WWF Parenting

(I wrote this a long time ago, and attempted to get it published in a parenting magazine.  Apparently, their email to me got lost in cyberspace, and by the time I figured that out, their deadline had passed and they had moved on.  Anyway, here it is for you.)

 
You might not think it to look at us, but my husband and I have a combined 96 years of parenting experience.  We have a 26-year-old son and a 22-year-old daughter, with their own styles of being kids, and my husband and I have our own styles of being parents; the combined age of our children multiplied by the number of parents equals 96 years.

In this 96 years of parenting, we have learned a great deal about parenting models and strategies.  Like any good ‘90s parents, we bought the trendy books (you might have some of the updated versions of the same ones on your bookshelves) which tell us, in essence, how to be the most effective parents. 

The most important thing we learned is that those books actually function better as  items on the bookshelves meant to impress, than they do as advice guides.  It does look pretty awe-inspiring when a person walks into a family home and sees row upon row of books on parenting and childhood development.  At least you know you’re in a home where the parents are sincere about trying to be good parents.

Like most well-intentioned parents, we actually read some of these books.  We’d sit together in the post-bedtime silence, when our son was finally finished calling for glasses of water and bandaids and another hug, reading to ourselves.  (I should mention that by the time our daughter was born, we were way past reading parenting books).  I’m sure our son, who was likely still awake, wondered what we were doing, because every so often, one of us would spew forth an expletive of one kind or another: “Yeah, that’s not going to work!” Or, “Oh, yeah, right – in their dreams.”  Or, “Ewww... that is really gross” (in response to suctioning snot out of their noses, which we thankfully never ever had to do!).

The problem with these kinds of books is that they make the assumption that all parents and all children are created equally.  In an ideal world, maybe we are.  But our world is far from ideal.  Take the concept of the “Time out chair”, a popular form of discipline in the world of the 90s.  (For the uninitiated, a child who misbehaves is sent to a special “time out chair” and must sit on the chair, by themselves, presumably to contemplate remorsefully the consequences of his or her actions, for a specified time, after which the punishment is finished and the child returns to whatever he or she was doing before).  I have spoken to parents whose children love the time out chair – who knows, in the busy space of the day care, maybe it gives children some peace and quiet, some time to ponder on the large questions of life (like “Why do we have elbows?”). 

Similarly, for my children, being sent to their rooms was not really punishment.  When we were upset with them, and lecturing and berating them, they were only too glad to go to their rooms for a while.  They went quietly and willingly, closing their doors behind them, and ended up staying in their rooms for hours because they rediscovered a previously forgotten favourite book or toy.  Personally, I always think that the whole purpose of sending them to their rooms was defeated when I actually had to convince them to come out again.

Anyway, after much deliberation and discussion, my husband and I developed a new style of parenting.  We call it the WWF parenting style.  I know, it sounds a bit violent, but although bodyslamming and choke holds might sound pretty tempting in some parental situations, our style isn’t actually related in any way, shape or form to wrestling or physical violence.  Our parenting method is “Whatever Works, Fine”. 

We actually stumbled upon it by accident when our son was beginning his quest for independence at the age of 7 months (when he started to crawl).  We had friends who babyproofed their entire family rooms, putting those special safety plugs in the electrical sockets, moving breakables above baby level, blocking off the doors.  I was in one house where the parents went so far as to remove every object from their family room, except an old sofa and the box of baby toys.  We felt this was a rather drastic step to take, so we decided we would leave our home as it was and deal with babyproofing as necessary.  We found ourselves weighing the value and the potential for inflicting injury of every item we owned, especially as our son started teething.  If he was chewing on the furniture or on a book, we intervened.  If it was a dishtowel or a spoon, more often than not, we’d say “WWF.” 

I confess, WWF parenting is not actually an original concept.  It all goes back to common sense.  We ask ourselves a series of questions; for instance, if a child is playing with an object other than a toy, we ask “Is my child likely to damage the object?” and “Is the object likely to damage my child?”  If the answer to both questions is “No” (assuming you are not unrealistically trusting your toddler with your mother-in-law’s favourite Royal Doulton figurine), then we say “if the kid is happy, and if he’s not causing any damage to anything, WWF”.

Admittedly, the WWF parenting style, like most others, has its limitations.  One absolute necessity is keeping it a secret from your children.  Once they know what “WWF” means, the jig is up.  And if used indiscriminately by parents, the WWF method can actually produce children who are, in modern terminology, entitled, and prone to temper tantrums when they don’t get their own way. The temptation is to say “Whatever Works, Fine” in every situation, from shopping for the latest brand name blue jeans with your adolescent daughter, to giving a child candy before dinner to keep him happy.  The real purpose of the WWF method is to prevent parents from overreacting to situations without good reason.  To go back to the teething child, is there any good reason that he shouldn’t chew on your dishtowel?  If it’s clean and it’s relatively lint-free, then no, there isn’t.  Our WWF method is merely an attempt at preventing us from becoming the kind of parents whose automatic response to any request or action from our children is “No.”

Those parenting books really did look pretty good on our bookshelf.  And there have been situations where we have referred to them, and even followed their advice.  However, our 96 years of combined parenting experience have proven to us that the best parenting method is still good, old-fashioned common sense.  WWF.

Summer Camp

For most of the years between ages 11 and 22, I spent parts of my summers at a church camp in Riding Mountain National Park, Manitoba. 

The camp was what you might call rustic.  I’m talking pit toilet rustic.  The nearest phone was 30 minutes away, and we only had electricity during the day when the generator ran (if it wasn't broken).  Hair dryers and electric razors and other electric accessories were not permitted.  We had no showers, so we washed in the lake.  Later, when I was hired as a summer staff person, I looked forward to my weekly visit to the resort town across the lake on my day off for a hot shower and a visit to the laundromat.  Our baseball diamond was in the middle of a swamp, and we didn’t have anything fancy like ziplines or horseback riding.  Running into a bear on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night was a very real possibility.  It probably wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. 

I loved it.

I don’t recall much about the history of the camp, although I know it was built by Manitoba Baptists in the 1940s.  I have seen photos of the first corduroy road that led into the camp site, and heard stories about hauling sand in to create a beach.  My history began with a girls’ camp, where I bonded with another girl over a butterfly while we were driving to the nearby buffalo compound in the back of a station wagon.  Forty years later, we are still best friends.  I spent subsequent summers as a camper, then a volunteer counsellor, and eventually, a full-time summer employee. 

My memories of camp were rekindled the other day when I picked up a novel from the bookstore’s bargain table called The Firelight Girls, by Kaya McLaren.  It was a light summer read, certainly not Pulitzer-worthy, but the attraction was that it was about a group of women who gather to clean up and permanently close their beloved summer camp.

My camp, Camp Shänti, was built at the west end of Clear Lake, in Riding Mountain National Park. It faced eastward, toward the lake, and was surrounded on its other sides by trees of the boreal forest – spruce, jackpine, and a few aspens.  One of the Park’s hiking trails was supposed to pass through the camp, but it was almost always impassable because of the swamp just down the shore from us.  Bears often passed through the camp, occasionally investigating the garbage pit behind the kitchen and necessitating the placement of bear traps by Parks Canada, and in the late summer, we would begin to hear bugling bull elks looking for mates.  Occasionally we would hear wolves calling as we drifted off to sleep, and we frequently heard loons calling to each other.

Unfortunately, the camp was built on land that had been established as an Anishinabe fishing reserve, which had been taken from them when the Park was established in the 1930s.  After the camp closed, the land was returned to its rightful owners, and now it is part of the Keeseekoowenin First Nation.  Even while the camp was still operating, Anishinabe people would appear a couple of times each summer, and stage a peaceful protest, sitting on the lakeshore, affirming their presence on the land. Being young and white and ignorant, we generally felt threatened by their presence.  As a more educated adult, one of my biggest regrets is that we were so reluctant to engage them in conversation or attempt to create understanding and mutual respect.

Camp was full of amazing and wonderful and exciting experiences.  There was the time we went for a hike in the nearby forest and got lost.  Our leader was almost hysterical, even though we eventually ended up on a road.  We campers sensed adventure, and acted accordingly.  The time that some of the boys wandered off the trail during another hike in a rugged part of the Park and were well and truly lost for several hours.  The occasional road trips to the nearby bison enclosure, always filled with the anticipation of spotting the massive creatures.  On one trip, we encountered them up close and personal, turning a corner to discover that the bison were blocking the foot path that led from the parking lot to the interpretive area.  Overnight trips away from the camp, usually involving canoeing to a group campsite along the south shore of the lake, and almost always including high waves and winds and an eventual canoe rescue, the day ending with banana boats made in the fire and sleeping under the stars.  Countless campfires, songs and skits.  May long weekend camps when there was still ice on the lake; one memorable camp where we all hiked down the road to the “Indian Cemetery” after dark, and a couple of the boys decided it would be funny to pretend someone had been hanged from a tree.  I’m pretty sure some of the girls still get hysterical when they recall it.  The camp personalities, most favourite of whom I’m sure was Percy, who used to start every day by singing “Oh how I hate to get up in the morning” at the top of his lungs (and not particularly well!).  And the counsellor hunts, and the time my best friend fell off the bell tower where she was hiding and the camp director put Absorbine Jr. on her bruises (note: Absorbine Jr. is NOT an effective treatment for bruises, but it does bring out their various hues in a most spectacular way).  Off-site trips to a nearby neighbour’s cottage for special campfires.  And in the last summer, trail riding and wagon rides at a nearby guest ranch. 

And I must not forget the food adventures.  Our cooks were generally shall we say frugal, and the gobs of leftover porridge found its way into all kinds of unexpected dishes (as an aside, coming from a home where my dad regularly made the most delicious porridge, the cold, lumpy, gooey camp porridge remains one of the biggest disappointments of my camping experience).  We were once served spaghetti with no sauce.  One year someone donated jello mixes to the camp – root beer, watermelon and cotton candy.  Let’s just say that the jello found alternate uses.  Although the food was generally not very popular, the freezers full of home-baked cookies donated by Baptist ladies from all over the province were in high demand (my favourites were the monster cookies, which I discovered later were hoarded and saved for the “staff meetings” after lights out). 

Other events like Utensil meals, banquets, skit nights, water games, the year our lifeguard swam across the lake just because, pranks, homesick kids, chores, crushes, water fights, silly games (Train or Lighthouse, anyone?), nature, wicked thunderstorms, bunkbeds, canoeing lessons, newspaper-filled cabins and cars, and as the women in The Firelight Girls reminded me, moths and spiders and the ever-present smell of Pine-Sol in the toilets... so many memories...

The most life-changing thing that happened to me at camp was that my relationship with a certain man evolved to the point that during one particular day off, which we spent together, we became engaged.  The day itself involved the not-very-romantic task of doing laundry in town, followed by a totally unromantic dinner at a local pizza place seated next to a very large table of young families, with children who cried and wailed and whined throughout the entire meal.  However, it ended with a drive at dusk to a nearby scenic lake, where he popped the question (and I use that term purposely, because he later admitted that it was almost completely spontaneous).  On the drive back to the camp, we spotted a large bull moose grazing in a stream, and we stopped and watched him for several minutes.  I think it was a good omen; 31 years later, we’re still married.

Anyone who has fallen in love with summer camp will understand some of the universal experiences of camp.  There is the connection to the natural world, the camaraderie of living with a dozen or so other cabin mates, the freedom of being away from your family and the usual routines of life.  I always felt it was a sanctuary, but I never really considered that for many children, maybe it truly was an actual sanctuary, a safe haven.  In The Firelight Girls, one of the characters grows up with an abusive parent, and she reflects on the meaning of the camp in her life: 

     It was a completely safe place.  She kept expecting the feeling to pass, but it lasted while she lay on a warm boulder and let the radiance of the sun’s heat thaw her.  It lasted while they pitched tents, made dinner, and sang songs together.  It lasted as the talk of girleating bears gave way to snoring.  It lasted into the night and sank deep into her dreams, so that for once they were good.  She even woke up feeling safe and protected in this secret world.
    As the other girls rolled up sleeping bags and tents, seemingly both surprised and relieved that they had survived the night without being eaten by wild animals, Laura felt grief.  She didn’t want to go.  She never wanted to leave this sanctuary where she was hidden and protected from everything sick and mean and ugly.

I was never aware of campers who might have come from situations that were less than ideal, but I was young and naive, as were most of the other staff.  I only hope that for those kids whose lives felt “sick and mean and ugly,” the time they spent at camp gave them a reprieve, a sanctuary, and the strength to survive.

I spent one last summer at the Camp, the summer after I was married.  My husband was the director of the camp.  I knew that since we were moving to Ontario that September that we were not likely to return for several years, so I decided that instead of working at the camp, I would live there as the director’s spouse, with no responsibilities.  It gave me the opportunity to say goodbye to my heart’s home, although we did not foresee at the time that the camp would never operate at that location again. 

One of my most special memories of camp occurred during that last summer. 

Usually every summer, one camp consisted mainly of young First Nations children from Winnipeg.  These camps were always a challenge.  This particular camp was more challenging than usual.  The children were unenthusiastic about the activities that the staff had planned for the week, and unresponsive.  After a couple of days, the staff met to reconsider its approach, and decided to scrap their plans and try something different.  One of the highlights was taking the kids off-site to the bison compound.  Most of these children had never seen live bison before, since they were city kids, but the response when they encountered these animals, so important to their culture and history, was palpable.  The other highlight was a day spent completely in the water – canoeing, swimming, and water Olympics.

One white girl was not happy to be at camp.  She had attended camp in the past and had always been a bit of a handful, but during this particular camp she was downright unpleasant.  She spent part of her time bullying one of the First Nations boys who was small for his age.  One evening after supper, we were all heading from the dining hall towards the cabins, and we saw the girl wander off to the end of the dock.  She was obviously crying.  We were debating what we would do when we saw the boy veer off toward the dock as well.  We stopped and watched, and received a lesson in true compassion from a boy who most likely had not received much compassion himself during his young life.  Not one of us would have blamed him if he had gone up to the girl and pushed her off the dock into the lake.  Instead, he gently approached her, and when he was beside her, he stretched out his little hand and took her hand in his.  He stayed with her, silent, until she had stopped crying. 

Camp meant so many things to me.  I loved the people I met, the natural surroundings, the place.  I loved the fact that everyone had favourite cabins and counsellors.  I loved the familiarity of the place; as one of the characters in the novel muses, “There was something profoundly comforting about places a person knew in the dark, these trails like old friends she hadn’t forgotten.  The young trees had grown.  They looked different.  But it felt the same.”  Camp was home for my spirit, the place that, as another character says, housed my essence.  There was nothing like the anticipation of driving down the back road for the first time each summer, passing the Indian Cemetery, driving through the tall trees, and finally, at last, rounding the last corner and catching the first glimpse of the lake and then the camp.

I wonder if it would feel the same to me, even though the trees have grown and the buildings have been removed.  I wonder if I would remember to avoid that big tree root that was by the Chapel, or be able to find where the campfire used to be.  One day, maybe I will muster the courage to ask the Keeseekoowenin Band for permission to find out.  In the meantime, I treasure my memories about camp, and tomorrow, I will mail a copy of The Firelight Girls to my best friend.  

 

Help me understand....

Once again this week, there has been disturbing news of gun violence in the U.S.  Police officers shooting black men.  And then people targetting and killing police officers in retaliation.

I am not an American, and I admit, I truly do not understand the passionate appeal of the gun culture.  I am not completely anti-gun.  I have worked for a provincial Fish & Wildlife department and I have lived in the country.  I know that hunting is necessary, for subsistence for some people, and for conservation when a particular species becomes too plentiful.  I know that there are times on a farm when it is necessary to humanely put an animal out of its misery.  But personally, I do not need a gun.  I do not own a gun.  I do not want a gun.  And I would definitely not fight to the death for my right to own a gun.  “From my cold, dead hands”?  There are many things you would have to pry out of my cold, dead hands, but a gun is not one of them.  I am happy that guns are licensed in Canada, and I am very happy that weapons that are meant for military purposes are restricted.  The sole purpose of the existence of guns is to kill people (or animals).  There is no secondary use.  Why is that worth fighting for?

That’s just half of the equation, though, isn’t it?  The other half is the prejudice and hatred that seem to be so prevalent in our society.  I also do not understand that.  Why does it matter if a person is black or white?  Or gay or straight?  Or female or male?  Or Jewish or Christian or Muslim?  Why can't we just all be humans?

Don't get me wrong.  Not for a minute am I suggesting that black people or gay people or women or indigenous peoples or poor people or others have not been marginalized or mistreated or suffered from other prejudices.  And I definitely am not suggesting that we forget or deny history, and that the injustices of the past do not matter.  I am not saying that a person’s race or gender or religion are not important.  Of course they are important.  They are part of what makes each of us unique, and part of our individual identities. 

And yes, I am approaching this as a white, middle-class woman, supposedly from a perspective of great advantage.  And my race and social status automatically cause anything I have to say to become irrelevant and insignificant.  And as hard as I try, I will never be able to truly comprehend the reality of people who are other than white and middle class.

But I want to understand.  I want to understand why it is that our politicians, in the 21st century, are so completely crippled when it comes to enacting legislation to create a justice system that is fair and just for everyone, equally.  I want to understand why it is that some people working in law enforcement and the justice system believe that they are above the law, and that black men, or mentally ill teenagers, or vulnerable women, can be treated differently than others.  I want to understand what makes it okay for citizens to arm themselves with lethal weapons and purposefully and intentionally kill the people that are supposed to protect them.  I want to understand what makes people strap bombs onto their bodies (or the bodies of someone else) with the intent and knowledge that those bombs will kill other people whose ideologies or nationalities or religions are different from theirs.  I want someone to explain to me how we got to the point where our right to defend ourselves against perceived threats, no matter how insignificant they are, or whether they are real or imaginary, trumps another person’s right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. 

I want to understand why we can’t see each other as fellow humans first, before we see the colour and the religion and the sexual orientation and the gender and the disability.  I want to be able to comprehend why some lives matter more than others.  I want to know why all these things divide us, and why we are so afraid of the “other-ness” of others.  I want to know why it seems that my empathy with people who are different from me is seen as not sincere because I am white and middle class.  I want to know how we can move from “cultural appropriation” to being able to celebrate other cultures with respect and honour.

I am filled with fear when I contemplate what level of tragedy it will ultimately take for us to seek peace and justice instead of fear and hatred.  Our society has survived Columbine, Oklahoma City, 9/11, Newton, Orlando, École Polytechnique, Moncton, La Loche, Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, and so many other tragedies that it is impossible to list them all. And each time, the politicians shed a tear or two, and talk about how terrible it all is.  And we wring our hands and wonder what can be done, but then our lives move on, basically unaffected.

And now we are faced with Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and Dallas.  There are more tears, more hand-wringing, and ultimately, nothing will change.  I don’t even want to consider what it will take for us to collectively truly seek change. 

Gordon Lightfoot wrote “Black Day in July” following the Detroit riots in 1967.  Nothing much seems to have changed for the better in the almost 50 years since. 

Black day in July
Motor city madness has touched the countryside
And through the smoke and cinders
You can hear it far and wide
The doors are quickly bolted
And the children locked inside

Black day in July
Black day in July
And the soul of Motor City is bared across the land
As the book of law and order is taken in the hands
Of the sons of the fathers who were carried to this land

Black day in July
Black day in July
In the streets of Motor City is a deadly silent sound
And the body of a dead youth lies stretched upon the ground
Upon the filthy pavement
No reason can be found

Black day in July
Black day in July
Motor City madness has touched the countryside
And the people rise in anger
And the streets begin to fill
And there's gunfire from the rooftops
And the blood begins to spill

Black day in July

In the mansion of the governor
There's nothing that is known for sure
The telephone is ringing
And the pendulum is swinging
And they wonder how it happened
And they really know the reason
And it wasn't just the temperature
And it wasn't just the season

Black day in July
Black day in July
Motor City's burning and the flames are running wild
They reflect upon the waters of the river and the lake
And everyone is listening
And everyone's awake

Black day in July
Black day in July
The printing press is turning
And the news is quickly flashed
And you read your morning paper
And you sip your cup of tea
And you wonder just in passing
Is it him or is it me

Black day in July

In the office of the President
The deed is done the troops are sent
There's really not much choice you see
It looks to us like anarchy
And then the tanks go rolling in
To patch things up as best they can
There is no time to hesitate
The speech is made the dues can wait

Black day in July
Black day in July
The streets of Motor City now are quiet and serene
But the shapes of gutted buildings
Strike terror to the heart
And you say how did it happen
And you say how did it start
Why can't we all be brothers
Why can't we live in peace
But the hands of the have-nots
Keep falling out of reach

Black day in July
Black day in July
Motor city madness has touched the countryside
And through the smoke and cinders
You can hear it far and wide
The doors are quickly bolted
And the children locked inside

Songwriter: Gordon Lightfoot
Black Day In July lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

No, I do not understand why we cannot look at our differences as things worthy of respect and celebration.  At some point, we need to move beyond the bewilderment of the disparities of our society.  My life as a white, heterosexual, married, female, mother, daughter, aunt, cousin, stay-at-home mom matters.  And your life matters just as much as mine, whether you are black, Hispanic, Chinese, gay, bisexual, Muslim, Christian, male, female, big or little. Why indeed can’t we just all live as brothers and sisters, and live in peace? 

I do not know what the answer is on the larger scale.  But as I contemplated all of this today, I needed this reminder that showed up on Facebook:

Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.

Do justly, now.
Love mercy, now.
Walk humbly, now.

You are not obligated to complete the work.
But neither are you free to abandon it.

Appreciation?

"Being told you are appreciated is one of the simplest and most incredible things you can ever hear.”

That is a quotation that popped up in my Facebook feed this week.  And at this particular moment, it resonated with me quite deeply.

I have been an active volunteer for most of my life, starting in school when I was a member of various student councils.  Most of my volunteering has happened in the town where I presently live, beginning in my children’s Play School, then Home & School, and then various town and church committees and Boards.  At times, I have become overcommitted, and at other times, I have had to take a step back because of other things happening in my life.  It’s fair to say that I have generally found my participation in community groups rewarding and fulfilling, although not always without challenges. 

I do not volunteer with the expectation that people will fall at my feet with gratitude.  I volunteer because I believe that a particular issue or cause is important, because I enjoy being involved with my community, I enjoy interacting and planning and discussing issues and ideas with other community members, and I learn about other people, perspectives and communities.

Just a couple of months ago, I resigned from two organizations with which I have been involved for several years.  In the first one, I was a Board member for about 10 years.  I was the founding Chair of two of its committees and a member of others.  I particularly  enjoyed chairing one committee; its members were a diverse mix of dynamic and creative members, and there were many invigorating discussions and exciting ideas.  It is possibly the most enriching committee I have been involved with. However, after a disturbing and insulting e-mail conversation with a fellow Board member, it became clear to me that I could no longer work within this Board, specifically with this Board member, and I offered my resignation, a painful decision.

The second resignation was from a church committee.  I have been involved with this group almost as long.  We were a small committee, but we had many discussions and ideas about issues that were important to us, and that we believed should be important dialogues within a faith community. 

Last year, the church reorganized its governance structure to get rid of traditional committees.  The church leaders believed that it would work better to have small, time-limited commitments to specific events, rather than term commitments to formal committees.  Our committee, after some discussion, decided to remain intact.  We were subsequently referred to in a written report as a  “resistant” group.  Instead of celebrating that there was at least one group of people who actually were dedicated enough to commit to regular meetings and leadership, and instead of encouraging us, uplifting us, and supporting us, the leaders considered us irritants, “resistant” to their way of doing things.  This attitude was reflected in a lack of support for the initiatives that fuelled our passions through actions such as the loss of a dedicated budget for our committee, and simple things like repeatedly not including announcements about our events in the church bulletins.  That fleeting comment in the report (which was written after I resigned) reflects the frustration and isolation that I experienced, which ultimately led me to step away from the committee, and, for the time being, from the church. 

It’s true, it is gratifying to be told that you are appreciated.  But although expressions of appreciation might have gone a small distance to making me feel as if the past 10 years of my life haven’t been a complete waste of time, as another quotation says, “talk is cheap.”  Words can be powerful, but they can also be meaningless if they are said as an afterthought,  with a lack of sincerity, or merely because it is expected.  Perhaps another popular idiom, “actions speak louder than words,” is more à propos.

Honestly, I am bitter about these two experiences.  My involvement with both of these groups was meaningful to me, and together, we accomplished a lot of good things.  It is hurtful that others did not feel the same.  I suppose in some ways, this is a cathartic post, an attempt to put my feelings into some kind of perspective.  And I don’t really have any words of wisdom to offer.  I think I feel a little bit as if a significant relationship has gone sour.  You put your energy into building a relationship with an organization (and the people in it), you work at it, invest yourself in it, but at some point, the relationship becomes damaged beyond repair, and you feel you have no choice but to walk away.

Maybe in the end, it is about hope.  Hope that the bitterness and sadness will pass, and another “relationship” will come along that will be mutually fulfilling and beneficial.  Hope that what I have learned from my past experiences, good and bad, will shape me into a better person, a better volunteer, a better committee member.  In the meantime, I am proud of and grateful for the many interesting events and discussions and ideas in which I had the privilege to share.

So after I take some time to regroup, I expect I will be back out there, and I will find other opportunities.  When I do, I think I will have a slightly different attitude.  I will be a bit more cautious and judicious about how I choose to expend my energies and with whom, certainly.  I think I will be more open and honest about frustrations, and maybe I will be less patient and less diplomatic (not sure if that’s a good thing).  Finally, I hope that I will be able to express my appreciation for the contributions that others make, certainly through words when that is appropriate, but also through my actions.

In Defence of Motherhood (and Mother's Day)

In the lead-up to Mother’s Day in recent years, it seems there are plenty of articles, blogs, and reflections about all that is wrong about Mother’s Day as we observe it.  One particularly poignant post I read reflected on how having a day to celebrate mothers dehumanizes women who do not have children and makes them feel like failures.  Even Anne Lamott, who I really respect, has written a scathing attack on Mother’s Day and mothering.  Those articles have stayed with me, and I admit that I have some very mixed feelings. 

First of all, some disclaimers.

Disclaimer #1: My family isn’t really into over-the-top celebrations.  Our wedding was pretty low key, we rarely had big traditional birthday parties for our kids, and even Christmas, compared to almost everyone else, is, for us, mostly a time to slow down, rest, relax and be together.  I am not a creative decorator, and although I love to cook and bake, it is a stretch for me to make any of those wonderfully dramatic birthday cakes you see on Pinterest (or at almost any other kid’s birthday party).

Mother’s Day, especially, is almost non-existent in our family, because it almost always falls on Convocation weekend, the busiest weekend in my husband’s professional life.  I’m lucky if I see him for more than a couple of  hours from Friday morning until Monday night.  Because of this, fairly early on, my husband and children decided that they would have a “surprise” Mother’s Day for me, so it happened any time between the beginning of May and the middle of June, and usually consisted of cards, chocolate, small gifts, and maybe breakfast in bed. 

Disclaimer #2: I am not one of those women who will threaten to leave my husband if I don’t get a new piece of jewellery or a spa day every anniversary or birthday or Mother’s Day.  For one thing, we are not in that income bracket.  But mostly, that’s just not who I am.  My family knows that all I really want on Mother’s Day, or any day, for that matter, is a nice piece of chocolate and a little bit of love (or this year, some really cheesy garlic fingers and pizza).  So I am not defending the commercial idea of Mother’s Day as a day to get me some new bling.

Disclaimer #3: I love being a mother.  It is the most honest thing I’ve ever done.  Being a mother has changed me in a thousand ways that I could list for you, and probably another thousand ways that I’m not even aware of.  I have never regretted our decision to have children, and, although it has been difficult financially and socially at times, I have never regretted my decision to stay home with my kids.

However...

In these days of political correctness and radical inclusiveness, there are a few attitudes about “motherhood” that make me feel defensive and apologetic and guilty, sometimes all at the same time.

First, and most annoying as far as I am concerned, I am constantly informed that having a “furbaby” is as valid a form of motherhood as having a human baby.  Really?  Does a “furbaby” come home crying from school because the other “furbabies” were mean to it?  Or because a “furboyfriend/girlfriend” just broke up with it?  Do “furbabies” spend a lot of time stressed out because of all the wicked things that happen in the world, and all the choices that lie in front of them, and all the pressures to succeed?  Do “furbabies” suffer with mental health issues?  I apologize; I realize that pets are important parts of people’s lives, and I do not want to minimize the very significant impact that pets can have on a family.  But it doesn’t matter how much you love your pets or how much you attempt to humanize them, having a pet is nothing like having a child.  Nothing.  And I am insulted by the inference that parenthood is that simple.

Second, some discussions about how Mother’s Day affects women without children make me feel guilty and apologetic.  And resentful for feeling that way.  I once attended a church service on Mother’s Day where the (female, unmarried and childless) minister spoke bitterly about how alienating Mother’s Day was for her, as she had neither children nor a good relationship with her own mother, and how insensitive and selfish it was for mothers to basically flaunt their motherhood in the faces of those women who were not mothers.  She made it appear that not having children was somehow a massive failure, and she made me feel guilty and selfish for having children and a husband when she did not.  I admit, I was angry after that sermon.  Instead of taking the opportunity to talk about the nurturing and yes, mothering qualities that a healthy church and community should have, and instead of acknowledging and encouraging and supporting the young mothers in the congregation, she left me (at least) feeling that I needed to apologize for my choices to marry and have children.  (And here I insert Disclaimer #4 – I would be very happy if churches did not “celebrate” Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.  But if they have to, there are plenty of ways that they could be much more theological about it). 

Let me be perfectly clear.  My heart breaks for those women (and men) who have lost babies and children, or who desire children but cannot have them.  I weep with those parents whose children have gone down dark roads, or who suffer from debilitating and life-threatening illnesses.  I completely understand that the way our society “does” Mother’s Day can be alienating and hurtful for many women, for various reasons. 

But although I empathize with these women, I do not believe that their circumstances should minimize my own mothering.  I have been fortunate.  I have a loving and supportive partner in parenting, and my children have (so far) been healthy, mostly happy, and are now independent and following their own life paths.  But being a mother is bloody hard sometimes, and I suspect that for many, many mothers, it is done without any encouragement, validation or recognition.

I have friends who don’t have children, including an aunt and one of my closest friends.  Though they might not realize it, they have each “mothered” and nurtured and supported me and my children significantly.   I do not think less of them because they do not have children.  Their lives are not any less meaningful or real or fulfilled than mine.

Third, among modern mothers, there is a great deal of tension.  It seems to me that in recent years, motherhood has become much more polarizing.  On one end of the spectrum, we have the “good mothers.”  They use cloth diapers, breastfeed exclusively as long as possible, feed their babies organic homemade baby food, and they practice “attachment parenting,” “co-sleeping” and “baby-wearing.”  They are super-involved in their kids’ schools, sports teams, play groups, and well, their entire lives.  On the other end of the spectrum, there are the “bad mothers”: those who use formula and disposable diapers, who stock up on store-bought baby food, and who plant their kids in front of the tv with a bowl of potato chips because they JUST. NEED. FIFTEEN. MINUTES. OF. PEACE.  Or, as in Winnipeg recently, they let their children play outdoors UNSUPERVISED.  Or even worse, they go back to work and their children are left in the care of others.  Motherhood has become a competition, a judgmental battle of moral (and economic) superiority.

The Conflict: How Modern Motherhood Undermines the Status of Women, written by French feminist Elisabeth Badinter in 2010, discusses this last point.  She looks at motherhood through a completely feminist lens and argues that the zealous dedication of modern mothers actually “tethers” them to their homes and children to an extent that hasn’t been seen since the 1950s, before modern feminism really took root.  Although I disagreed with much of what she wrote, I found myself agreeing with much of it too.  Badinter argues that the choices that modern day “good mothers” make have actually marked a significant regression in women’s rights.  She writes “... there is no denying that male domination persists... [Women’s] increased responsibility for babies and young children has proved just as restrictive, if not more so, than sexism in the home or in the workplace... The tyranny of maternal duty is not new, but it has become considerably more pronounced with the rise of naturalism, and it has thus far produced neither a matriarchy nor sexual equality, but rather a regression in women’s status.  We have agreed to this regression in the name of moral superiority, the love we bear for our children, and some ideal notion of child rearing, all of which are proving far more effective than external constraints... there is nothing quite like voluntary servitude.  And men have not had to lift a finger to accomplish this fall.  The best allies of men’s dominance have been, quite unwittingly, innocent children” (pp 96-97).  In other words, if I am interpreting her correctly, the way that modern mothers choose to be mothers, dedicating themselves completely to every need of their children, is actually detracting from struggles towards equality, and supporting “male domination” in our society. 

That’s a pretty provocative statement, and as a woman who chose to stay at home with her children (and who breastfed, used cloth diapers, and made baby food), my initial reaction was pretty negative.  But after some reflection, I think her point is that the modern motherhood movement seems to have lost all sense of balance and common sense.  Many modern mothers have dedicated themselves to their children to the extent that they have lost their own identities and any sense of being independent people.  In doing so, we create children who feel entitled to having every moment of attention focussed on them, from the day they are born, because we make sure that every need is immediately met, they have the best of everything, and every possible intervention is provided, even if it isn’t really needed.  We raise children who are incapable of becoming independent adults without a great deal of assistance. Motherhood should include, as Signe Hammer wrote, “taking care of someone who is dependent and at the same time supporting that person in his or her efforts to become independent.”  And even though Badinter is more concerned with the status of feminism than she is with family dynamics, I think we can also agree that these expectations of what makes a “good” modern mother has created a huge disconnect among parents, women who can afford to stay at home with their children and those who can’t, those who believe their place in the working world is as valid as their place in the home and those who choose to stay at home, and among mothers of different socio-economic groups.

If I was a young mum today, I’d definitely be at the “bad” end of the scale.  I chose an obstetrician over a midwife and had my babies in hospitals.  My kids thrived on a schedule, including feeding, they slept in their own rooms from the beginning, in a cradle and then a crib, and although I believe in the power (and the importance) of baby snuggles, I was not a baby-wearer.  I would not have been able to cope otherwise, not because my children were demanding, but because that is not who I am.  I made the choices, with my husband, that I believed were the best ones for me and my family, and I regret none of them.

Would I care if society “cancelled” Mother’s Day?  Honestly, I wouldn’t.  But I have two great kids and a husband and a whole network of people out there, women and men, who consistently affirm me as a mother AND a woman.  There are many mothers who are raising children by themselves.  Or who have kids who are sick.  Or kids (or spouses or others) who treat them with disrespect or are rude and sassy.  Or families and networks that are just not supportive.  Instead of competing with each other, and discussing who is doing it “right” and who is doing it “wrong,” we should be encouraging each other, and respecting the judgment and ability of women to make the decisions that are right for them, and for their children, even if they are not the decisions we would make ourselves. 

So here’s my bottom line.  Motherhood is not easy.  It isn’t always rewarding.  One day a year to honour the nurturing and loving qualities of mothers, and everything that is good about motherhood, doesn’t seem like a lot to ask.

On Mother’s Day, I will celebrate those women who have been mothers to me, first and foremost, my own mother, but also my mother-in-law, my aunts, my friends, and all the other women in my life.  I will celebrate my own motherhood, the joys and blessings, the challenges, the many ways motherhood has changed me for the better.  I will celebrate, and say a prayer for, the mums who are struggling or who feel that they are failing, but still wake up every morning determined to do the best that they can for their families.  I will celebrate the fact that every one of us, male or female, mothers or not, has the capacity to “mother” children through kindness, hugs, snuggles, reading to a child, listening and caring.  I will celebrate the presence of so many wonderful “mothers” in my life and in my children’s lives.  I will celebrate the legacy of my grandmothers and my great-grandmothers, women who were pioneers and truly knew what it was to sacrifice for their families, women of strong faith and strong character. 2019 Edit: I will also celebrate refugee mothers, who have left everything behind, their kinship networks, their customs, their homes, who have faced the unknown and unfamiliar future in a strange country for the sake of their children, sometimes with their husbands and sometimes without, with strength and courage and generosity. 


Happy Mother’s Day.

Motherhood brings as much joy as ever, but it still brings boredom, exhaustion, and sorrow too.  Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality – especially while you struggle to keep your own.
        – Marguerite Kelly and Elia Parsons

Kitimat

I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately, and this morning I was listening to some music that took me back to my childhood.  Specifically, it took me to Grades 2-5 in the northern British Columbia community of Kitimat, in the 1970s.

Music and Kitimat are tied together for me.  Our music teacher’s idea of “teaching” music was basically to print out the words to all the top hits of the day and have us read them as he played the recordings.  Some of the songs I remember are Cher’s “Cherokee People” and “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves”, “Raindrops keep falling on my head” by BJ Thomas, “Sweet City Woman” by the Stampeders, “I can see clearly now”, “Black and white”, and most significantly for me, Gordon Lightfoot’s “If you could read my mind” (he has been my go-to favourite ever since).  I was also in a large children’s choir in my church, eventually moving up to the more select Girl’s Choir.  And I started piano lessons while we lived in Kitimat.  When I hear hits from the early 70s, I think of Kitimat.

Kitimat is an industrial town at the head of the Douglas Channel, literally at the end of the road, built in the midst of old growth forests in the 1950s by Alcan to facilitate the production and transportation of aluminum.  When I lived there, Eurocan also operated a pulp and paper mill.  The factories were well out of town, but occasionally, the scents of industrialization wafted over our neighbourhood.  It is coastal, but so far up the Channel that it is actually quite a distance inland from the open Pacific.  Kitimat is almost completely surrounded by mountains, except for the sliver of the Channel. 

My dad was the minister of the Baptist Church.  It was a well attended, active, multi-generational church, mainly post-war German immigrants hired to work at the aluminum smelter.  There was also a small group of Portuguese immigrants.  Kitimat is where I was introduced to Portuguese sweet bread, fisherman’s stew, homemade German Black Forest Cake, and Rouladen (I also associate Kitimat with very good food).  We had a lot of fun at church in Kitimat, and at Christmastime, I remember the glorious carol singing and the beauty of the advent wreath which was suspended (magically, it seemed to me) in midair at the front.

Moving from southeastern Saskatchewan to northern coastal British Columbia represented, to say the least, a massive change of scenery.  We went from almost endless sunshine and blue sky to short days and a lot of rain.  Wikipedia says about Kitimat that it “has a very wet oceanic climate, albeit close to continental with significant temperature difference between winters and summers. The winters hover around the freezing mark, bringing snow.”  You could say that.  In fact, one of the winters that we lived in Kitimat, it snowed almost 40 feet over the winter, and we had a record snowfall of 112 cm in 24 hours in February 1972.  The snow was wet and heavy, perfect for kids who liked to build snow forts and tunnels, but not so perfect for people who couldn’t get the snow removed from their roofs quickly enough.  I can recall climbing up the snowbank to the top of our roof and sledding down the other side to the street level.   I also recall hearing about people whose roofs collapsed under the weight of the snow. 

We moved from the wide open prairies to tall dark forests and mountains.  The wildlife was different (there are no grizzly bears in the prairies, and no antelope in the mountains).   The food was different (fresh coho salmon, oolichan and halibut).  The adventures were much different.  My memories include afternoons spent hunting mushrooms in the forest, exploring abandoned mine sites in the mountains, and I still have some fossils and petrified wood that we found around Kitimat.  One of my uncles and his family lived down the highway a bit in Prince George.  We took advantage of their summer cottage at Cluculz Lake, where I caught my first fish and saw cougars in the wild (the first and only time in my life).  The drive from Kitimat to Prince George, through the Skeena River Valley past the Seven Sisters Mountains, was breathtakingly beautiful.  One of our favourite stops along the way was at the nearby hot springs at Lakelse.  There’s nothing quite like sitting in an outdoor pool in a swimsuit in the middle of winter.  Another favourite stop was near Hazelton at the ‘Ksan Historical Village and its totem poles and beautifully decorated houses.  Kitimat is in the traditional territory of the Haisla people, and I think it was probably here that I first became aware of traditions and cultures of some of Canada’s indigenous peoples.

I went from attending a traditional prairie town school with 4 grades (a 2 storey building with a central hall and 2 classrooms on each side of the hall), to a large, relatively modern school with grades from Kindergarten to grade 6.  I think it must have been a pretty good school; although the music programme was lacking in actual teaching, we had an awesome art class, including a real working pottery wheel and kiln, and I have a scar on my leg from a third degree burn I suffered in grade 4 chemistry when we were boiling something in flasks over open bunsen burners.  We had real gymnastics equipment and I can recall being airborne over the trampoline.

Kitimat is also where I first remember experiencing loss.  Although my beloved grandmother died two years before we moved to Kitimat, I do not recall my reaction to her death beyond a feeling of bewilderment.  In Kitimat, the teenaged sister of a classmate committed suicide, a man from the church fell off a boat and drowned, and a woman who was very active in the church, and a friend of my mother’s, died in a fatal car accident.  Her daughter, who was around my age, was seriously injured.  This is where I became aware of the tenuousness of life, and correspondingly, the importance of making the most of each new day.

I have no idea what Kitimat is like now.  I haven’t been back since we moved; it isn’t an easy place to get to.  But I recall my experiences there, my friends, my school, the scenery, my neighbourhood with a great deal of fondness.  One day, I would like to go back and see Kitimat through adult eyes.  In the meantime, I’ll continue to be reminded of my life in Kitimat whenever I hear hits from the 70s.

An Amazing Experience

I want to share an amazing experience with you.

In September, the world was shocked and horrified by images of the small dead body of Aylan Kurdi, the 3-year-old Syrian boy who drowned with his mother, Rehana, and brother, Galib, as they tried to flee from Syria via Turkey to Europe, hoping eventually to end up in Vancouver.  There were the to-be-expected reactions, people who felt it was inappropriate to publish images of dead children, people who wrung their hands and said “What is the world coming to?”, and I’m sure there were many people who also felt that this problem was much too big for me to handle and nothing will change so I’m just going to forget about this and move on with problems I can solve.

But for some reason, the photos of this dead child, and the fact that his family had been trying to reach Canada for years, really galvanized many people.  For me, it began with a dinner conversation with my husband, asking each other if there was anything we could do to help make sure that there are no more photos of dead babies washing up on the shores.  We knew we couldn’t do anything on our own, as much as we wanted to.  So we decided to call a Town Meeting, open to the public, to see if there was anyone else in our town who felt the same way we did, and to see if we might work together to offer a refugee Syrian family a new home and new hope.

We have lived in this small town of 5500 people (plus 2200 university students) for 22 years, and we know that there are many gracious, warm-hearted, generous people living here.  We hoped that perhaps there might be 40 or 50 people who would show up.  In reality, we expected about 25.  After all, people are busy raising children, volunteering, working at their careers, and a myriad of other things.  We hoped that maybe, with a small group of people, we might be able to raise enough money over several months to eventually bring a family to our town.

The meeting was called for a Sunday night in late September.  Almost 100 people showed up, and another dozen or so contacted us to say that they were unable to attend but they wanted to help.  At the end of that meeting, which included information about the Syrian situation and refugee sponsorship, the gathered community members were asked to consider 3 questions:  Is sponsoring a family in Sackville the right way to proceed?  Do we have here and beyond, the collective will to support a family?  And if yes, should we form a Steering Committee?

I waited with bated breath as the crowd contemplated and discussed these questions in small groups.  And then my husband asked the group to reassemble, and the answers were given.  Each question received an overwhelming and resounding “yes.”  And that’s not all.  The crowd enthusiastically endorsed consideration of sponsoring not just one family, but two or maybe even three.

Shortly after, the Steering Group was organized, with my husband as Chair, and me as a member, and we got things underway to figure out how to finance and support a refugee family.  The Steering Committee has met weekly, we have held two additional public meetings,  and several working groups have been formed and tasked with specific responsibilities such as fundraising, communications, housing, welcoming and orientation, to name a few.  At the moment, we have almost 100 people actively working on those committees, with more people becoming involved every day.

Two months later, we have raised enough money to submit our first application, and almost certainly by the end of the year, we will have enough for a second application.

This in itself isn’t overly remarkable.  In many other small towns in Canada and probably elsewhere in the world, similar things are happening.

We live in a small university town.  While our students and our townspeople generally get along well, it is fair to say that there has been a bit of a rocky history between Town and Gown in recent years.  The university is a major employer and the professors are largely CFAs (Come From Aways) and have a higher level of education than the average townie.  Occasionally, this causes some resentment, although townspeople are quick to admit that the town benefits in many ways by having the university here.  Because the university is full of experts and scholars, sometimes projects which are supposed to be collaborative turn into projects that are highly directed and influenced by the university.

So when we decided to host our first public meeting, at the University Chapel, we wanted to make sure that we emphasized from the first minute that although we were hoping the university community and the University itself would be active and engaged participants, this was not meant to be a University Project.  If it was to succeed, it would have to be a truly collaborative venture involving many different aspects of the town. 

In that context, one of the things that makes this coalition so remarkable is the high degree of collaboration, excitement, and dare I say, even camaraderie within our community.  Almost everyone wants to participate, to “do their bit,” to the point that people have spotted my husband walking in town and pulled over in their cars so they could jump out and volunteer for something.  Our committees have ordinary folks from the town working side by side with university administrators, students working with clergy, retired folks working with young professionals, professors working with store clerks.  This level of collaboration is, I believe, practically unheard in our town.

Another thing that moves me is just how many people with specific skills have volunteered to participate.  A retired quartermaster is helping head up the committee responsible for collecting, organizing and storing household items.  How great is that?  Freelance journalists and writers have volunteered to organize communications.  Artists have designed wordmarks to make our name immediately recognizable and produced cards and letterhead for us to use.  A number of Arabic speakers have volunteered their translation services.  Who knew there would be more than one Arabic speaker in a small Maritime town??  One of the people on our Steering Committee has just recently retired from a career working with Citizenship and Immigration Canada.  Her area of work?  Helping process refugees. 

My experience working on various committees is that they tend to be pretty insular.  A committee is formed to work on a project, the ideas generally come from within that small group of people, and reports are made to Boards or to organizations or to bigger committees.  There isn’t a lot of room for outsiders to actively participate unless they are specifically asked to do so by the committee, there’s not much opportunity for organic creativity from outside the committee.  This coalition, however, has inspired brilliantly creative initiatives from a variety of groups and individuals.  Our local Farmer’s Market, for example, recently had 100 canvas bags manufactured to promote the market.  They decided to sell these bags for $20 each.  That $20 will be turned into a $20 voucher for goods from the Farmer’s Market, and those vouchers will be turned over to our families for their use.  The Market vendors’ reasoning is that not only will the Farmer’s Market benefit from having increased publicity, as you would expect, but also – and the fact that they so carefully considered these things really touched me – that the new families would be introduced to good, local, fresh food, and most importantly, would be immediately enabled to begin to form relationships, not only with the vendors, but also with regular market-goers.  (And by the way, on their FIRST MORNING of sales, they sold 79 bags, and 4 days later, I hear there might not be any left). 

Other community groups have donated freewill offerings to our coalition.  A drama production commemorating Remembrance Day (our first influx of cash!) and a Christmas Concert by our local citizen’s band are only two examples.  Sunday school children made cookies and sold them at the last Midnight Madness.  Word is that the high school is holding a week long bake sale.  The university library is donating its book fines.  And the list goes on.

Individuals have made financial donations, big and small, and every dollar has helped.  Others have donated time and resources.  An expert knitter has volunteered to knit mittens and scarves, which will be much appreciated when our families arrive in the middle of a Canadian winter.  Some of the football players from the university have volunteered to help move furniture when the time comes.  People have volunteered to provide transportation, to care for children, to teach English and provide tutoring.  A former university student, who is from Syria, wants to be here when our first family arrives.  There are so many more examples of people filled with enthusiasm and goodwill, that it is truly overwhelming.

We do face challenges.  We don’t know what situation our families will come from, whether they will be dealing with the aftermath of trauma and violence.  We remind ourselves that they haven’t chosen to leave their homes, they simply didn’t have a choice; so while we are excited they are coming here, they will almost certainly have a mixture of feelings which includes sadness at the prospect of leaving their homeland forever.  They might decide that they want to live in a bigger centre, with a mosque if they are Muslim, or a place with more ethnic diversity.  And there are one or two citizens who are not happy to welcome refugee families, and they have gone out of their way to spread their ignorant bigotry to try to create hatred and fear in our town.

The good news is that the positives vastly outweigh the challenges.  The negative responses have been so negligible and almost pathetic (really, only one person consistently, out of the entire town) that they have done nothing to dampen the spirits of the rest of the community (in fact, I think they have made some of us more determined than ever).  And, as one of the Steering Committee members reminded us recently, these families are coming out of desperate situations.  Whether they successfully integrate into our town, or somewhere else, our community has come together in this time and this place to give them the greatest gifts we can imagine – the gifts of hope, joy, peace and love, and most importantly, the gift of life.  And that’s what this season of Advent, leading up to Christmas, is about.

I am beyond proud of our town, of the generosity of spirit and the commitment being shown to people who so far, remain perfect strangers.  I am exceedingly grateful to be a small part of this overwhelming, exciting experience, which will be life-changing not only for our new families, but also, I’ll wager, for the rest of us.

For me, this is true Christian hospitality, a gift that invites people to come in, simply because they are God’s people.  We invite them in because they have needs, and we can provide assistance; and we invite them in also recognizing that we might be changed by them, by our encounter with them, and that the divide of “us” and “them” might itself be broken down.

I can’t wait to welcome our families in person.