Better to Receive

I'm writing from my in-laws' house, in northern New York, the entire region of which is currently in the midst of an ice storm of epic proportions. My husband and his family are all having flashbacks to the TRULY epic ice storm of '98, when they lost power for nine days. 

So this Christmas could be a little different. We'll see what happens.

Whatever the case, we're warm and well-fed, and the lights are (at least for now) twinkling on the tree. In a few days, we'll celebrate Christmas with a big breakfast, a reading from Luke chapter 2, and a whole bunch of gifts. Marc and I celebrated a small family Christmas last weekend, and exchanged our gifts then. This was the first gift-giving occasion in which Greta has understood what was going on, and that made it all the more fun; for Marc and me, the best gift was seeing her guileless, unadulterated joy at opening her presents: a new set of blocks, a few books, and her first board game. Upon opening each gift, she exclaimed with sincere delight ("Look! ANOTHER book!") -- she's too young to fake excitement or gratitude, so it was that much sweeter to see her so happy.

Little children have no sense of giving gifts to other people. They feel no obligation to give anything. They have not thought of "exchanging" gifts; gifts are for them to open and enjoy. For the youngest children, receiving means getting something wonderful, something unexpected, and with no sense of needing to reciprocate.

Of course, one of our parental duties is to teach our daughter that it is better to give than to receive. We don't want her to be greedy or self-centered, and we also want her to grow to love giving, even when it's uncoupled from receiving -- giving, we hope, will become its own reward for Greta, as well as a social obligation and (more importantly) a spiritual discipline. We desire for her to grow up to be generous and creative in her giving, as we strive to be with each other and with friends and family. 

Christmas is, for most of us, the season of giving and receiving. When we ask each other, "Are you ready for Christmas?" we usually mean, "Are you done with your shopping?" (I even caught myself doing this a few times, to my alarm and chagrin.) If advertising on Hulu Plus can be used as a barometer for cultural expectations surrounding Christmas, we are very concerned with giving gifts that make us appear thoughtful, generous, competent, and perhaps also wealthy: a commercial for TJ Maxx assures us that, with their merchandise, we can "out-give" everyone. Another, from Walgreens, comforts us with the thought that we can stock up on their products so as never to be caught in the awkward situation of receiving a gift from someone for whom we hadn't bought anything. Obviously we have some real insecurities around this time of year, and the importance of reciprocity in giving is such that it's better to strike preemptively with purchases of items that are fashionable and expensive (or that look that way), and that are suitable for almost anyone.

Giving is a beautiful act, especially when it's done out of affection for the one receiving the gift. My friend, Connie, introduced me to the idea that giving is a way we bear the image of God, who is called the giver of every good and perfect gift. My husband's gifts to me this Christmas demonstrated this kind of attentive love because his gifts showed how well he understands me. More than just the beauty and utility of the items themselves, the thought and insight behind the gifts are what make them so special to me. But now giving at Christmas has become a stressful, competitive act; we look to use gifts as a way to exercise a kind of social power, by being ever ready with a fabulous gift -- never caught unprepared, never put in the uncomfortable position of being unable to return a gift or giving something of inadequate value.

A few weeks ago, a book club I'm in discussed what it meant to have a childlike faith. I think that it's this: it's to be so needy that it doesn't feel like a liability or a fault to be needy, but simply a fact of your life. It is to be innocent of any thought of reciprocity with one's caregivers. It is to be eager to receive, joyful to receive -- and never panicking that you have nothing to give in return, because that's not what you do. You just open your hands and take what's offered. 

Advent is the needy season: the season of the year when the church celebrates a gift of divine love that can never be returned in equal measure. It is so absolutely beyond our ability to reciprocate that we don't feel guilty about the gift or beholden to the giver to respond in equal measure, but simply in awe of the boundless love that comes to dwell in the midst of our need, and usher in the upside-down kingdom, where the needy inherit and the mourners find comfort and the hungry are filled.

Greta is so helpless and so not in control of her circumstances. She is grateful for whatever good thing is given to her, and doesn't perceive herself as missing out on other good things -- she lives, as all toddlers do, totally in the present. She doesn't grieve over imagined futures not realized, desired gifts not received. She simply accepts, joyfully, that whatever is wrapped up and given to her is hers, and that is enough.

So let it be for me, this Christmas. May I be as blessedly needy, as open to whatever is being given, as a little child. And so may I receive, more fully, the Gift.

To Own a Cow

About once a week I think to myself: I wish we had a cow.

Now, hear me out, because this isn't some random bovine obsession (even if I do think cows have big, pretty eyes – everyone thinks that, right?). I wish we had a cow because (1) cows are the source of nearly all the dairy we eat – which is a lot, since we not only love all things dairy, but also use dairy as a major source of protein in our low-meat diet. So a cow could potentially save us a lot of money. And (2) it's difficult for us to assess whether the cows we are benefiting from are being treated humanely – that is, grazing on pastures, eating hay and root vegetables in the winter, and generally being permitted to express their cow-ness. As Christians, we believe it's part of our responsibility to God and our neighbors to take care of the earth and everything on it, insofar as we're able. We don't do it perfectly, but we try, and we're constantly in conversation with those around us about how to live simply, generously, and carefully.

The third reason I want a cow is because of what that would mean about the rest of my life. And so the third reason is a little more complicated, and also a bit mixed – it's both a reason for a cow, and a reason against a cow. Let me explain.

If we have a cow, that means we have land for the cow to graze. Also a barn. If we've gotten to the point of bovine ownership, we probably already have a flock of chickens, a few pigs, maybe some ducks and turkeys. Plus all the space and shelter that these animals require.

Now we're talking about a small farm. If we have a small farm, we have a house and a big garden – fields and pastures, a pond for the ducks, and if we're in the northeast, a sugar bush, of course.

If we have a small farm, it means we are settled. Land and livestock aren't the kind of things that renters usually acquire, or people who think they might move in six months. A cow means that we have picked a place to put down roots and live for as long as we can imagine.

This is a wild idea. For the past five years, I have rented apartments and now a house with my husband (and half of that time we've shared those spaces with our daughter). We haven't always been sure how long we'd be in whatever jobs we've had, but we've always been sure that they weren't “forever jobs,” or “lifelong careers.” We've lived with some degree of uncertainty about the future – where we'd live, who would pay us to do something – for our entire marriage, and that's normal for the twenty-somethings that we are.

That uncertainty has ebbed and flowed. But I tell you what: when the degree of uncertainty gets beyond a certain point, it starts to wear me out. I start thinking, “Alright. Let's just settle with whatever we have for the sake of getting to unpack the boxes once and for all.” Of course, we've never been in a place where we could realistically do that. Whether because of jobs or money, or because we're just not sure yet what it is we're looking for: we can't settle down yet. We can't put down roots, literally or figuratively – we haven't had a garden for lack of garden-able space, but also because we haven't always been sure that we would be around at harvest time.

The desire to find a spot to call home is powerful, and never more so than when we feel hemmed in by circumstances like employment and money. My husband and I both spent our entire remembered childhoods in the homes that our parents still live in, and we yearn to bless our daughter with that stability. We long for perennial gardens, projects around a house that we know we'll get to appreciate for years to come, and the knowledge that we are taking some little corner of creation and doing something fruitful, beautiful, and beneficial with it.

So that's what a cow means to me: it means rootedness, stability, and homecoming.

But you may recall that I said that this third reason for wanting a cow was also a reason for not wanting a cow. The flipside of the aforementioned rootedness and stability is the feeling of being trapped, stuck, committed to a place whether I like it or not. Livestock don't care for themselves. Farms are not conducive to weekend getaways or spur-of-the-moment trips. They do not allow for sleeping in or lazing around because you don't feel like it, whatever “it” may be. When I heap these reasons against my hypothetical cow (especially when I'm mulling this over while sipping the coffee my husband as brought to me while I'm still in bed), my whole vision of the farm starts to look absurd, unlikely, and undesirable. Who wants to be stuck doing the same job over and over, day in and day out, with zero chance of spontaneity?

Then I hear my daughter wake up. I remember that I've already chosen, to some degree, a life of doing the same job over and over, day in and day out, with little room for spur-of-the-moment trips (or at least not ones that might interfere with nap time). I grumble about it at times, sure, but for the most part I genuinely enjoy being a stay-at-home mom. I think part of this is because I have a pretty easy-going kid, but I also think it's because I like the rhythm of life with a child – eating, playing, resting, repeating. There's structure and purpose in my day, and I need that.

I know I need structure because halfway through our first year of marriage, we moved for my husband's job and I wasn't employed for a while. I did a little work here and there, but I spent a lot of time doing... well, I'm not even sure now. I know I read a lot. I think I went for walks. I baked some loaves of bread. Looking back on that year now, as the parent of a toddler, I feel like I should have become fluent in Mandarin while knitting sweaters for my entire extended family. I had all this time on my hands! What the heck was I doing?

This gets to the heart of it. In a lot of ways, I'm far more productive now as a parent of a young child than I ever was before. This is partly because I have to use time efficiently if I want to get anything done. Case in point: if I want to write something, I have to use Greta's nap time because it's the only time of day when I am both alone and clear-headed. Another part of the productivity, however, is that Greta's routine of breakfast-play-lunch-nap-snack-play-dinner-bed is now my routine, too. We eat, play, and do chores together. (Well, sometimes one of us does chores while the other plays.) I rest when she rests. This outline for each day makes it easier for me to think about when something is going to happen, and much more deliberate about seeing it through than I ever had to be before a child was in the equation. I am far more disciplined and productive as a parent than I was when I just had myself to worry about.

All this to say, I do well with a routine, and I also have a hard time setting up a routine for myself. Becoming a parent imposed a routine on my life, and not necessarily one that I'm a huge fan of all the time. Many, many things about being the parent of a young child make life more complicated and difficult – finding babysitters, for example, can really cramp our style when we want to be spontaneous. But the extra step of planning makes the time away even sweeter, because it gives us time to anticipate the break in routine.

Alright, so what I'm saying here sounds a lot like “having a baby is practice for buying a cow.” I've never owned a cow, so I can't say for sure, but I think there's some truth to it. Having a toddler limits our choices moment-to-moment, and so would a cow. Any living thing that requires your regular attention is going to limit your options. But having fewer choices isn't such a bad thing, and a little less freedom might correspond with a lot more happiness.

I can say this with an expert opinion to back me up, because the other day I came across a story on NPR about this very idea. Barry Schwartz, a psychologist at Swarthmore University, explains that, logically, greater choice should mean greater freedom which should in turn mean greater happiness. But psychologically, greater choice means paralysis and anxiety about whether we've made the right choice or missed something better, and that means greater unhappiness. We do well when we have some choices, but at a certain point, the liability of too many choices outweighs the benefit of more “freedom” to choose.

A friend of mine bought an old farmhouse with her husband. They're raising their son on beets from their garden and eggs from their backyard hens. A family in our church has put their yard to good use, or “dug in” as I've heard them put it, by planting nut and fruit trees, installing raised beds, and also rearing a flock of chickens. (Actually, we know at least five families within a 10-minute drive who have chickens in their backyards. And these are families who we would consider to be living “in town.” Hello, rural.)

These friends of ours are perhaps not counting on living out their days in their current homes, but they are doing things that only make sense if you take the long view. I mean, who plants their own filbert trees anymore? Who builds a chicken coop if they might up and move in a few months' time? They have committed themselves to homemaking in the older, agrarian sense. They are putting their property, energy, and minds to the task of bringing forth something worthwhile: food, yes, but also instruction for their children (and friends, like me) about what it means to eat and to work—and also what it means to extend hospitality, cultivate beauty, and care for the land and its inhabitants.

These are also friends who do a good deal of traveling, which suggests that it's pretty easy to babysit chickens, and also that rootedness does not mean you are forever-and-always stuck in one place.

So, to buy a cow, or not to buy a cow? It's a purely symbolic question at the moment, but it's one that's coming to symbolize a goal in my life: I'd like to get to a place, both in terms of geography and career and finances, where we can realistically think about purchasing a cow. This place would require a community of family and friends so close they count as family. It would be a place we enjoy year-round (a serious problem I have with our current location, which is dreadfully bleak in the winter). It would also be an emotional place we've arrived at, by which I mean, we will need to be at a place in our careers and our life as a family where we can think about settling down for the long haul.

In the meantime, I will try to find solace in the routine, rather than resent it. I will choose to see the rhythm of my life not as oppressive and suffocating, but as something that enriches it and fills it with possibility. And we'll keep an eye out for the paths that lead toward a home, maybe even a home with a cow.

Better Late Than Never

So the last time I posted was quite some time ago, wasn't it? I started this blog to serve two purposes: first, as a place to collect and organize my writing from the year; and second, as a way to share what I was writing with others, for the sake of overcoming my perfectionist tendencies (that is, to get a piece to the point of Good Enough and then let anyone read it), and also with the idea that I might get feedback. (Which I have, and for which I am awfully grateful.)

I also thought that if I was blogging, it would prod me to write with more regularity (or rather, any regularity at all). I am occasionally called upon to share a reflection in church or to help plan a service, and I have noticed that the looming threat of public embarrassment really lights a fire under me; I hoped that the blog might have a similar effect. Alas, it did not. Instead, I went for weeks and weeks without posting anything (though, happily, these were not weeks and weeks of no writing whatsoever). At first, I was a little ashamed. Now I was just another one of those bloggers who posted a handful of times and then quit. Then, I felt guilty, because I was being lazy about writing – and writing was one of just a few things I hoped to focus on this year. Shame and guilt are not, as it turns out, conducive to good writing. I wrote a couple of things in an irritated, anxious, self-righteous voice. I knew they weren't great, or even Good Enough, but instead of working on them to get them to Good Enough, I chose to sulk.

Shame and guilt, I should note, are not terribly conducive to parenting or constructive in marriage, but others have written plenty about that, so suffice to say I took things out on my poor family on more than one occasion. They stuck around, so I'll take that to mean they aren't holding it against me.

Well. Today is the sixth day of Advent. This past week, Marc hung the stockings and arranged the Christmas tree candles on the mantle. We got the holiday cookie cutters out of storage. Greta brought home a little angel from craft time at the library, to hang on our tree once we get one. I found, and then almost immediately misplaced, my book of prayers and readings for Advent. We started listening to the Christmas Carol station on Pandora.

This felt like it should be the year to start a family tradition – particularly because this is the first year that Greta has been capable of looking forward to something more distant in the future than, say, thirty seconds. I wanted some way to engage Greta in the special wakefulness, watchfulness of this season. I had not, of course, thought ahead much, so the season was well underway before I remembered that we needed to be starting said tradition. We had talked about getting an Advent calendar this year, but then we forgot, and I wasn't big on the idea of buying another thing during a season characterized by over-consumption.

I remembered a friend counting down the days to her wedding with a paper chain, and that gave me the idea of doing an Advent-to-Epiphany paper chain. I cut strips of paper, Greta decorated, and then I taped the loops together and draped the chain around the dining room chandelier (hoping fervently that little bits of glitter glue would not fall into our food at mealtimes). Sure, we started late, but the point is we're starting. Tonight at dinner, Greta will (with parental assistance) cut the first loop off the chain, and signify that we are one day closer to celebrating the Nativity and Christmastide.

As I hung the paper chain, I reflected on the fact that we would have to take it down and pack it in a couple of weeks, so that we could keep cutting off the loops at my in-laws' and my parents' homes. I thought about the degree to which I would regret packing an easily crushed, glitter-glue encrusted art project. Then I thought about next year, when the paper chain might spark some memories for a three-year-old. Perhaps a few years after that, she'll be a seven-year-old, taping the loops together by herself. Perhaps I'll see her as a ten-year-old, showing a younger sibling how to decorate the strips of paper and count out the days until Christmas. Perhaps a time will come when she'll remind me that it's time to make a paper chain, and then I'll know it's really a tradition.

Anyway, it's a small thing, but an important one nonetheless. Especially for me, coming as I do from a Christian tradition that doesn't do much with the church year. I grew up in a Protestant denomination that, for reasons relating to its theology and history (in opposition to the Catholic church), doesn't celebrate holidays in church. Every Sunday was to be a day for celebrating Christ's birth and resurrection, so we hardly needed to acknowledge Christmas and Easter. Decorating was minimal, special services for Christmas Eve or Good Friday were nonexistent.

Now, I should say that not celebrating national holidays in church is a blessing, in some cases. I appreciated my home church's position when I attended a friend's church (of another denomination) around Memorial Day. I wasn't sure at some points whether we were worshiping the Trinity or the Constitution.

Still, I felt that my denomination-of-origin had thrown the baby out with the bathwater, and that it simply wasn't the same to celebrate the Incarnation every Sunday. The church I worship with now is a kind of best-of-both-worlds for me: Mennonites, as you might imagine, don't make much of a deal out of national holidays that glorify the military or nation-state. The particular Mennonites I currently worship with, however, embrace the liturgical year and take great joy in finding special ways to mark the seasons of Advent and Lent, in particular.

Our years in the Mennonite church have been full of festive feeling in the weeks leading up to Christmas – we bring out the wreath of five candles and the children take turns lighting them, and we sing through the marvelous Advent section in our hymnal. The paper chain is an effort to bring that joyful expectancy into our life at home – even if it is a little late to be starting.

This blog post is, likewise, an effort to get back into a routine of writing and sharing; my aim is to post something for each week of our paper chain, which, as I mentioned, takes us through to Epiphany (January 6). Here's the first; look for another one next week. It's a little late to be starting, but: better late than never.

A slightly belated, but nonetheless sincere – Happy New (Church) Year to you!