God's hand in the world

I'm writing from my dining room table, the early evening light filtering through the sliding glass doors, casting long shadows across the wood floors. The washer and dryer are humming. When I look out the window, across the backyard, I can see that two yards over, the neighbors appear to be having an Easter egg hunt with their kids--either that or they're picking up dog poop, but since all three kids are carrying sacks, I'm going to go with my first assumption. (This weekend my children wondered when we'll get another dog. I said, "Who will pick up the dog's poop?" "Daddy," they said. I told them that when they were ready to answer that all of us would share in that chore, we would discuss it again. So we're...waiting.) The birds are singing. The light lingers.

We were up early this morning. We went to church--Easter is my favorite service of the year, even more than Christmas, and second only to Easter Vigil, which we attended last night--and brunch with my sister-in-law. Back at the house I curled up on the couch for the afternoon nap I've been planning for days. Matt took the kids outside, then to Home Depot. They're still out. Dinner tonight is going to be simple; I have this frozen vegetable curry thing in the freezer I plan to bake with cauliflower rice because tonight I cannot handle even chopping an onion.

This week has been three weeks long. Is it just me? Because I feel like I've spoken this sentence several times in the last few days (to my favorite barista, to my son's kindergarten teacher, to my fifth period class) and everyone has heartily agreed. I guess it's March.

This past week was Holy Week, a week in which it's expected to feel a spectacular range of human emotion. I wanted to go to Good Friday services on Friday evening, but I admit: I also really just wanted to put on sweats and drink wine. I went for a run first, though, and that was maybe the best thing I've done for myself all week. I think. I can't be sure; the week started so long ago. On Monday I felt so sick I nearly went home during my planning period. I rallied, though. I was honest with my sophomores and told them I felt terrible and so could they please be nice, and then I experienced one of the wonderful benefits of teaching: they called me out of myself, and I forgot that I'd been doubled over an hour earlier. I do love those kids. On Tuesday, I didn't feel much better. I think I blame eating too many grains over the weekend. I did a Whole30 in January--absolutely no dairy, grains, or sugar for thirty days, which is its own entry sometime, maybe--and since then I've relaxed on the strictness a bit, but during that month I also realized that my body feels pretty great when I'm not eating those things, especially grains, so I eat them sparingly. Mostly. Except for last weekend, when I ate things like chocolate croissants and a whole bunch of homemade macaroni and cheese. On Wednesday and Thursday I felt physically better, but I also had two late nights at school, nights that left me exhausted and furious to the point where I couldn't go straight home afterwards even though I was beyond exhausted. Well, I could have, but I would have stormed in the door raving like a crazy person in real need of some anger management, and that isn't the best way to jump in and help with bedtime. My husband is kind and loving and is a wonderful person to process with when I need perspective, which is often, and oh my heavens am I usually grateful that I am not married to someone who also works in public education because that would be an awful lot of...energy. In the same house. My husband is also more patient than I am, and probably much smarter, so he suggested I go ahead and go out with the friend who sent me a text asking how things went at this terrible thing I had to do. I called her back from the parking lot and remember yelling incoherently; the next thing I knew she was meeting me at a nearby restaurant to sit with me while I drank wine and ranted angrily.

Sometimes, or maybe even most of the time, I think that's why I believe God's hand is in the world. Truly. Because of these nights when I am exhausted and angry and sad, when I yell, "I don't even fucking know why I just wasted my time doing that," or "This is so absurd I don't even understand why I'm doing this job and I should just quit and I hate everything," and my friends who are in the trenches with me will sit for two hours over a couple of glasses of wine and just listen, even though they, too, are tired and it is a school night, and they will validate, and they will offer the perspective that I need, and they will hug me in the parking lot before I drive home, and I will remember exactly why I am doing this job and why I don't quit and why, in fact, I don't actually hate everything.

And then I will go home to my husband who will hug me and suggest, gently, that I have tea instead of more wine even though I'm still yelling a little bit. And then I will tip-toe into my children's rooms, into these rooms that contain children who are sleeping because of the gentle man who said yes, go, I've got this, and I will kiss their faces and smooth back their hair and I am able to be present in that single, beautiful, ordinary moment. Of all the moments in my day, all the ridiculous absurd horrible hilarious moments, the ones that I literally live for are these. I wish I could find my fumbling way back to appreciating them all by myself, but the truth is that I need a lot of help, patience, and grace.

In the spirit of Easter, I've been rereading some of my favorite things by Anne Lamott, Rachel Held Evans, and Nadia Bolz-Weber. Today, this resonates:

“Matthew once said to me, after one of my more finely worded rants about stupid people who have the wrong opinions, 'Nadia, the thing that sucks is that every time we draw a line between us and others, Jesus is always on the other side of it.' Damn.” --Nadia Bolz-Weber, Pastrix: The Cranky, Beautiful Faith of a Sinner & Saint

It resonates, but I'm still stubbornly me. Maybe it resonates precisely because I'm still stubbornly me. Unfortunately. I feel like I spent my entire week not only drawing a line but building a wall out of bricks and concrete and spikes dipped in poison, and I've been both a.) absolutely certain that Jesus approves of my wall because I am fighting for the light and b.) feeling pretty pissy about the fact that we are all children of God, including Donald Trump and whackadoo Ted Cruz and this other person for whom I feel nothing but loathing contempt. Because if I'm honest, I hate that. I truly believe this person who has twisted my gut all week long is incredibly damaging, and I have pretty much zero desire to work with this person--in fact, I believe it can't be done. It's futile. And I don't want to use the word hate because I don't want to hate anyone, ever. The word makes my teeth hurt. But I used it this week, out loud, more than once. And I suppose that's only one more reason I need Jesus.

So tonight, on this lovely Sunday evening, on this beautiful Easter, I'm reading and rereading words from people who draw me into the light through their own honesty and brokenness. I have a lot of work to do. I can't do it on my own. And thankfully, I know I don't have to.