Today is a good day. It's rainy, I'm home before 3pm and have donned my yoga pants and sweatshirt after 3 soggy carpools in a shoe which lost its sole at the preschool. We've gone back to face to face instruction for our Toddlers - Kindergarteners and the last 4 weekdays have felt the closest to normal for me since March 13. My children, however, are slogging through virtual learning, using a new online platform that is far from perfect and rife with frustration. Despite this current reality, however, today is a good day. This notion of good is more nuanced for me than ever before because the density of 'regular life' these last five months has been great. Add to the regular ups and downs of life a host of irregular ups and downs, and good becomes relative - online learning frustrations, rainy carpools and broken shoes get put into perspective. I've struggled to find words in these last few months because my arms have been overfull of irregularities and the bands that held me together felt stretched to near breaking. But a little over a week ago, perspective showed up. It always does...eventually...and its timing was gracious and welcomed.
Our children began the process of confirmation in January at our church. They were both baptized as infants and Philip and I took vows on their behalf to share with them the larger story into which they are knit. The community around us on their baptism days also took vows - promising to support them and demonstrate to them what it means to be God's own beloved children. This confirmation process, in the PCUSA, is the process by which our children explore their faith to the point they claim it as their own. They went through a series of classes - at first in person and then online (a first for sure!). The process culminated in their making their own profession of belief - making statements in which they affirm the faith into which they were born and that, with God's help, they'd continue to explore and live into as they grow older. Typically, confirmation Sundays are big, joyous and followed by a luncheon with family. This year's was different - after all, isn't everything about this year different? The group of confirmands met at church on a Thursday evening, donning masks, dressed as if it were the church service we used to attend pre-Covid. They stood at the front of the sanctuary, six feet apart, while one parent sat, physically distanced, from the other parents in the room. We were the only people in the room other than their confirmation teacher and our pastors. The pastors led the young people in a litany of questions and answers with reminders to look into the cameras so their faces were captured on video because this portion of the worship service would be incorporated to the rest of the pre-recorded service. Our little foursome went out to dinner afterwards to celebrate, but it was categorically weird.
While the whole confirmation process was weird, I also realized we had become pretty immune to weird - to the point it now has a degree of normal embedded in it. After all, in addition to all of the Covid weirdness, we've been walking through other down and dirty life stuff. It wasn't altogether strange that family wasn't with us for this special moment - we've been distancing ourselves from one another for some time. That distancing began in earnest when my dad was diagnosed with tongue cancer in late May. Though we moved to within a 2.5 hour drive of one another we've felt like we were still on the west coast as we've stayed connected primarily through phone calls and texts. None of us wanted to unknowingly share germs that would hinder his healing or make each other sick. He had surgery in mid-July and is on the mend - for which our gratitude knows no bounds. Hearing the words "no chemo or radiation needed" gave us permission to exhale - I hadn't even realized I'd been holding my breath. On the heels of daddy's diagnosis, Philip's dad began having significant health issues as well. The road has not been easy but the road now has better definition than it did a month ago. And then, my sister who's the picture of good health, was diagnosed with Lupus and is in the midst of redefining regular life in the midst of a global pandemic - again, weird. So these times in which we should all be rallying together and hugging on each other have become times in which we silo more, for fear that we'll make each other's struggles worse. Our world is upside down.
As upside down as it has been, there was something about that masked confirmation service that reminded me of the comfort that comes from knowing we aren't alone. Our family has always been surrounded by others who literally DO life with us. This cancer, lupus, failing health in parallel to confirmation was the conduit for perspective. I've been reminded that as we have walked through some pretty dark valleys, the lessons of faith that I hold so dear still endure. Faith showed up through my children and what clarity these people, on whose behalf I made promises 12 and 15 years ago, have given to me! For me, faith is not some bumper sticker, checklist, who's in and who's out sort of deal. It is, instead, the kind of faith Brene Brown defines as, "a place of mystery, where we find the courage to believe in what we cannot see and the strength to let go of our fear of uncertainty." My children reminded me of this on that Thursday night and helped me wrap my head around all that life has thrown in our lap of late. They helped me make sense of the world in these times where nothing is certain. And they helped me embrace the opportunity to refocus my perspective on living. We hear so much of the sick and dying - literally and figuratively. In these last months watching the news or reading the paper has become a soul sucking, depressing experience because the headlines focus on decay and rot. But cancer, lupus and issues related to aging juxtaposed with our children's claiming hope through our faith has reminded me to train my focus on life. It has also reminded me that no matter where we are in life that our children really are often the ones who lead us and so, this teacher mama has again become the student.
Theologian Howard Thurman says, "Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive." In the midst of all this darkness, because of what my children reminded me to embrace, I've taken a leap. At 44 years old, this mama of 2 teenagers who are brave and strong and smart, a full-time employee and a wife of a supportive and loving husband, is now, literally, a student. I've learned from my children, husband, dad, sister and father in law that life is for living. And I want to celebrate their examples by putting into action what has been so clearly demonstrated for me - focusing on hope, and what makes me come alive. Perspective has found me in a dance between dark and light, health and infirmity, faith and doubt as I witnessed one of my own children's journeys. And for all of those who've walked alongside them and me in our becoming, I give great thanks.
