MOP Day 8: 8 Foolproof Steps for Raising Perfect Children

Just kidding about the title.

So Emily and Jenny and I decided to do this Month of Posting experiment to motivate ourselves to post more.

To our surprise, my posts about conscience and respecting beliefs got shared a couple dozen times on Facebook, and then Jenny's hastily-slapped-together post featuring her Mennonite Disney outfits went crazy overnight, hit-wise, and suddenly there was a new scent in the wind, a whiff of competitive fever.



And it was my turn to post today before the day was done.

Knowing how we all click on how-to's, and on parenting articles, and on numbered steps, well, there you are.  A shameless gimmick, sorry. But maybe you might actually find it helpful, who knows?

I have a bunch of amazing children.  If you read my posts and column at all, you know that. Or, at least, you know that that's what I think. In my Amish background we didn't get praised much for fear we'd be proud.  You know how ex-Amish ladies sometimes go a bit crazy with colors and prints and belts and earrings and heels and glammy purses, all in one outfit, because they can, at last, and between you and me it kind of looks like a rummage sale exploded?  Well, I can now brag about my kids without being accused of sinful pride.  If people hear me talk and think about verbal rummage sales exploding--or sinful pride--that is not for me to worry about.

My children are no longer little children, of course.  They're young adults out there learning and making friends and doing wild creative things.  They are clever and responsible and oh so witty.  They pay their bills and cook and brush their teeth every day and do not hit people and I think they apologize without being told to.


It is astonishing.

None of my children are in prison!  I think that is just so wonderful, because back in the day I would lie in bed and cry because I was sure that one in particular, and maybe all of them, would end up there.  And if they weren't in prison they might all be lawyers, the way they could argue, and I wasn't sure which was worse.

I don't have a clue how we did this.  As Paul says, "I'm not sure it was anything we did." Honestly, sometimes I was so sick with the next pregnancy that I couldn't mother to save my life.  Sometimes I was depressed and hormonal and I got angry and I made them cry.  I was stressed a lot. We didn't have much money so they did without a lot. I have so many regrets.

Other parents around us were just so exhaustingly INTENTIONAL.  They read Shepherding a Child's Heart and scheduled the baby's feedings and used the Only Right Way homeschool curriculum and knew why they did what they did.  We kind of groped our way through, befuddled and overwhelmed, and whatever we figured out for one child seldom worked for the next one.

But our kids turned out fine, so far.  Here are my best guesses how this happened, bearing in mind that this is one of the Great Mysteries and I really don't know.

Oh--and if your children are in prison, I don't know why and I'll bet you don't either and you have my sympathy.  It is terrifying how children make decisions for themselves, and young parents want Guarantees and Lifetime Warranties.

Well, sorry, ain't gonna happen.  They are people, not L.L.Bean boots.

But anyway, here we are, and these are a few things we did, and you can take this as 8 simple steps, if you want.

1. I chose a good man to be their dad.  And by good, I mean he was steady and responsible and he was faithful to me and he worked hard.  That is the minimum.  He was a lot more of course, but he was never one to say the deep spiritual feely things or do the fun pranks that the cool Focus on the Family dads did, but believe me when I say that steady and unselfish and responsible WINS THE PRIZE.  My children never questioned his love for me or them.  He was and is a solid rock of security in their lives.

2. We read to the children.  Paul read bedtime stories to them for YEARS.  I read a lot to them otherwise, especially before they could read for themselves.  I admit that sometimes I got so sick and tired of their favorite books that I thought I would rake my fingernails down my forehead and scream.  I recall that Big Bird Follows the Signs got quietly dropped behind the couch when I couldn't take it any more.  But hey, it all worked out, and it was great incentive for me to teach them to read.  At a very young age.

3. We were the mom and dad.  The mom and dad are the ones who are in charge and make decisions and pay the bills. They decide when the kids are old enough for their own decisions.  They expect the children to do the right thing.  They don't endlessly bribe and negotiate about going to bed or jumping or not jumping on Grandma's couch or eating marbles.

4.  We made them work.  They washed dishes, packed their own school lunches, folded towels, mowed the yard, and peeled potatoes.  I sometimes (often) felt guilty about how scattered and inefficient I was, and how much I needed their help, when all the cool efficient moms did everything themselves while their lucky daughters played with American Girl dolls in the bedroom.  Well.  In recent years I've started hearing comments about how my kids, especially the boys, [since people don't expect this from boys] are so capable with housework.  So I saw God's redemptive plan there.  And Matt, who reaps praise for his work ethic in the Navy, credits me with teaching him to come back and say, "What shall I do next?"

5. We let them ask questions.  Oh my word, the discussions they had.  Like I said, I used to think that if they didn't end up in prison, the whole lot of them would be lawyers.  I often let Paul take over the conversation because I found it so intimidating.  And sometimes their friends couldn't BELIEVE we let them openly question church and Biblical and parental doctrine.  But believe me when I say you want to send young people into the world who have thought through what they believe and can defend it.

6. We let them know we loved them.  My family wasn't much for affection [see above about Amish and pride] so I went through my childhood always wondering if I was really loved.  My children never seemed to need as much assurance as I gave them-- "YES, Mom, I KNOW."  But at least I knew they knew and it made me feel good.

Amy always had an unusual way of looking at the world.

7. We let them figure out their own entertainment.  And we found that if you make children work, their minds will be humming the whole time about what they want to do when these chores are done.  And as soon as they're done, WHOOSH, off they go to build a rope swing into the weeping willow or catch tadpoles in the ditch or set up a Little People village.  We didn't have play dates or fun excursions or all these things young moms plan for their kids that I find completely exhausting to even think about.

Here Emily and Ben are being divers.  Yes. Divers. This phase lasted surprisingly long.

8. I stressed out about things like belittling each other and kicking the dog and getting pneumonia and too much anger.  There is a very long list of things we did not stress out about.  It was ok for them to be at home a lot and have a kind of boring life and be a little bit weird and to wear mismatched clothes and to be slow to walk or read or go potty. Does this sound like we didn't stress out much?  I stressed out about dumb random stuff like the phase where Amy compared me to all her friends' moms--as I recall I was supposed to wear corsage pins in my head covering like Aunt Bonnie did and be organized like Rita.  Paul never stressed about anything.

And there you have it.

Actually, I could think of at least that many things you absolutely should not do, ever, and I still wilt with regret at the thought of some of them.  Dear me.  We should have asked for help.  We had a lot of issues.

And yet, there they are, six young adults, loving and clever and successful, all of them, and they talk to me and indulge my foolish whims and we laugh a lot and God's mercy just overwhelms me.

It's going to be ok, you young parents.  Just chill, ok? And love them.  You have what it takes, and so do they.  If you worry about anything, worry about the fact that just as you are becoming shockingly like your mom already and this will reach alarming levels after age 40, your children are most likely going to turn 40 and be JUST LIKE YOU!!

Quote of the Day:
Me: I need ideas for my column.  I want to write about praying for Sophie's cat but I don't know where to go with it.
Emily: Well, "Animals are people too," might go over well.

P.S. On Conscience and Respect

Just a few more thoughts--

While the "cake for a gay wedding" example is the #1 example that comes up (usually immediately, and with strong feelings), in the conscience/service question, I avoided addressing it specifically because I think this issue is bound to bite all of us in a lot of ways we haven't begun to think of.

I wanted us to think a little more creatively.  None of us want our state or nation to make laws based on a single narrative.

Also, Christian people differ widely in how they'd handle the cake situation, from "don't make a cake" to "make it and bless them" to "make it for free so I'm not profiting financially" to "make two cakes like going the 2nd mile."

But a lot of the frustration that religious people feel is directed at the cake question because it's such a graphic example of what could happen to any of us: a situation where we have two options--go against our principles or lose our business.

And we think surely, surely, we as a society could come up with other solutions.

Also--and somehow religious people of every sort just GET this and so many non-religious people do not--we can't just instantly change what we believe and solve everything that way.  Like this: "Oh DUH, your Facebook comment is so convincing--of COURSE discriminating of any kind is worse than supplying a brewery! How could I be so stupid?"

On the surface, as someone pointed out to me--discrimination is discrimination.  We discriminated against Rogue Ale.  We need to take the consequences if it happens again.

True enough.

So the only thing that will save us from another barley-processing situation is GRACE, the kind of grace that Rogue demonstrated, the grace that comes if the person ordering the barley (or the cake) chooses to be kind and understanding and accommodating instead of insistent and confrontational.

You can't legislate grace.  It has to be given voluntarily.

And as a religious business owner, you can't demand it, either.  You can only appeal and hope.

You can't legislate that attitude, either.

And how do you legislate, "You can turn a customer away for religious reasons but only if it's a true conviction in your heart and you're not just being nasty."?

Because the fear is that anyone can be turned away, for any reason, and we're back to white-only lunch counters.

So while it would be nice to have a legal safeguard for a business like ours, the thing we really need is a social movement where people are willing to understand, give, sacrifice, respect, and cooperate.

And where wishes and impulses and feelings and convenience are mature enough to give grace and respect and honor to deep religious conviction and tradition.

Or, in short, where religious beliefs are allowed to trump hurt feelings, and we can all tell the difference.

Like I said, you can't legislate that.

While a law to protect us would be really nice, what we can do now is begin in our own hearts and in our own churches, to respect those of a different opinion, and to refrain from eating meat if it damages the non-meat-eating brother's conscience.

MOP Day 4--On Laws, Conscience, and Respect

Normally, I don’t touch politics or controversial subjects.

However, a current debate kind of affects our lives.

So between the Hobby Lobby case in the Supreme Court, Indiana’s Religious Freedom law, and the case of the bakery in Gresham that went out of business after their refusal to make a cake for a lesbian wedding, a few basic questions emerge.  Particularly: can a business have a conscience?  Can the owner’s conscience affect the work the business accepts or refuses, or the things it supports?  What if there's a conflict between one person's wishes and the other's beliefs?

Which brings us to a certain grass-seed warehouse and Rogue Ale.

Paul bought our warehouse from his dad who had taken over from his dad.  Dozens of  sons and nephews have worked there; countless tons of seed have been cleaned, bagged, and shipped.

Yes, it’s a business.  It’s also a big part of the family’s lifestyle and history.

Some time ago Paul started taking on custom projects.  He became certified to work with organic grains and feed.  He has since cleaned oats, cracked corn for chickens, processed rice bran, and much more.

A few months ago, Paul told me he has a moral dilemma.  Someone had called him from a company called “Rogue,” or something like that, wondering if he could process some barley.  He said yes.  The truckload of barley arrived.

Now Paul, not being an imbibing man, for personal and religious reasons, didn’t recognize the Rogue name for what it was, as many Oregonians including his wife would have, even though she doesn’t imbibe either, and he was disturbed to find out that they make beer, and this was the barley’s intended purpose.

What, he asked me, should he do?  He could not in good conscience supply a company that made alcohol, but he had already told them he would do this load of barley.

I felt that the greater evil would be to not keep his word.  He agreed.  So he explained to the Rogue representative that he hadn’t been aware of their company and he was willing to process this load, but he had religious reasons for not wanting to do more after this.

Things could have turned one of several ways just then.

Rogue Ale would have had every legal right, at this point, to insist that we continue to offer them this service.  They needed to have barley processed. We had the time, the machinery, the proximity, the workers, and the storage capacity.  We had a business that served the public.  

Our only reason for saying no was a religious preference.

They could have threatened, harassed, and made a public outcry.  They could have given us a bad name in the grain-and-feed community.  I’m not sure what the laws are in Oregon, but I suppose they could have pressed charges of discrimination and maybe even have sued and put us out of business.

And really, would you have blamed them for being upset and taking legal action?

We would, I hope, have followed the New Testament teaching to suffer loss rather than retaliate or take legal action in return.

They also could have called us plenty of adjectives such as fanatical, behind-the-times, discriminatory, and narrow-minded.

And again, they would have had good reason to lob a few of those labels at us.

They didn’t do any of that.

Instead, they were unbelievably kind, understanding, and gracious.

They thanked us profusely for helping them out of a pinch with that first truckload, and they assured us that while they would love to continue to work with us, they had no desire to violate our conscience and they would take their barley elsewhere in the future.

They did not try to change our minds.  Or our business, or beliefs, or behavior.      

We deeply appreciated their response, and in return we made no attempt to change their business and its purposes.

I had to wonder if the Rogue folks were raised by the same standards we were, especially that deeply ingrained conviction that you must always go to great lengths to honor people’s religious beliefs, even if it inconveniences you and maybe even costs you time and money, and even if your beliefs differ vastly from theirs.  And even if you think their beliefs are wrong and you’d love to change them.

That’s why I wore a scarf and balto (long black robe) in the Middle East, so I wouldn’t be offensive to Muslims, and why I made sure the Seventh-Day Adventists had meatless options when they came for dinner, and why my Mom wore her Old Order shawl and bonnet to Amish funerals, and why my non-Mennonite sisters-in-law always wore long skirts at Mom and Dad’s house, and why Great-Aunt Ketty used chicken fat and not lard to make pies for the Jewish family in Portland, years ago, and why I’ve refrained from taking what could have been phenomenal pictures of Amish relatives, even though it pained me to let the opportunities pass, and why I am careful to be proper and respectful during Muslim or Catholic prayers and services even though they might make me uncomfortable.

I’ve been on the receiving end of this consideration as well, such as when my employer let me have Sundays off because we believe in keeping it holy, and he also let me wear my head covering even though it didn’t fit very well with the restaurant uniform, and when the P.E. teacher didn’t make me dance with the others. And then there’s the farmer who harvests on Sunday but waits until Monday to bring his seed in, and does not take his seed elsewhere, like he would have every right to.  And the many in the past who were extra careful about movies and TV when our children were over because they didn’t want to be offensive.  And the friends and family who didn’t invite us to their weddings because they knew we don’t believe in remarriage after divorce and thus spared us the awkwardness of not showing up to give our blessing.  We discussed this, actually.  We love and respect each other.  We just don’t agree.  They didn’t have to be as gracious as they were, and I’m grateful.

In all the debates about wedding cakes and insurance coverage and such, I can well understand people’s desire to have their wishes accommodated.  And how it can feel hurtful and discriminatory and annoying if they’re refused.

What I can’t understand is that people would actually put their own wishes ahead of someone else’s practice of a deeply-held religious belief, in something that’s not a life-or-death matter.

But maybe that’s just me being all old-fashioned and Amish.

I also don’t understand the assumption that suing a business and bombarding them with messages that they’re hateful or bigoted or worse will actually make the owners change their minds.  It shows a serious ignorance about what a religious belief is, where it comes from, how it works, and what it takes to change it.

People might cave in out of fear, but that’s not real change.  If they change their minds because of economic loss or public backlash, then it wasn’t an actual religious belief to start with.

If Rogue Ale had really wanted us to change our views on alcohol, they couldn’t have chosen a better method than their kindness and graciousness.

And even if we never change our views, we will always think of them gratefully when we pass their big building on the way to the Marine Science Center in Newport.

They could have made things really hard for us.  They chose not to.

Some people are bound to abuse a religious/conscience law, but in the long term, the potential dangers of denying people and businesses freedom of religion/conscience seem to me much greater and more alarming.

The Swishing MOP

The Month of Posting, we decided to call it, after rejecting AWED [April Writing Every Day], BAP [Blog April Posts] and failed attempts at APRON and AWESOME.

Emily, Jenny, and I plan to take turns posting every weekday in April.  Emily will take every other day; Jenny and I will divide the remaining days.

So my first post will be on Monday the 6th.

You can read Jenny's posts at Dreaming of Dragonflies.

And Emily's are at The Girl in the Red Rubber Boots.

Enjoy.

Sunday Thoughts: Clothes, College, Cats, Calling, Church

Once again, some Sunday evening thoughts.

1. I sewed a new dress for the Valentines dinner the church youth group put on.  It was a vintagey cotton print that I bought in Thailand and I thought it looked Valentinesy as well.


After I posted a picture on Facebook, someone asked for particulars on the dress.

So today I posed in it, after Jenny yanked and adjusted.  She also said, "Now pose like a fashion blogger."

"Hmmm.  What would Shelley do?"


So I did this, and you can now set your mind at ease if you feared that I was going into fashion blogging any time soon.

But it was fun.  And the dress was fun to make and wear.

It's a very basic princess-seamed, no-waist dress.  So it looks better with a belt.

Jenny said, "It's cute.  I would actually wear something like that."

I was amazed, as we had a little. . . um. . .fight. . . tempest in a teapot. . . tiff. . . spat?? about that very subject this week.

She is playing volleyball on the school team and is thoroughly dedicated to improving herself, from "running lines" as her coach orders to doing the exercises Steven tells her to do to pinning volleyball pointers on Pinterest.

And she needed new volleyball shoes.  We went through this with Steven too, back in the day, when he "needed" a different pair of athletic shoes for basketball, running, football, practice, the high jump, and a youth group softball game.

But she finally convinced me so, ok, fine, if she'd pay for part of them.  And we found a cute pair on PayLess.com.

Not long after, my old garage-sale tennis shoes were not only flopping at the sole but painfully pinching my second toe.

So I also went to PayLess and looked for a pair of shoes that came in 8-wide and weren't zebra striped or hot pink.

I ordered them.

I showed Jenny what I ordered.

They were exactly like hers.

The horror, People.  The travesty.  The violation of all proper boundaries.

And the complete mystification on my part.

I still don't know if it was because they were no longer unique, or because it was her mom who would have a pair like hers.

The next day, we loved each other again and worked out a solution that involved me exchanging the shoes but her doing the work involved.

And then today she says she'd wear a dress like mine.

There is much I don't understand, but I feel flattered.  A bit fragile as well, but still flattered.

2.  Steven was just accepted into the firefighter program at Chemeketa Community College in Salem.  I think it's a two-year course.  Which means that every one of our kids is in some form of school.

Matt is working toward a Master's in aerospace engineering at the University of Maryland (while still working for the Navy.)

Amy is studying Thai.

Emily is at the U of O [regon not hio or klahoma] studying communications.

Ben is at OSU [Oregon again] studying engineering.

Steven will soon be at Chemeketa.

And Jenny is in high school.

Paul is teaching.

Which leaves me, feeling just a bit left out.

3.  A mean cat showed up this evening and attacked Raven, the black kitty that Steven rescued from the warehouse and who still has "nervous abused child" written all over her face despite the love and food it's gotten since, and the snuggling in the sunshine with the other cats.

The three other cats, who have been doted on since babyhood, and who have security, laziness, entitlement, and languid self-confidence written all over their faces--they were left alone.

Which made us wonder.  You know how human predators pick on the abused and insecure, even long after the abuse is past?  It's infuriating.  Do cats--or maybe all mammals--have that same terrible instinct for picking out an easy victim, and making those who have already suffered too much suffer still more?

Emily brought Raven inside, because we all need to protect the ones who aren't strong enough to protect themselves.

4.  This morning at 7:00 I talked to Amy on Skype, that magic program that lets you sit in your office in your jammies and see your daughter in Thailand with your own eyes.  Yes, she looks happy, and not too thin, and her bruises from her bike mishap are healing.

And then your mom-soul feels full and satisfied and you thank God fervently.

I've been listening to John Schmidt and his German songs, including the Auswanderlieder, or immigration songs, that people used to sing to the departing family when they left for America, in my best German transliterating--

Nah Freunde, brillet net so sehr
Mir sehne nanner nieme mehr.

"Now friends, don't cry so much.  We won't see each other again."

Which is kind of contradictory if you ask me.

Terrible words, really.  Imagine how poor and miserable you'd have to be to uproot and take off in a gamble for a better life, knowing you'd never see your friends and family again.

Meanwhile, I really like Skype.

5.  I've never understood people who are horrified and distraught when someone leaves their church and goes to a different one.

I mean, yes, you miss people who leave.  And sometimes their life trajectory makes you nervous.

But. Churches have personalities and just as not everyone would want to be married to a bookish introvert or a back-slapping basketball player, not everyone fits in well at one particular congregation.

The important thing is that they find a solid, Jesus-loving church that works for them, and get involved.

That's what I think.

I have heard all about Leaving For All the Wrong Reasons and Going Down the Liberal Road and My Daughter Who Left Because She Didn't Want Anyone Telling Her What to Do.

Certainly there are times to be upset.

But think about it.

I remember attending a church where it was pretty much a sin to leave.  It was almost like escaping a cult, where if you didn't want to be brought before the elders and reduced to shame and tears, you had to sneak off in the night, just about.

Why would anyone stay there for any reason besides fear, which is a terrible basis for church membership?

I think if people know they are free to leave, they will feel more free to stay.

Quote of the Day on 3/14/15
Emily: So I've just had this conundrum all day.  Is Pi Day really at 9:26, since it's Daylight Savings Time?  I mean, should it be 8:26 or something since we're on fake time?
Ben: It's not a celestial event!  It's entirely man-made!

March LFH--Texts, Stories, Twists in the Plot

LETTER FROM HARRISBURG

Rest of the story happens to those who turn the page

By Dorcas Smucker

For The Register-Guard

MARCH 8, 2015

Three weeks ago I met the maintenance man. He assured me he wasn’t pregnant.

We “Smucker ladies,” a group of five sisters and in-laws, get together for coffee once a month. At our January meeting, my husband’s sister Lois divulged that her daughter Lisa, married last year, hadn’t been to the doctor yet but she thinks she’s pregnant.

Of course we all clucked like happy hens at this news.

A few days later I decided to text Lisa with my good wishes. I flipped open my phone, scrolled down my list of contacts to “Lisa,” and sent this message:

“Is it OK if I know your amazing news?!?! Congratulations!”

My phone automatically signs my name after all messages.

She soon wrote back: “Huh?”

Oh Lisa, stop acting so innocent, I thought, and tapped a reply:

“Huh indeed. Surely you are pregnant and it wasn’t a false alarm.”

A pause followed in which I suddenly recalled that Lisa had moved to Michigan when she got married, and maybe she had — oh dear, please, no — changed her phone number.

I hastily contacted another niece. “Did Lisa change her number?”

“Yes.”

Horrified, I texted the unfortunate unknown.

“Oh my word. I think my niece changed her number. Forget everything I said.”

The person wrote back: “No problem.”

I realize now that this moment was where the story tilted, the setting expanded, and the window opened to further possibilities. I could have closed the book then, and it would have remained a slightly embarrassing episode that I related, at most, to my family after school.

Instead, I turned the page and let the story keep happening, sharing the text conversation on my Facebook page where hundreds of people would read it and, I hoped, chuckle quietly and give themselves grace for their own mistakes.

A woman named Elizabeth had contacted me via Facebook regarding an upcoming talk at Garden Way Retirement Community. A few hours after I posted about the texts, another message from Elizabeth popped up. She wondered if I had filled out the W-9 form.

Yes, I had, I told her, and then I went to finish the dishes.

Soon a little squeak from the computer indicated another message from Elizabeth. “Can you call me right now?”

I phoned immediately. What in the world?

Elizabeth said, “I had the weirdest thing happen just now.”

She had just finished her Facebook conversation with me, then decided to read my page and see what was happening in my life. She read the post about the mis-sent message and started laughing.

The activities director across the hall wondered what was so funny.

Elizabeth related, “So I’m laughing hysterically and hollering to the activities director and reading your post out loud. And then the maintenance man walks in and says, ‘Did you say Dorcas? I got the strangest text from a Dorcas yesterday, wondering if I was pregnant.’”

The universe tilted sideways, goose bumps bristled up my arms, and my mouth tried to say something but couldn’t.

It was impossible, that’s all I could comprehend. And yet it had happened.

“Unreal!” we both said. “How in the world?” Then, laughing, I asked what sort of person this maintenance man was.

“Oh, he’s in his 40s,” Elizabeth said. “An active sort of guy.”

She added, “I’ll be sure to introduce you when you come next month.”

She kept her word. Brian the maintenance man was gracious and good-humored. No, he was not pregnant, and yes, he had recently changed his phone number. He wanted to know the niece’s name, in case he gets more messages for her.

We took a photo — me, Elizabeth, Brian and Brenda the young activities director who had wondered what was so funny.

“These things just happen to you,” a friend told me later, implying that I operate on a different plane of possibility than the rest of the world.

“Stories happen to those who tell them,” my mentor, Jessica Maxwell, used to say, as though the crazy collisions of time and events seek out and select only those willing to interpret them afterwards.

“What are the chances?” I asked my engineer son, wondering if one can quantify the impossible.

He calculated the population density of Eugene and assumed that a maximum of 22 feet was required for being “within earshot of another individual.”

After two more paragraphs of calculations, he said, “So there’s a 1-in-40 chance at any given time that there’s a non-family member within earshot, and there’s a 1-in-200,000 chance that it’s one specific non-family-member, which gives us a roughly 1-in-8 million chance of that happening.”

Amazing. But Matt cannot tolerate much of the magical before he lapses back into logic:

Not likely, but considering that there are 7 billion people on this planet, you would expect to see 1,000-ish coincidences such as this every day.”

No engineer can quantify vulnerability, I decided, or the infinite difference between being open to the unexpected vs. being locked in fear of events that you didn’t choose ahead of time.

How many happy endings would never have been written if we all insisted on the explainable and manageable, how much success avoided, how many romances never sprouted?

Such as, for instance, the case of the couple who met at Walmart.

I first heard of them two years ago, at a family dinner, from my husband’s aunts, who introduce stories by yanking one sentence from the end and a few from the middle.

“Yes! They met at Walmart! He prayed before he went. It never occurred to me to pray before I go to Walmart, that I’ll meet someone, but I guess I should!”

Eventually, we pieced the story together, between two emphatic aunts injecting random bits of information.

She turned out to be Sara June, my husband’s Uncle James’ children’s aunt who had been widowed for a number of years. She was going on a normal shopping trip.

He was a good man from proper Mennonite stock, but she had no way of knowing that when she kept running into him at Walmart that day, or that his wife had died a year before, or that before he left the house that day he prayed he’d meet someone.

They kept meeting up in one aisle after another, and finally at about the third meeting she said, “Do I know you?” and they started talking.

Eventually, they were engaged to be married.

I loved this story and wrote about it on my blog.

In another odd twist, I met this same couple at the Kansas City airport just recently. She showed up in front of me at Gate 45 as I waited for my flight to Portland.

“I’m Sara June,” she said. “I think you wrote about us one time.”

She introduced me to her husband, who told me about that meeting at Walmart, how beautiful she looked that day and how God must have meant it to be. He still looked surprised.

You can’t plan serendipity, that mysterious wind that the dictionary defines as good fortune, luck, and an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident. But you can choose to leave the safety of carefully chosen circumstances and take the risk, open the windows, turn the page, and step around the corner to that slightly curving universe where the hilarious and impossible are waiting for you to appear.

Sisters and Aunts

I feel sorry for any woman who doesn't have sisters and aunts.

My last post was on February 12, I see.  Usually, there's an inverse relationship between the level of activity in my life and the number of blog posts happening--more of one means less of the other, you know.

A month ago Paul and I went to the BMA Ministers' Weekend in Virginia, conveniently close to my sister Rebecca's, then Rebecca and I drove to Pennsylvania for two days with our younger sister Margaret.

The last two times we were together were Mom's funeral and Dad's sale, both times of unbelievable stress, hard work, and cooking for 20 people.  Of course, we had our moments of collapse-at-the-knees laughter in the middle of all that.  But most of it was the sort of stress that makes you shudder at the memories.

But this time we had two days together, and we could just have fun.  So we did.  We shopped at Amish stores.  We got massages.  We talked deep, we talked shallow, we laughed, we remembered.

Did I mention that we laughed?  Here's me, Margaret in Grandma's old bonnet, and Rebecca showing us what we look like on her camera.

Sisters just GET you.  They understand asthma, husbands, sons with Those Yoder Genes, and obsessions--with fabric, with bargains, with needing to talk about those awful times one more time.  They were there and they know what you went through.  They know how much it hurt to have babies and they never never say horrible things like, "Well, it wasn't PAINFUL for me exactly, more like a lot of pressure," like other women do.  Sisters eat cookie dough straight from the bowl and they like purple and warm sweaters and they don't look at you with a blank look when you pull an obscure quote from The Biggest Bear.

This past weekend I spoke at a ladies' retreat in Illinois, then we [Paul and I] drove to Iowa and spent two days with my aunt Vina, Mom's only sister, who was ten years younger than Mom but probably her closest friend and confidante.

I wanted to know what they were really like as sisters.  Not only as a mom and aunt sharing secrets in low tones as they peeled potatoes together, but sisters, and why Mom told Vina things she never told anyone else in the world, and how they could be so alike and yet so different.

The long talks filled a thirsty part of my soul, it was like a little taste of Mom again, articulate and observant and so very funny, but yet not Mom of course, but an aunt who was just as wise and interested in me and honest as an aunt ought to be.

Aunt Vina and me

Of course most of the stories are not for the world to hear.  I write this on the plane, flying home, and I am itching to pick up the phone and call my sisters and tell them everything, in every detail, giggling like silly town girls* or wiping tears, because that is what you do with sisters.

I am so blessed.

*my dad's worst-ever label for us, a reference that sisters will Just Get

A Printable for Moms, for Those Times

Last weekend at the ladies' retreat I told the others that despite having mostly-adult children I feel like there are more demands on my time than ever.

But, I said, I really want to be there to listen when my kids need to talk, especially the ones in college, since college can make you question everything you ever knew.

However.

I am working on a number of projects, including three talks at a ladies' retreat later this month.  So I was going a bit crazy with all the interruptions.

Paul thought I needed a few more boundaries, such as two hours every morning to work without everyone freely asking me questions or coming by to tell me their latest feelings.

What a thought: working without interruptions.

So.  I made this and taped it to the office door.

Several moms asked for copies when I posted a picture on Facebook.

I thought: why not share it with the world?

You can download and print a copy for yourself by clicking here:

PRINTABLE FLOW CHART

We note that:1. I figured out how to link a document to a blog post, all by myself.
2. Lest someone uses this every day to get away from toddlers and gets reported to Children's Services, because the kids turned on the electric teakettle and burned themselves trying to make hot chocolate, and blames me, this is for those of you with older kids whom you have taught to survive responsibly on their own for an hour or two.

All right then.  Enjoy.

Meeting the Maintenance Man

Remember the text that went astray and then was found in the most bizarre coincidence?

If not, go read about it here.

Yesterday I got to meet the parties involved in this tale--except for Lisa, unfortunately, who was supposed to get the original text.  I gave a talk at the Garden Way Retirement Center, a beautiful establishment over on Garden Way Street in Eugene, and Elizabeth Witt the organizer person assembled us for a picture.

Me, Elizabeth, Brian the unfortunate maintenance man, and Brenda the young activities director.

Brian was so gracious about that strange text.

And he is certainly not pregnant.

I spoke to about 30 residents and they had lots of interesting questions afterwards.  And one good. . .

. . . Quote of the Day:
"I read the very first article of yours that was in the Register-Guard.  And I remember I saw your name--Dorcas??  Smucker??-- and I thought, 'Did someone at the Guard accidentally have his fingers on the wrong row of keys?"
--a nice gentleman

Letter from Harrisburg/ The Minister's Wife

LETTER FROM HARRISBURG
Our adult roles can feel like uncomfortable masks
 

By Dorcas Smucker
For The Register-Guard
FEB. 8, 2015


“Are you looking forward to the conference?” my sister asked.

“I guess so,” I said. “Except that nobody intimidates me like a Mennonite minister’s wife.”


“But!” she sputtered, “You’re a Mennonite minister’s wife!”

“Not really,” I said, and then whispered, “I’m actually just pretending.”

She looked confused.

Maybe this happens to everyone when they grow up and take on a title or maybe only to those short on confidence. The adults of our childhood knew what they were doing. Their roles defined their identity — this is who they were. Officer, Teacher, Doctor, Missionary, Principal, Mayor, Librarian. They were reliable people, large, a bit distant, just a little scary. We saw them working and in uniform, never in tears or brushing their teeth or eating marshmallow crème straight from the jar with a butter knife.

Then we find ourselves suddenly adults, taking on similar titles, and we compare our shortcomings with the people in the past who carried these roles with such confidence, such unquestioned competence. We compare ourselves with our peers, stepping into adulthood and authority like they know what they’re doing.

Especially when the role is not something we chose and planned for, we can spend years getting accustomed to it, feeling like we’re only pretending and reaching an uneasy peace.

As Margaret Atwood said, “I believe that everyone else my age is an adult whereas I am merely in disguise.”

When we were young and “Beachy Amish,” which was like Old Order, only with cars and zippers, a minister’s wife was someone who sat behind you in church and stretched the high notes of “We’ll Work Till Jesus Comes” with earnest determination. She cooked Sunday dinners for guests, tied her white cap-strings without complaining and was unfailingly good. Friendly, plain, proper. A minister’s wife, unlike a teenager in the front rows, had no need to squirm when the church rules were reviewed at members’ meetings.

Your mom and your aunts could be silly in private. They could have faults — a temper, a grudge, a messy kitchen, a weakness for ice cream.


Minister’s wives had no such flaws. In my experience, they had few emotions and no sins.

One summer day when I was about 16, after we had been snapping green beans for hours, our conversation descended into the bizarre silliness that only comes when you snap beans or husk corn with siblings for a long time on a hot day. We imagined ourselves in the future and tossed out crazy what-if’s. “Wouldn’t it be funny if Dorcas ended up being a minister’s wife?” my sister said. Everyone else nearly dumped the green beans off their laps, they laughed so hard. Such an absurd idea.

I laughed, but not much, because I had a cold feeling of dread.

Amish and conservative Mennonite churches choose ordinary laymen from within a congregation to serve as ministers. Eleven years after we were married, my husband, Paul, was ordained to the ministry.

I knew he was right for his job. I knew I was entirely wrong for mine.

Paul insisted that he wasn’t putting expectations on me, and neither was anyone else. I could keep doing what I had always done. So what if I didn’t like to cook and couldn’t sing, much less host a crowd for Sunday dinner and hit the high notes of “We’ll Work Till Jesus Comes.” I would be fine.

So I tried to fill a role with varying expectations and no formal job description.

My children had their own ideas of what a pastor’s wife ought to be. At a garage sale one summer, I found a small bright pink tin just the right size for holding the business cards I had just purchased. My youngest daughter, Jenny, saw the picture of Teenage Barbie on the lid and shrieked, “MOM! The minister’s wife?”

I kept the tin, stubbornly, and used it.

Some time later, Jenny found the little black manual Paul was given at his ordination. She leafed through it and found the section in the back entitled, “The Minister’s Wife.” Then she found me and read choice passages aloud, laughing harder and louder until she was staggering around the office, howling, barely able to breathe or stand up.

“The faithful wife is clothed with meekness and quietness. ... Her life will enhance his acceptability and usefulness. ... Her house is in such order so as to enable the family to accommodate visitors and guests at any time.”

“Oh Mom, this is so not you! Ha ha ha ha haaaah!”

Paul, as I recall, asked her what was so funny. She read him a few sentences. He didn’t get it. “What, you don’t think your mom is an example for other women?”

I just sighed.

Last week, 20 years after Paul’s ordination, I stood in my sister’s kitchen in Virginia all dressed up, with a proper black purse in hand, ready to go to the pastors’ conference a mile down the road.

The next day, I attended a tea with a hundred other Mennonite ministers’ wives, most of them strangers to me; all of them looking calm and capable.

The woman to my right told me about grieving an adult daughter lost five years ago, and the one across the table told us how her Amish grandma had inspired her. Gradually, we got to know each other more; we found things in common; we laughed. I relaxed.

I thought of a woman named Marilyn, who was my landlady long ago. She listened to me late at night, over and over. She had a few faults, such as needing to clean out her refrigerator more often and losing patience with stubborn people. Sometimes she passed me funny notes in church. She had the radical idea that if you were loved and forgiven by God, you had nothing to hide.

Mostly, she loved and mentored me until her untimely death.

Marilyn was also a minister’s wife, although I seldom remember her in that way, because more than anything else I think of her as a friend.

I want to be like her.

Whatever our fears may be about the adult responsibility we carry, we cannot go wrong with honesty and love, with flaws and laughter, with genuine joy or sadness. We wish we could distribute perfect solutions at arm’s length, but what people really need is for us to walk beside them until they figure life out.

We will make a difference not with distant perfection but with authenticity. “Just so you know, I’m not sure how to do this either. Let’s find some answers together, let’s laugh at ourselves, and if we’re going to pretend, then let’s pretend together.”