My Brush with Celebrity in the Guise of a Homeless Man

So, Wednesday I was asked to lead devotions on Thursday for this amazing group of elementary teachers. I had gotten out of the habit of going to Thursday morning devotions because Thursday is my morning to work from home, and so I generally stay in my pajamas until around 10:30 writing and editing drinking coffee and checking facebook, but I missed them (devotions, not pajamas) and asked if I could figure out a way to rework my schedule so I could go to devotions. Which I have a suspicion is going to mean no more pajamas or facebook on Thursday mornings, but sometimes God asks us to sacrifice, you know? It also sometimes means being asked on Wednesday if you can devote something on Thursday.

I stayed up late Wednesday night praying and writing searching YouTube. I thought I'd read something to the teachers from Ragamuffin Prayers because the writers and the artists have a depth of wisdom and rawness and grace to their prayers that I admire. But as I was reading I came across a prayer and accompanying lyrics to a song called "Hard to Get", and I watched a personal video and I started remembering.

When I was twenty-four and just out of graduate school I got my first "real" job as the support and recovery group director at a large church in Indianapolis. I have no idea how I got this job. My counseling training was at an uber-secular college, I'd done my internship under the mentoring of an atheist, and I hadn't much been to church save Christmases and Easters and our wedding for the last six years. I was a bit skeptical about working at a church, but the counseling pastor was so genuine and funny and brilliant that I knew working with him I'd have a blast and learn a ton. Somehow he slipped my obvious deficits in religious knowledge past the elder board and offered me a job. I guess this was God's way to get me back in church, and I'm grateful.

One night after a group I was packing up to head home when a man in a white T-shirt and faded jeans shuffled downstairs to my room in the basement warren. "Is Gary around?" he asked, looking for my boss, the counseling pastor.

"He's still in a meeting." I nodded toward another room. "Can I help you?"

"We can just hang out while we wait," he said. He straddled a chair and considered me. I considered him back, while trying to appear as if I wasn't, trying to appear nonchalant. I was a counselor now, you see, so I thought I was supposed to seem wise and accepting and as if I'd seen it all. But...

He wasn't wearing shoes.

Not like just-kicked-off-my-shoes-at-the-door-because-it's-late-and-I-have-a-blister, but like these-calloused-feet-haven't-seen-shoes-in-years not wearing shoes. This was surburban Indianapolis, a rather well-to-do area and, well, people wore shoes. They just did. We had a clothing closet at the church, to which Gary had a key, so, okay, whatever, none of my business, really. Still.

He stared at me as if he knew what I was thinking but didn't much mind. "What's it like for you, working at a church?" he asked.

I've never been good at small talk, especially small talk about myself. I was usually the one asking the questions. But this didn't seem like small talk. He leaned forward.

"Oh. Well." Somehow, the civil and polite society answer of "fine" didn't seem appropriate. He had a childlike intensity, like a kid desperate to take something apart, to figure out how it worked. I glanced toward the door, wishing Gary would hurry. "There's a lot more to church life and politics than I ever realized," I said.

He wanted to know more. And so we talked for a bit. I don't remember what about, but I do remember that I forgot to care that he wasn't wearing shoes. My concerns that he might be off his medication dissipated. He had a spiritual depth, a way of looking at life through a slightly different lens. I do remember one question he asked. "What is something that scares you?"

I didn't answer. Maybe because the question itself scared me, maybe because Gary arrived. The two greeted each other like brothers. Hmmm, I thought. Odd for a counselor-client relationship. "Oh good, you've met," Gary said.

"Um." I realized we'd overlooked the formalities of names and such. "Kristi Thompson," I said, extending my hand.

"Rich Mullins," he said, shaking it.

I was still new to this church thing, and I hadn't yet familiarized myself with the Christian music scene. That name rang a bell, but I couldn't quite place it. I glanced at Gary. He was laughing at me. Rich seemed oblivious. He reached into his bag and pulled out an instrument I didn't recognize. "Let's hear it," Gary said. Rich settled in, that same childlike intensity on his face, and began to play, masterfully play, what I later learned was a hammered dulcimer. The pieces clicked into place. Rich Mullins, Christian music artist, "Awesome God" and "Sing Your Praises to the Lord" and other songs even I in my ignorance knew and loved.

Gary and Rich had been friends in college, and were still close. Rich blew in and out of the church several times in the years I worked there, sometimes giving concerts, sometimes just stopping by to talk through spiritual revelations. I didn't know him well, but I think everyone who brushed against him felt  his love, his genius, his intensity, his brokenness, his exuberance. He was the most famous person I'd ever met, but he didn't want to be a celebrity. He wanted to be like Jesus.

And he didn't care what a first year counselor might think about his lack of footwear.

That wasn't what my Thursday morning devotion was about, though, not really. I veered off topic, into thinking about Rich's question about what scared me. But this devotion got me remembering two men, Gary and Rich, who didn't much care about power or fame or fortune, but rather who knew how to walk with Jesus with abandon, and who are probably just now enjoying a killer jam session with their Lord.

And they probably aren't either one of them wearing shoes.

How Hard Is Too Hard? (and how do you know?)

After my last post,  a friend private messaged me to ask, "How hard is too hard? And how do you know if it's a hard something your kid can do, or if he's so NOT ready that it could be hurtful?"

Great question! I put on my licensed clinical counselor hat, assessed the latest scientific research, and confidently responded, "I don't know."

I don't know. How hard is too hard? There are so many variables. This July our son started playing tackle football. We signed up with a friend, which is always a bonus. (Not included on the flow chart below, but friend involvement usually counts as a supportive relationship and can help kids do harder than they might do alone.) But this friend was one of the youngest on the team, and wasn't ready, wasn't having fun at all, so friend dropped out. Now Paul is on this very intense tackle football team (think the drills at football camp in Remember the Titans) without friend and without understanding much of what American football is all about.

So football is hard. He never wants to go to practice, and will start telling us he doesn't want to go to practice from the moment he wakes up and realizes it's a practice day. (But once he's AT practice, in the care of one of the six foot five inch, 300 pound, former NFL player coaches, he's fine. And he says, "Yes, sir!" a lot.) So we really struggled, all of July, if this activity was good for him, if this was TOO hard, if we should let him quit. I asked my facebook adoption support group, people who know trauma kids, and got a wide variety of answers and opinions. Basically, their advice all boiled down to, "I don't know."

So I put together a flow chart:

So the arrows don't all line up, but I'm proud of myself for figuring out how to get this flow chart in the blog in the first place. It was hard! But I can do hard things. ;)

Generally, I'm a fan of letting kids try hard. Failure's not the worst thing that will ever happen to them. In fact, failure may be the best thing that will ever happen to them, especially if they fail knowing that you love them, you support them, and you are right there backing them up and encouraging them to try again. 

“Success is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration.” Thomas Alva Edison

Doing hard teaches them how to perspire.

Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; ⁴ perseverance, character; and character, hope (Romans 3:3-4).

Suffering, perseverance, character, hope. If our kids know they can do hard with God in their corner, then they know they can do anything.

Football practice is still not his favorite thing,
but he's learning what it takes to be a warrior.
And we're there cheering like crazy people.

Is it too hard for a seven-year-old to mow the grass?
No, no it's not. (It may look a little whack, but he's SO proud of himself!
And I'm thrilled to have a child who wants to attempt yard work!)

Doing Hard

When Sam was 12 years old she had a purple belt in Shaolin Kempo Karate, training for a blue belt. She had already decided to take a break from karate - she was also playing field hockey and basketball and softball, so SOMETHING had to give. Also, at this level there were very few girls her age, so she had to spar mostly boys or adults, and this was beginning to feel awkward. But she had been studying for this belt for nearly a year, and she wanted to test before she turned her attention to other things.

The instructor warned us before the test that 1) it was an incredibly difficult test at least two, maybe three hours long, 2) they were rigorous in their awarding of belts so she might not pass, and 3) no other kids were testing. Only adults. Adult men. We had the option to back out, thank-you-very-much-we'll-stick-with-purple.

But Sam wanted to test. She had studied for that blue belt, training two, three, four times a week, sparring sweaty, stinky boys twice her size. So Trent and I dropped her off at the dojo, with instructors that I respect and trust very much. But as we watched the other students walk in, grown men in their 20's and 30's, everything in me wanted to grab my baby girl and haul out of there, back to the safety and comfort of our suburban home where we didn't need to know Pinans or Kata or how to break a two-handed choke hold.

Like most moms, I want my kids to be happy. I want them to feel successful and confident, to know they are loved and valued. I want them to feel safe and protected. I don't necessarily want them to spend two plus hours in a gym blocking attacks and throwing punches in rapid-fire combinations. It was a difficult wait.

When we picked her up her face was stoic, exhausted, set in that don't-even-look-at-me-or-I-will-cry-and-I-don't-want-to-cry-in-front-of-these-people expression. My heart plummeted. What had we done?

The minute she got in the car she did cry. I felt even worse. I didn't know what to say. I had let her go through with this and it had been terrible and I was an awful mom who had probably scarred her for life and why had I even allowed her to take karate in the first place.

"I'm so proud of you," I said lamely.

"That was so hard," she said. She told us some of what they'd had to do, the physical and emotional stress. "I hurt all over." Then she pulled out the belt from her duffel, the blue belt. "But I did it." And we both cried. Because she had done hard. And now she knew she could.

Cute but ferocious. My baby tiger.

Sometimes I talk to parents whose kids are struggling with academics or with friendships, with a teacher or a classmate, and I hear that this is so hard. Everything in that parent wants to make it right, to fix it, to switch classes or change teachers or redo grading policies to ensure that their kids are happy and successful. And sometimes it is a situation in which someone in authority needs to step in to confront meanness or address injustice. But sometimes, a lot of times, it is a situation in which a grown up needs to say, "Yes. This is hard. You might hurt. You might fail. But with God in your corner, you can do hard things."

Because when you know that you can do hard things, then you can do anything.

Edge of the volcano. Nicaragua.

I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. Philippians 4:13

The Power of Sport

I hadn't realized I missed softball. Sam's opportunity to visit Europe for practically the entire summer meant she couldn't participate in summer travel softball. Honestly, I wasn't too heartbroken over this. Last summer, when Paul was newly home, two nights a week and every weekend we had a dilemma. Should we travel to the practices/games as a family (but, honestly, there was little "family time" as Sam was playing and Trent was assistant coaching and I was left trying to entertain Paul who didn't much like anything about long, hot softball games except the hotdogs) OR should I stay at home with Paul, much as I had done every day ALL SUMMER LONG, trying to think of fun and creative things we could do without leaving our neighborhood because he didn't much like to leave our neighborhood?

So no softball this summer? No crazy softball parents screaming and yelling and complaining about playing time, no softball gossip about this-or-that team who stole this-or-that player because of this-or-that coach, no must-be-completely-blind softball umpires, no softball concession stands that JUST ran out of ice and water and hotdogs, no softball Gatorade loaded with Red 40, no softball rain delays in teeny-tiny towns with nothing else to do, no softball quadruple headers in 100 degree heat, no softball hotels with three hundred fourteen year old girls racing up and down the hallways, no softball gate fees, no softball playgrounds strategically positioned so the parents who must entertain their small ones have no chance whatsoever of actually watching the game? No softball player annoyed that you missed her last at-bat because you were distracted by little brother?

Honestly, I wasn't too heartbroken over this.

And, if truth be told, I get a little cynical about youth sports in America. Which I realize is totally hypocritical because now I have not one but two children who are full-on participants in youth sports in America. But that's different because my kids are involved for the character building and discipline and work ethic and fun, not because I'm grooming my youngest for his shot at the Olympic games and a feature spot in a P&G commercial. (Although if you saw the strength of his trunk and the level of his energy you'd enroll him in gymnastics with visions of front-row seats at gold medal ceremonies, too. And also the gymnastics club has a parents-night-out once a month.)

Then last night Sam and I volunteered for Special Olympics KY regional softball tournament. And as I climbed the rickety ladder to the scorekeeper booth and as we stood for the crackly rendition of The Star Spangled Banner, with the athletes lined up on the field, and as the athletes cheered when they heard Sam announce their names in the line up I remembered what I love about this sport. None of these teams were vying for the World Series (although they were hoping to qualify for the state softball tournament) and none were maneuvering for softball scholarships and none of their parents were pacing the sidelines, screaming at their athlete/coach/umpire. Instead they were playing for the fun of hitting and running and catching and cheering.

There was B. who, every at bat, waited until he got a full-count before swinging and tattooing the ball to the center field fence. (And the umpire who gently admonished, "Swing if it's good" every time she got too close to a called third strike.) M. who pumped his arms and rallied the fans every time he walked onto the field. J. who smiled and waved at Sam every time she announced his name. (Also J. who ran to first then immediately zoomed right into the dugout every time he hit a foul ball, which was often.) M. who made several spectacular 1 - 3 putouts then jumped up and down in excitement, pigtails bobbing. D., in center, who ran faster than he could throw and so chased the runner for the putout at third. (I had never scored an 8 unassisted putout at third before. Ever.) J. who struck out but said, "That's OK. At least I can hit a home run if I want." B. who DID hit an inside the park home run and then picked up his bat and walked off the field as nonchalantly as if he was getting his mail. And L. who was a bit late because he'd had to walk from his job at Oxmoor but made it just in time for his at bat - a single that would've been a double except the lead runner was so busy watching his hit that she forgot to run. And the cheering and the encouragement and the atta-girls and atta-boys from the sidelines. And the huge congratulatory hugs and high-fives and excitement after the game from both the winners and the losers. Because they were all winners.

THAT'S what I missed about softball. And that's the power of sport. Congratulations to all the teams for a game well played.

Happy Meet the Teacher Day

It's Meet the Teacher time again at Christian Academy. The school is abuzz with children and parents, bringing in school supplies and ALL THE PAPERWORK and gearing up for the first day of school on Wednesday.

Remember last year's Meet the Teacher Day? Paul had only been home ten weeks and I was a nervous wreck about the start of school. I wanted needed him to go to school, and I wanted him to go to CAL, but there were so many questions. Would he be ready? Would it be too hard? CAL didn't have an English Language Learner program at the time, so how would we work on his fluency? Would he fit in socially? Behaviorally? Trauma impacts the developing brain, ya'll, in a myriad of ways.

We knew we were on a day-by-day plan. His teacher was wonderful, is wonderful, and she was willing to take him without knowing anything about his academic readiness (we weren't able to give him the admissions test because he didn't speak enough English). I had the Jefferson County ELL program on the back burner, and I was also contemplating homeschool if worse came to worse. (I should remind you that I am a school COUNSELOR, not a teacher, and the thought of homeschooling gave me hives. Literal hives.) On Meet the Teacher Day I was so ramped up with nervous energy while trying to appear calm that I could have powered the school's electrical grid.

We had prepared SO WELL. We bought the school supplies and discussed the school supplies and pored over the yearbook and visited the school. (Once or twice a week all summer long.) We had mastered just the right mix of positive excitement with reassuring calm. Trent took off work to provide backup for me as I was sort of supposed to be working. There were a gazillion people but we navigated the hallways and walked into the classroom and found his table and put his backpack in his cubby. He listened to the stories and watched the other children for cues. He was golden. GOLDEN. My brave, strong-hearted little man.

Until he wasn't. Until he got the look - the fight or flight look - and I had to scurry after him into the hallway and I didn't know what was wrong because he didn't have the words. And I was a wreck because WHAT IS WRONG? and what are we going to do if we can't even manage Meet the Teacher Day? And then I finally figured out what was wrong and realized that what was wrong was wrong because of something I had done, something I had done without even realizing, without even THINKING, and that somehow made it better but also so much worse.

I hugged him and kissed him and apologized and sent him home with Trent while I walked upstairs absolutely sobbing. Not discrete, sympathetic tears, but an ugly, hiccupping, snot-nosed cry.

This does not engender confidence in parents of elementary school children, I realize, to see the school counselor crying hysterically at Meet the Teacher Day.

The second grade teachers, whose rooms my office sits between, were absolutely wonderful and reassuring. I remembered that we are often harder on ourselves than others are on us. Sometimes the school counselor needs to cry on someone else's shoulders.

And my fears that such a rocky start would lead to an excruciatingly difficult school year were absolutely unfounded. He did so well, and his teacher was so patient, and he caught up to what he had missed and trucked along with everyone else.

And today at Meet the Teacher Day I almost forgot to worry because he already knows his teacher (and she is wonderful), and he has several great friends in class, and this year I knew not to remove the school supplies from his backpack until I asked him if I could do it or if he wanted to (and I got a wave of the hand like, "I don't even care, Mom. Leave me alone so I can color this butterfly.")

I didn't even cry. Except maybe a few discrete, sympathetic tears at how much he's grown, at what a blessing he is, at how brave and strong. Happy Meet the Teacher Day!

First day of school last year. He's so little!

Field Day at the end of the school year. He's so big!

Back to Life

Sam's flight landed at 4:45 pm, right on time, after a three hour layover/customs in Detroit. Kind of brings you back to things, doesn't it, a three-hour welcome-back-to-America in Detroit. The Delta folks, while considerate and trying to be helpful, wouldn't give us a pass to meet her at the gate. Since she's 15, she wasn't technically flying as an unaccompanied minor. Teens who are 15 to 18 are offered the option to fly UM, with a $100 one-way fee, but if you deem your teen mature enough and confident enough to manage the complexities of international travel (we do) then she can fly as an adult. (*This is a bit misleading. Since Sam and her BFF were flying with BFF's little brother and sister, the littles HAD to fly as UMs. And as Sam and BFF had to stay with the littles at all times, then they reaped the benefits of the flight attendant ushering them through customs and ensuring they made their connection.) So we saved the $100 fee, but couldn't get the pass to meet her at the gate, since she was, by their reckoning, an adult. And also because BFF's mom was already meeting them at the gate.

So Paul and I waited just on the edge of security, which allowed Paul to "What if" everything that could happen if the uniformed officer had to use his gun or what if someone stole his gun or what if someone tried to sneak past the officer WITH a gun or what if someone tried to sneak past with scissors and what if they were running with scissors and what if I asked the officer if Paul could touch his gun? "No, I'm not asking if you can touch the gun. You're not allowed to touch the gun." Paul studied me resolutely. "I's going to be a police when I get big. Then I can have my owns gun. An' touch 'em."

Then she was there! In Louisville! Bright eyed and no less rumpled for having been traveling for the last 13 hours. We grabbed bags and found the car and arranged seats (Paul was desperate for Sam to sit by him. "I's excited Sam's home!")

It was a marvelously normal dinner with everyone around the table chatting and arguing and vying for the last sausage. Sam was starving. Part of traveling with UMs means you "get" to hang out in the Delta Skyzone room, where they have complimentary chips and water, but no access to the Detroit airport fast food offerings. She wanted brats on the grill, mashed potatoes and green beans. I assured her that I had just assembled TWENTY freezer meals, ranging from chicken pesto to chipotle steak, but she wanted brats. Apparently this is her quintessential American meal. (Although aren't brats German? Confusing.) Topped off with red velvet cheesecake which her dad so graciously saved from our date night on Saturday. Then we looked at pictures and opened presents and settled in to watch one of her fifty-plus DVR'ed episodes of NCIS. And when it was time for bed she hung out in our room, braiding her hair and watching TV and chatting and generally keeping us awake. All of which I'd missed so much.

Today it's back to life. Trent took Paul to the Y because I had an 8 am doctor's appointment. (I realized three weeks ago that I should take care of all my appointments during those rare summer days when Paul is at camp, but three weeks obviously wasn't enough leeway for the various doctors and dentists to schedule me in on one of those rare summer days. Ah, well. That's what sick days are for, right?) Then I swung by home to get Sam (who woke up, rather annoyed, at 7 am because she's still on her late night/sleep in mornings German time. I hope she stays on this time forever and ever.) She has back-to-school day at 10:30, work in my office, school shopping, then softball practice at 4:00, immediately after which she is working as a greeter at a friend's State Farm tent for a neighborhood festival until 9:00.

Trent and I suddenly remember what it's like to arrange her chauffer schedule while also ensuring that Paul gets picked up from the Y at 4:00 and fed and to his practice by 6:00.

Back to life. And I'm loving it! Welcome home, best girl!