I’m gonna be a ballerina?

I don’t always understand God’s ways.  If you’ve read many of my posts, you know that one of the many instances where the logic of God’s wisdom escapes me is when I see that I have a height and build many athletes would enjoy, but none of their coordination, fitness, or finesse, to put those gifts to use.  The middle school cross-country coach was thrilled to see me go out for the team, commenting on how my long legs would be an asset – until he saw me run.  Running hard makes me look like a three-legged giraffe in high heels on gravel.

In the five months since my littlest daughters’ arrival, I’ve been flattered by many observers who’ve noted how quickly I lost the weight.  And dressing strategically, I’ve mostly been able to hide the extra stomach bulge.  It feeds my vanity, but still leaves me missing my regular clothes and saying a little prayer every time I cough or sneeze.  (I’ve always said my figure would look great, if only my chest would stick out further than my stomach, and nursing has given me the dream.)  There are plenty of areas for improvement, but I think I am most limited by my lack of core strength.  When I get stuck in bed, like a cockroach on its back, hopelessly kicking my legs to free them from the covers, and trying to find a way out, I feel sure of this assessment.

When the girls’ ballet school opened up an adult class this fall, the answer to my problems was clear.  I thought back to when my oldest started ballet.  She was a pretty klutzy, head-too-big-for-her-body, toddler.  I noticed within weeks that she had better balance and coordination, and in their years of dance, both my older girls have developed a kind of poise and grace that has always eluded me.  They seem to have an athletic edge, no matter what sport they try, and they never need a hand to get out of bed in the morning.  I think it’s their strong core, and I want one for myself.

So I went to ballet class for the first time in my life last night.  I plie’d and tondu’ed and eschappe’d…it was horrible.  I’m a giant three year old, made of Jello.  No skills, no coordination, and when she had us do the little jumps, there was not a single part of my body that didn’t jiggle.  It’s a very small class, but I still managed to repeatedly bonk into other dancers, and, a short 12 hours later, I’m one giant muscle cramp from head to toe.  If they did a Married with Children episode where Peg Bundy went to ballet class, it couldn’t have been funnier than what I saw in front of me in the mirror last night.

But it was a blast.  I never had so much fun looking like an idiot and getting exercise (funny enough, those two things usually go together for me).  I was relieved when the instructor confirmed for us that we are not expected to participate in the recital next Spring, and, thank you, Lord, there is only a small window in the door for observers.  But I am not going to let my pride get in the way.  I’m going to learn to dance.  I’m going to get my body to actually be fit and not just look fit.  And I’m going to do those little, jiggly jumps until I no longer have to worry about bladder control.

It’s never too late, right?

Shapely and graceful your sandaled feet, and queenly your movement—Your limbs are lithe and elegant, the work of a master artist. Song of Solomon 7:1

I felt weak and girlie

We recently rented A League of their Own to watch with the family.  It was an instant hit with our daughters.  I love that movie, because it illustrates with great humor and accuracy what women can achieve in male dominated fields, without sacrificing what makes them uniquely feminine.  Of course, the most memorable line of the whole movie is when Tom Hank’s character coaches with the same harsh language he would use on anyone who missed the cutoff on a key play, and his distraught player breaks into tears.  Everyone now knows, “There’s no CRYING in BASEBALL!”

Whatever it is, baseball, medicine, politics, or ministry, it can be tough to go against the grain.  Growing up, I believed I could be anything I wanted to be, from a firefighter to an astronaut, from a teacher to a lawyer.  I knew talent and education could limit me, and my height (and lack of coordination) might keep me from professional gymnastics, but I never thought of my gender as being a limiting factor.  Despite the optimistic naiveté of my childhood, I learned long before I pursued this calling that being a woman in a male dominated field would have challenges.  From having to explain repeatedly that you are the minister, not the minister’s wife, to the discomfort of professional meetings where you are the only female in the room, many circumstances and many individuals will force your awareness that you made an unconventional career choice.  Beyond that, it can be downright hurtful when members of your own congregation profess their view that the Bible clearly forbids women to be ministers, or confide to your husband they have to close their eyes to be able to take in a sermon when a woman preaches.

Those obstacles are frustrating, and thrust upon me.  But what bothers me the most is when I become the cause of my own insecurity.  Generally, it is in those times when church life gets a little too political, or when interpersonal dynamics get a little heated.  I am pretty sure that I deal with conflict in a very different way than a man would.  I seem to have two modes: passion or emotion.  Neither comes across to others (especially men) as rational.  When I’m passionate, it seems to scare people.  When I’m emotional, I feel like I’m feeding all the prejudices against women.

I had one of those experiences this week, where someone interfered with my ability to do my job because of their prejudices.  I couldn’t invoke the passionate response, because it wasn’t something I really even cared about.  But it made me mad, and I took it harder and more emotionally than I needed to.  Having to work that hard to control my emotions made me feel weak and girlie.  I could hear Tom Hanks in my head, saying intensely, “There’s no CRYING in MINISTRY!”  I did hold it together, only a couple people got a glimpse of my frustration, and I did not cry; but I felt intensely silly, and girlie, and like I was letting all my fellow women ministers down.

I commend to you our sister Phoebe, a deacon of the church in Cenchreae.  I ask you to receive her in the Lord in a way worthy of his people and to give her any help she may need from you, for she has been the benefactor of many people, including me. Romans 16:1-2