Dancing, Part 2

I learned last night that there are at least two people in America who still have not seen this, and that is just not okay.

Tish and I are trying desperately to learn the dance before Thursday, which is the night we hit the clubs.

This Little Light O' Mine...and So On and So Forth

Well. My goodness.

It seems that you ladies had a few feelings about yesterday's post. I imagine that you are wondering how I’m going to respond.

Remember Jerry McGuire? He got fired because some of his colleagues weren't sure about a controversial “mission statement” he’d written. When he walked out of his office with all eyes on him, he announced, “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna do what you think I’m gonna do, “Which is just FREAK OUT!”

Don’t worry. I’m not going to freak out either.

There were times during the “debate” yesterday when I wanted to freak out. Several times I wrote passionate comments and responses and then deleted them. And in retrospect, I think that was the right thing to do. Because sometimes, when you’re feeling angry and threatened, it’s good to wait, and think, and pray if you’re so inclined, so that you don’t end up making someone else feel the same way you do. And so that you can be sure, once you do speak, that you are speaking from a place of love. If you don’t, it really is possible to sound “right,” but also sound like that gong Paul mentions in Corinthians.

And here’s the blessing that accompanies waiting to make conclusions and to speak. Yesterday morning, as I wrote that post, I truly believed that it was possible for a group of women to respect each other’s choices without questioning each other’s motives as unworthy or unexamined. And if not that, then I at least believed that a group of women could disagree without hurting each other. But after reading a lot of the comments, I started to feel a little hopeless. NOT because of the debate. NOT because we disagreed. But because we had such a hard time debating without attacking. And that’s what I teach my children that grown ups are supposed to do. As I fell asleep, I felt foolish for being so Pollyannish and causing so much trouble.

But then I woke up this morning and discovered to my delight that I still have faith in God, and I still have faith in the women He created. I still believe, despite some evidence yesterday to the contrary, that women were meant to lift each other up, that power and peace can be found in solidarity, and that competition and comparison are unnecessary distractions. I still agree with the eloquent reader who, in reference to how sensitive we all are about our success as mothers said,

“To know this as a mother myself makes me feel compassion for all other mothers, regardless of whether they work in or out of the home. If only we could see our commonality in this, our greatest vulnerability.”

Like this reader, I still believe that the point of our greatest vulnerability, motherhood, is the point upon which we have the opportunity to connect. To truly understand each other and feel compassion for each other. I really do. And I also believe that a lot of you agree with me. I’m so relieved that I still believe. I feel a little Pollyannish and foolish again this morning, which are my favorite ways to feel. Morning is a hopeful time. It's so lovely that it happens everyday.

There was a man who stood quietly in front of the White House every single night during the Vietnam War, holding a single candle. When reporters questioned him about this ritual, he didn’t say much. But one night, when a reporter said something like “Why are you wasting your time here? You can’t possibly believe that one candle and one man could change the minds of the powers that be.” The man turned and said “Oh, I don’t do this to change them. I do this so they don’t change me.”

I like this man, and I like what he did. I like that he didn’t give up, stay home, watch the news and become jaded and angry. I like that he didn’t yell and scream and add fuel to the fire. Because I think there’s power in peacefully expressing one’s belief that love and unity are the ultimate realities, even when things appear otherwise. Especially when things appear otherwise. Because that’s what hope is, right? And I’m too hopeful to be angry or afraid.

Tonight I am going to the U2 concert with my husband, sister, and friend. And we’re going to listen to Bono wail about redemption and hope and freedom and the power of love. And that thing is going to happen to us that always happens at good concerts: when you soak up the sea of people who are all so different, but the same, and the music hits your heart and it swells so big that it feels like it’s going to pop out of your throat- and you discover you can’t sing at all, you can only whisper. And I’m probably going to cry the whole darn time, because that’s what I do. And I’m going to melt into that sea of people. And we are still going to have different opinions about God and love and family but you know what? We’re all going to sing and sway together. We are going to be like a million drops of water in one sea.

I’d just like you to know that I respect you. No matter how you weighed in on the debate yesterday, I respect you. Not because I agree or disagree, but because you’re a woman made in God’s image. And because I know firsthand that it can be confusing and tough to be a woman. And because I know how much you love your family and how hard you try.

And because I believe, I still believe, that we are all sisters. That we are a million drops of water in one sea.

Friendly Fire

I recently heard a vicious radio debate between women who believe that mothers should stay home and others who believe that mothers should work outside the home. All the debaters were mothers themselves.

As I listened wearily while ducking and dodging the ladies’ sucker punches like a cornered boxer, I thought…this is really getting old.

I’ve been both a “working” and a “stay home” mom so I’ve experienced both sides of the internal and eternal debate moms endure all day, every day. When I worked outside my house, Mommy Guilt rode shotgun with me each morning, chiding me for dropping off my sick boy at day care instead of keeping him home and for rocking him the night before instead of preparing for work. When I got to work each day Mommy Guilt whispered that a good mom would still be at home with her son and when I returned home she’d insist that a better teacher would have stayed at work longer. When I’d visit girlfriends who stayed home, Mommy Guilt would say “See…this lady’s doing it right. Her kids are better off than yours are.” And Mommy Guilt certainly had a hey day when Chase’s day care provider admitted that he had taken his first steps while I was working. Every night when I finally got Chase to sleep, finished grading papers, and collapsed into the couch, Mommy Guilt would snuggle up next to me and sweetly say “shouldn’t you spend some quality time with your husband instead of checking out?” And finally, before I fell asleep each night, Mommy Guilt would whisper in my ear, “YOU KNOW, THE ONLY WAY YOU’RE GOING TO BE A GOOD MOTHER AND WIFE IS IF YOU QUIT YOUR JOB AND STAY HOME.”

And so now I’m a stay at home mom. And the thing is that Mommy Guilt stays home with me. These days I experience her less as a drive- by- shooter and more as a constant commentator. Now she sounds like this:

“Did you go to all three of those college classes just so you could clean the kitchen and play Candy Land all day? And how is it that you don’t even do those things very well? Can you concentrate on nothing? Look at this mess! A good mom would clean more and play less. Also, a good mom would clean less and play more. Also a good mom would clean more and play more and quit emailing altogether. Additionally, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’re sure you feel comfortable spending so much money when you don’t even make any. Moreover, when was the last time you volunteered at Chase’s school? What kind of stay at home mom doesn’t go to PTA meetings or know how to make lasagna? Furthermore, nobody in this house appreciates you.” My favorite, though, is that when I finally do sit down, concentrate on one of my kids, and read a few books all the way through… instead of saying “Good job!” Mommy Guilt says, “See how happy your daughter is? You’re home all day…why don’t you do this more often?”

And of course, before I go to sleep every night she whispers… “YOU KNOW, MAYBE YOU’D BE A BETTER MOTHER AND WOMAN IF YOU COULD JUST GET OUT OF THE HOUSE AND WORK.”

Mommy Guilt is like that scene from “Liar, Liar” in which Jim Carrey enters a bathroom, throws himself against the walls, slams his head inside the toilet seat, rubs soap into his eyes…and when he stumbles back into the lobby, he explains his battered appearance like this: “I WAS KICKIN’ MY ASS! DO YA MIND?”

I sympathize with kicking one’s own ass. I do it all the time.

What I don’t understand is why some ladies insist on making everything worse by kicking each other’s asses.

To the women who argue vehemently that all “good mothers” stay at home: Are you nuts? If you got your way, who would show my daughters that some women actually change out of yoga pants and into scrubs and police badges and power suits each day? How would my girls even know that women who don’t feel like carrying diaper bags can carry briefcases or stethoscopes instead…or also? How, pray tell, could I tell them with a straight face that they can grow up to be whatever they want to be?

And to the women who argue that all stay home mothers damage women’s liberation: Are you nuts? Aren’t you causing some damage by suggesting that we all must fit into a category, that women are a cause instead of individuals? And doesn’t choosing to spend your limited time and energy attacking “us” set “us” back? But for argument’s sake, what if you got your way and every mother was required to work outside of the home? What would that mean to ME? Who would volunteer to lead my son’s reading group at school, host his class party, plan his Sunday school lesson or wait with him in the parking lot when I forget to pick him up? Who would watch my daughter while the baby gets her shots? Who would knock on my door and tell me that my keys are still in the front door, the doors to my van are open, and my purse is in the driveway?

And if every woman made the same decision, how would my children learn that sometimes motherhood looks like going to work to put food on the table or stay sane or share your gifts or because you want to work and you’ve earned that right. And that other times motherhood looks like staying home for all of the exact same reasons.

As far as I can tell, no matter what decision a woman makes, she’s offering an invaluable gift to my daughters and me. So I’d like to thank all of you. Because I’m not necessarily trying to raise an executive or a mommy. I’m trying to raise a woman. And there are as many different right ways to be a woman as there are women.

So, angry, debating ladies…here’s the thing. My daughter is watching me and you to learn what it means to be a woman. And I’d like her to learn that a woman’s value is determined less by her career choices and more by how she treats other women, in particular, women who are different than she is. I’d like her to learn that her strength is defined by her honesty and her ability to exist in grey areas without succumbing to camouflaging her insecurities with generalizations or accusations. And I’d like her to learn that the only way to be both graceful and powerful is to dance among the endless definitions of the word woman… and to refuse to organize women into categories, to view ideas in black and white, or to choose sides and come out swinging. Because being a woman is not that easy, and it’s not that hard.

And speaking of “Liar, Liar”….angry debating ladies…. when you yell about how much peace you have with your decisions, it just doesn’t ring true. The thing is, if you’re yelling, I don’t believe that you’ve got it all figured out. I don’t even believe that you believe you’ve got it all figured out. I think your problem might be that you’re as internally conflicted as the rest of us about your choices. But instead of kicking your own ass, you’ve decided it’d be easier to kick ours.

Which is tempting, but also wrong.

So, maybe instead of tearing each other up, we could each admit that we’re a bit torn up about our choices, or lack thereof. And we could offer each other a shoulder or a hand. And then maybe our girls would see what it really means to be a woman.

Toothbrush Trauma

December 11, 2008 is a day that will go down in infamy for my family, because it is the day that mommy exploded all of the electric toothbrushes in the microwave.

Oh, COME ON. Like you’ve never done it.

Here is the fallout from that day… as told through my distressed Facebook status updates and the comments of my dismayed but amused friends. If you become my friend, either in real life or on Facebook, you will also find yourself dismayed and amused often. I have noticed a distinct pattern over the years.

December 11, 2008:

8:30 AM Glennon Doyle Melton is shutting down her computer in an effort to deal with her technology addiction. Call if you need me.

9:30 AM Glennon Doyle Melton has relapsed and is back online. She also just melted the family's toothbrushes in the microwave. Husband, please pick up 5 new toothbrushes on the way home. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.

·

Jennifer Meyers

LMAO. Thanks. I needed that laugh this morning.

Meahgen Hester Fargo

why were the toothbrushes in the microwave?

Glennon Doyle Melton

Long version: I have these sanitizing bags that go in the microwave for baby stuff. I was trying to clean all the toothbrushes, so I put them in the bag in the micro. Immediately, the entire house filled with horrible burning plastic fumes and the kids were walking around with shirts over their noses.
Short version: I am an idiot.

Jennifer Meyers

Dishwasher works better. :-)

Glennon Doyle Melton

AAAAHHHHHH the DISHWASHER! OF COURSE!

Greg Zesinger

It was probably time to replace those toothbrushes anyway. :)

Shannon Sweet Ryan

ha! that is hilarious! you know...it does work by zapping them in those sterlizing bags...just make sure you only do like 2 at a time...and make sure the water COMPLETELY covers them!:)

Mandy Doyle

SISTER. we have been over this before: Please do not use any kitchen appliance until I return to Virginia and review how they work. It's been a couple of weeks since our last review, so it's no wonder we had this small snafu. Also, I know times are tough, but I'll spot the family some new toothbrushes. I repeat-- touch nothing in the kitchen.

Vincent K. Gaye

WOW! You have tooth brushes!? I should look into them! ;-)

Glennon Doyle Melton

Did I mention that they were electric toothbrushes?

Mandy Doyle

As your dutiful counsel and loving sister, I am going to have to insist that you cease making these kinds of admissions against your interest. Also, I submit that you must stop using any appliances altogether– whether the same be found in the kitchen, bathroom, or any other godforsaken place in your home. Thank you for your cooperation in these significant matters.

Glennon Doyle Melton

This request to stop using appliances will be easily followed, as I seem to have drastically fewer working appliances than I did when this "godforsaken" day began. I can only hope that husband will be as entertained as my fellow facebookers by today's events, and interpret them as "quirky" and "cute" instead of "idiotic" and "incredibly annoying." we shall see. i fear that there is only so much one man can take.

Shannon Sweet Ryan

yeah, no...you forgot to mention that...disregard my 1st comment..you can't do that....:)

Casey Hanner Peterson

i will say, those bags are magic...I often try and think of what i could sanitize with them - hadn't thought of toothbrushes, but nice work. btw, please don't attempt to cure your technology addiction again, the rest of us would suffer not having your hilarious status updates!

Beth Whitehouse

HA HA HA you kill me Doyle!

Jen Sanna Graham

Excellent work. I would happily melt all our toothbrushes if I was promised to be indefinitely banned from all household appliances as my punishment. You sly fox, you.

Craig Melton

Wife- Unfriend. UNFRIEND!

It's True...He's Got the Whole Darn World in His Hands

Hi all. This one’s pretty heavy. But on the other hand, it’s also really long.

I wrote this letter at the end of a heart wrenching time for Craig and me. We had spent two years trying to adopt a child internationally, and we were rejected repeatedly by agencies because I’m a recovering alcoholic.

Hello,

I am writing this letter so that down the road, Craig and I will remember the magnificent way God has worked in our family over the past year. I am sharing it with you because you have been such an integral part of our adoption journey, and because I thought you might like to know how it all seems to have turned out. I apologize for not telling the story in person, but it’s so sacred to me right now that I’m afraid if I talk about it I’ll mess up the magic…like somehow using my voice will make it sound ordinary.

For me, the last year has been a brutal battle with God and myself. I have no words to describe the desperation I felt to adopt a baby. It has literally driven me to my knees every day for two years…pleading with God to either answer my prayer of adoption or to take away the burning in my heart to bring an adopted child home. I have never in my life experienced such a relentless “calling,” or such feelings of confusion and helplessness. I have logged countless hours researching adoption requirements and possibilities, scouring scripture for clues about my aching heart, and just plain crying and crying. Every time an agency offered us hope and we started to become attached to a particular country, to a particular little face…..the NO would inevitably come. It never got easier to accept. Each no was as heartbreaking to hear as the first one. There have been many days when the rejection led me to question whether I’d been “called” to adopt at all. I wondered if I was just plain crazy. And I also wondered about my worth as a mother. Because over and over we were told in so many words that these babies were better off in orphanages than in my home. It was humbling, and shook my faith hard.

There is too much history to record in this letter, so I’ll just review the recent past. After the Vietnamese adoption fell through last month, Craig and I found ourselves again wondered if God was telling us to let go. So we tried, but we couldn’t. I couldn’t. We finally decided one day in the car that we would start a home study, without even having an agency or country that would accept us. We hoped that once we stepped out in faith, God would reveal the next step. We already had a social worker who was ready to get us started and the money we needed in the bank. Our hope and energy were renewed. Once again, I started picturing Chase and Tish holding their new sibling. We discussed names so we could pray for our new baby as specifically as possible, because it looked and felt like things were starting to happen for us.

When we arrived home from that exciting car ride, I went through the mail and saw a letter from All God’s Children, the agency we wanted to adopt from initially… the agency who gave us our sweet sponsored child, Maria. The letter was specifically from Maria’s home, their “Hannah’s Hope” orphanage in Guatemala. The letter began like this. “This is one of the toughest times I’ve seen at our Hannah’s Hope home in Guatemala. My heart breaks to think of the children we’ve had to turn away. Toddlers roaming among piles of garbage, six year olds begging for food, ten year old girls caring for infant sibling on their own.” The letter went on to describe a 4 year old girl named Marielos, who police brought to Hannah’s Hope recently after her mother’s boyfriend raped her repeatedly. She spent her first week at the orphanage “either speechless or sobbing.” Heather, the woman who runs All God’s Children, wrote that she “stayed up with Marielos many nights, holding her tightly as she cried softly.” Next Heather described the miraculous way Marielos began to heal in the arms of her “special mother” at Hannah’s Hope. But then she reported that due to lack of funds, Hannah’s Hope was being forced to turn away traumatized children like Marielos every day. The letter read, “To care for all the children at Hannah’s Hope right now and still keep our doors open to the children who will come to us in the next 90 days $***** is needed immediately.” She then asked for small donations from sponsors that combined, would keep the orphanage running.

I felt my head spin when I saw the amount that the orphanage needed- quite close to the total that Craig and I had saved for the adoption.

Then I sensed a voice that was a calmer version of my own suggest something like, “Here we are. Now what do you want more? Do you really want to help my orphans, or do you really want an adopted child? There is a difference.” I stood in the kitchen, stunned and sweating. The suggestion continued, “You’ve been begging for an invitation from me, and you’re holding it.”

Weird… I know.

I considered not telling Craig about the letter and the voice. Not because I was worried he’d think I was crazy, which is what I usually worry about, but because I was afraid he would know the right thing to do, and then he’d want to do it. But I told him anyway…and he listened, and he read the letter, and then got very quiet. And he said, “You know if we do this it means we won’t have any adoption money left.” And I said, “Yes, it would mean giving that away for this, I guess.” We both agreed to think and pray. We went to bed early that night and didn’t speak about it again… I think we were aware that we were walking on holy ground.

I sent one email to Craig the next morning, telling him that I wasn’t able to make this decision because I was too blinded by my own desire for a baby. I wanted him to decide. And I told him that if he decided that God was asking for this money for Hannah’s Hope, I would be capable of offering up the adoption…of letting it go. Then I promised to leave him alone to make the decision.

That night he came home and during dinner he said quietly that he was positive that the money belonged to Maria’s friends at Hannah’s Hope. He had sent our adoption fund, which was two thirds of the total amount they needed to keep the orphanage afloat, and our entire savings account.

Next: Lots more quiet, a few tears, and then just awe…and peace.

I needed to share this story with you…because when God does something so miraculous and perfect, you have to share it to spread hope and joy and fearlessness. We have spent the past year praying that God would allow us to help one child…and He has answered, eventually, by allowing us to help many. A whole orphanage…OUR orphanage, Maria’s orphanage…the perfection is too fantastic to have been planned by anyone else but God. He could have taken care of those children in a million other ways but He was loving enough to include us, people desperate to be included…to take us through this journey and to end it with fireworks more beautiful than we could have imagined. He answered the prayers of a few Guatemalan children and mothers, a silly American couple and the faithful workers at All God’s Children in one fell, perfect swoop. We are totally blown away…and still unusually quiet.

Why are we still shocked every time God arrives right on time?

The final miracle in this for me is that I have found peace…. desperation gone, yearning gone, emptiness gone, pain gone. Nothing is left but gratitude. Craig feels exactly the same way. We have laid our adoption dream firmly in God’s hands as an offering to do with what He will…never to be touched again with our hands. We are beyond excited to get on with our lives, and we know that this was a burden laid on us by God… removed by God, and that through this process He has changed us forever.

Thank you for walking through this with us. Mom and dad, thank you for knowing that there might be more to His plan then we could see, Mandy, thank you for reminding me in a million gentle ways that this was always about God and children, not me, and Michelle, thank you for teaching me that there is a time to be still and a time to take action. And Craig, thank you for being a hero in every single possible definition of the word.

Oh, and before I forget, I would like to thank the academy for taking a chance on a silly girl like me.

I love you.

Love,

G

“Ask and it shall be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be open to you.”

Matthew 7:7-8

Maybe not right away, and perhaps differently than you originally ordered. But better.

A Salute to You...From Sister and Me

I require A LOT of positive reinforcement to survive a day at home. Perhaps I haven't mentioned it yet, but I think that being a mommy is sort of excruciatingly hard. Sure, my kids and I have our moments of bliss in which we are all playing together in the backyard, adoring each other, feeling the breeze on our faces, and giggling together. In these moments I wonder how I got so lucky and SO GOOD AT PARENTING… but the problem is that in the very next moment, Chase falls off the swing and sprains his wrist, the baby seizes the day by yanking a chunk of her sister’s hair out, and all of a sudden we are all on the ground screaming and crying. And I look around at my fallen comrades and wonder…"what happened?” All was well…and then it is decidedly not. It’s like all day long, we are continuously ambushed by ourselves.

I, for one, find it tricky to keep an even mommy keel during all of these dramatic ups and downs. So my sister and husband have developed a system to help me. They each call several times a day to get a “State of the Sister” address. Craig doesn’t know that I know this…but I snooped on his Blackberry calendar once and saw that he has a weekday “reminder alarm” that sounds every few hours and says “CALL GLENNON AND ASK HER HOW SHE IS DOING.” I assume my sister has the same alarm system on alternating hours. See…they have a system. And this system is how we all avoid seeing ourselves on the evening news. Dramatic mommies call for drastic measures.

Yesterday when my sister made her late afternoon phone call, I may have been a liiiiiitle whiny and dramatic. I may have used the terms BEING SUCKED DRY and BEATEN DOWN and WAR ZONE. In the most loving and grateful possible way, of course.

An hour later, I received this salute from my sister. And I’d like to pass it on to you, my Mommy Militia.

Salute from Sister

Sister,

I salute you.

I salute you for your heroic nights combating no-sleep snipers; early, early mornings of mighty writing; afternoons of basement preschool warfare, and evenings of bath time battleship. And for re-engaging in the struggle day after exhausting, God forsaken day.

I salute you.

You are a hero.

Love, Sister

Be brave today, ladies, fight hard, leave no man on the battlefield. Except for the tantrumers, for God’s sake. As Anne Lamott says about drunks, just leave those tantrumers “right where Jesus flang ‘em.”

I'm off to do battle.