My Christmas letter

A Reflection for Friends and Family:

On Christmas day we found ourselves at the International House of Pancakes (IHOP), the four of us sitting at the only available table – in the back next to the bathrooms and emergency exit. The place was packed and I said, “We’re with our people.” Bob and the kiddos thought I was kidding, but I wasn’t. “We’re with the people who are like us -- nowhere to go for Christmas.” Amanda and Aidan kind of laughed but they knew it was true.

Like many of the other patrons, we were there in mussed hair, no makeup, and flannel shirts (mostly speaking for myself), as though we were home and hungry. All four of us played on our phones while waiting for our food. Our waitress started every interaction with “I’m sorry I’m taking so long,” as if it was her fault she was handling a large section of tables all by herself. You got the sense that she really should have been home with her children, instead of working a shift at IHOP. As one with many years of work at understaffed restaurants, I tried not to imagine what was going in the kitchen, fingers dipped in pancake batter, hamburger patties dropped in the floor before placement on bun, deep fryer grease looking like molasses from lack-o-cleaning. (Just last night I had a dream that I was starting back at my former short-order cook job. I was thinking hard in my dream, for any new knowledge that I might have gained to curb the pimples that would emerge on my face as a result of working again with large vats of grease.)

But don’t feel sorry for us.

We intentionally traded-in cooking Christmas dinner for a naps because we stayed up late the night before. Bob had worked well past 1 a.m., and I made the decision to attend all three Christmas Eve services, 5, 8:30, and 11 p.m. (I had the freedom to make that choice because both Amanda and Aidan drive now, plus I have my own car.) Each service different, I wanted to experience it all – the live nativity (see pic below), the children’s flashlight stars, the orchestra, the ensembles, the choirs, the bells, and the hundreds of golden candles flickering under the milky way of paper stars hovering above the congregation (see pic below). Truly magical. 

These are the choices you make when you live far away from your family and your in-laws. One night it’s the glory of art and music, the next night it’s IHOP. Christmas for a pastor’s family is a strange mix of beauty and loneliness. 

Still, anytime the four of us are gathered around the same table, even if glued to tiny cellphone screens, mama panda is happy. I used to think that the baby pandas would be with us forever. I guess when you’re chained to intensive parenting, probably not all of it necessary, it feels like a bottomless pit of duty. But to be cliché, children grow fast. Everything ends. Amanda (19), who we used to call Demanda because up until 2014 she seemed to command every minute of my attention, now lives quite independently in another time zone. She’s a sophomore at Wittenberg University in Springfield, Ohio, and I will now shamelessly brag about her exact area of study because I love it so much: she’s majoring in political science and minoring in international studies with a concentration in international economics. People ask what she’ll be doing with that. Her quick answer is: go to law school. My answer is more uppity: think critically. It was a thrill for me to help her set up a home gallery of her ceramics (see pic below), pieces she created in high school and college learning from a talented host of mentors and teachers. Patrons were amazingly generous in buying her pottery, thus supporting her art and her study abroad fund.

I might have been more depressed at our Christmas at IHOP if not for the memory of the previous weekend with friends and family. Amanda and I were able to make a quick trip three hours due north to Minnesota. My brother and sister in law, Tom and Gretchen, hosted a big family gathering in the grand style all three of my brothers are known for: in a heated, immaculate, fully stocked garage, so comfortable you could go stocking footed. It was the first time I’d seen my family for Xmas in a decade and I left feeling profoundly satisfied way deep down in a way I cannot explain.

When our IHOP waitress gave us the bill for Christmas dinner, Aidan (16) offered to pay. He’s been working for over a year and has liquid money, a bank account, and a debit card. He pays for his cell phone and gasoline for the car, as he drives himself to school. (Yet another last vestige of my motherhood duties ended – 15 years of driving my kiddos to school. Aidan is happy to finally be getting there on time, instead of chronically two, three, ten minutes late.) I didn’t want him to pay for IHOP meal. Actually, I’d rather he not work so much. Instead of having extra cash I’d rather he join more school things and/or read. But his joy is skateboarding, baseball, heavy metal, and silence. A few weeks ago he was invited to join the school improv team and when he (reluctantly) told me I tried my best to play it down low. (Competitions! Scholarships! Hollywood!) A subtle dude, he carefully selects the times when he’s hilarious but he mostly chooses quiet. When he speaks up, he has something to say. I realized that his offer to pay our IHOP tab came from his heart. It was his gift to his family. Instead of regulating his choice like a mother I gave in to gratitude for his generosity. We made a deal. Aidan would pay for the food, Bob and I would cover the tip, upping our usual 20 percent to 25 percent for the holiday. (Ex-waitresses tip higher, they say.)

Napping was a good choice for Christmas day.

Sated, Bob and I postponed our planned Xmas cooking until December 26 and we did not disappoint, if I may say. We stuffed large pasta shells with ricotta, parmesan, Italian sausage, fresh basil and oregano, chopped spinach, onions and garlic. We topped with marinara sauce (while I fantasized about garden fresh tomatoes for next year’s din) and wala – two pans of excellent eating. We vowed to cook more the new year, to host more house concerts. We also vowed to take dance lessons after Bob’s knee surgery (January, his third joint surgery and our seventh collective surgery altogether, but who’s counting? Thankful for modern medicine.) More of our collective 2016 vows: golf more, bike more, hike more, read and write more. Visit family and friends more. Bob is sustained by the awesome congregation that is St. John’s in downtown Des Moines, where he’s served as associate pastor since 2007. But he misses his family and friends in Brooklyn, as do I. Our vacation resources are dedicated to trips to NYC. (And now also to DaveMatthews Band concerts, as our first try in 2015 was a tremendous success. My family got to enjoy a happy mama panda, and I got to sit/stand/dance next to tattoo dad, according to his t-shirt, who shared my enthusiasm for the lyrics and set list. Three fourths of us are looking forward to the 2016 tour dates. Another vow: more tailgating. Fingers crossed.) 

Mostly, I vow to more fully appreciate the gift I have in Bob, and my parents. The truth “everything ends” haunts me, as I think of all I have and all I have to lose. 

My new job sustains me. 2015 was a pretty big year for me in terms of employment. I’ve transitioned from full-time grant writing (a white collar version of hard labor) to marketing/communications (a day job version of creative writing). I started as marketing/communications director at a large counseling and education center that provides a broad range of mental health services, plus renewal and professional development opportunities, serving more than 2,450 individuals including 700 children annually. The organizational culture of wellness and wholeness makes for a pleasant work environment. I also do some freelance writing and editing on the side, mostly with Living Lutheran blog site and The Lutheran magazine. In the vein of always wanting more, I wish I could make a living by teaching and writing. I wish all the refugees could be resettled. I wish people wouldn’t listen to hateful speech. I wish we would all seek to understand one another’s concerns. I wish peace would prevail.

I wish that all of you are loved and satisfied, wherever your sanctuary is: a grand cathedral, a packed diner, a warm garage, or somewhere else. Pancakes for everyone!

I close with a litany that St. John’s used for Christmas Eve services:

Light looked down and saw darkness.

"I will go there", said Light.

Peace looked down and saw war.

"I will go there", said Peace.

Love looked down and saw hatred.

"I will go there," said Love.

So Light came and shone. So Peace came and gave rest. So Love came and brought life. And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us.

With love,

Terri

On behalf of the family,

Terri and Bob Speirs

Amanda and Aidan

Blog: naturalbornbleedingheart.blogspot.com

Facebook: Terri Mork Speirs

Twitter: @TerriMorkSpeirs

Christmas at St. John's Des Moines, Iowa

Xmas eve 2015, Bob and I are standing on a step, the kiddos are actually taller than us

Amanda's ceramics are getting better and better; it's such a pleasure to watch her craft develop.
We are incredibly grateful for the people who bought many of these pieces. 

James and Poppy

Live nativity at child-friendly service featured Bob as a shepherd.

On visiting Lou

Our Thanksgiving visit with Lou made me wish  I'd kept those jeans and made them into a purse, or framed them, instead of giving away to Goodwill years ago. So many regrets. In case you can't read the picture, Lou wrote: Please allow me Teri. I shall never forget how delighted I was to see my Pastor's wife wearing sparkly jeans as she set in front of me at Church that Sunday. You go girl!

On Thanksgiving I had the opportunity to join Bob in visiting a gorgeous lady, Lou, who I’ve written before in a blog post, The Church According to Dirt. It was fun to surprise her, and she mentioned the dirt article almost immediately. Lou looked per usual her glamorous self, her face and hair done up for the holiday. She reminds me of Zsa Zsa Gabor. 

And she also reminds me of the perks of being married to someone who is a professional visitor, and who is really good at it. When I asked Bob if we could go see Lou for Thanksgiving, he knew exactly where and when to go. He has established the relationship so it didn’t seem weird to just drop by. I don’t easily identify myself as "the pastor's wife" but I will admit there are some fine advantages. Lou is an example. For some reason, over the years, she has extended to me an unconditional acceptance that I did not earn and do not deserve.

Visiting Lou is a balm for me, because I’m a worrier. I chronically question, doubt, apologize, and over-think. I'm a habitual lamenter. I have a zillion regrets. (According to author Mary Karr, these are great qualities for a memoirist. According to Jesus, I am constantly forgiven so move on.) Still, my internal capacity to fuss is like the Titanic.

While basking in the presence of Lou, I thought about a blog post scheduled to come out next week (via Living Lutheran), exploring another aspect to being a “pastors wife,” wherein I ruminate about the possibility of being falsely pegged as something other than me. Blah, blah. Already it sounds boring and self-serving, and I apologize in advance to anyone who is kind enough to read it. I’m worried the content of the upcoming post will pale to the beauty that is friendship and love, which for me is by far the norm of my privileged position, if it is a position, which if it is I would denounce anyway, or would I be missing something? I tried to remember what I’d written in that post, wishing I’d taken yet another look at it before I submitted it to my editor. Too scared to actually look up the file to see what I wrote, knowing that it's too late to revise. 

You see what I mean? My interior stew is thick.

But a chat with Lou reminded me of the best antidote to fear and regret: basic human connection. All that other stuff doesn't matter, or at least matters less. I highly recommend the art of visiting. (Talking to myself, here.) 

Sending this out with all best wishes for you and yours.

Sincerely,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

A tale of two boys, Aylan and Aidan

A reflection on two boys, the sons of immigrants and refugees, from the perspective of a mother and a Lutheran. 

Our son, Aidan, is a strapping 16-year-old boy. His hair is thick, brown and curly, his eyes dark and skin olive. We think his swarthy looks come from my side of the family, though his heritage stems from Northern European immigrants (Norwegian, Swede, Scottish, German, and Czech, Bohemian to be exact, according to my mother). I am extremely biased in everyway but Aidan was a beautiful baby, perfect in all the classical ways strangers measure children – cherubic facial structure with big brown eyes like a koala bear. Even now as a skulky 6’1” teenager, he inadvertently maintains a baby face (said his mother).

Six thousand miles to the east, another boy similar in features and name, Aylan, washed up dead on a Turkish beach. At three years old, he drowned with his mother and brother in a desperate attempt to flee by water his war torn homeland Syria. The image of the lifeless child lying in the surf went viral on the Internet and I, like many others, was seared by it. I think it was the boy’s posture that got to me. Aylan’s pre-school body settled in the sand in the same position my son, Aidan, used to sleep, coiled up on his belly, knees bent, posterior up, arms straight to the side, face turned, mouth open.

To see my son’s peaceful child’s pose replicated in another boy’s death scene, a sleeping baby washed up on a beach like a dead fish, was horrifying. 

“No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark,” wrote Somali poet Warsan Shire in her piece entitled Home. Along with Aylan’s image, this poem also made the internet rounds last week. It is perhaps the most succinct explanation why people migrate. According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugee (UNHCR)[i] the number of people forced to flee their homes across the world has exceeded 50 million for the first time since WWII. Half the world's refugees are children, many travelling alone or in groups, and often falling prey to human traffickers.[ii]

More than 50 million can feel too abstract, if not for the picture of a single drowned child and Shire’s poem to explain: "no one would leave home/unless home chased you to the shore," that "no one puts their children in a boat/unless the water is safer than the land," that all of this happens when "home is the barrel of the gun."

What are the rest of us do?

Yesterday in church the New Testament lesson came from James 2: “If someone is naked and lacks daily food, you say, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill’, and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that?” (Paraphrased.) I do not believe in cherry-picking favorite Bible verses but fortunately, our pastor helped us to put the reading in context.

In her sermon she reminded us that Jesus tells us time and again do not be afraid, though we live in a society chronically fearful of scarcity.

Our pastor reminded us that when we help people in need we help Jesus, though other voices warn us there is not enough for all.

Our pastor reminded us that a Christian is obliged to assist the vulnerable (in gratitude only, not to earn favor with God), though some say if someone is needy, it’s their own fault.

Our pastor reminded us that even in this modern day we can “perform miracles” when we work together. As one who has seen the work of our faith-based nonprofit organizations up close, I believe her. Our Lutheran forebears have built robust and reliable infrastructures such as the ELCA World Hunger Appeal, Lutheran Social Services, Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Services, and my former employer of 17 years, Lutheran World Relief. We have the means to assist people across the street and around the world; all we need is the will.

My son Aidan comes from a long line and many strands of migrants – people who packed up and moved for a better life, for more food, for sustainable work. He is the living outcome of his ancestor’s hopes and dreams. The future is his to choose.

Another son, Aylan, who looked and sounded like my Aidan, died a migrant at age three wearing sneakers and shorts. We can be fearful of others like him or we can extend the miracle of Christian hospitality. With upwards of 60 million people in search of home, the future is ours to choose.

---

[i] (source: United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, http://www.unhcr.org.uk/about-us/key-facts-and-figures.html).

[ii] (source: The Guardian http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/jun/20/global-refugee-figure-passes-50-million-unhcr-report)

21 Day Project - Day 1 - Last Ditch

Is it true that you can break a bad habit if you stop that bad habit for 21 days? I have so many bad habits and still I'm not trying to break any (or at least none that I'd like to mention here), but I would like to start a habit. So I'm wondering if it works the other way: do something for 21 days and it's a habit.

The habit I would like to start is this: writing. Due to the fact that I identify myself as a writer, I feel it is important that I actually write. However I do very little, except for Facebook posts and marketing pieces. Plus, I have also vowed to not write about writing (which I used to do a lot, but no more), so by my own definition this blog post is unacceptable. But for this very one time I'm giving myself a pass because otherwise I could not explain the 21 Day Project. It's a last ditch attempt to awaken my shriveled up creative brain, which used to operate like a monster.

I've been thinking a lot lately about transition, so maybe this is a way to manage change. Not sure. I do believe that writing brings you to places you didn't expect. Not to have too high expectations, but that would be nice.

According to my calendar, the 21 Day Project will end on September 14. (I'm not working on a business calendar.) Anyone else want to join?

See you all here tomorrow, in theory.

Cheers,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart

Running with inevitable

Our Y, like many, has an open floor plan, so the sights and sounds of all the various fitness styles share space. Recently, as I awaited outside the room that would become my Pilates studio in five minutes, a raucous gaggle of children used it as a gymnasium. With fits of laughter, the kiddos were running, skipping, hopping on the same wood floor that would host my "mind/body" class at the top of the hour. Through the glass wall I could see a line of parents on a side bench watching their children and mostly reading their phones. I was once that bored parent, longing to do my own thing. And yet there I was, about to do my own thing and longing to be one of those bored parents.

This isn't my car radio, but if it was the presets
would be one public radio station, 
two classic rock stations, 
and three heavy metal stations.
I've heard Running with the Devil
more in the past six months than in
the previous 30 years.

Meanwhile, from the weightlifting room on the second level blasted Van Halen's "Running with the Devil," instantly taking me back to high school. 

I heard a theory that for parents, life is split into thirds: 1.) pre-children, 2.) children, and 3.) post-children. That moment, awaiting my class, it was a sensory mashup of all three stages. My ears registered Van Halen’s electric running riffs, my eyes focused on the children’s running, and my chest ached  for the transition running me over.

For approximately two minutes, I was suspended in a concurrent trifecta of mothering phases. My current position of freely choosing how to spend an hour because my kids are older. My previous stage of mind-numbing tedium to field their dreams (for which I feel nostalgia, rational or not). And my pre-kid high school stage attending rural keggers with watery beer, late 70s heavy metal, and its own rigid system of social stratification (for which I feel no nostalgia, totally rational).

Nostalgia is not my nature, usually. I’m pretty sure I have "reverse nostalgia" as I’ve heard it called. I miss what I am not going to do, and who I'm not going to meet. However, I admit to being plenty nostalgic in heading back to independent agent after almost two decades of direct motherhood.

Actually, I still kind of like Van Halen and I’ve been hearing a lot more of the likes lately. With 18-year-old daughter mostly gone, 16-year-old son dominates the presets on my car radio, which now consists of one public radio station, two classic rock stations, and three heavy metal stations. Every time we ride together I run three ways: I am transported back to those dreadful farm field keggers, I offer free driving advice, and I think about two years into the future when this kid will be gone too.

I am, however, learning how to quit running it forwards and backwards. I’m learning to turn up the volume and enjoy the music.

The in-between place

Honestly, I thought the transition to sans children would be much more clean cut. I imagined it would go like this:

1. The kids would leave. 
2. I'd feel empty (full time job and independent dreams not withstanding). 
3. I'd sign up for a salsa class. 
4. It would be over.

A before picture. 

Outlaw Ranch, Custer, South Dakota (Black Hills)
circa 2009

The truth is, the process of transitioning is much more stretched out. Take today, for example.

Today, our 18-year-old is road tripping to Ohio, a ten-hour drive that she's taken many times at this point, twice on her own in her bright blue Toyota that we've named Happy Spaceship (H.S.).

And our 16-year-old is . . . well, he turned sixteen. It's his birthday today so I can officially say my youngest child is 16. He's an older teen, rather than a younger teen or a simple teen or even any kid, and his next stage in life is the 20s, aka, no teen at all. However, we are not officially celebrating his birthday on this exact date because he is working his hourly wage job 'til late into the evening. (Aka family work ethic.)

The truth is Bob and I are parents of children in their deep teen years, but we feel like parents of toddlers. Not that our kids act like babies (they're actually beautifully adult-like), but our parenting mindset is lodged in early childhood, or longs to be. We remember the mayhem like yesterday.

Parenting is whiplash.

How I imagine 
empty nester status.

After a year of daughter-starvation, last year (academic), with Amanda going off to school and keeping so much confidence that we barely heard from her at all, having her home this summer has been positively dreamy. She even talked us into buying family-wide Dave Matthews Band concert tickets. And next up is the Mary Poppins sing-a-long at the local cinema brew pub. How she went from little girl in perpetual temper tantrum to mature family leader, I don't know.

It was only recently that I realized that we (I) probably experienced actual, clinical grief in her departure last fall. True blue, diagnosable grief. Still at this point, Bob and I know she longs to be back at her small private liberal arts school in Central Ohio, and not here with her lil ol fam, thus the weekend road trip. And, the truth of the matter is in several weeks she will be gone again for the year, and probably forever. #whatisgrief? #whatisgrowth?

Bob and I are starkly aware that we have two solid years with our son, Aidan (who is 16 today), and the time drips through us like water.

Our immediate parenting years are almost over. We are now in-between the stages of with and without children. I know that. Our kids mostly don't need us, but they kind of do. I'm trying to figure out how to work with that knowledge, reminding myself that even a self-sufficient 16-year-old boy needs a full time mother. I'm not done yet.

Cheers,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart