Defensive?

*The subject matter in this post may be touchy for some. And my handling of it is probably clunky, because I’m still sorting my thoughts and how best to articulate them, while attempting to preserve the dignity of the people discussed. Please note it was written in a spirit of self-reflection following a Facebook conversation with my friend Chad.  He graciously agreed to allow me to use his name and post our original exchange, which you will find in it’s entirety at the end of the post.

About a week ago, my friend Chad posted the following picture on Facebook:

I don’t typically get into it with people over politics or their stances on social issues, but I in this case, I felt I had something to contribute, so I commented on my friend’s post:

 

What followed was an exchange that left me a bit exasperated with my friend, and in looking at it with the distance of a week or so, it appears to me that Chad and I really, fundamentally believe many of the same things (in this case, that ALL lives do indeed matter.) Where our communication breaks down is that I feel the All Lives Matter slogan is a defensive and reactionary response to an actual and necessary social movement (#BlackLivesMatter) and is dismissive of the fact that many Black people feel their lives DON’T matter as much as others’.

When I first saw #BlackLivesMatter, I understood it was a response to the apparent uptick in wrongful deaths of Black people by White police and others, but because I live in a fairly white-bread, insular community, at first, it was barely on my radar.  However, it kept popping up in all my social media, so I started paying close attention to it and the concerns and fears and the stories of the people who were hashtagging it.  I started reading articles, reaching outside of my own social and media circle, following Black bloggers, and transracial and adoptive families with the intent to understand—to listen—to their experiences.

As I listen, I’m learning.  #BlackLivesMatter is not just a group of people “pulling the race card” as I’ve heard it called. They are people who are calling out actual problems and real injustices happening to people because of the color of their skin.

Throughout my discussion with Chad, I had been trying to point out that it is important to LISTEN to and try to understand WHY #BlackLivesMatter does not mean that other lives don’t—and I felt he was missing my point.  To me, he seemed defensive and shut down, not even open to listening to people’s experience with racism and the need for a social movement to change the systemic and structural racism in our society.  I asked him why he felt so defensive and if he had read the links to articles I had posted for his perusal. Rather than answer my questions, he returned it to me—“Why are you so defensive?”

At that point, frustration set in heavily for me. My goal in the discussion with Chad was to open him up to the idea to GIVE EAR AND THOUGHT TO OTHER PEOPLE WHO DON’T SHARE HIS EXPERIENCE so he could see why THEY feel a need for #BlackLivesMatter.  Unfortunately,I don’t think I succeeded, because Chad didn’t answer my questions. I have no idea if he read the links I included in our exchange, because he didn’t indicate he did, though he did tell me that he understands that minorities have struggles as well as strengths.

I feel it is crucial to LISTEN to people who feel dehumanized and devalued, whether or not I agree that they are such. My feelings are not theirs. My experiences are not theirs, so I don’t get to decide how THEY feel. And once I’ve listened, I must try to understand. And then I must work for change, so that they feel secure that their lives matter as much as anyone else’s. THEN will #AllLivesMatter. So, when Chad turned my question “Why are you so defensive?” back on me, I felt I should walk that talk, and honestly consider the question in the spirit of believing that Chad really wanted to know my thoughts and feelings, rather than using it as a volley to evade my questions and suggestions for reading.

So, was I defensive? Yes. I get defensive when I don’t feel heard, when my questions don’t get answered, when I have spent hours poring over an issue, approaching it from as many angles as I can possibly find in an effort to understand and find the Truth (with a capital T), and am dismissed when trying to share what I’ve learned.

It is not a bad thing to question a system, even if it appears to be working for you.  It is not a bad thing to take the time to listen to the experiences of others, and to conscientiously consider their beliefs, even if they are markedly different than your own

It frightens me when someone makes negative blanket statements about a group of people—any group of people—based on race, gender, politics, or religion.  Doing so diminishes the humanity of that group, and as Ann Voskamp puts it, “It’s when we dehumanize anyone, that we can legitimize anything.” That is a terrifying truth that history has played out time and time again. .

As for #BlackLivesMatter, I feel it is (unfortunately) a necessary social movement. If we truly believe that all lives matter, we will not blow off Black people as playing the race card when they call out injustices. We will listen and work until they feel heard, understood, and safe. If we truly believe that All Lives matter, we will do the work to ensure it, even if it is uncomfortable, messy, and awkward.

I came away from my discussion with Chad feeling that even though we were both talking English and both have a heart for making the world a better place, we were speaking different languages and I am still frustrated that I haven’t figured out how to bridge the gap. 

In the meantime, here’s our exchange, as food for thought—both on #BlackLivesMatter and an example of how (or how not?) to discuss tinderbox subjects with friends on social media:

Krav Maga Chronicles

Krav Maga…I have been a practitioner of this self defense system off and on for the last five years.  Three years ago, I decided to get more serious about it, and a year and half ago, I decided on an impossible dream—to become a Krav Maga instructor.  I had been helping out at a women’s self defense seminar and had an opportunity to really see Krav Maga make a difference in someone’s life—the experience was life altering—for her, and for me.  I was humbled and exhilarated to be a part of it.

I had been toying with the idea of becoming an instructor for awhile, but I was afraid I’d be laughed at if I said anything. After all, I wasn’t terribly fit, I was overweight, and I had some emotional hang ups about some of it.  All I knew was that overall, I loved it.  But after that particular women’s self defense seminar---something shifted---I knew I had to become a Krav Maga instructor, or die trying.

I practically RAN to my very hard-nosed instructor and told him what I wanted to do.  I fully expected him to sneer or laugh and tell me I was not instructor material and probably never would be. I was afraid of how he’d react when I told him what I wanted to do. But I did it, anyway.

He didn’t respond immediately---and I couldn’t read his face, but he finally told me if I was serious, I needed to talk with my chief instructor, the owner of the school.  I was surprised I wasn’t shut down, and felt encouraged—but I also wondered if that was Instructor Hard-Nose’s way of letting me down. Maybe he was passing the buck. I decided he didn’t want to be the one to tell me I was not cut out to be an instructor. 

So, I put off talking to my chief instructor for a couple of weeks.  I had to sit with the idea that what I wanted and what I was capable of might not square up.  I had to sit with the idea that I would be told no, or that I would be laughed at.  But the fire for Krav Maga just kept burning and finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to know if my chief instructor thought I could do it. I told him I wanted to be an instructor.

Actually, to be honest, I was a coward and IM’ed him. I figured being rejected via text would hurt less than being told in person.  I didn’t hear from The Chief for a couple of days---but then, his response:

“I knew you would, sooner or later!!! LOL When are you in next? We can chat!”

“Really?” I thought.  I had no idea if this meant “Well, it’s about time, let’s get going on this!” or “That’s cute, but you’re delusional. I think you need professional help to grasp the sad reality that you’ll never cut it.”

The next time I saw the Chief—he handed me a list of all the instructor testing dates in the United States and Spain for the next year.  He told me to look them over, set a date and come talk to him some more.

I was surprised…no, I was shocked.  I stared at the paper for a good ten minutes before I realized this was basically a green light from THE CHIEF INSTRUCTOR to pursue this crazy dream. 

So, I picked a date and we chatted.  Chief asked me about why I wanted to become an instructor, and what committing to training meant. He asked me if my husband was supportive, and how I would balance my responsibilities while adding instructor training to my already busy life.  Chief was encouraging and enthusiastic. He asked if I believed I could do it. I said yes. He said he believed me and that he believed IN me. On my way out, he congratulated me and said, “This experience will absolutely change your life.”

I began training in earnest---and working on technique and endurance.  Over the next few months, I lost 20 pounds and worked my way up to working out 2.5 hours a day five or six times a week.  Having talked with my other instructors, one who had just recently passed her instructor test, I learned I would need to build up the stamina to work for eight hours a day for a solid week, not to mention know HOW to teach the techniques and teach a class.  It felt overwhelming, but exciting.

It was hard to fit in training and studying between homeschooling my five kids and running my household, and holding down a part time job, but it was happening.  The wheels were on and I had awesome support from my instructors, my husband, my friends, and my kids.  I was feeling good and going strong.

My color coded schedule to keep life and training on track.

And then, of course, adversity struck.  Literally.  It came in the form of a defensive front kick in Krav class one day.  I was knocked onto my back and my head did a little ricochet thing off the floor. It didn’t so much hurt as make me dizzy.  I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get upright again.  Instructor Hard-Nose ordered me to sit out for the rest of class to recover, but as I was always the slowest, fattest person in class, I felt I had to prove I could get back in the game. I argued with Hard-Nose—I think I even threw my mouth guard at him and insisted I could handle it.  I forced myself to keep going in class. It was ugly and I ended up having to sit out the last few minutes of class because the world kept tilting to one side.  After taking it easy for twenty minutes, I convinced myself I felt okay enough to drive home.  Since my neck hurt, I decided to stop in at my chiropractor’s on the way.

He had barely gotten out the words, “What did you do this time?” when it was clear I needed to go to the ER. 

Long story short, I had a moderate concussion, but here’s the funny thing about concussions---you don’t think really well when you have one, and I was convinced there was a bunch of fuss going on for nothing, despite the neck brace and CT scan.  Hard-Nose texted to check in, unaware of my ER visit.  My husband wouldn’t give me my phone so I could text him back.  Finally, while my husband was out filling out paperwork, I sneaked my phone to tell Hard-Nose I was fine and would be back in class in a few days.

“I’m invincible!”

The ER doc was very firm in telling me to take it easy, no books, no screens—basically no brain activity for me for at least three days and possibly up to a week or two, and then I would need another assessment.  I was down the first and second day, because the anti-nausea medicine they gave me knocked me out.  But after that, I was up and trying to do everything I normally do---because I have five kids and how do you have your brain do nothing for three days when you have carpools and teaching and work to do?

Of course, I couldn’t really do any of it—at least not for more than an hour or so at a time—and then I’d get blinding headaches, nausea, and dizziness again. Apparently, I was making myself worse. 

Recovery was S.L.O.W.  Every week, I’d think “I’m going back to class this week!” only to find the world spinning after trying to read to the kids or hearing a loud noise.

It was a bad time—and I was horribly depressed.  Concussions are weird things—I would feel better for a few hours, but then walking up the stairs would make me sick. I couldn’t process and filter noises, so everything seemed loud and overwhelming.  I was easily frustrated and had zero patience for anything.  My mind was fuzzy and it was hard to articulate my thoughts.

Mostly, though, I could do mundane things—I could even drive—at least a little--- each day.  I was upset and angry that I was missing Krav class and felt I was losing ground physically and I had been denied clearance to go back to class.  I went anyway, and sat on the sidelines, watching and occasionally heckling my classmates. It was pathetic. I was itching, aching to be back in class.

Hard-Nose took pity on me.  He’d chat with me between drills and once, I was having a particularly good day, so he let me on the mat to help him demonstrate a technique.  It was low impact for me and felt AWESOME to be DOING something again—but Chief happened to walk in and see me on the mat.  He had told me to keep him updated on my recovery and was surprised to see me on the mat.  He asked if I’d gotten clearance. I hadn’t.  He was upset and chewed me out, ordering me off the mat, telling me I wasn’t allowed back on until I had medical clearance.  I don’t know if Hard-Nose got in trouble for allowing me on the mat that night. I hope not.

It took about a month before I got medical clearance to return to full activity, but it felt like an eternity. I was told to start slowly back into my workouts, but tra-la-la, I didn’t listen. I tried to throw myself back into my full workout routine, but quickly discovered that I still needed a lot of rest. I couldn’t manage even one full class without getting a migraine.  I could barely get through warm ups, and I couldn’t take the impact of getting hit. Even hitting the punching bag would sometimes make my head spin.  My instructors kept on me about paying attention to my body and not pushing too hard too quickly.

Medical clearance! “Return to work!”

Eventually, I quit going to class regularly.  IT was frustrating to feel unable to bounce back, and I was embarrassed by how much ground I’d lost. I missed my target date for my training and test. And then, Hard-Nose got married and and left our school to pursue another career avenue.

Before he left, he tried to talk to me. My class attendance was sporadic and I came with a bad attitude and bad mouth when I showed up.  After a particularly bad night, he cornered me and called me out on both. He added that I was too much of a perfectionist and needed to chill out a little.  He said I was tense and unhappy. I was putting unrealistic pressure on myself.  He wanted me to enjoy Krav and wanted me to get my fire back. He really hammered the perfectionist thing.  I had never considered myself a perfectionist. If anything, I thought I wasn’t pushing myself hard enough!

I was angry and embarrassed and said some antagonizing things because I am a jerk. But the truth was, Hard-Nose was right. And I hated it.  I was even angry that he remained calm and even upbeat while we talked. I think, knowing he was leaving soon, he wanted to end on a good note. He was giving me advice and encouragement, in his tough love kind of way, but I just wanted to be angry. I’m still ashamed of myself about that conversation.

After Hard-Nose left, my attendance remained spotty for awhile. Life got busy and it was easy to have an excuse to not go to class, to not come into the school to train on my own, excuses, excuses, excuses.  And the longer I was away, the easier it was to stay away. Funny how that happens—excuses feed fear and fear feeds excuses.  And while they are busy gorging on each other, getting bigger and meaner and nastier, I felt my health declining and my morale sliding to the floor.

When I WOULD go into class, Chief’s workouts would kick my butt, and not in a good way.  I was so out of shape I was BEHIND square one.  And, the other instructor, a twenty-something woman with the stamina and flexibility of a Cirque du Soleil acrobat—well, I just couldn’t keep up with her.  I admire her, and she’s awesome, but I couldn’t help comparing myself with her.  We are totally different—in fact, I think the ONLY things we have in common are that we are both female and we both love Krav. 

When I first began my Krav instructor journey, Chief reminded me more than once not to compare myself with Cirque, because we were completely different in age, experience, stage of life, etc.  Intellectually, I knew that and accepted it, but being in class—man, oh, man---it was hard to accept, but impossible to ignore.  Cirque has been nothing but supportive and awesome with me—my comparisons and hang ups are all in MY head.

I am still, over a year later, not even back up in training to where I was pre-concussion. My new test date feels like it’s looming (November!!!) and I feel so under-prepared. I feel like I’ve backslid terribly and it’s harder to getting back the ground I’ve lost. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m putting unrealistic pressure on myself. Sometimes, I don’t know if I have it in me.  I hear about the training and test from other instructors, I follow some on Facebook, and I think “Who do I think I am to even consider that I can do this?” “What on earth am I thinking?!!!”

Because here’s the other thing.  Krav Maga is violent.  It is about reacting to violence. It is about doing whatever it takes—WHATEVER it takes—to go home safe.  If you are serious about protecting yourself, defending yourself or your loved ones, it is about doing what it takes. And Krav Maga is also about knowing how to deal and muscling through mentally and physically when you do get hurt.

To me, THAT is the scariest part of Krav Maga.  It’s not that I MUST lose more weight to even hope to keep up with the training/test, although I need to do that. It’s not that I MUST really increase my stamina and my speed, although I need to do that, as well. What scares me to death is the thought that I don’t know if I have the guts to stay in the fight and see it through. Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face, the saying goes. On the flip side, I haven’t yet given up—even though I’ve wanted to, and I’ve contemplated throwing in the towel on this instructor thing many, many times.  I am still training. I’m still in---barely, some days, but I’m still in!

My biggest issue in Krav is staying calm and in control.  Mental toughness. It is easier to succumb to the fear, to the pain.  I’ve done it before.  Even now, I still sometimes freeze up in the face of the high stress and adrenaline dumps that are part of training. This enrages me. I am a mess when things get ugly and I struggle with staying together, or pulling it back together, when I’ve lost control. I HATE this, because I have worked and worked and worked and worked on it.

I’m working on making this my mantra.

If you’re read this far, you’re probably wondering why I stick with Krav Maga, if it produces in me such extreme feelings. It does occasionally get awful for me. Krav brings out the worst, but also the best in me. 

I love Krav Maga because it is so real.  You cannot fake your way through it. You come as you are, and you work with what you’ve got.  There are no short cuts.  It’s the most honest thing I have ever experienced.

Krav Maga was designed to be used by regular people.  It is for everyone. It is adaptable to anyone’s needs and abilities. It is practical, there are no wasted moves. And the more you do it, the better and fitter and better you become.One of my past classmates was confined to a motorized wheelchair—and he was fierce. More than once he pinned my arms with his and nearly ran me over with his chair---he adapted the techniques and used what he had available. It was incredible.

It is a good workout—sometimes too good.  I used to beat myself up (and still sometimes do) for not being able to keep up in class.  It took many weeks before I could make it through a whole class without needing to take a break…of course, I came from a particularly sedentary background, so someone who is more active than I was would probably get up to speed quicker than I did. But it is awesome to look back on my first days in Krav Maga and see how much progress I’ve made (and how quickly it comes back if I’ve been absent for a bit!)

Krav Maga helped me develop more confidence---I know it sounds really weird that I’m saying that NOW, after writing aabout how insecure I feel about instructor training---but when I started getting comfortable with my technical abilities in Krav, and my ability to pick up and learn new things, I found I got more comfortable with myself in general.  I was getting fit, enduring something tough, and learning new stuff all the time---and those successes bred confidence—not to mention, learning how to survive hard scenarios in class made it easier to look at tough things going on in my regular life and think “I can do this. I can get through this.”

I love the camaraderie of my classmates.  It takes a special kind of crazy to look forward to getting choked, punched, or kicked.  There is an intimacy and a trust that develops between the regulars in the classes—real life self-defense is up close and personal—there’s no way to avoid close contact when someone puts you in a headlock or gets within striking range or pins you to the ground. In order to train effectively, you have to put yourself and others in situations that are as realistic as possible.  We create ugly situations in order to train to get out of ugly situations.  In learning how to handle those situations, trust is critical.  It gets kind of gross sometimes…sweat, blood, someone breathing coffee breath right in your face, sweaty hands or arms around your sweaty neck, groin strikes, swearing, grunts, growls, yells…there’s no delicacy here.  And everyone is a good sport (most of the time!)  We’re all there to learn—and we all take turns taking shots at each other, so what you dish out, you have to be willing to receive! Respect is gained and given pretty quickly!

Krav Cronies.

I absolutely LOVE it when we get new people in class---especially women.  In just one class, a woman who comes in uncertain, or feeling foolish, or even scared, usually leaves feeling pumped up and more confident, and having learned life saving techniques.  I love partnering with new class members.  It is fun to see someone go from tentatively hitting a bag, to punching the crap out of it.  It is especially humbling and rewarding to participate in a class when someone fearful or abused, downtrodden and defeated, feels, perhaps for the first time, powerful, safe, and hopeful.  I have been witness to this more than once---it is a sacred, profound experience every time. 

This is why I keep with Krav Maga.  This is why I still nurture the dream of becoming a Krav Maga instructor.  This is what I need to remember when I start thinking I’m insane, that it’s impossible, that I’m too old, too fat, too weak, too slow to succeed. I love sharing what I’ve learned and what I’ve gained. I love seeing hope and strength develop in someone who didn’t have it before. Also, I need to remember that Chief believes in me.  He told me, when he handed me the dates for the instructor tests that he wouldn’t have given them to me if he didn’t believe I could do it.  Ultimately, I know I have to go through the testing alone---I have to stand on my own knowledge, strength, and mental toughness to pass the test---but I will only be able to to that if I utilize all the training resources available to me—and that includes remembering my instructor’s belief in me when I feel weak.  Ultimately, I must believe in myself—I know that---but the support of my instructors, family, and friends is crucial, too.  Chief still thinks I can do it—even as I struggle with training—and have one step forward two steps back kinds of days. If he thinks I can do it, I must be able to do it.  I can do it. I will do it.

When with a wounded heart…

I was scrolling through Facebook at a gas station, on the road coming home from vacation when I first learned about the gunman who forced his way into Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, and killed 20 children and 6 women, and wounded several other people.  Like everyone who was posting about it on Facebook, I was horrified, shocked, and heartbroken.  I couldn’t stop thinking about it and tried to look up every online article I could find about it—but the events and aftermath were still unfolding—families were still searching and hoping to find their babies, and there weren’t many details.
I’ve been checking online news sources, blogs, and Facebook frequently, in an effort to learn more, to find something to DO to help, and it’s been interesting to see how the nation and people around the world have been reacting to this tragedy.
First, I noticed people posting things about how to talk with your children about tragedies and disasters.  Then things got political---posts and arguments about gun control. Then pleadings from people still shattered by the killings begging others NOT to get political, but to hug loved ones, pray, light a candle, and just put away political agendas.  I have to admit, after I felt shock and sadness, my first thought was—“now everything is going to come down to gun control---but why won’t people talk about mental health care?”  I was about to post something on Facebook about that, when I stumbled on a friend’s post asking people to NOT get political yet—it hadn’t even been 24 hours since the shootings, and really, shouldn’t we mourn with those who mourn?”  I didn’t publish my post about mental health care reform.  In fact, I deleted it. 
Then I noticed some people were posting light hearted things—pictures of kittens and puppies, or of tropical beaches, or they were telling jokes, commenting that they “need a distraction from all this bad news.”  This ticked me off.  How could anyone laugh or make merry NOW, of all times???
Then I noticed images---not the photographs and videos from the crime scenes, but photographs and paintings of angels drooping over headstones, or candles lit, with the names of the victims, banners, pictures of children with angels wings, children holding the hand of Jesus, doves, flags, of first responders huddled together.
Then came the articles and photographs of the gunman, followed by angry posts about the media allowing the gunman to gain notoriety by showing his photo and printing or speaking his name.
Then, as the identities of the victims were released, I saw photos of smiling children, laughing adult women, and messages with their names and the word “Hero” underneath or over their heads.
Today, one of my friends posted on Facebook that she wanted to DO something—she mentioned that she was already praying, had worn green and white (Sandy Hook’s school colors), and thought she’d do 26 good deeds—one in honor of each of the victims.
This made me think…when we are hit with a tragedy—how do we cope? I think most of us go into “action mode” wanting to DO something tangible to make things better, or at least alleviate some of the pain, something to move FORWARD—so we create prayer chains, or write poems, or light candles, or close our eyes and pretend it isn’t happening.  Or laugh so we don’t have to deal with the pain.  But we still feel terrible and helpless and angry.
As I was thinking of this, the story of Lazarus in the Book of John in the Bible came to mind.  Lazarus dies, and his sisters, Mary and Martha, are in the acute first stages of mourning. Mary runs to Jesus, falls at his feet and cries to him that if Jesus had been with them, Lazarus wouldn’t have died. Mary knows that Jesus had the power to prevent Lazarus’ death.
I don’t know if Mary had any idea that Jesus would raise Lazarus from the dead, but Jesus knew he was going to do that.  He could have patted Mary on the head right then and there and said, “Hey, it’s okay.  I got this.” But he didn’t. He didn’t say, “Well, if Lazarus had had better health insurance…” or “we need to tighten the sword and cimeter laws.”  He didn’t crack a joke, or point out the cute little lamb frolicking in the next field over in an effort to distract Mary and Martha from their grief.  The Bible says “he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled.” (KJV, John 11:32) He then asked where they had laid Lazarus’ body and was taken to it.  Once there, the Bible says, “Jesus wept.”  (John 11:33.)
I have read this story before, and heard it countless times in church, and I never understood why the Savior of the World would weep over his friend, whom he knew he could (and would) bring back to life.  Jesus is the author of the great plan of happiness—the Plan of Salvation—he knows the end from the beginning—and yet, he wept for his deceased friend. It made no sense to me whatsoever, until now.
When something bad happens, we want to DO something to make it better.  We want to alleviate the suffering.  We want to comfort, or we want to point fingers, and blame, we want to change legislation.  We want to distract ourselves, gloss over things---tell ourselves that the victims are angels now and are in a better place.
But it’s all a bunch of crap.  The families of those who died at Sandy Hook are mourning.  I certainly can’t speak for them, but when I imagine myself in their place—I can only think that I would rather have my precious 6 year old alive, here, with me---no matter how glorious an angel he might be now, or how he is with the Lord.  I would imagine most of those families have, at this point, found little comfort—zero solace---in politics, jokes, in well intentioned comments about their angel-children and hero women. 
A truly compassionate person would weep.  Would mourn with those who mourn.  Even Jesus did this—and he knows perfectly how much better heaven is than earth.  Jesus groaned in his spirit and was troubled before he was even taken to Lazarus’ body.  He wept when he saw his dead friend.  The Bible said “he groaned within himself.” 
It wasn’t until after he had groaned, been troubled, wept—mourned again—that he reminded Mary and everyone watching, that if they had faith, they would see the glory of God. It wasn’t until Jesus had shared in his loved ones’ grief that he raised Lazarus.  He showed Mary and Martha how much he cared for them, and for their brother, by sharing in their grief—allowing them to grieve without glossing over it, or waxing poetic about Lazarus’ eternal soul. Jesus did not will Mary to feel better. He didn’t hurry her to the resolution of her sorrow.  He gave her time to grieve.  He grieved.
Like Jesus, we must mourn with those who mourn.  The time will come for talking of hope, of changing legislation, of laughing.  But we must first mourn, and allow others to do so as well—in their time and in their way.  The time will come for comfort, for talk of angel children and hero women, of beauty and jokes and how to make the world a better, safer place.  But we must allow for that time to come at it’s own pace.
For now, we weep.

Priorities (Applied)

For now, I’m just making a list of what I’m doing to make sure I keep my priorities straight.
Priority # 1: God.
If I’m not paying attention to my relationship with my Savior, everything else seems to fall apart---so my biggest two actions to make sure I’m staying in touch are:
Reading my scriptures BEFORE I get out of bed.  My phone is my alarm clock in the mornings and I have the Old and New Testaments as well as The Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price on the phone as well, so it’s super easy to pick it up and read after I’ve turned the alarm off.  I can just flick through, find wherever it was I left off the last time, and keep reading.  Even if I only read a verse a day, I feel I’ve accomplished something. I have more energy during the day and I am more patient and optimistic.
Morning prayers. I’m pretty good about remembering to get on my knees before bed and offer a prayer, but I’m not so good about starting the day with prayer—but I’ve found that when I do, my days go better.  I’m more patient, I have more energy.  Huh.  That sounds like what happens when I read my scriptures…and I’m all for a double dose of patience and energy!
Priority # 2: Husband.
Right now, I think the best thing I can do to nurture my husband is to go to bed at the same time my he does.  It’s a simple thing, really, but it’s one way to avoid living completely separate lives—and going to bed at the same time gives us a great chance to wind down together, talk, or…well, do other stuff….
Also, taking ten minutes to tidy up the house before Julio gets home, and making sure dinner is ready to eat when he walks in is a good thing for my marriage.  I recently implemented a ten minute cleaning blitz about half an hour before I expect Julio home.  It’s pretty simple, and so basic, I wonder why I didn’t think of it sooner.  A tidy house makes for happy people—and who doesn’t love to come home to a neat space? It sets a good tone for the evening. 
Meal planning—or at least dinner planning is a good thing too.  It takes the stress out of trying to figure out what we’re going to eat and gives me a chance to plan for the evenings when we’ll be gone all day (crock pot!) or gone in the evenings (picnic style!)  Julio always comes home hungry, so having dinner ready to go as soon as he walks in makes for a smooth transition from work to home!  Last Sunday evening, I sat down with Ellen (who was in charge of kitchen chores for the week) and we planned dinners together.  She wrote down our menu for the week and posted it on the fridge.  It was wonderful.  Everyone knew what to expect, and I had a visual reminder about what I’d need to prepare on any given day. 
How does cooking and cleaning nurture my marriage? It makes me a nicer person to be around, and frankly, it just makes Julio happy.  I like to make him happy.
Priority # 3: Kids.
I need to spend more face time with each of my kids.  It’s so easy to treat them as a herd.  It’s easy to ignore them or push them away with schoolwork or chores or TV and computer time.  We’re in the car a lot and it’s easy to tune them out via the radio or an audio book or CD. I need to be more intentional in my time with my kids.  They love to be read to—even the big kids.  We need to sing together more—doing it in the car would be great---but of course, I’ll have to start with goofy kid songs to ensure participation!  I definitely need to hug and cuddle my kids more.  I’d like to be the kind of mom that just randomly hugs a kid, but I have to really make an effort to remember to do that.  And when I tell myself “I need to give each kid five hugs today” it gets done.  If I don’t tell myself things like that, it’s easy for me to go all day without really connecting physically—and kids NEED that. My kids love it when I hug them, and they behave better and act happier when I “randomly” grab one of them and hug them and say, “You know, I think you’re a great kid and I’m glad you’re mine.”  I mean it when I say it, too—even if only ten minutes ago I was harping on someone to get their room clean or quit dawdling over the math assignment.

Priorities

One of the reasons I chose to homeschool my kids was because I was sure it would make me a better mother—not a “better-than-you” mother, but a “better-more-engaged-person-with-my-kids” mother.
In some ways, I think I have accomplished this—I, with my temper so bad my siblings actually refer to anyone having a hissy fit as “pulling a Marissa,” complete with claw-fingered hand gesture—have learned quite a bit of patience.  I admit, I still pull an occasional “Marissa,” but I have mellowed a LOT.
I have let go of a lot of my tendency to want to control every. single. aspect of the kids’ schooling.  They are allowed a lot of freedom and creativity and they are allowed the responsibility of cleaning up after said freedom and creativity.
I have learned to laugh.  This one came a little slower than the other two—but I’m much better now at finding the humor in less-than-humorous situations. (After I pull a Marissa.)
In other ways, though, I’ve realized I need some crucial work.  We are always on the go---I feel pulled in so many different directions.  I am so BUSY.  And I’ve had a few experiences of late that have combined to make me realize that “busy” doesn’t equal “important.”  I have a tendency to think it does.  When people ask me what’s going on in my life or what I’ve got going on for the week, I rattle off my list of “to-do’s” and “to-go’s” and I FEEL important---and that feeling carries me for awhile through my days.
But here are my recent experiences that made me realize that busyness does not equal importance:
It is fairly normal for me to try to cram my preparations for my Sunday School class into a Saturday night or even a Sunday morning before church. I skim the lesson, look for the main points and main scriptures and wing it in class.  Sometimes this works fine.  Sometimes it doesn’t.  But—I’ve had enough “works fine” classes to keep me going with what I know are lousy preparation techniques.  So, in cramming on Saturday night to prepare for my Sunday School lesson, I read 3 Nephi 11 in the Book of Mormon.  In this chapter, Jesus comes to the people in the Americas and begins to teach them.  He explains who He is, why He is come, and lays out the basic principles of His gospel—faith, baptism, repentance, and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost. As I was skimming, it hit me that this is probably THE most significant thing I’ve EVER read.  I went back and really read the chapter.  And I was overwhelmed with the love Jesus has for me. And then I realized how precious the scriptures are—how much hope and love and peace are in them, and how now I just didn’t have time to really dive into the scriptures for myself in time for class, much less for the teens in my class.  Why had I not soaked this up sooner?  Why hadn’t I been reading and learning and absorbing the scriptures every day?
Last week, I spent a few minutes with an elderly couple that I just adore.  I hadn’t seen them in a while and just dropped in between the kids’ lessons and dance class.  We had a nice visit, but I kept sneaking peeks at my watch. My friends noticed and commented on how busy I am.  I agreed and launched into my list of things going on that day.  They listened quietly until I’d finished, and then my friends spoke, “Well, we sure miss seeing you and the kids.  But we understand, you’re busy.”  There was sadness in their tone.  I didn’t know how to address their comments, and it was time to go pick up my big kids from their piano lesson.  So, I hugged my friends and headed out.  But their words—and their tone---stayed with me. Why did they make me so sad? 
My five year old has been asking me every day for the last week for cuddle time. But every time he asked, I was in the middle of something important—I was wrist deep in pizza dough, or updating the announcements for a homeschool group I’m a part of, or trying to read through my Sunday School lesson.  My boy made himself a nest of blankets in his room, where he likes to sleep (why he won’t sleep on the brand new, awesome double bed mattress we just bought is beyond me.) Anyway, he wanted me to come snuggle with him in his nest.  He had arranged his pillow and his collection of blankets just-so for me.  After days of him pestering me, I finally went to cuddle with him in the nest. I admit, I went more to get him off my case than because I was looking forward to laying on a lumpy bunch of blankets with a wiggly little boy.  But as I angled myself down next to him, he looked me in the eyes, and said through his thumb in his mouth, “I love you mommy, thank you for cuddling with me.”  I melted.   We had a nice long snuggle and we both fell asleep, my littlest boy curled up against me, with his head on my arm. How could I have put this sweet little guy off for days?
Last Friday was the first day in a long time that we haven’t had somewhere we had to be—there was NOTHING going on—no classes, no shopping to do, no errands to run.  And it was WONDERFUL.  I spent the day with the kids reading to them, taking a walk, hanging out on the couch with the big kids while the little ones played with blocks and Barbies and Spider Man toys.  I rocked the baby.  I haven’t rocked her since I quit nursing (don’t get me wrong, I’ve held her lots and lots, but not sat down in the rocking chair and just—rocked.) Usually, she naps in the car as we’re running around town.   She was dozy---her eyes were fluttering, she was sucking her bottom lip, and she was twirling the hair on top of her head with her fingers.    As soon as she was in my arms, she konked out. At first, I was tempted to just take her to her crib, so I could get something else done—but on the way to her room, I realized I didn’t want to put her down.  I walked over to the rocking chair, sat down, and began rocking her.  I was flooded with love for her—and for all my kids—and for all the time I spent rocking them—before life got so busy.  How did I let this sweet, tender activity with my baby girl get away from me?
Last night, after the kids were in bed, I sat down with Julio while we ate a late night meal together.  We were catching up with each other, and I told him about all the projects I had going on, all the places and classes the kids had to be at, all the things that were making me feel a little crazy and that were stacking up.  He got this look on his face---the one where he wants to say something that he’s pretty sure is going to upset me, but that we both know I need to hear.  (I HATE that look.)  Then he says:
“I’m worried that you’re spreading yourself too thin.  I’m afraid you’re getting so busy that the most important things are starting to be neglected.”
I couldn’t even disagree with him.  Had I not just been complaining that we weren’t getting through all the schoolwork and the house was a mess and I felt like I was hardly even making eye contact with the kids each day?
He gave me that look again, briefly surveyed the kitchen.  “That, too, I guess, but I don’t mean that stuff.”
I thought back to cuddling Blythe and rocking Evelyn.  “I know,” I said.  “I’m with the kids all the time, but I’m not really present with them!”
Julio smiled a sad little smile at the tabletop.  He wasn’t talking about the state of the house, the kids’ education, or even the kids themselves. 
I am so stupid. He meant him.  He meant US.  I was starting to neglect him.  I was starting to neglect us.
I can’t even express the sorrow I felt, realizing I was leaving my husband, my best friend!  out of my life.  My busy, busy, stupid-busy life.
We had a pretty significant heart-to-heart talk that reminded me what an amazing, long-suffering, good-humored, kind, affectionate, intelligent, astute, compassionate man I had the good fortune to marry.
How do you know when your priorities are out of order? When you start thinking “busy” means “important.” 
Well, I’m taking back what is truly important. My God.  My husband.  My kids.  These are what matter most.  These are the most important things.  THESE are the most important things.
Tomorrow, I’ll post what I’m doing to reorder my priorities from the “busy” things to my most important things.

Revelations

I don't normally wear my religion on my sleeve, but I thought I'd touch on a few spiritual experiences I've had lately. For those of you who don't know, I am a Beehive advisor in my ward. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with Mormon-ese, that means I teach the 12 and 13 year old girls in  the youth program in my local church congregation.  As part of this responsibility, we are asked to guide the girls through a program called Personal Progress, which is a highly structured yet very individualized series of activities and exercises designed to help a young woman develop her faith in Jesus Christ, develop her talents, and overcome weaknesses.  In order to guide and direct the girls through the program, the advisors are encouraged to participate in the program as well.

After much dragging of feet over having yet ANOTHER thing to commit to, I started on the first exercise; a bit of study in the scriptures concerning faith, a commitment to begin and end each day for three weeks with a prayer, and a few sentences written in my journal about my feelings about how my faith has increased with prayer.  I admit I have been sort of hit or miss with my personal prayers for awhile, though prayers with the family and grace over the food have been a long time habit.  I have also been known to utter "Lord help me!" when a kid is having a meltdown at the grocery store or I'm fishing another sock out of the toilet, but actual "on-the-knees" conversations with God have been few and far between before I started this Personal Progress thing.  But, now that I'm involved, I have to say, it's been pretty awesome.

So, I'm coming up on the three week mark of this prayer gig, and I realized a few things:

My days go better when I start them with prayer.  I feel more centered, more optimistic, more goal-oriented, and more enthusiastic about taking on a houseful of gangly, energetic kids.

I am more alert.  Even when I've only had three hours of sleep the night before.  Prayer (even if it's done eyes open, driving home from dropping the four year old at preschool) is better fuel for a tired me than caffeine (but I'm still hedging with a daily Coca Cola.  What can I say?  Bad habits die hard.)  I notice things I haven't before.  My eleven year old is more obedient and long-suffering than I give her credit for.  (Ah, the blessing/curse of being the oldest child.)  My nine year old is patient and hard working and is very in tune with my moods and eager to please me.  My six year old a deep thinker behind all the comic book reading.  The four year old is a natural leader.  And I'm finally able to keep pace with my baby's shifting schedule.

I feel more spiritually "plugged in."  I have been asking in my prayers for guidance concerning my kids' greatest needs from me, and I'm starting to get some answers.  My oldest girl wants more than anything to be validated.  My oldest boy wants to feel important.  My middle girl needs to move her body around to focus and learn.  My little boy needs consistency and clear-cut rules.  The baby needed a break from solid food (she'd been cranky and not sleeping well until I laid her off the baby rice cereal.)  These were all revelations that have come to me within the last three weeks and each one was so significant, I felt like running through the house, hollering, Eureeka!"

This prayer thing really works.  I always believed in God, but I figured He had bigger things to deal with than whatever I might want to whine about.  Now, it's clear to me that my little issues matter as much to him as anything else.  That's a huge faith builder right there.