This is my neighbor, Souren, who accidentally became a part of our family nearly three years ago. We met when I was sitting on the little strip of lawn that seeps out from under the chain link fence surrounding their house. The big yellow school bus stopped there each day at 3, and we would chat over the fence while I waited for my children to get home from school. I think it took me three days to learn how to pronounce his name – forever marking me as a lazy tongued American, compared to his tri-lingual boy genius. After a week I stopped bringing my waiting-for-the-bus book, since I knew he would come out, sandwich in hand, for our afternoon chat. By the time I met his mother Helene, he and I were already fast friends. When Helene left the country on a six week business trip a month later, Souren started his life in our home.

Souren is entrenched in our world now, coming with us to extend family barbeques, writing me mother’s day cards, and having a room of his own in our home as well as in his mother’s duplex four houses up. Lately, I’ve been trying to write about our strange relationship – this family of two and my family of four, now an odd assorted family of six. I want to write about parenthood and ownership; gratitude and jealousy; satisfaction and yearning; pride and disappointment; joy and heartache. But it’s hard, to be honest in a relationship this complex – when my nurturing instincts sometimes conflict with his mom’s; when my kids don’t share his mother the way he shares theirs; when I am so grateful to have this young blood in our lives, and simultaneously terrified that he will soon disappear into adulthood.

Can you ever write with complete honesty about your children – those of your genetic descant and those you chose of your heart? Once they’ve learned their alphabet and how to use a mouse, how can you lay bare the stories you carry about them and for them and of them? Where do you put the wonder and the terror, the laughter and the follies? How can you capture the complexity and wonder without, basically, EMBARRASSING THEM TO DEATH?

Alas, I have no answer.

This summer Souren has gone to lay his foot once again on German soil, his birthplace and homeland until he was nearly a teen. After being virtually attached by an IV to our wireless for the past two years, he has suddenly forgotten how to log onto a computer and has to be cajoled into writing even the briefest of five-line emails with nary a compound thought enclosed. Still, reading carefully between the lines, and remembering what it was once to be young, what little I’ve heard of his time there indicates it has been rife with rites of passage – what with being legally of age in Europe for booze and clubs, and with a girl at his side – not to mention the father he hadn’t seen since before puberty and the attic full of childhood memories waiting for him to sort out.

It’s just….I remember the summer of my 17 year – all the heat and pheromones, all the freedom and romance– and I know that what comes speeding after it is so much more growing up, so much differentiating from home and hearth and parenting. Those ties between him and me, between him and us, are already much thinner than a lifetime of family-ness could have brought. What will happen to them as they are stretched by the final years of high school, by this incredibly heady summer?

Who can say and who can tell and who can know? It is utterly unknown territory and I, in some part of my soul, am both terrified and—truthfully—a little in awe. We do this, we humans? This growing up thing? What a wonder.

“Wait!” my heart moans, “I didn’t get enough time. You can’t be moving through these rites yet! You only just came to me! I didn’t get the early years!” Yet at the same time I know that this one’s long history of growing up is not within my rights to hold. What I get access to is this little part- time window between the first day of high school and the last–that’s all. I want to guard that time, press out the minutes like the edges of a toothpaste tube, make sure I don’t miss any thing I’m entitled to.

But the reality is I’m entitled to nothing. Every bit of this childhood is a bonus gift. And with this thought I realize in spite of my disquietness, there’s really no other option, is there? I wouldn’t want to miss this stretching, tearing thing – watching the wolfpup in growup, thrashing out his way in a world that will, all to soon, be his for the taking.

If there’s one thing the Mee-Chapman family is good at, it’s reading. So this week I’m turing my Magpie Suggests list over to my kids. Eden (nearly 9) and Cate (barely 7) wrote the first two while playing “school” on Monday. (Yep, it’s the second week of Summer and what do they beg to do? Play “school.” I guess that means they like their school. Yeah public school teachers!) If you need a good list to take for the library, or you want to add only stellar tomes to your kid’s collection pop over here for some great ideas.

P.s. Purchases made from the Magpie Suggests pages help support my blogging habit. Just click on an image or title!

I grew up in the church. I was nurtured by the anchoring habits of rhythm and the ritual; the security of absolute unquestionable truths; and the support of a like minded community. It was comforting to me – until it wasn’t. Then, like a switch flipped on the wall I saw the light, and the light exposed all these ugly and untrue accoutrements that came along with it all. Ironically this switch flipping phenomenon was roughly congruent with my ordination as a minister. Yep, I realized what I was standing in right when I was stepping hip-deep into it all.

It confuses me – as I’m sure it does you – how I can so deeply love Jesus and be so genuinely grateful for my Christian roots, and at the same time be so clearly scarred by the experience of religious indoctrination. I suppose this is because cult and faith cannot easily be balanced. Because Christianity is a social movement and all social movements eventually metastasize and bulge away from their original intent. Because, in my opinion, “Jesus got ‘jacked.”

When I think back over my religious upbringing there are a string of damaging thoughts that got grafted into my being which came purely from attending church, Sunday school, and youth group. Among the long list are these 7 most-damaging messages:

Any impulse you have towards physical intimacy is naughty. (Result: A lifetime of distrusting one’s body and seeing one’s physical self as the great betrayer.)
You should only date someone to get married. (The worst possible message you can give a fifteen year old)
You are not good enough, but God puts up with you anyway. (Result: A life-long feeling of inadequacy and a lack of self-love.)
Everything you love must be given as a “sacrifice” to God. (Thereby making you feel guilty for anything you feel passionately about that cannot be turned into “church work.”)
There is no wisdom/love/spiritual truth/devotion/generosity outside of Christianity. (Result: A really unattractive and utterly false sense of spiritual/moral/political superiority.)
The devil lurks around every corner waiting to attack. (Instilling a constant sense of anxiety and fear.)
God is only male, therefore women are bad because they are not like God and because they brought sin into the world. (Results: such a plethora of damaging crap I cannot even BEGIN to list it all here.)

These messages, these draining repetitive tapes that I still struggle to rid myself of, prevent me from taking my children to church. As much as I want them to have the beauty of growing up in church – community, religious ritual, music – there is too much ….crap…that comes with the package. I can’t allow my girls to be damaged by this as I was. As much as I’d like to think I can counter these messages with parental chats and at- home lessons, I don’t think I can. After all, my parents never taught me any of these deadly messages. I got those all on my own. From church.

Ideally, I could move out of the evangelical branch of Christianity and avoid these things. But really, it’s not true. No matter where I go—and I’ve gone to a LOT of churches—there are still things that keep me from resting easy: exclusively male pronouns for God; one person holding all of the wisdom in the pulpit; patriarchal models of hierarchy and decision making; and the ongoing staggeringly depressing truth that Sunday morning is still the most racially segregated hour of the week. Being a part of these things from a young age shapes you, moulds you, into a certain kind of be-ing. In spite of the changes many of my ministerial friends are chipping out in this old institution, I still have to take a time out. I still have to protect my children in all their malleable young glory. And I guess, above all, I still need time to be …sad.

May it not always be so. May those with the passion and drive to make changes have the strength to continue the work. May healing come, may truth return. Next year, Jerusalem!

This morning there are cherries for worship. They are reddening slowly in my front yard, awaiting sour cherry pie, somehow defying the birds which lurk so near. There is this, and the sound of the sprinklers from behind a neighbors’ fence, one tone as the water brushes the fence, another as it patters on the leaves of whatever bulb is in bloom – first shy daffodils, then a pride of tulips, followed by dominate giant irises and now brash, jubilant lilies. I have brought canned music with me, encased in a white electronic box, fed to me through metal earplugs, but I do not want it. I want only to feel my stride, to let my skin soak in life giving rays, the “taste the colour of peach” (an old line from a friends’ poem lodged in my memory these many years.)

As I walk up the slow slope from my house I pass our local school, a middle school—old and worn, empty of it’s usual wards, all of whom are trying to grow up too soon. Now there is a sandwich board out front, advertising a church. The usual handful of people wander in and out too soon for the service – the mothers setting up the Sunday school room, the worship leader doing sound checks on his guitar, the kids who wander lost and bored at having to come so early so their parents can help. This past week, my children have fallen in love with the singing of church songs. They caught this fever, as they do every Summer at church camp, where the enthusiasm of college-aged music leaders is infinitely contagious. Now, they bellow them all day long to one another, singing at full voice while they leap through the sprinkler or toss one another a ball. This has struck a small cord of guilt in my heart – a heart which is well tuned, over tuned, to vibrate with guilt. Perhaps my children should have these songs more than once a year? Perhaps they need them as a regular part of their diet? So I pause in my worship with cherries, and clad in my walking clothes, venture into the school building to see the church.

The minute I see the man with the guitar I know I cannot stay. My body revolts, my throat grows tight, and I have that feeling again – that metaphysical distress that repels me away from this format, this podium, this song. As much as it leaves me with an aftertaste of sadness on my tongue, I cannot stay in this place I once called home. I cannot raise my children here. Not here, or here, or over there. None of these buildings will breathe for me; will grant me soil to propagate. This is not the fast desired of me.

I am to feast on cherries.

My children, along with a couple hundred other children, are sitting in the dirt wearing the same bright orange shirts they have worn the past four days. They are singing an old hymn, based on an older psalm. There are drums, a college student playing an acoustic guitar, and one cheerful teenage girl wielding the pre-requisite church-camp tambourine. Between each phrase of the song the children clap a complicated pattern while standing in small circles, each child’s palm against the palm of the child to their left or right…Or they shout “Woo Hoo!” in one choreographed voice…..Or they pump their fists into the air and grunt “Ugh!” energized by sheer joy. Each time they repeat the song they speed it up a little, until it resembles the Chipmunk’s Christmas Album, only higher and with more squeak. It is silly and graceless and loud – and it rapidly brings tears to my eyes.

Nothing could be more beautiful.

My girls are attending half-day church camp this week. It’s sponsored by one of the biggest churches in town (Presbyterian) and features lots of lovely things like super-fun teenage group leaders and all the silly songs you could shake a stick at. One of the downfalls of this particular camp that makes it tip into the “indoctrination camp” category at least once each year, is that mid-week the group leaders give the kids a piece of paper asking them to sign if they’ve made a decision “to accept Jesus as their personal Savior”. (Thus the reason none of Cate and Eden’s friends-who-aren’t-Christians go to this camp anymore.) Today in the car Catie waved this purple “commitment” sheet around started this conversation:

Cate: “Our teacher says this is the most important thing in our whole lives, and it’s NOT!”

Me: “What is the most important thing in life Cate?”

Cate: (sounding disgusted at my ignorance) “Your FAMILY.”

Me: “Oh, right. Well, some Christians believe that people will go to hell if they don’t know and love Jesus. So your teacher was probably just worried and wanted to make sure you know Jesus.”

Cate: “Mom. I already love Jesus, so this piece of paper is still not the most important thing in our whole lives.”

Eden (piping in with equal indignation): “I don’t even believe in hell.”

Me: “Well, some people do and we should be careful not to make fun of their beliefs. For instance _________ and _______ believe in hell.”

Eden: “That’s because they’re Republicans.”

Something about this makes me hope none of these children grown up to be surgeons.

Dear Cate Shalom,

Today you are adding another year to your age, and as much as I’d like to freeze frame each adorable stage, the reality is that you are now 7 years old. It hardly seems possible that nearly 8 years ago I was standing shell-shocked with a baby on my hip and a pregnancy test in my hand. But here you are celebrating on this one calendar square both your last day of first grade and your first day of being seven. (Too bad you had that s’mores overdose and threw up last night or this day would be a whole lot more fun!)

This past year has been wonderfully, typically Cate – full of giggles and good humor with just a touch of stubbornness thrown in for good measure. This year you learned how to read and how to make scrambled eggs. You fell in love with your favorite subject, math, and your favorite friend, Claire. Most cunningly you developed the fine art of manipulation in which you push your sister until she yells some mean name at you, resulting in one parent or the other telling Sissy to let you have (fill in the blank) – which was your clever goal all along. You love all things food – growing veggies, cooking together, and trying all things adventuresome. You love tuna fish, sushi, and the fancy turkey sandwiches from our favorite coffee shop with cranberries and sprouts. When I ordered that one for the first time, you drew a diagram of it with labels in my notebooks so that we could make it again when we got home! Most of all you love going on “Daddy-Daughter dates” to all the local bakeries in search of the perfect donut.

This year you finally got those drum lessons you’ve been planning since you were three. The first thing you said about your teacher, Lacey, was that “she has such SPARKELY eyes!” As soon as you got home from your first lesson you played the drums for Monkfish Abbey while wearing the Esmeralda costume Rosie gave you, complete with a hip scarf trimmed in gold coins. This Summer you’ve been giving the neighborhood free drum concerts while you practice every night on my bedroom balcony – usually while wearing a rainbow striped poncho and your purple-and-raspberry beanie. Our musician neighbor David says you are a perfect beatnik drummer. (Right on!)

As a six year old you took on some big responsibilities like: watering your own lettuce patch in the back garden, walking Neela and Sam’s dog Merlin while they were away, and feeding Samson each night. I feel very proud of you! I hope you feel proud of yourself too!

My fondest memory of you this year is our “4 minute cuddle” that we have each morning, just you and me! (I like how you’ve managed to bump it up from the 3 minute cuddle we used to have!) I love your infectious laugh that often rings through the house. I adore it that your birthday party this year is “pirates and tea sandwiches;” that you went all by yourself with Daddy to see Great Grandma in California; and that any time I say “I don’t know how to make that, Catie” you just grab scissors and tape and make it yourself. I even love it that you so often “get distwacked” in the morning! (Once, when Souren asked what distracts you so much in the morning, I said, “Oh, anything!” Then I went upstairs to find that you still weren’t dressed because you were carefully walking around the outline of the Hello Kitty on your beach towel. I’m glad you’ve got your priorities straight!)

You kiddo, are really great! I’m so glad you came to us as a surprise to fill up our lives with laughs and wonder. Here’s to wearing out another year’s worth of brown boots!

Love, Momma

if you read this stunning statement, you may want to know how the rest of the conversation went…

Me: “How do you mean?”

Eden: “Well Traveler used to not believe in God. He thought there was some alien or something that was God. So I talked to him about it, and I….protested…a bit and now…well…he sort of believes in God some.”

I’ve finally figured out how to track bloggers using feeds, so now I actually read blogs! I know, I know, it’s about time for some blogdom karma on my part. Anywhoooo, one of my new favorites is Wannabe Hippie where Elaine recently wrote this great post on pain, motherhood, and equity (or the lack thereof.) As these are all commonly musings of my very own, I felt less lonely reading her poignant post. My favorite line was about how when you are in chronic pain, you sometimes must climb under the covers and “hide from your own body.” It’s disconcerting, but in pain, it is sometimes true.

The other thing I loved about this post is that Elaine suggest to her mother, that she was thinking about hiring some help the next time her husband had to travel and her mother totally affirmed her! Once, when my children were both in preschool and I suggested this same idea to my mother she said, “I don’t know why you girls can’t handle this on your own. I had three children and I did it without help from your father.” Holy revisionist history batman!

This of course immediately neccesitated a call to my sister — at the time the mother of three — where we both spent a lot of time commiserating, shaking our heads, and drinking that ubiquiteous mother’s comfort, diet coke. We decided to make a virtual tape we could play in our own heads. It went like this:

“If I choose to suffer, it will not negate Mom’s past suffering.”

This makes us much less martyrish and a great deal more balanced when it comes to getting help.

In her defense, when my sister had baby number four, my mom got right on board with the hiring help thing…