Why Be Normal?

This morning was the first meeting of a book club Laura and I formed for women at our church. We read Radical Womanhood by Carolyn McCulley. Simply put, this book presents a history of the feminist movement contrasted with what the Bible says about being a woman.

I went into the meeting with no real expectations. Laura and I had a planning session yesterday during which we brainstormed some discussion questions we could pull out if the conversation lagged. We had questions about what the next wave of feminism might look like, and about the effects of feminism on men. Because Radical Womanhood is not like most of the books you find in Christian bookstores in the women’s section, I was excited to talk about topics Christian women don’t usually talk about—leadership, raunch culture, the 1800’s.

Ten minutes into our discussion this morning and we were talking about the things Christian women always talk about: marriage, children, staying at home vs. going to work. The book definitely invites women to ask questions about their roles as wives and mothers. So even though the “typical” discussion topics of Christian women were warranted by the book, I felt stifled and disappointed when they became the order of the day.

The conversation finally turned when my dear friend Debbie asked what the single women in the room got from the book. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I believe I shared some of the questions Radical Womanhood stirred in me. Do I enjoy my job because God designed me this way, or do I enjoy my job because I am a product of feminist culture? Am I a confident, single woman because it glorifies God, or because of Gloria Steinem?

The gracious women in the room were all very affirming. They assured me that God made me just the way I am. One woman even told me she could see me being a pioneer woman in the 1800’s, raising my seven kids, running my home. (How I would love to pack my wagon and go back in time!) One woman, who joined our group simply because she was in the meeting room when we arrived, asked me why I believe it is hard to be a single, Christian woman. Not knowing me, she sensed that I was content with who I am, and she didn’t understand why I should be having issues within the church. Many ladies chimed their support, talking about different seasons having different advantages and how being single is great, and blah, blah, blah…

But here’s the rub, people I meet in the evangelical church say it’s great to be single and that God has us where we are for a reason, but church culture says something entirely opposite (stop me if you've heard this one!). If Debbie had not turned the tide of our book discussion, we easily would have devoted the entire meeting to issues pertaining to wives and mothers. If there’s nothing “abnormal” about being single in the church, why do church-lady conversations unfailingly wind up centering on marriages and children?

If you look around the church, most women are married and have children. They talk about what they know and what they have in common. What makes it difficult for the single woman desiring fellowship and community is having absolutely nothing from her own experience to bring to the conversations.

The reality is, being single in the church is not normal. But really, who is normal? Everyone in the church has something that causes them to feel separate--education, finances, fertility, etc. What I am learning is that when I isolate myself because I perceive that I am an outsider, I miss out.

Even though it is easy and comfortable to be surrounded by people like us; the real beauty of the Body is getting to experience life with people who are totally different. These relationships challenge us and propel us to growth while showing us various aspects of God’s character and God’s design.

As I sit here waiting for a friend (an empty-nester) to pick me up on the back of her motorcycle, I have to think these different relationships make things more fun too.

To All the Phones I've Loved Before

To celebrate the recent acquisition of a new cell phone, I would like to look back at the phones I have known and loved.

My first cell phone was a Christmas present in 1996. It lived in my glove compartment and was never turned on. To use its car adapter, I had to pop the battery off the back and replace it with another one that had a cord I could plug into the power outlet of my car (although in 1996, I probably would have called it the cigarette lighter). This phone’s primary purpose was for roadside emergencies. There were mornings, however, when I’d have to call and wake up my student teaching partner/carpool buddy from the parking lot of his fraternity house. As quickly as I could I’d say, “Chris, wake up. I’m going to the caf to get a bagel, I’ll be back in five minutes.” I had to be quick because I was roaming and that call would cost $2.50.

When I came back to Philadelphia and got my first big-girl job, I also got a new phone. It was a huge improvement. No longer did I have a cell phone the size of a brick. My new phone also boasted a little display screen that made caller ID possible. Its other great feature, I could change the banner from “Sprint PCS” to “Joy Lindros.” That phone started a lot of conversations, but alas, it could only get service in digital areas. Once I left the greater Philadelphia area, my little phone would search for service and eventually, give up, and slip off into power save.

Since I was traveling to central Pennsylvania a lot in those days, it was necessary for me to get a dual-band phone that could work in digital areas and roam on analog networks: enter phone #3. My third phone was a beauty. First of all, it was blue! It had a multitude of ring tones that I could assign to different callers. My brother, Take Me Out to the Ballgame. My dad, Ride of the Valkyries. I could even record my own ringtones. By holding the phone next to the speaker of my stereo, I was able to produce my own Margaritaville ringtone! I truly loved this phone. Even though it was held together by packaging tape, this is the phone that made the move to North Carolina with me. But the poor phone was old and tired. Sprint wanted me to buy a new phone, but they offered no free replacements for a phone that was at least 4 years old. So when I bought my house and could not get Sprint service in the living room, I moved on from my old provider and my old phone.

My next phone had a color display. I could choose a background picture (an orangutan hanging from a branch) and receive text messages. This phone could download ringtones. At first, there was the MIDI rendition of Brown Eyed Girl, but as technology came along I was able to add several others. This phone had a hands-free headset, very helpful when I was down the shore after New Jersey passed its no-phone-in-the-car law. After two years, Verizon told me I could have a new phone free of charge and I leapt at the chance to keep up with the latest and greatest.

And so I got a pink razr phone, or as it is more commonly known, The Pink Piece of Crap. One summer day I went walking and tucked my phone under one bra strap and my iPod under the other. My phone completely freaked out. When I took it to the Verizon store, the man told me it had water damage. “Why,” I asked, “is it made of sugar?” His solution was that I pay $50 to replace it. A lengthy debate followed during which I challenged the logic of paying $50 to replace something I hadn’t paid for in the first place and during which he summoned his manager for back-up. I questioned Verizon giving out phones that were so easily damaged that they could be rendered useless in less than three months. He kept going back to the $50 thing and finally I gave my infamous speech, “What if I don’t want this phone again? What if I think it’s a pink piece of crap—because it is a pink piece of crap—and I want to go back to my old phone?” He haughtily replied, “Well, you would need your old phone.” I smoothly placed it on the counter. $20 later, the orangutan was back, but there is still a happy ending for the pink piece of crap. This fall, when the orangutan phone was showing signs of age and it wasn’t time for me to get a new phone yet, I charged up the now-dry pink of piece of crap and went back to it for a few months. In fact, we were so happy together, I didn’t even replace it as soon as my two years were up.

As of this week, though, I have a new phone. It is a lot more phone than I can handle. Turns out, just because your phone can get Facebook on it, doesn’t mean it’s free. I enjoy the convenience of a keyboard for texting, but it is a strange new phone. Hopefully our relationship will grow to be a good one, because writing this has shown me that, as I journey through life, my phones are always along for the ride.

The Good New Days

When I first started attending my church I was part of a large, fun-loving group of single people. One of our favorite things to do was to go out and eat Sundays after church. We’d make restaurants string together a few tables to accommodate 12 of us and then we’d sit for hours solving the mysteries of the universe. I have great memories of these times: the seating politics—trying to sit next to the guy you liked while he tried to sit near the girl he liked, the rants against the church’s unfair treatment of single women, the mad grabs for the freshly-arrived yeast rolls.

Five years later, the fun-loving people from that group are gone. (It reminds of Bryan Adams’ lyric, “Jimmy quit, Susie got married. Should’ve known we’d never get far.”) With the exception of one woman who is in the process of relocating, I am the only person from that group still at the church.

This Sunday, I went to lunch with a different crowd of fun-loving people. The seating politics were totally different—husbands at one end, wives & Joy at the other. No ranting about the church, just stories about yard sales and 25-mile bike rides (holla!). The only thing that remained the same was the mad grab for hot yeast rolls. As I drove away, I was overwhelmed with love and gratitude for these friends, but I also wondered, how did I get here?

Between the good old days of 12 singles in a restaurant and this present, happy time, there were years of intense loneliness and struggle. It does not surprise me that my first circle of North Carolina friends disbanded and moved on—the 20’s are a transitional season for most people. It surprises me that I stayed. The bad years were really that bad. I am thankful they are over. But I am also thankful for what God showed me through those difficult times: I can find community with people who are not like me, I can be alone without being lonely, when I serve others I meet new people.

The lesson I am applying most these days is to hold on to people with an open hand, not a clenched fist. The circle of friends I have now may not always be here, so I savor my moments with them and try to resolve conflict quickly so we can spend more time having fun. If and when these friends move on, I know God will see me through as He has before.

JW Meets the JW's

Saturday morning was cold, rainy and gross. I was leaving the gym when I noticed two guys in suits and ties walking through the parking lot. As I walked to my car, one of them, a teenager of maybe 13 or 14, greeted me and gave me a copy of a magazine. It was my first parking lot encounter with Jehovah’s Witnesses.

While I drove away, I thought about that kid. It had to be hard for him to approach a stranger and engage her in conversation. Like most boys his age, he probably would have rather been in bed at 8:30 on a dreary Saturday than in a parking lot distributing magazines. Yet he was out there, dressed up, confronting his fears of rejection because he believed it was the right thing to do. I started drawing comparisons to the 14 year olds I know, as well as to the 30 year olds in my life.

Sunday was a much nicer day. Early in the afternoon another Jehovah’s Witness came to my house. She rang the bell and waited a couple minutes for someone to come to the door. When Tabitha got there, the lady invited Tabitha to an upcoming celebration. Lots of local churches canvas my neighborhood with invitations for Easter egg hunts or Trunk-or-Treating, but their approach is different. They anonymously stick fliers in our storm doors. What are they so afraid of? What are Christians so afraid of? What am I so afraid of?

People fear rejection. Christians are no exception. We hesitate to share our faith for fear of offending someone or being laughed at. All the while, we bear the Name of One who:
…was despised and rejected by men, 

a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. 

Like one from whom men hide their faces 

he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

I also wonder if Christians are complacent. After all, Scripture teaches us that Christ has secured our victory. We know that we are on the winning team, so maybe we aren’t motivated to play. Paul tells the Corinthian church, “…thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ”, but he doesn’t stop there. In the next sentence he tells the young church, “Therefore, my dear brothers, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.”

Crossing paths with the Jehovah’s Witnesses this weekend was a wake-up call for me, a reminder to always give myself fully to the work of the Lord and not just to the work that is easy or comfortable for me.

Don't Worry Baby

Last week I had the opportunity to take a meal to a family that just brought home a new baby. I really enjoyed planning what to make, preparing the meal and packaging it conveniently. The meal came together perfectly. Since it was St. Patrick’s Day, I even made shamrock-shaped cookies coated with green sugar for dessert. I arrived at the home and things were going great until the proud mama asked me if I’d like to hold the baby.

I responded, a little too quickly, a little too frankly, “No thanks, I am not a baby person.” It’s always best to be honest, I reasoned, and I know many of my friends who have kids don’t mind at all when someone passes on a chance to hold their little ones. But still, how can I defend the statement “I am not a baby person”?

It’s not that I dislike babies. I think I dislike being with babies while their parents watch expectantly. I don’t know if the parents are expecting the baby and I to have this beautiful bonding moment, or if they’re anxious I might drop it. What I know is that it makes me very self-conscious. I’m not familiar with the protocols for rocking, singing, or making noises, so I tend to stand still and speak to the baby as if it were 25 years old. So, you were born. Well done, you. That’s a fine-looking onesie you’re wearing. Meanwhile, the kid’s parents are looking on in awkward fear.

When I told this story, a friend asked me, “So what do you plan to do, adopt two-year-olds?” While I’m game for whatever kind of family God gives me, I do hope to have my own babies at some point. I assume it will be different with my babies. When I talk to them like adults, there won’t be anyone watching. If I want to sing them Billy Joel songs, I can let loose a couple verses of “New York State of Mind” and no one will care.

Perhaps I need a new way of demurring when people ask me to hold their babies. Something like, “Sure, but only if you’re not watching” or, “Before I commit to anything, what are your expectations for holding, rocking and cooing?”

Any parents out there with suggestions?

Teaching Soap-Box 2

Teachers, if you want respect, you have to earn it!

Workshops are not my favorite activities for many reasons. The biggest reason, though, is that I can’t stand to be in a room full of teachers. Teachers are notoriously the worst students. Every behavior that riles us when we are in the front of the room, we do when someone else is teaching. The workshop I attended today was relatively interesting and immediately relevant to my classroom. During the workshop I observed the following behaviors: texting, checking email, talking while the speaker was talking, grading papers, and stapling tests. I admit to talking and texting at points, but I sincerely try to be an enthusiastic participant in workshops simply because I know many others won’t be.

Another thing about teachers that frustrates me is hearing how little they understand of the content they teach. Today the presenter asked us to name our favorite landform. Someone said isthmus and the girl beside me said, “What’s that?” At another workshop the presenter asked us to find an average of results and a teacher in the room was using steps that were completely wrong and was getting loudly impatient with the rest of us who were getting a different answer (the right one). I know a lot of these skills are “use them or lose them” and I don’t judge most adults who have forgotten geography terms or long division. But, when your job is to explain these things to children, you have to know them!

It goes beyond workshops; I’ve heard lots of troubling stories about teachers lately.
• Not grading papers--for an entire quarter
• Showing movies in the middle of the day while they catch up on paperwork
• Swearing within earshot of students
• Having fistfights with other teachers
• Taking off more Fridays than they work

Teachers so often complain about being disrespected by their students, their administrations, or their students’ parents. We get angry when legislators make decisions affecting our time, our pay, or our workload—decisions that seem to minimize the value of our jobs. I’ve been a card-carrying member of the teacher’s union from day one and I am the first to champion teachers’ rights. But, at the risk of losing my NEA membership card, I have to exhort my fellow teachers to step up their games and earn their respect!

Teaching Soap-Box 1

“If I can’t _____________, I can always just teach.” The first time I heard this sentiment expressed I was a college education major and it offended me. Twelve years later, I am a veteran teacher. When I hear someone conclude a thought with, “I can always just teach” I still want to smack them.

As a college student it was offensive to me because it implied I was frittering away four years studying a discipline that other people could “just do.” It minimized my classes, my presentations, my field experiences, my talents.

Now that I have more than a theoretical knowledge of what it is to teach, our society’s attitude toward teaching is even more troubling. It no longer offends me; it frightens me. What other profession lets you start work first, and get trained later? Simply having been a K-12 student does not provide one with the skills required of a teacher any more than the experience of having a cavity filled qualifies one to be a dentist.

In this current economic crisis, my county’s school system has been inundated with applicants. Well-intentioned people, frightened people, looking for job security in troubling times are filling out applications hoping they can “just teach.” My compassion is stirred for these people. Our state has been hit hard by unemployment, but turning to teaching for health benefits, and not for a desire to see children learn, is short-sighted. Similarly, there is a shortage of health care workers in the South, but I don’t think folks have lined up at the hospitals hoping to “just be a nurse.” No state would let people off the street start handling syringes and dispensing medications before they completed training and met licensure standards. As long as people are allowed into classrooms without adequate training and without licenses, our state and local boards of education allow the cheapening of teaching to go on.