I broke the seal.

Somehow, the embarrassment I felt wasn’t nearly commensurate with the absurdity of what was happening.  On the other hand, too many beers, topped off with a shot or two, does help numb your inhibitions.

 

It was 1996 and my husband and I had recently started dating.  I was a senior in college and he had just graduated the spring before.  He immediately found himself at ease with my friends, which was really a big plus, because it made it that much easier to make time for dating when he could just join right in with my other friends.  He seemed to take it in stride when we held quiet cocktail parties, instead of raging beerfests (although he did not get the reaction he had hoped for when he crashed the Christmas party dressed as Santa Claus).  He laughed along, instead of asking to be let out of the car, when we got carried away with snorting contests on the way to the bars.  And he even thought it was funny when one of my friends suggested one night, as we were heading out to a pub, that it would be funny if, on the way back, we stopped at a nearby home where there was a boat parked in their driveway, and took a photo of everyone by the boat.

 

It was not a particularly unusual night at the pub.  There were a couple shots exchanged, and plenty of beer consumed, since only one of us had to drive home.  We had actually squeezed all six of us into a 5-seater car, just to ensure that no one would drink and drive.

 

One of my friends frequently repeated a mantra on nights like that, “Don’t break the seal,” she would say, “Once you break the seal, you’re going to have to use the bathroom every five minutes for the rest of the night.”  How right she was.  Before we left the pub to head home, I thought I would arm myself against the constant hilarity of my friends and the coldness of the night by taking a quick trip to the restroom.  I felt much better as we piled into the sedan, and my boyfriend offered me his lap.

 

“Hey, guys, are we going to get the boat picture?”

 

“Of course!” we all chimed and the driver headed over to the house in question.  We all were joking and laughing pretty hard the whole way, giving me an all-to-familiar sensation that, in the back of my mind, rebuked me for my foolish decision to empty my bladder before the drive.

 

When we got to the boat, we were certainly not the most smooth criminals to ever cross onto someone’s property, as it took quite a feat to get all of us out of the car and posed by the boat.  In the mean time, I found myself succumbing to the kryptonite tri-fecta: laughing uncontrollably, breaking the seal, and insane Iowa cold.  Despite the warmth of beer, coursing through our veins, all of us felt the sharp sting of the bitter cold, and I, in particular, quickly realized that while my face, hands, and feet were freezing, my thighs were, by contrast, suddenly quite warm.

 

I couldn’t even hide what was happening, and there was another roar of laughter as I squeeked, “Oh, no!  I’m peeing my pants!”

 

To which my friends replied between chortles, “Oh, no!  You’re riding home on your boyfriend’s lap!”

 

And, yes, my boyfriend let me sit on his lap for the, thankfully brief, ride back to our apartment.  And somehow it didn’t even feel like a fight to maintain my dignity, sitting on my love interest, wearing urine-soaked pants.

 

I see in retrospect there were many rules for right living I broke that night: “don’t trespass,” “wear your seatbelt,” and “don’t break the seal!”

 

Stupidity is reckless, senseless, and foolish. Proverbs 9:13

I'm adopted.

My husband and I were already engaged before I met his favorite uncle, and that uncle’s fiancée.  They were planning a July wedding, about two months ahead of our own.  I don’t remember exactly what it was about them: the casual hospitality of their lake house, the fun afternoon of sun and water activities, or the absurd way I was included in the early morning wakeup call of “Good Morning, Vietnam!” blasting out of the stereo by my head at dawn.  Something about them, right from the start, included me, as if I had always been there; as if we were related by something more than marriage.

They put me up every week for years, when I was commuting to Kansas City for seminary.  They hugged me tight and expressed admiration for my courage when I was trying to be brave after a miscarriage.  They go out of their way to come by when they are in town, even when they are booked tight for holidays.  They keep an open home and open hearts, not just for my husband and me, but also for our girls.  From braving the heat to spend an afternoon at the petting zoo with me and the kids, to coming up with the wildest array of kid friendly meal options every time we come to town; they show by deed as much as word that we matter to them.

We visited my husband’s aunt and uncle on our way through town twice this week.  My daughters pitched a fit when we wanted to take them out for breakfast, because they love so much sitting around their table, eating strawberries, and chatting through the morning.  I can see why – it is a lot of fun to visit with people so well-read and thoughtful; always giving us something new to think about before we hit the road to head home.

It is such a privilege to share our marriage year with a couple who live out such a true expression of mutual submission and boundless love.  I grieve that they didn’t know each other soon enough in life, because their kids would be amazing people, but I’m grateful to God for giving them such a bounty of love to share with the rest of us!  We are, indeed, related by something much more than just marriage.

Jesus and the people he makes holy all belong to the same family. That is why he isn’t ashamed to call them his brothers and sisters. Hebrews 2:11

I’m feeling called to First Church of Denny’s

When I offered to resign four months ago, I knew I was ready for a change.  But even as my last day was set, I still couldn’t really imagine not being on staff at my church.  Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings have been such an ingrained part of our family rhythm, relationships with the kids and friends at church have been such a substantial part of our social network, it was hard to comprehend that we were going to depart from those ways.  We fantasized about waking up on Sunday morning and going to church solely because we wanted to go to church, but we could hardly comprehend the possibility of not going.

Maybe it is short-timer’s syndrome, but the last four months, and the last week specifically, have made leaving so much easier than I thought it would be.  Maybe our eminent separation has given me clearer vision to see what was always there, maybe my eminent departure has created some fatalism about our church being able to effectively reach young families, but my vision for a welcoming, accommodating church reached an impasse.  The hot button issue that made my last official board meeting depressing and bitter: changing tables in the main bathrooms.  There were only two other people besides me who argued to keep them: the two women who, albeit 30-plus years ago, once had to change their babies’ diapers at church.  Everyone else in the room was a baby boomer father (i.e. never changed a diaper except in an emergency) or never had kids.  But we were out-voted and diaper changing has now been relegated to the back bathroom.

Will the loss of these changing tables directly affect the membership demographic of our church?  Probably not.  But it was, for me, a weathervane.  There are dozens of similar decisions over which I’ve voiced a minority opinion throughout the years; this one was, to me, one of the most ridiculous.  They are small plastic tables that fold up against a wall; a standard in any public restroom.  What do they hurt?  Someone had to wait an extra couple minutes to use the restroom, and someone else didn’t like how they distracted from the décor.  So they took them down and now parents, especially guests, will have to hunt down facilities down the hall and around the corner.

Maybe the changing tables aren’t a big deal.  Maybe none of my gripes or issues ever really mattered.  Maybe I was wrong to think I was called to my church to be an ambassador for the lost, or to help break down the barriers that have led 2/3 of my generation to avoid church, if not actively despise it.  Maybe my generation doesn’t belong in church after all.  Maybe we need a new place to congregate on Sunday mornings.

I’m thinking Denny’s.  They don’t quit seating at 10am; they serve breakfast all day.  They have changing tables and high chairs visibly available to accommodate your family.  You can come as you are; no one comments on your appearance.  You know your 10% is going to help someone who really needs it.  There’s no mention of “luck” when it comes to what is in the “pot.”  And they won’t quit serving it, just because you spill a little coffee on the carpet.

I need to find a new way to meld my concern for my generation, and those coming after, with my belief in church as the Body of Christ.  I probably need to take a break from church life and politics for the same reasons so many of my peers avoid it all together.  But in the mean time – I’m counting down to my first Sunday morning Grand Slam.

When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Mark 10:14

Less than heroic.

Last weekend was a blast, starting right from Friday morning.  I pulled my sewing machine out of mothballs and discovered that I can still pull off a fairly professional-looking hemstitch.  I love the satisfaction of a good sewing project, and it was a bonus that I got to help out a friend.  Then, a rarity since the baby was born, my husband and I got to enjoy, childfree, a fantastic, seafood dinner that felt like anything but fasting.  I savored every bite of Volcano Roll and Whiskey-glazed Char – and every moment of uninterrupted conversation. 

Finally, to top it all off, a friend and I spent Saturday evening at Super Prom!  It was a charity event where costumes were optional, but of course we had to go in costume!  Since we share the same name, we decided to go as Super Emily-s.  The fun started when we hit the costume shop and found coordinating red and blue wigs, silver dresses, and crazy red fishnets.  We planned and plotted for weeks: scoping out the Dollar Tree for masks, coordinating our make-up, cutting out our hero emblems.  The kids were fascinated by all my preparations Saturday evening and got a kick out of the big photo session before we left for dinner and the Prom.  We were already having so much fun; we even admitted to each other that we both initially put our “E”s on our dresses backward, not realizing we were looking in the mirror. Ha!

It has been a long time since I danced for five hours straight, but, minus bathroom breaks, we were non-stop partiers until the band sent us home at 2AM.  2AM!  I got photographed with my hero, Kermit.  Emily got photographed with her hero, Rocky Balboa.  We worked together to fight off the advances of Kung Fu Panda.  And we even got a decent picture of Hoochie-Wonder Woman to share with our husbands later.

It was such a hilariously fun and memorable weekend, I wouldn’t change a thing.  But if you’re going to dance, you have to pay the fiddler; I guess that means more than the $20 cover charge for the party.

I’m not sure why 8-10 hours, over the course of three days, put my family into such discord, but by Sunday evening, I had three kids, including the 10 and 7 year old, trying to squeeze into my seat with me.  And then even the dog got into it when she, not once but twice, tried to prevent me from picking up the baby by racing between us and marking a circle around me.  Nothing says “I missed you” quite like a perimeter of urine.

Monday morning, our middle girl had an exhausting appointment with a specialist that raised as many questions as answers about her chronic stomach aches, it’s always stressful at my husband’s work this time of year, and by midweek I felt paralyzed by everyone’s competing needs.  Hero to Zero in three short days.

When my husband called at lunch time, I was near tears, trying to figure out what to feed the baby.  I had run out of all the foods she eats reliably, and she now refuses to ingest anything puréed or that she can’t feed herself.  Even admitting my frustration felt like another failure, knowing my poor husband was busy and stressed out with work already. 

But he was the real hero this week.  Instead of cutting me off and reminding me that he had no possible means to help, and I was ridiculous for dumping my load on him when he was already enormously strained, he heard me out and then gently reassured me that nothing was as bad as it felt right then.  Hearing his reassurance was just what I needed to finish out the day – and the week.  I still haven’t been to the grocery store, the dog is in the kennel at this very moment, the baby is declining her raviolis by tossing them on the floor, and I’m still in my pajamas at nearly noon.  But it’s all good.  I don’t have to be a hero.  I just have to love them.  And I do.

 When the Philistines saw that their hero was dead, they turned and ran. 1 Samuel 17:51

I need to quit interrupting.

Communication is usually one of my strong suits.  It’s never going to earn me a medal, but I’m the goddess of the drive-thru.  Back when I was taking orders, happy customers repeatedly commented on how remarkably clear and pleasant our loudspeaker interaction had been.  Even today, my husband jokes that it would be better if he could back up to the speaker so I could place our orders from the passenger side, because it would up our odds of getting the food we actually want, and lower his stress levels.

Despite my ability to interact effectively and pleasantly, even without the assistance of visual clues, I’ve been troubled lately by my tendency to interrupt others.  A topic piques my enthusiasm, someone says something intriguing or funny, and, next thing I know, I find myself verbally jumping into conversation gaps that aren’t gaps.  This has probably been going on my whole life, but there are a couple circumstances recently that have made me realize I need to install a governor on my discourse.

First, I’ve had laryngitis.  For the last week or so, speaking has been a labored effort.  It takes so much extra breath to say something with enough clarity and volume to be heard, that when anyone, especially my kids, is inattentive, interrupts, or ignores me, I feel the burden of the added work it takes to repeat myself.  I find myself surrendering my point, rather than repeating something that seems too inconsequential to muster the effort.  It’s made me realize how important it is to be a good listener, to slow down and put more effort into hearing what others have to say.

The challenge of laryngitis has also heightened my sensitivity to a friend of ours for whom speaking is an act of deliberate effort.  I have caught myself interrupting him more than once in the last couple weeks, and it humbles me.  I should already be humble that someone values our friendship enough to work for it like that; I definitely shouldn’t be making him repeat himself by talking over him.

If I’m foolish enough to interrupt in those circumstances, it a guarantee that I’ve been interrupting everyone else, too.  So, if you’re one of my victims, I apologize.  I’m going to work on it.  Maybe flick me on the forehead, if I interrupt you.  That should shut me up.

Anyone who answers without listening is foolish and confused. Proverbs 18:13

I offended the new girl.

As I mentioned in a blog entry last summer, I don’t have much to contribute to the church softball team; with a new baby, I’m worth even less this year.  What I can contribute, however, is robust enthusiasm and lighthearted joshing.Since our church plays in Coed D-league, it seems like a basic assumption that we are in it more for fun than with trophy aspirations.  There are enough players with experience to keep us following the rules, and to bring innings to a close, eventually, but many players, like I was, are softball novices with more willingness than finesse.  We try to take our limitations in stride and feel free to laugh at ourselves and each other.

I guess it’s part of the hazard of coed softball that reproduction caused a major turnover of female players (I’m not the only gestational casualty this year), so there were a few offseason recruits being introduced before the game.  One gal and I exchanged names, and she seemed friendly.  Trying to offer a little small talk, I clarified with her whether she used any of the shortened forms of her name, and she said she didn’t.  I joked that it’s always good to make sure what a person’s name is before I start cheering or jeering them when they are at bat – because I did plan to be a loud fan.   She looked at me a little coldly and asserted that hopefully she wouldn’t be so bad that I would need to jeer her.  I immediately wanted to eat my words; I truly didn’t mean to suggest, without even having seen her play, that she stunk!  I had honestly meant only to include her in the goofy camaraderie that the girls on the team all shared.

Well, before the end of the game, I doubly needed to eat my words.  She was really good!  The team is really lucky to have her.  She was catching flies, turning double plays, and hitting runners in.  There were no jeers to make – she rocked it.  I’m going to have to find a way to break the ice again, because I completely blew it for round 1.

If you have good sense, it will show when you speak. But if you are stupid, you will be beaten with a stick. Proverbs 10:13

I’ve taken my family for granted.

It is a tremendous blessing that I have a large extended family. I have dozens of first cousins, beloved aunts and uncles, and grandparents whose longevity gave us the motivation to gather regularly and savor the great storytelling, hearty joking, and comfort of familiarity. Unfortunately, this cherished extended family lives stretched across the country, from Chicago to Arizona and from Texas to Wyoming. It is no easy task, staying close over the miles. I remember, a few months after starting college, feeling isolated and alone. I concluded that what I most needed was the comfort of a hug; something so simple, but so unavailable, in a place where my longest acquaintance was two months’.

Shortly into my college career, I began attending church. At first, I sneaked in the back unnoticed. My attendance was sporadic, and even the beloved greeter, who typically dropped by with a flower or cookie for visitors, never took notice of me. Eventually, however, I got up the courage to ask the choir director about joining the choir. She was kind and friendly and seemed happy to have me come to a rehearsal. At that first rehearsal, I was warmly welcomed and quickly found that these jolly souls, mainly my parents’ and grandparents’ age, appreciated what musical abilities I could offer, and even welcomed my weird sense of humor.

In the years since, I’ve had ups and downs with my church family. I have a deep appreciation for how they acknowledged and encouraged my call to ministry, adding me to staff and helping me get a seminary degree. Unfortunately, local church ministry can also be frustrating. Sometimes the demand to be constantly available, the sense of closeness that such a large church family feels for me and my family, can challenge my need for privacy, and my desire to be with and enjoy my biological family. Sometimes the generational differences in what effective ministry looks and feels like create barriers between us that feel insurmountable and make me question my calling. In the last year, especially with the overwhelming demands of pregnancy and newborn care, I’ve let the occasional snarky or insensitive comments of church members play on me more than usual. Even just a few abrasive people can sometimes lead me to group the whole church together as unappreciative and demanding.

Lately, I’ve been unfair. In a world where technology and distance have often disconnected people from each other, our church has offered a sanctuary of familial connection. They have surrounded my family with prayer during our trials and sorrows. Their joy in our return after maternity leave has been palpable. There are dear friends among them who demand to babysit my kids now and then while we have a dinner date, or else they complain that we’ve been hording them. My newest daughter has an exceptional collection of blankets, sleepers, rattles, and a beautiful cross-stitch birth sampler, received in equal shares from biological and church family who waited anxiously for her arrival, poised to love her heartily. I arrived home this week to find that my mailbox had been overloaded with the cards of well wishers, offering their condolences and prayers for my grandma’s death. I’ve taken for granted the love and connection that many others long for and live without. While other new mothers long for company, I must turn visitors away. While others face the burden of sorrow alone, I am humbled by an outpouring of empathy.

I am so grateful that in a lonely city, I found myself at home among people of faith, who long to love others as Jesus did. We don’t always agree on how that love should be expressed, but we do always agree on the one great source from whom it comes.

I pray that the Lord Jesus Christ will bless you and be kind to you! May God bless you with his love, and may the Holy Spirit join all your hearts together. 2 Corinthians 13:13

I shouldn’t have been so polite

I knew going into it that caring for a newborn again was going to test the very limits of my endurance. Anyone who says they get “baby fever” and crave having a newborn in the house, must never have breastfed. The first two weeks nursing a newborn are the toughest challenge of parenting, in my opinion. For those who have not personally enjoyed the experience, imagine getting a hickie from a half-inch vacuum nozzle, on the most sensitive part of your body, twice every three hours. And if that weren’t enough, tolerate that discomfort and continue to nurture your other family members on 4-6 hours of sleep a night, obtained in 1 ½ hour increments. I don’t mean to say that bottle fed infants are a walk in the park – I have no idea what creative means bottle fed infants use to test your adoration. That, of course, is key; I’m already so smitten with this helpless little creature that I couldn’t imagine offering her any less than my best. Even if it kills me. And I know we’re going to make a great team by the end of this early part, able to head out on a whim; her food supply secure in my bosom, without a bagful of bottles, cold packs, formula, and purified water.

If only she were always this peaceful!



 None of the newborn stuff has been much of a surprise, our little golden girl is actually a much easier baby so far than either of her big sisters were. She caught on to nursing quicker, she often sleeps between nighttime feedings, and she never broke a capillary in my breast and burped up a flood of red milk and blood clots (my middle daughter was a rather voracious nurser). What has been a real surprise, however, is how different I am as a 35 year old new mom, than I was as a 25 year old new mom.

Take, for instance, hospital visits. When my first daughter was born, we had visitors who came the following afternoon and, despite my head-bobs and lack of color, stayed 2 ½ hours. In my fear of being impolite, I didn’t take back my baby, demand that they leave, or hint about my exhaustion and her need to nurse. Many similar scenes were repeated in our living room, once we got home. In contrast, with this baby, when my husband told me visitors had just called and were on their way, I shrugged my shoulders, continued to get my clothes together, and said, “if they get here while I’m in the shower, they’ll have to wait until I’m done.” I’ve told people “no” who wanted to drop in; I’ve taken my baby back and reminded visitors how little sleep I had; I’ve turned the phone off and ignored a ringing doorbell. This time around, I’ve also developed a much higher tolerance for letting outsiders see a messy house when I do welcome them in.

On the upside, although I may have been a little impolite, there aren’t nearly as many dirty clothes and dishes for others to see. The payoff to putting up stronger boundaries has been better sleep, a baby who found her schedule quicker, and having some energy leftover to make meals, wash clothes, and keep my older kids from feeling neglected. A newborn is a fulltime job, I spend over 8 hours a day, just feeding her, let alone diaper changing and soothing cries. My husband is a willing helper in the evening, but we don’t have a whole lot extra to offer, even for our most welcome and beloved friends.

It is an honor that so many people want to welcome and love my daughter; I’ve been able to enjoy their affection so much more, by having it channeled into portions small enough to accommodate. I only wish I had known ten years ago! My advice to young moms – do what you have to do and send visitors away after 15-20 minutes. That is, of course, if they are there to ogle the baby. If they’re washing your dishes, they are welcome to stick around until they’re done.

And when you welcome one of these children because of me, you welcome me. Matthew 18:5

Attending a party shouldn’t cost you $25.

Some people think I’m a cheapskate or a freeloader. They may be right. And this post may severely inhibit my social engagements in the future, but I’m going to have the courage to weather your disapproval. I hate sales parties. Mary Kay, Pampered Chef, whatever it might be that you are pimping…if you want to get together and visit, let’s do it; if you want me to spend a minimum of $25 on something I don’t need, so you can rake in $150 worth of freebees, I’d rather not.  That's not a party, it's a fundraiser.

I developed my aversion when we were first married. We didn’t have the disposable income to drop 18 bucks on a lipstick or buy a $20 potato peeler, but I felt obligated, whenever someone invited me to a party, to try and come. And once I was there, it never felt like a choice. You eat a few bites of cheese dip, listen to the sales spiel, and then around comes the order form. If, like me, you have perused the entire catalog in search of any token item you might be able to afford, let alone find use for, you watch your fellow guests like a hawk, waiting to see if any of them passes on the forms without filling one out. Over and over again, they take the order form and make a purchase. It always came down to me. Either I was going to choke up the money and make a purchase, or I was going to be the only person in the room who failed the host. And there’s never anything in the catalog for less than $20.

On top of the overpriced junk I either brought into our home or had to find a recipient, for whom it would actually be a suitable gift, most such parties were followed by three more invitations to the same darn party. For the salespeople, it is a giant pyramid scheme. By the time you go to a few parties and overpay for an item at each one, you develop the strongest urge to victimize all your friends again, by hosting your own party. If you’ve had to pay $25 for a lousy carrot cake mix, you are at least going to throw out a bowl of your own Chex-Mix and see if you can scrounge up enough sales for some free moisturizer. I’ve been tempted…very very tempted…but I’ve never given in. I have never thrown a single one of these beastly parties. I don’t own any real Tupperware that wasn’t handed down by my mother-in-law after our wedding, and I will never hoist anyone to the Pink Cadillac sales level.

Life got busier and I eventually had a conflict that prevented my attendance at one of these shindigs. It felt so good to say no, to get off the hook and spend my next $25 on something I actually wanted. I said no more and more often. Occasionally, someone does invite me to one where the goods actually seem interesting enough to risk attending, but my favorite invitation is the one that includes, “I’m going to have some snacks and wine, and I really just wanted an excuse to have some friends over, so come say Hi, even if you don’t want to buy anything.”

I go one step further when I invite people to my house. The invitation usually reads something like, “We’ll have snacks and wine. Let’s get together.” No strings attached.

They invited me four times, but each time I refused to go. Nehemiah 6:4

I miss my sister.

Maybe it’s my resistance to the hard reality that I can’t travel for at least the next six months, but, despite the possibility of being groped by a TSA at the airport, or that I wouldn’t be able to walk after the long car ride, I’m feeling an incredible desire to be together with my sister right now.

Proof of the variety one gene pool can offer.



We’re used to not being together. Growing up, I guess we probably looked forward to it. Sharing a room with her for the first 15 years of my life, our personalities clashed like oil and water. I went to bed early; she stayed up late. I made sure my socks got into the laundry; she stole my clean socks. We could easily have become the kind of siblings who live worlds apart and only see each other at funerals and weddings. As time and geography would have it, we haven’t lived in the same state since she was 15 and I was 18, except for a few short term occasions when we were able to coordinate summer jobs or such. On those occasions, there were always moments that reminded us how incredibly different we are. And there were always moments that bound us together in ways time and space could never sever.



Despite the challenges of our personalities and distance, my sister and I found each other while we were teenagers. We discovered the sweetest family treasure – sisterhood. That one person you can go clothes shopping with, who won’t shy away from acknowledging your figure flaws and helping you mask them. The one you can trade skin care tips with, because you both have the same weird sensitivities. The one who knows how you’ve hurt and what you’ve overcome to become who you are and won’t be offended when you’re frank about the things that really sucked along the way.

My sister is renting her first house, and although I did get to drive through the neighborhood with her last spring, I’ve never gotten to see her place. I don’t know what kitchen gadgets she’s missing or get to help find the perfect curtains. She’s in her first teaching position, about to graduate from grad school, and I haven’t gotten to sneak in a lunch with her or see her classroom, or meet her students. I’m even a stranger to her dog.

By the same token, I could have really used her help to find flattering maternity clothes (if such a thing exists). My older daughter was a brave friend, and gave decent advice for a nine year old, but it’s not the same as having my sister there. I’m going to arrange a nursery, think of a name, and eat a lot of chocolate in the next couple months, and I can’t help wishing my sister was around to be a part of it. I’m feeling especially girlie right now, and she’d be the one to help me through it.

I’ve got great friends and an awesome husband here in Iowa. But they’re not my sister. Why must Colorado be so far away?

Love each other as brothers and sisters. Romans 12:10a

Our Christmas pictures are deceptive.

For so many of us, our annual Christmas mailing is the only real world contact we make with one another. And, of course, we don’t want to complicate the holidays for our friends and family by burdening them with the true complexities of our lives. So, much to each other’s annoyance, we send out photos of perfectly groomed, sweetly smiling children, accompanied by a letter that expounds on their most noteworthy accomplishments and overlooks the many times they’ve embarrassed us in front of strangers or earned a place on the “Naughty List.”

There are few Christmas mailings I have enjoyed more than my friend who got frustrated, trying to photograph her four uncooperative kids in front of the tree, and sent out a photo-card in which each kid had their own un-posed look of anger, disgust, or confusion. It was hilarious, and real. Another memorable Christmas letter we once received shared the hilarious tale of a nine year old’s bout of constipation and the ensuing battle to administer the suppository. When their sewer line backed up in their basement the following year – and it, too, made the Christmas letter – we began to wonder if fecal matter was a new Christmas standard.

I don’t know that we need to air every trial and sorrow in the three short paragraphs of our Christmas letter, or that we should take first-thing-in-the-morning snapshots for the Christmas card, but I did feel the need to come clean. Not only did I bathe and groom my children and myself for our Christmas picture, I also set the camera at the one strategic angle where you couldn’t see the evidence of my failed housekeeping. My living room looked like Santa’s Workshop had exploded in it, with ribbons, boxes, and wrapping paper scattered all over the place. With careful cropping, we cut out the kitchen counter in the background that was cluttered with pots, pans, dishes, and cooling racks.

Not only was our Christmas picture a bit of a fraud, I’m generally conscious of my angles whenever I’m taking pictures. Aside from the possibility that my friends and family might begin to consider me a slob if they see picture after picture with laundry piles and toy clutter in the background, I don’t want my kids to have photographic evidence. If they can remember that we dressed up crazy with them and took them to the Halloween dance, without having to remember that we disregarded a slew of housework to do so, why not try to give them that illusion? It’s not just a lie – it’s also a service I provide.

He also said that you always have happy memories of us and that you want to see us as much as we want to see you. 1 Thessalonians 3:6b

I Ignore “Friend” Requests.

I loved Jimmy Kimmel’s “National UnFriend Day (NUD).” Go out to your list of friends, and drop anyone who you don’t actually know. I say, be really daring and drop anyone you aren’t actually glad you know. I didn’t see the results – was there a substantial drop in Facebook “Connections” November 17th? Why is it that people are racing to build bigger friend lists, instead of better friends? While I love reconnecting with old allies and enduring my aunts’ harassment through the medium, I worry sometimes that future generations – or possibly all of us – won’t be willing to contemplate ideas that can’t be expressed in 40 characters or less, and that our drive for “networking” is going to undermine our right to privacy and ability to form genuine relationships.

So – some people already know this, because they “friended” me and didn’t hear back – I frequently ignore “friend” requests. The fact of the matter is that I post photos of my kids, share highlights of my vacations, sing off-tune birthday songs, and occasionally mention body functions on my Facebook page. Facebook isn’t a “virtual town square,” it’s my “virtual living room.” So the length of my friend-list doesn’t correlate with my self-esteem. If I don’t want to invite you into my living room, I don’t. What’s more, I get frustrated when my “friends” don’t show more discernment, because I feel angst every time I choose the “friends of friends” setting, knowing that some of my friends are indirectly opening up my virtual living room to 650-2000 of their closest loved ones. I only wish I could selectively open things up to “friends of friends who have less than 200 friends,” so my husband’s friends could view photos without letting in whole villages in Paraguay, or whatever other strangers someone’s “friended.”

But, especially for those who have been cast out of my virtual living room, I thought you should know that withholding my friendship isn’t just for the virtual world. I do it all the time in the actual world, as well. I find myself turning down “friend” requests nearly every time I go out in public. Last night, it was closing time at Target, and I found myself in an absurdly familiar situation.

The checker was somewhat younger than me, and exceptionally gracious and friendly while she beeped my goods, despite it being 15 minutes to close and her looking quite obviously pregnant. Grateful for her good nature, I proffered a friendly comment, commiserating about the late hour and our need for rest while gestating. This small kindness quickly mushroomed, as her eyes brightened and she began to share with me about her kids, her military-induced cross-country moves, the names they are considering for their new son, etc., etc.. I engaged in friendly chatter with her, finding out our due dates are just a few days apart, and smiling at her young kids’ reactions to having another brother. By the time the transaction was complete, I was ready to go and they were dimming the lights, so I gathered my bags and tried to end the exchange on a caring note, offer my hope that everything would go well for them and God would bless their growing family.

Her friendly demeanor turned serious, and she looked a little stunned, reengaging me into the conversation to tell me about the recent loss of their infant son while he was at daycare, the hardship of working alternate shifts with her husband, because they are petrified to put their kids back in daycare, how she had become pregnant with this baby despite her husband’s vasectomy when the last son was born, and how amazing it was that they were having another child after their huge loss. I don’t remember what all I said to her, except that I tried to be compassionate and acknowledge the gravity of what she was sharing, even while feeling the extreme awkwardness of the closing store and her stunning revelations to a stranger. Maybe I should have taken her out for a coffee, invited her to church, or given her my phone number. Her deep and obvious need for a caring friend tugged at my conscience, but I wasn’t prepared to make friends at Target at 11pm, with a full bladder, sore feet, and a burden of bags. So I called her by name, told her my name, and told her that I hope we run into each other again, which is somewhat likely, because we live in the same town and she works where I shop.

I really do hope I run into her again. And I really have prayed for her family and the healing that is still ahead for them. But I already have 108 friends I struggle to keep up with, and I just wasn’t prepared to add a new one last night. Maybe God will put her in my path again to remind me that she could use a friend – or maybe last night God just wanted her to hear it from the mouth of a stranger that her family is in the tender care of the Divine. Maybe that was enough.

So don’t get mad if I don’t “friend” you. I’m a heartless, emotional recluse who won’t even “friend” a sweet, young mom who’s enduring the hardest trial this world has to offer and melted at a stranger's casual offer of a blessing.

When others are happy, be happy with them, and when they are sad, be sad. Be friendly with everyone. Romans 12:15-16a