Author Archives: Jennifer Pelling

The First Sunday After the Election

Posted on by under Hope and Place

It was the first Sunday after the election, and I wasn’t the only one who came to church in search of healing. Our congregation is many in terms of race, culture, background and class; but we gather because we were also one. One hope. One faith. One Lord. One old red-brick building facing east, perched on a hill overlooking a wide, crowded valley. Overlooking the city that is my home.

Pittsburgh, Pa. November 13, 2016. Mercifully, the sun had risen another day.

On that Sunday, I gave and received hugs, eased my body into a pew, and tried to settle my mind. Our daughters were collecting crayons and paper from the table in the back, and my husband sat close, leaning into my arm. He knew I was barely hanging on.

I sighed.

Psalm 27 filled the first page of the bulletin. Too much text, I thought. I need to sing. I was desperate to gather up the chaos inside and release it into words, notes, and vibrations. I needed our collective voices to transform some of this pain into hope.

But I had no choice. This was how we were beginning. And so, as sunlight through stained glass filled the room, I submitted to the many words.

The Lord is my light and salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?

And I thought, Lord, would you like a list?

When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh–my adversaries and foes–they shall stumble and fall.

Or win elections. Betrayal was still bitter on my tongue.

…though war rise up against me, yet I will be confident… for he will hide me in his shelter in the day of trouble… Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud, be gracious to me and answer me!

The psalm went on and on. And on. Together we heard it. Together we allowed it to soak in. Together we let the light crack through the stone we were using to protect our aching hearts.

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Photo by V. Wolkins

You could almost hear the chisel at work: Do not forsake us, Lord–the Lord will not forsake us–Do not forsake us, Lord–the Lord will not forsake us.

Chip, chip, crack.

I believe I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage. Wait for the Lord!

Now it was time to sing.

* * * * *

Later, during prayer request time, we shared our own words.

I know a lot of army recruits. I’m concerned that the fear and the rhetoric will lead to more deployments. These recruits–they’re great kids.

Our foundation cannot be shaken–God is still in control. God is king of kings, president of presidents. No politician has ultimate power. Don’t be afraid.

How can we have reconciliation with Christian brothers and sisters who don’t even understand why this hurts so much? 

If Muslims are forced to register, we will also register as Muslims. Because Jesus is Lord.

First, we cast our votes. Now, we cast our lives. This won’t be the first time. 

And, like Psalm 27, we went on and on. And on.

* * * * *

My family left before the end of the service. We had previous plans to visit my parents, who live an hour out of the city. But first, on our way to their house, we would go on a quick bike ride. It was a beautiful fall day in Western Pennsylvania, and we had wanted to try this trail for months.

But now I was nervous.

As we drove north, the Trump yard signs multiplied, and my stomach tightened. Paranoia surfaced. Why had my husband insisted on wearing his “Black Lives Matter” t-shirt? Would someone say something disparaging in front of the girls? Or worse? We would be in isolated places on the trail. What if someone tries to hurt us?

I had one comfort–it was cold. My husband  would have to wear his flannel over his t-shirt. We could blend in. None of us had dark skin, or wore a hijab, or seemed ‘other’ in any other way. No one would know who we were and where we came from.

And that quickly, I forgot who we were and where we came from.

* * * * *

The other day a friend said to me, “There are people who are deeply invested in the divisions in America.” This didn’t make sense at first. Aren’t the deep divisions our problem? But then I realized–it is the divisions that keep us safe.

As long as my husband wears his “Black Lives Matter” t-shirt in the city and his flannel in the country, we will be safe. As long as we vent our frustrations about the election with like-minded friends, no one will challenge us. As long as we pray with people who feel our pain, we can comfort one another.

Now. There’s nothing wrong with comfort, venting, or self-preservation. But we can’t stay there. Somehow we must find a way to bring our whole selves into the scary and uncomfortable places. We must listen. We must speak, somehow, in a way that can be heard across the divides.

We must learn, and learn again, to love more than we fear.

Last night I wrote out the text of Psalm 27 and posted it by my bathroom mirror. It is a reminder. A clue. A signpost on the way to hope, which I might be needing in the days to come.

The Lord is my light and salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?

No one, Lord. No one.

The Borders of Magic

Posted on by under Time & Place

It existed once, if only in our collective imaginations. It was a secret place, a sanctuary of my childhood.

There the tall evergreens intertwined with the clouds, forming an impossibly high ceiling and muffling the noise of life beyond its borders. The ground was soft with long pine needles, perfect for the bedding of small animals, runaway orphans, or clever kings and queens. Monsters, dragons, and bad guys were often a threat, but we were very, very brave. And of course, there were also long periods of peace when there was nothing to do but rearrange the castle, look for treasure, or set up cages for the pets.

‘Can I be the queen today?’ ‘The stable is over here.’ ‘Oh no, the lady who’s looking for us is behind that bush—hide!’

There, tucked under the pines, we could see it all. We could see the magic that was always, in those days, coloring the edges of what grownups insisted was real.

* * * * *

Real. The sound of my mom trying not to cry on the phone was real. “I have some very sad news,” she said, and I leaned on the concrete wall that divided my property from the neighbor’s. “Dad,” I thought, “it’s dad.” A week before my dad had a heart attack; he was still in the hospital. “Dad,” I thought, and wondered, in the split second before my mom spoke again, if I could bear to hear the news.

“It’s not your dad,” she said.

I exhaled, and she continued. “You remember your friends up on the hill, from when you were little? Emily, and her brother? She died. It was in the paper. She took her own life. She had some problems with drugs.”

I leaned hard on the wall. I hadn’t thought about Emily for years, hadn’t seen her for decades. All I could remember, through the cloudy vision of childhood, was our shared world under the tall pines.

* * * * *

As I scrolled through the remembrances on the funeral home website, I knew this–I do not mourn as those who knew Emily mourn. I wouldn’t have recognized her on the street. I learned about her adult life by reading her obituary. She was a writer and an editor. She lived in Boston. She had a Siamese cat.

A real Siamese cat won’t stay in a cage made of pine needles.

And a magical childhood can’t save you from the deepest kinds of grown-up despair.

* * * * *

In my own grown-up world, it been a hard and beautiful summer, heavy with sickness and sadness, light with outdoor adventure and the laughter of our daughters, now eight and almost-seven.

The youngest took me for a walk in the woods behind our house tonight, an urban forest full of sprawling vines and broken glass. “Do you want me to show you around?” she asked. “Of course,” I said hesitantly, “But maybe we shouldn’t be wearing flip flops.”

“Mama, we’re fine. Just be careful. Did you know that all the trees have names?” She led me down a path, speaking to several maple seedlings, “Hi Jack. Hi Bella.” I asked her how she knew the names, and she traced the bark with her small fingers. “The markings tell me, Mama. See, this one is a girl tree named Meeka.”

I smiled at her, but suddenly, I felt afraid. Emily and I had created our own imaginary world, but it hadn’t endured. What good is magic that fades? I wanted, in that moment, to lock both of my daughters in a high tower like Rapunzel, to save them from tragedy that reaches its claws into the past–into memories that seemed to belong to another world.

There is only one world.

My daughter tugged at my arm. “Mama, did you know that trees talk to each other when their leaves sway?” She moved her arms and hips side-to-side and motioned toward the leaves. “Like this, Mama. This is how trees say goodbye.”

And in this world, there is still some magic.

I looked up. The top layer of trees formed a cathedral ceiling, now a sanctuary of my adulthood. There I prayed. There I said goodbye.

Pine Trees

* * * * *

I did not ask my friend’s family for permission to share this story, thus ‘Emily’ is not my friend’s real name.

Photograph by Noah Weiner, shared with his gracious permission.

* * * * *

Jen Pelling is a writer and editor who lives in the woods of urban Pittsburgh with two daughters, four cats, ten chickens, and a husband who keeps her sane.

Nowhere Near the Sticks

Posted on by under Gender & Place

When the sound first came, it roused me enough to open my eyes and check if my husband was still asleep. It was just after 6 a.m., but his eyes were wide. “Did you hear that?” “Yes.” The sound came again. I pulled myself up on my elbows and looked toward our open windows. The sound had come from the east, from the window that most definitely did not face our chicken coop. Right?

“That’s not my rooster,” I said, and for a moment I believed it.

The crowing came again, tentative and incomplete, but undeniably from the west. “That’s not my rooster?” I asked, weakly. I rolled out of bed and walked to the window facing the coop. Crowing. I came back to bed, pulled a sheet up to my neck, and nodded at my husband.

“Yep, that’s my rooster.”

And then, with every subsequent crow, we doubled up with laughter.  

* * * * *

Pittsburgh Code, Title Nine, Zoning Code, Article V, Chapter 911 stipulates:

For property with a minimum of two-thousand square feet in size, the resident is permitted five chickens or ducks. For every additional one-thousand square feet of property, the resident is permitted one additional chicken or duck, with no other livestock for lots under ten thousand square feet.

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photo by Kham Tran

Also,

Roosters are not permitted.

* * * * *

“So what do we do with it, uhm, him?” I asked, knowing that my husband didn’t know the answer.

We ran through the possibilities: Kill and eat him? No. The kids were teetering toward vegetarianism as it was. We couldn’t chance it. Keep him? No. We could lose the rest of the flock if someone called the urban chicken police. (How does one call the urban chicken police?) Take him back to the farm that sold him to us as a female chick? Maybe. But was that really worth the hour-long drive? Give him to friends and let them do whatever they please with him? Probably. But who?

This was going to take a few days to figure out.

* * * * *

The next morning, I sat in a plastic green chair just after sunrise and watched our exiled rooster pace. The hens were locked up; he was locked out. He wanted to be with the flock, but after he had awoken to his rooster-hood, he began strutting, pecking, and chasing the hens. The smaller birds has stopped eating and hid in the nesting box, like they did during a raccoon attack.

Aggressive masculinity. Unacceptable.

Now the hens were eating again, and the rooster watched them from the other side of the fence. “We’re probably making him neurotic,” I commented to my husband, who had come outside to see what I was doing, “Not allowing him to follow his instincts and all.”  

“Yeah, probably doesn’t matter, though. He’s not staying here.”

“It’s too bad. I like his crow. And he’s a gorgeous bird,” I said, my eyes following the bright ring of feathers around his neck. “If we lived in the country, maybe they’d all figure it out in a bigger space.”

“They’d have to,” he said, “We’d need a rooster to protect the hens if we lived in the sticks.”

Squawk! Feathers flew as the rooster poked his beak though the chicken wire. The hens scattered, and I sighed. Maybe the city ordinance is a blessing. 

Maybe. But I will miss my rooster, if not his bullying behavior. I’ve never had such a wake-up call.  

* * * * *

jen bio YAH

Epilogue: After a chorus of ‘no, thank you’ from friends and a scroll through the ‘Free Rooster!!’ ads on Craigslist, the husband of this story put on his big-farmer overalls and beheaded the beast. A female observer, who had served with the Peace Corps in rural Rwanda, approved his methods and asked to be included in the Coq au Vin feast.

The children and their mother were conspicuously absent that evening.

 

 

Chicken Show-and-Tell

Posted on by under Sound & Place

It’s not every day you get to make a chicken this mad. She puffs out her black feathers, doubling her size, which is a big problem in the tiny dirt-packed chicken run–you don’t have much room to work. Careful now! Watch your soft hands as you scoop up the chicks! She is coming for you with that menacing strut, and her sharp ‘bwoks’ mean one thing:

Don’t say I didn’t warn you, human.

The month-old chicks, meanwhile, are disorganized in retreat, a flurry of peeping and fluff. You track them–one at a time–until they corner themselves by the fence. Each successful grab sets off that chick’s top-level alarm cry, so you set it in the box and close the lid quickly, trying to muffle the sound. This doesn’t really work. The chicken mama is at your heels, but you’ve got the three you came for, so you brush past her sharp beak and get out.

Clang! The chain link gate bangs on its frame, just in time, and her indignant clucks are now futile. “Sorry Mama,” you say, pulling the cheeping cardboard box into your chest, “today is show-and-tell. I’ll bring them back in a few hours.”

IMG_4477And you do, after three unwilling chicken ambassadors have educated hordes of squealing children. “Two fingers, gentle please!” you instruct, again and again. The poor chicks call for their mama, but she is several miles away, so you stroke their soft backs. “Shh…” you tell the kids, “they’re just babies.”

A few hours later, you bring the box back into the run, and the chicks know where they are before you open the lid. They scramble out, peeping their tale of survival. Is that right? Mama replies, Oh poor babies. She clucks over them like, well, like a mother hen. With her beak she breaks up crumbles of corn into dust, pointing to it with an emphatic ‘tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck.’

Comforting noises and beak-sized nibbles. The chicks are glad to be home.

And you settle into the green plastic chair on the far side of the run, needing a rest after the school visit. In the background are city noises you barely hear anymore–sirens, traffic rumbles, and a truck backing up somewhere in the wide valley. Still closer is the chatter of birds, calling from treetop to telephone wire. If you isolate one call, in one tree, you can hear the response from across the street.

You close your eyes and listen to the flying birds.

And soon there is a light scuffle, and the flightless birds are near your feet, settling in for a nap on the warm earth. Mama calls insistently at first, then reducing her volume to a gentle scold. She spreads her wings and sits, and the chicks disappear under her feathers. Her trill, low and steady, sounds like a kitten’s purr. The peeping subsides. Hush, she reassures them, I won’t let that big mean lady take you away from me again.

You smile, and sigh. Show-and-tell number two is scheduled for next Tuesday. “Sorry Mama,” you whisper, “but I have chicks too.”

* * * * *

jen bio YAH

Bridges and Steel

Posted on by under Reclaiming Place

I couldn’t believe I was crying. “Stop it,” I chided myself internally,     trying to stem the flow, “it’s just a song for kids. You’re being ridiculous.” I shifted in my folding chair, brought my sleeve up to my cheek, and hoped that no one was looking. “C’mon. Hold it together.”

I knew the song well; they were coming up on the last refrain. Soon it would be over. Soon the first-graders would file off the stage and sit with their teacher.

If I could just get through the last refrain, I would be okay.

* * * * *

It didn’t begin this way. That day, the crying day, was a Thursday afternoon in mid-March, and I was attending the dress rehearsal for my daughter’s annual spring musical. She goes to the Pittsburgh Urban Christian School, or PUCS, where each year students, staff, and volunteers create and perform an impressive all-school musical production. Its theme coincides with that year’s all-school unit, which have been, in our K-2 tenure; ‘Superheros’, ‘Farms’, and now, ‘Bridges and Steel.’

IMG_0047This year’s theme is particularly appropriate for Pittsburgh–a city that has almost as many bridges as Venice, a city that once ran on the steel mills, and a city where many key institutions (Carnegie museums and libraries, Frick and Mellon parks) pay homage to industrial barons of the last century. In Pittsburgh, bridges and steel are everywhere, connecting everything.

However, when it came to the musical, the theme didn’t seem so promising. Last year, during ‘Farms’, our daughter got to be a singing chicken–a hard act to follow. “This year is going to be so booore-ing,” she pronounced, sometime in grey January. “How can you even write a musical about bridges and steel?” To add insult to injury, her class was assigned a song about the physics of bridge-building, which, she reminded us often, was not her favorite.

Still, by early March, our whole family was chanting lyrics about tension and compression over our daily oatmeal. This is something I love about Spring Production. Every year there are songs about scientific concepts, historical figures and events, and literary references. The kids hardly realize they’re learning, or, even better, they come to associate learning with enjoyment.

PUCS is one sneaky school.

And so, by mid-March, when we saw the entire production, I wasn’t surprised to learn–through bouncy tunes and exuberant choreography–about the composition of steel, working conditions in the mills, and the history of several local bridges. Also, because many of the steel workers came from other countries, there was this song about immigration.

Like all Spring Production songs, I first heard it over breakfast. It was the first-graders’ number, but every kid learned every song, and this one was particularly catchy. It also had a lot of big words in the verses, so it required lots of practice.

They traveled from Czech Republic, China and Japan. Others came on boats from Poland and Ireland. Scandinavians came to work with their strong hands. Hungarians worked in the mills with the Africans.

“Daddy is a Scandinavian” I told the girls, “see his strong hands?” I smiled, but the kids didn’t. “Mama, this is serious,” my eight-year-old informed me, “I have to practice.”

Eastern Europe was the home of the Slovakians. Eager workers from the mountains were the Carpathians. From down south came Cubans and Mexicans. Expecting jobs and good wages were Italians.

And every morning, the girls’ singing was mixed with news from the radio. I suspect this contrast was the seed of my tears.

* * * * *

The first-graders were, of course, adorable.

Each carried a sign representing a place. One by one, they came forward and bowed proudly to the audience. Ireland and Hungary; Slovakia and Cuba. Several kids represented the continent of Africa. The first-graders were diverse too, though not matched ethnically to their signs. A precocious girl with dark skin got a big laugh when she threw an exaggerated kiss into the air. Italy!

I laughed with the crowd, but the refrain was coming, and so I braced myself. I had to. I was already shaken.

Just twelve hours before the Spring Production dress rehearsal, there was a horrible shooting in Wilkinsburg, the neighborhood where PUCS is located. The ‘urban’ in the school’s name is no accident; the school intentionally exists in a distressed area of the city, attempting to integrate people as well as it integrates curriculum. The latter is far easier than the former. 

And this morning, the tragic Wilkinsburg news had been mixed with the national and global news, now too familiar. The rhetoric of the politicians, the fear of those who are not like ‘us’, the refugees and tragedies, the call for walls. All the actions and reactions, all mixed up, turning everything I believed into a children’s song–cute, but irrelevant.

The last refrain came.

Men and women, boys and girls. They all came for a better life. Many feared the differences in others, and that caused lots of strife. If America is a melting pot, then we are all equal. So God, please help us all build bridges between people.    

This time, it got me.  I tried to keep from embarrassing myself. “Stop it… It’s just a kid’s song… just a kid’s song.” But even as struggled for control, I prayed the last line. Or. Maybe the last line prayed me.

Even now, I can’t seem to get it out of my head.

* * * * *

jen bio YAH

Song lyrics by Suzie Salo; music by Rachel Matos.

Achieving Escape Velocity

Posted on by under Mess & Place

We call getting out the door in the mornings ‘achieving escape velocity’, and it amazes me, some days, how quickly everything can fall apart.

6:17 am, Monday morning: Awakened by the adorably annoying sing-song, “Mama-dada-mama-dada.” I groan. Our youngest–the early riser–is awake. It’s time to start the day.

6:55 am: Coffee cup in hand, the early riser busy downstairs, I sit on the edge of the 8-year old’s bed, coaxing her into the morning. Like her mama, she would rather sleep in.

          “Are your muscles still sore from swimming lessons?” I ask gently.

          “Just a teeny bit.”

          “You are getting so strong, honey.”

          “I know.”

And she tells me about gym class, and we remember the weekend together. After a few minutes, she’s off to the bathroom and I head back downstairs.

* * *

2533595627_60b31137e9_o7:30 am: “Wow,” I say over the familiar rhythms of the morning news, “We’re really ahead of the game today.”

And we are. Everyone is dressed. Lunches are packed. Warm oatmeal fills their bellies. They are getting a special treat–a morning video. With the Kratt brothers entertaining, I heat up my remaining coffee in the microwave and take a long sip.

I let my guard down–a rookie mistake, though I no longer have this excuse.

* * *

7:45 am: “Darnit, it’s 7:45 already.” I put my mug on the counter and start yelling. “Five minutes until you need to leave for the bus! Five Minutes!”

7:47 am: “Where are my tennis shoes? We have gym class today!” The eight year old is jolted by the change, and she bucks. “I am not going to school without my tennis shoes!” “Oh yes, you are. Here are your tennis shoes–put them on now!”

She freezes in place, glaring at me. My blood pressure rises. Rapidly.

7:48 am: “Did you hear what I said? What are you doing? Get your shoes on! Shoes!” “No! I can’t find my bookbag and I. Am. Not. Going. To. School!”

7:49 am: “The only thing that is going to happen is that you’re going to miss your bus, and then daddy will have to drive you to Jackson Street! (the bus stop she hates) Don’t do this… is this what you do after we let you watch a video and make you oatmeal? Is this how you thank us? Get your coat on and get out the door!”

7:50 am: “I still can’t find my bookbag!”

          “Well, where did you put it? I can’t be in charge of everything for you!”

          “I am not going to school without my bookbag!”

          “Your bus is coming!”

At this point she sweeps her angry hand across the coats and knocks the whole row to the floor. I throw the tennis shoes (which are still not on her feet) at the steps. It is not our prettiest moment.   

7:51 am: My husband comes back inside from the car and takes in the situation. He slides the shoes on her feet, grabs her bookbag (now revealed–it was under a coat), and ushers her out the door. I slam it behind them.

And here is what I am trying to shut out– her rage is like looking in a mirror.

* * *

7:54 am: I turn the television back on for our youngest. She wants another Wild Kratts. “Fine, whatever,” I walk to the back window and fume.

8:00 am: I take a deep breath. Then ten more. “Fail,” I tell myself. “Parenting fail.”

8:05 am: I heat up my coffee again and sit, warming my hands.

8:10 I picture her, on the bus, and hope that she still remembers those first moments of the morning, those moments when I sat on the edge of her bed and we talked about sore muscles. She is a strong girl. So am I. And it’s a good thing. Achieving escape velocity is never easy, and tomorrow we’ll do it all again.

Mostly, I’m just grateful for another chance.

* * * * *

jen bio YAH

Photo by Shereen M on Creative Commons

It’s Just Money, Right?

Posted on by under Money & Place

I type in the web address, username and password. And then I cringe, panic, calm down, breathe.

“It’s just money,” I repeat as I wonder how to make it grow on trees, “It’s just money, and someday we’ll have more of it.”

Maybe. Someday. But not today. Today I have to pay the credit card bill. Tomorrow the mortgage; the next day the gas bill. Why did the price of internet go up? Every month is a scramble to make the numbers work, and sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever leave this place.

I would really like to leave this place, this financial ledge where our income and expenses are the same number. I would like a place to rest, somewhere we could breathe easy, but I can’t seem to find it. We’re too busy roping our family to the cliff every month.

****

There have been times that I have had a plan. The remnants of best-laid intentions litter my file cabinet–the bright pink budgeting folder I found at Target; the envelopes that held cash for entertainment, groceries, lattes. I create glorious systems that last, on average, for two to three months.

Then life happens. I stop collecting receipts. The car breaks down. I need new contact lenses the same month everyone gets strep throat. Christmas comes again.

And I wonder: does anyone stay on top of this? But, like most people, I don’t talk about money, except in the most generic terms. I just assume that everyone else has found a system that works for them, that they have way more discipline than we do, and that we are unique in our precarious–and somehow, deserved–position.   

****

Forget organization. The problem is either expenses or income–and since we hardly ever eat out  and buy our clothes at the Goodwill–my money (though not much of it) is on income.

It was only a few years back that I first heard the term “overeducated and underemployed,” and I immediately recognized myself and most of my close friends. At that time six of us–myself, my husband and our four closest neighbor-friends–held five master’s degrees and earned less than $100,000. Combined.

So, mostly, we were paying our student loans.

If I sound like I’m whining, I am. And I shouldn’t be–our salaries still made us some of the richest people on our block. We were not poor, and our predicament was not entirely an accident, rather, our choices had paved the way to an uneasy middle-class existence. We had stay-at-home moms and dads among our number who cleaned houses, pulled espresso shots, sold bikes, and shipped greeting cards to retain flexible schedules. All three of our “professional class” worked for nonprofits, which did not, let’s say, provide lucrative compensation packages.

We had made our cliff-ledges, and now we had to lie on them.

love people“Money isn’t everything” we said in our twenties as we chose the work that seemed most meaningful.

“We can make this work,” we said in our early thirties. Our kids were young then, and hand-me-downs abundant. Student loans went to forbearance. New couches were postponed. We bought each other socks and underwear for birthdays, cementing our identities as boring grown-ups.

“There are numbers that aren’t being counted,” we said, “like hours with our kids, the positive impact we are making on other people’s lives, the satisfaction… um, index… of an important job well done.”

And it’s all true. And it’s all worth it. But now somehow, as I tip toward my forties and realize that $3.62 doesn’t constitute a savings account, what seemed exciting and counter-cultural starts to feel irresponsible, and–well, exhausting.

I start to realize that financial instability is a place that I may never leave.

My husband says that this thought is completely depressing. “It’s not that hard,” he says, “We just get you a better job, and make some investments.” I give him an extended eye roll. Whatever–as if it’s that easy.

We’re in the kitchen, and he is shaking out peppercorns from a bulk container and chopping garlic from the backyard, preparing veal shanks that were cast-offs from our church’s foodbank. “I’m not sure how I feel about eating veal, even free veal,” I tell him, but it smells amazing. It’s Saturday morning and we have nowhere to go, the cats are posted by the woodstove, and the kids are outside playing in the snow.

Yesterday I cut our monthly expenses again, found a bit more freelance work, and directed some auto deposits to our savings account. Today I’m writing a story to meet a deadline for a blog that pays me nothing, and yet generates a different kind of abundance. It’s a balancing act I know well, and that’s a good thing–as I may be doing it for the next fifty years.

“Oh well,” I think as I prepare the hot chocolate that will soon be required. The rich smell of stew fills the bright kitchen. And we have everything we need.

At least there’s a nice view from this ledge.

* * * * *

jen bio YAH

A note about the photo: After I had finished this piece I was dropping my six-year-old off at school and saw this paper on her locker, a remnant of a MLK Day assignment. I asked her about the picture, and she said that it shows that love weighs more than money.

Next time I’ll let her write the post.  

 

Potty Talk

Posted on by under Laughter and Place

It was 2008, and I was in the bathroom stall again, my infant daughter balanced on my lap and my fully-clothed bottom perched on the edge of the toilet seat. I was not fully clothed on top–the entire point of this awkward visit. It was nursing time at the zoo.

Visiting the zoo was not a treat, but a tool of my sanity called “Get out of the house with the baby whenever possible.” At home, I was more likely to surrender; at home, I was more likely to start crying and not know how to stop. But not at the zoo. At the zoo, I held it together thanks to sunshine, distraction, and the presence of strangers.

There was no crying in front of strangers.

But also out of bounds in public–at least for self-conscious me–was wrestling with a hungry baby under a poorly-designed nursing cover. After a few close calls, my baby’s public meals took place in public bathroom stalls.

The ones at the zoo were the worst. First, they smelled like what they were–an endless parade of dirty diapers, muddy shoes, and children still learning to flush. Second, the tiny stalls were not made for multiple people. With all the balancing and odd angles, nursing was a circus feat–tightrope and clown car combined, heightened with the aroma of elephants.  

But smelly and crowded were small annoyances compared to the noise. The zoo had recently installed a super-vortex, skin-stretching hand-dryer, and every time that darn thing went off, my daughter would jerk her head toward the roar, and I would yelp in pain. (She was, after all, attached to a rather sensitive part of my body.) Scrambling to keep her head from hitting the toilet paper holder, I would nearly lose my perch.

It was all so ridiculous, it was laughable. But I didn’t laugh. I cried, and nursed, and cried some more. I cried until we were both done, and then I stared hard at the ground as we left the stall. I stared hard at the sink as I quickly dabbed my eyes with a wet paper towel. I didn’t want anyone to know.

There was no crying in front of strangers.

* * * * *

By the spring of 2010, I needed a double stroller at the zoo. A friend watched my toddler while I visited the stalls with the new baby, or I used the nursing cover. I didn’t care so much about the stares of strangers anymore–I had two kids under the age of three, darnit. Stare away. Thanks to a year of intensive counseling, a low dose of anti-depressants, and a second baby who slept much more than the first, my postpartum depression was abating.

The clouds were beginning to lift.

One day, someone asked me how I was doing, and I was surprised to hear these words come from my mouth: “Being a mother is no doubt the hardest thing that I have ever done. But I laugh, multiple times, every single day. It’s what keeps me going.”And it was true. I was laughing again. In the haze, I had barely noticed.

* * * * *

In 2013 both of my girls were weaned and potty-trained, but we were still crowding into bathroom stalls.

“I said first!” my youngest proclaimed one day, rightly,5272628825_4fee6a975f_o but her sister had already dropped her pants and planted herself on the toilet. I glared at her, “Just hurry up, okay?” My youngest recovered quickly, as she does, and crouched on the bathroom floor–she wanted to see the shoes of the person in the next stall. “Stop it!” I warned, “and don’t you dare touch that floor! I told you bathroom floors are dirty!”

My temperature was rising quickly, especially when I noticed big sister settling in with “number two,” which often took more than ten minutes. “Oh dear Lord,” I thought with some desperation, “Let the person in the next stall finish quickly.”

No such luck. The person in the next stall had also settled in, and I know this because my youngest suddenly announced “Mama! The lady next door has loud pooping! Did you hear it?”

She did not register the look of horror on my face as she looked up, waiting for my answer as if she was just making polite conversation. “Shh!!!!!!” I hissed at her, the force of my breath attempting to blow this humiliating moment away. “Shh!!!!” I wanted to run, to never leave the house again, perhaps to disappear completely.

And then I heard it. No, not the ‘loud pooping’, but giggling in the next stall. Giggling, and then laughing. And then my children were laughing, and I was laughing, and we were all laughing together in the two-stall bathroom. The ‘lady next door’ washed her hands and left, still giggling, but we stayed together, and the girls switched places. When our laughter subsided, my cheeks were damp.   

“Mama, are you crying?” I shook my head, but this wasn’t the whole truth. Sometimes, even in a bathroom stall, you laugh until you cry. And sometimes you cry until you laugh.

* * * * *

jen bio YAH

Potty photo by Keoni Cabral on Creative Commons

Kindergarten Hijabs

Posted on by under Finding Place

“Mama, help me fix my hid-ab.”

Our youngest daughter came downstairs with a nightgown framing her face, covering her hair, and hanging down her back. It was her pink jaguar print nightgown; she was trying to wear it as a ‘hijab.’ There were a lot of Muslim girls in her kindergarten class, and their head scarves were beautiful.

I paused. “Honey,” I began, “Umm, you can’t wear a nightgown on your head to school.”

“Why not?”

“Well…”

Okay, let’s have a time out for a moment. I need one. Did anybody else learn the answer to this one in parenting school?

At her innocent inquiry, my head began to spin. I didn’t want to make too big of a deal out of this–she just wanted something pretty on her head like her friends. But wouldn’t it be insulting to somebody (not to mention out of uniform) to wear a pink jaguar nightgown hijab to school? Did I really want to have the Muslim and Christian discussion at 8 o’clock in the morning when we were trying to get out the door? What would I even say? What did I even think?

It was too much for that moment. I went with my first instincts.

“No, sorry,” I could see the disappointment register on her nightgown-framed face. “We can figure this out later. But not today. In the car please.”

She surprised me by pulling it off her head without protest. “Okay, Mama” she responded, brightly, “Tomorrow we’ll find a beautiful scarf for my hid-ab.”

We just needed to get out the door. “Sure. Whatever. Let’s go.”

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later we arrived at the door of the school. She had moved on, but my brain was still somersaulting. What was the right decision? There was so much to consider.

7122578581_dd1eb0c397_oWe are attempting to raise our children as followers of Jesus–thoughtful, compassionate, joyful people whose lives are defined by loving God and neighbors. We pray for God’s spirit to fill them, to make impossible things happen.
But this morning, I was the one who needed help. As a Christian parent, would I be denying my faith by letting her wear a hijab? Or would making a big deal out of it, emphasizing ‘we are not like them’ be the very opposite of Jesus-like love?

The door buzzed and we walked inside. I barely registered the pressure of my daughter’s hand as she led me down the echoing hallway, toward the gym. Inside, three hundred children were standing in the same direction, hands over their hearts. A first grader with tight braids and a neat navy jumper had the microphone. We snuck in the side door as she began: “I pledge allegiance to the flag…”

As we recited, I looked around. My daughter squeezed in by one of her many ‘best’ friends. They were trying not to giggle as they elbowed one another and sing-songed, “and to the republic, for which it stands…”

I sighed as I watched her squirm. How did she get that much yogurt all over her uniform? And goodness, she looks so blonde. I marveled at how my husband’s Scandinavian ancestors seemed to be taking over our gene pool.  Her friend, child of Somali refugees, had a dull khaki scarf on today, and I hoped that this would help my daughter forget her hi-dab envy. I watched their eyes twinkle at each other as their lips mouthed the words,    

“With liberty and justice for all, please be seated.”

Three hundred small bodies shuffled for their seats, and I made my exit. In the car, I exhaled a prayer, as if I had been holding my breath the whole time,

Jesus, I still don’t know what to do about the hijab, but thanks. Thanks for this moment in my daughter’s life when wearing a beautiful scarf on your head doesn’t mean division, when saying the pledge with a sampling of the world isn’t a strange thing, when she doesn’t know who is who and what it all means. Help us, because it gets so hard later on. Help us, because I know my allegiance is with you.

Before I drove away, I turned on the radio. News from far away filled the car, and I bowed my head.

Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

I rolled down the hill, away from the school, and into the rest of my day.    

* * * * *

jen bio YAH

Photo by Christine Olson, shared on Creative Commons

The Rumor of Bears

Posted on by under Losing Place

My mother tells me that we only went to camp a few times before the tornadoes came.  How can this be? I remember it all so vividly. Then again, how could I forget a place so full of real and imaginary bears? I was only a young child.

‘Camp’ was my Uncle Davey and Aunt Sue’s hunting cabin in the northwest corner of Pennsylvania, generously shared with extended family like me, my mom, dad, and two little brothers. It was about a two hour drive, due north, on winding Allegheny mountain roads, and as a town kid from a smallish city, it was my very definition of middle of nowhere.

When dad turned off the paved road and onto gravel, I knew we were almost there. Now the real adventure began–the rutted road was barely driveable, and our van inched and bounced along until the green and white cabin was in sight. Camp! Camp! Let us out! We pulled onto the grass (there was no driveway), fell out of the van, and begged my parents to hurry-up-and-unlock-the-door. Inside the musty smell of damp wood, un-aired linens and old furniture filled our nostrils, and my brothers and I ran through the three small rooms, drinking in everything familiar and forgotten.

At camp, there was no running water, so we carried jugs down to and up from the spring.  At camp, there was no television, so we hiked to the big rocks, went spotting for deer, and cooked mountain pies in the campfire coals. At camp, there was an outhouse, so you ‘held it’ through the night and held your breath during the day.

And just behind this outhouse there were berry bushes, frequented–it was said–by black bears. Early in the morning, I would wake up, wishing-with-all-my-might for an indoor bathroom, and picture them–hiding behind the outhouse, waiting for me.

Despite the rumors, I never saw a bear in those berry bushes, or (thank the Lord in heaven) in the outhouse. To see a real Pennsylvanian black bear, I had to wait until we ran out of milk and bread. Then we climbed back into the van and bounced our way to the store.

The closest convenience store doubled as a mini-zoo, with animals in cages in the parking lot. There was a fox who was always hiding, and friendly deer you could feed. There were several other smaller animals I have forgotten completely, and there were… bears. Two bears, in steel cages, pacing back and forth, tracking us with small round eyes. Stay close to us, my parents warned, though the bars were thick and the bears well-fed. We stayed close. For a time.

When I was about seven, the bears were suddenly gone, and my parents said they heard someone shot them ‘out of pity.’ Shot them out of pity? This made absolutely no sense to me. If someone was so worried about the bears, why didn’t they just let them go? My parents just shook their heads sadly and let go of their tight grip on our hands. Go on, they said gently, go see the deer. After that, we still came to get our bread and milk, but the parking lot wasn’t so magical anymore.    

I was left only with the rumor of bears. And soon, I was left only with the rumor of camp.

On the last day of May in 1985, a week before my eighth birthday, twenty-one tornadoes touched down in Eastern Ohio and Western Pennsylvania. One of these raced through the woods behind my aunt and uncle’s hunting property, shifting the cabin two feet on its foundation, disappearing the outhouse, and turning over the berry bushes. The cabin was spared, but ‘camp’ was ruined.

We visited only once after the tornadoes came, and I can still see it all with my eight-year old eyes. The mountains, stripped bare. Trees turned into toothpicks; trailers flung like toys across the fields. The root balls of the trees towered above my head, ugly and unbelievable, and we couldn’t hike to our beloved big rocks because of all the destruction, blocking every trail. Thirty years later, I’m still not sure I’ve gotten over the shock.

Where can the bears live in a such a world?

4706829580_f52e0a0c3a_o

Photo by Jethro Taylor