondered whether a microdermabrasion could get rid of a scar on my nose. Jerome said, "But I don't even notice that scar."

I laughed and said, "That's just because you love me."

His response: "Right. Isn't that what matters?"

How true is that? When we first brought Tadesse home, I noticed the space where his front teeth were missing every time I looked at him. It's funny, though; I hardly notice it anymore. Then again, I love him. I see the crinkly nosed smiles. I see sparkle in his eyes when he is trying really hard to portray toughness. 

Movie Madness with the Van De Stroets

Last night my family went to the movies. Now, in interest of full disclosure, I'll let you know that I had planned to go with just my daughter to Mockingjay as sort of a girls' night out. However, since our sons had been asking to see Annie anyway, Jerome took them to the musical (there's irony in that) at the same theater.

Because I hate standing in last-minute lines for popcorn (and one has to buy popcorn), I asked Jerome to drop me off a little early so I could get the tickets and stand in line. After all, I love movies so much that I hate even missing the previews. Biruk and Tadesse went with me to help me carry the food and drinks and so they could spend a couple of their quarters on the video games before the movie started.

Response Requested

Yesterday I wrote about how I made the mistake of using a disciplinary system that was inappropriate for my kids and how learning to love my kids first, before expecting any kind of good behavior, really made a positive difference in our family life. Then I explained how God also loves us no matter what.

There's always more to a story than first meets the eye, isn't there? Every fight takes two. Every relationship takes commitment from both partners. Yesterday I wrote my blog on my phone while waiting for one of my sons at an appointment. As I drove home, I decided that I needed to write a part two, the rest of the story.

Learning to See Beyond Red

Back when we first brought Tadesse and Biruk home, we struggled so much to communicate. Behaviors that were acceptable in Ethiopia were not acceptable here, and without the language to explain it, we struggled. There were the big things like hitting and kicking, yes, but also a myriad of smaller behaviors like sitting on a stranger's car or grabbing a toy a sibling was playing with. 

We made a mistake—one of many, in fact—in those early days of our time together. Knowing that elementary teachers use a card system of green, yellow, and red to indicate when a child was doing great (green), when one was starting to show patterns of misbehavior or sometimes pushing our buttons both figuratively and literally (yellow), as well as when the child had really messed up (red), we decided to try it. Once  a person's red card was up, he or she lost allowance for the week. Even without the benefit of a common language, my two new boys understood very quickly how the cards worked.

Defaulting to Joy

When I was a kid, probably more specifically a teenager, I remember my mom constantly reminding me to smile. It drove me nuts. Why smile when I wasn't feeling happy? I had a whole rainbow of emotions: indifference, irritation, satisfaction, boredom, insolence, curiosity, contentment. According to my teenage self, only happiness called for a smile. The rest just didn't matter, and I could keep my countenance on any random expression.

The older I've become, the more I've realized how right she actually was. For your viewing pleasure, I Googled scowls and came up with these beauties:

What I Need, When I Need It

When preparing for Tadesse and Biruk to come home from Ethiopia, one of tasks I really enjoyed was purchasing the shoes, clothing, bedding, and a few toys that I anticipated that they would need. One part was difficult, however; we were advised not to start them off with all the items that our other children possessed. After all, the possessions of our other children took years to accumulate. Caleb, Kaylee, and Elijah earned and saved their money to buy electronics and toys. Relatives gave them additional gifts for their birthdays and at Christmas, resulting in bedrooms almost bulging in kid stuff.

When Tadesse and Biruk came home from Ethiopia, we consciously provided them with everything they needed but allowed room for them to acquire the things that they wanted.

This is more difficult than one would think. How many pairs of shoes do little boys need? Tadesse and Biruk went without shoes until they went to the orphanage in Wuchale. (Can you imagine getting used to shoes at the ages of eight and eleven?) We purchased them three pairs each: two pairs of tennis shoes and a pair of church shoes.

When November rolled around and the weather turned colder, I was perplexed by a demand from Tadesse, who was learning basic English: “Mom! Shoes, me! Shoes, me!” I would take him to his basket of shoes and show him the three pairs that I had purchased. He kept insisting, “Shoes, me!”

So I did something I can do pretty well. I became frustrated. To me, this son of mine was expressing ingratitude. I had bought him three (high quality!) pairs of shoes, and he was already nagging me for more. The nerve.

The weather that week continued to worsen, and after a few days, I finally realized that Tadesse was just asking for snow boots. When I explained that I would get them soon, he was satisfied. Still, as a parent who provided for him, I was exasperated that he was asking for more than what I had already provided. I wanted him to trust me that I would provide exactly what he needed precisely when he needed it.

I am much the same as my dear son Tadesse. The other day I purchased a National Geographic magazine called Best of Europe: 100 Must-See Destinations. I paged through it, thinking of dreamy vacations in gorgeous locations.

Now, I have had more travel opportunities than many; I took five of my students on a ten-day, four-country excursion through Europe. I visited Mexico and Canada with my parents. I went on a short-term mission trip with my in-laws to Haiti. I went to Ethiopia not once, but twice. Yet my travels still seem to whet my appetite for more. 

I mentioned the magazine purchase to one of my friends, who said, “Just pull a C-note from the money tree, Tami.”

This was a much needed wake-up call because if I happened to have a money tree growing in the back yard, I am quite confident that I should not spend that money traveling. Or buying myself the granite countertop I’ve been thinking about. Or buying a brand new Suburban.

I thought back to Tadesse and the shoes. I had provided and sacrificed for him, yet when he asked for more (even though I had planned to provide him with those snow boots), it somehow hurt that he was asking for it.

I need to trust God to provide for me—just what I need, precisely when I need it. 

The world is filled with hurting people who don’t have shoes or the means to provide their families with shelter. I am buying National Geographic magazines highlighting exotic travel locations.

There is something wrong with that, and there is something wrong with me constantly pining over things I don’t need. At least I know just where to go to get the help needed for me to change.

Heavenly Father, thank you for not only providing for my needs, but for blessing me with incredible experiences and people who love me. Help me, Lord, to be grateful and content with what I already have. Amen.

This Is It

Our house is chaotic. While there's a TV blaring in one room, there's an argument going on in the next, and someone's listening to music in the next. Quiet, meaningful conversations usually take place in one of two locations: in the bedroom right before bedtime and in the car away from most of the distractions.

One day when we were alone together in the car, Biruk asked me why I adopted him when I already had three kids. I thought on that a moment, and simply said, "God told me to." Now, I don't have any more direct line to God than the rest of you do. I pray. I try to listen but am often left wondering. I've never heard God speak to me out loud, but I've experienced some series of coincidences that seem like pretty good indicators of what God wants from me.

And so it was out there. I didn't tell Biruk that I was sad because I only had three kids when I wanted five because I wasn't...and I didn't. I told Biruk that I loved my kids and that when Jerome and I kept coming across Bible verses about adoption, we decided we were meant to adopt. I told him that I knew I would love as many kids as God placed in my home.

A few nights later, as is Biruk's thoughtful custom, he questioned me more: "Mom, why are you here?"

Suddenly I felt emotionally naked. How did he know? How could he have figured out that this has always been my question, that my brain was a confused jumble of Am I supposed to be teaching? What am I missing? What is my purpose? Who does God want me to be? Is it to be a stable wife to my busy husband? Is it to write something that inspires? Is it to be a good friend? Who am I, anyway?

In that very moment, the answer became clear. I looked at his trusting brown eyes and said, "Biruk, I'm here because I was supposed to adopt you. I am here so I can be your mom."

He was easily satisfied with that answer and wandered off about the house to do something else. Later that evening, in the quietness before bedtime, he said, "Mom, I know why I'm here. I'm here to help the people in Ethiopia who don't have enough to eat."

Sometimes as moms and dads, we think the mark we make needs to happen at work. We need to make a name for ourselves, make some decent money, earn the respect of others. We forget that those we influence the most are those within our own homes, those God has entrusted to us. 

Tonight when you kiss your kids goodnight, why don't you tell them why you are here? I'm guessing it's what you need to say and probably exactly what your kids need to hear.

Blessings, friends.