in culture shock: is America and the church in America in culture shock?

Hubby and I are currently preparing to make a geographical shift for our family.  So we are studying some things, taking classes on some new things, talking about things. One of the articles I had to read this morning, included this diagram:

This diagram shows the stages of passing through culture shock when you move to a new country.  At first, you love it! Everything about it: The food, the smells, the music... and you want to stay forever! 

A little later, you hate it all: Why do these people have to smell so weird? Why do they eat these gross things? And good Lord, why do they play their music so loud on holidays???? ... and you just want to go home. 

Eventually, you learn to love both: I still miss pizza on Friday nights, but man do i love these kebabs. 

As I thought more about this diagram, I wondered if I could apply it to Christian life and/or American culture as a way to help explain the division going on right now. If Culture Shock, by definition, is the disorientation of discovering that all the cultural patterns you have learned are now meaningless, then we got a whole lot of people going through a whole lot of culture shock. 

Okay, Boomer

Imagine you were born in the 1940s or 1950s or even the 1960s...  You didn't have cell phones... or computers... or internet... or maybe not even a TV and you had a very specific way of thinking about our country. Now, all of a sudden, people don't write letters anymore. Nobody wants to use cursive. What the hell is common core? and why do we have to be so "politically correct all the time!" CULTURE SHOCK. 

All the cultural patterns that Boomers thought they knew, are no longer relevant. So if an "old person" around you is "stuck in the good old days" and complains that "we didn't have to think so much about insulting people," they are stuck in the "trough of culture shock." (see diagram above) They are uncomfortable, nothing is familiar, and they just want to go home. 

Maskers vs. Anti-Maskers

You know that friend who is like, "Freedom! I'm not wearing a mask." or that friend who is like, "I don't care if the numbers are down, I'm protecting me and mine."? I'm wondering if maybe they're both in culture shock. 

The "Anti-maskers" are remembering the days before the pandemic. They remember how they didn't have to wear masks in schools. They're remembering when they could go where they wanted and have unrestricted access to most things. They want to "get back to normal"... when America was "better and stronger" than the rest of the world and independence and "personal freedoms" were the highest values.  It's super hard to move through this culture shock and into the realization that expectations of your community matter and America is just as vulnerable as every other country in the world. 

And those of us who are "Maskers," well, right now we're terrified because we adjusted to this "new normal" and now people are telling us it's okay to try something new again. We see the waves and we think," no, I'll just stay home where it's safe and wait until something else comes next." We are trying to keep ourselves safe from the coming culture shock of what a "post-epidemic" society will look like. 

Christianity

So here's the things about Christianity... to be a Christian is to be "bicultural." Jesus said this himself in John 17:11-15. (the often quoted "in the world but not of the world" passage.) So to be a Christian is to live in a world where there will always be something within the culture that "just doesn't sit right with you." There will always be things that make you think "Oh, Jesus, please come back soon" or "what everybody needs is the gospel." [Side note: if you can't think of anything within your current cultural context that doesn't evoke this kind of reaction, then maybe you should take a little time to talk to the Holy Spirit about that.] However, I think that being "in the world but not of it" means that we have reached the "adjusted bicultural person" peak from the above chart. If all we do all day is sit around in our culture shock and talk about Heaven, then we're not obeying Jesus. If our answer to everything is "people just need the gospel," then we're not obeying Jesus. [Yes, life in Jesus is the best and most abundant life. But even that life looks different in different cultures. So you need to be an "adjusted bicultural person" so people can see how Jesus is culturally relevant.] 

Grace.  I guess my conclusion here, is grace. We need to give space for grace. 

When that "Boomer" starts going on and on about how great things used to be, let's show grace and figure out how we can give them space to grieve the "cultural home" they miss, listen to their stories and help them figure out how to adjust to this new culture. 

When that "anti-masker" starts talking about freedom or that "masker" starts giving you data, let's show a little grace and give them space to talk about their fears and worries. And let's help each other move to this "new space" where the pandemic is, in fact, a real thing that happened to our country, a healthcare problem became a political fight, we have brilliant scientists and health care professionals, democracy wins, a lot of people (on both sides of the aisle) put too much trust in politicians and not enough in themselves... and we've discovered that we're just as vulnerable as every other country in the world to teeny, tiny microbes.  

And when that Christian brother or sister starts talking about "this is the way the church has always done it" or "God is love" or "Deconstruction"... let's give grace. It's rough trying to figure out how to love Jesus and be culturally relevant in a way that other people see Jesus, too. The Bible doesn't talk about TVs or cell phones or the internet or pandemics. It says "love your neighbor" but there weren't ~8 billion "neighbors" in the world. And, let's be real, unless you're living in an ancient society, reading the Bible in Greek, Hebrew or Aramaic, then it was translated by people who are trying to figure out how to relate culturally specific ancient ideas to modern metaphors. Let's give grace and help each other navigate that CULTURE SHOCK curve as we try to figure out how to be "adjusted bicultural people" who love Jesus so we can help other people fall in love with Jesus. 

(graph taken from Cultural Anthropology by Paul Hiebert... https://home.snu.edu/~hculbert/points.htm)

(image taken from https://ois.usc.edu/culture-shock-shakes-things-up-for-new-students/)

in a "Christian" store

 I had a panic attack at Hobby Lobby the other day. Worship music playing over the loud speakers... FOUR aisles of Easter stuff... eggs and bunnies mixed in with crosses and crucifixes... and a healthy dose of "God Bless America" mixed right in... and suddenly it was hard to breathe and I wanted to curl into a ball and cry. 

It could have been the fact that I was shopping an over-whelming store with a three year old... "Don't touch that... Please stay with me... Yes, you have to hold my hand... Please don't shout at me..." Or it could have been a visceral reaction to the cancer of consumerism that has been infecting American Christianity for decades.  

If something is labeled "Christian" or has the phrase "I love Jesus" somehow attached to it, we consume it with ferocity. Rarely do we take the time to discern if it's actually worthy of consumption or healthy to be consumed. We accept it because it claims to be "one of us" and we feel grateful that we can consume it without fear that our souls will be tainted by it. We are elated that we can shop without thought, support without discernment, consume with abandon. 

But this in not how God made us! He gave us brains to think, souls to discern and bodies with limits. Are we still being "meek as sheep and wise as serpents (Matthew 10:16)" if we support and consume without first asking God if we should? 

God has shown us what is good... to act justly, love mercy and walk humbly with Him (Micah 6:8). Have I taken the time to research Hobby Lobby's supply lines to find out if their factories treat their workers justly and with mercy? 

I have not.

I did with Wal-mart... which is why I tend to shop more at Target.  

But I didn't with Hobby Lobby. I just made assumptions based on the worship music over the loud speakers and the "CLOSED on Sunday" sign on the door. If I dig a little deeper will I find that this store is still worth supporting? 

At the same time, I'm NOT saying that the reverse is true.. that just because it's "Christian" means it's bad. I AM saying that we need to use our brains to think and our souls to discern. if something is good based on its quality and character, then let's call it GOOD. But if something is bad based on its quality and character, then let's call it BAD and not pretend that it's good just because it's "Christian." LET'S JUST BE HONEST ABOUT THINGS. 

Honest: I would like to support Chick-fil-a because they are a Christian company, but I don't eat there because I don't like their chicken. 

Dishonest:What? You don't like the chicken? Then go get french fries! We have to do everything we can to support this business because it's Christian and they observe the sabbath. 

 

Honest: The film production quality is still really rough BUT I support their vision so I'm going to see the movie and support the company so they can improve. 

Dishonest: Let's sell out this theatre because it's a Christian movie! 

 

God gave us brains to think, souls to discern and bodies with limits. Let's honor Him by making wise decisions about what we consume, how we consume it and when we've had enough. 

Is there anything that you have, without thought, called "good" because it's "Christian"? is there anything that you have called "bad" because it's not?  

in His own Words (part 1)

Last year, in this post, I wrote about realizing that I was mad at God. And at the end, I promised that I would write again to explain where He and I are right now. And I never did. So now I am.

Once upon a time, I became a Christian.
I grew up in an evangelical home.
I was baptized at the age of 5.
I went to church every Sunday. (well, my siblings will tell you about the time I refused to go to church and my parents and I had a very dramatic standoff involving me sitting in my pajamas in the church parking lot... but MOSTLY I went to church every Sunday.)

And I gotta tell you, I loved Jesus. Like, I was excited to go to church. (most of the time ;) ) I liked reading my Bible. I was that kid who won awards for memorizing Bible verses. I gathered prayer requests from my bunk mates at summer camp. I wore the "I ♥ Jesus" t-shirt to school. (No, like I really did that. It looked like this:

When I was in 5th grade, I wrote an essay about how I wanted to be a Missionary when I grew up. I took French in High School because I had heard that Bible-believing Christians were a tiny minority in France and I wanted to go there and tell people about Jesus. (That's a true story.)

So, I liked being a Christian. I liked hanging out with Jesus. I wanted to be close to Him and do the things that He did. (Okay, yes, I did have a WWJD bracelet... but it wasn't because it was cool, it was because I actually read the book "In His Steps" that the whole trend was based on... like, I found my mom's 1960-something copy of the old book first published in 1896... So like, I was legit with my old book copy and everything... (ahem.)

The types of churches that my family attended were pretty... tame churches, for lack of a better description. People loved Jesus, and prayed for healing and sent out missionaries and raised their hands in worship, but the Holy Spirit wasn't really talked about. He was kind of like the weird uncle that people love to hear stories about (Did you hear how Mrs. Church Lady had cancer and people prayed for her and she went to the doctor and the doctor was like, "Whoa, no more tumor! Jesus is cool!") but nobody really wants around because he's going to say something awkward at Thanksgiving dinner. So, in the denominations that my family attended, the way to be close to Jesus was to:
1. read your Bible
2. have a quiet time (it should be everyday, but at the very least every other day)
3. write in a journal
4. go to church.

We even had our own "memes" about it... before there were memes... when you would just wear a clever saying on a shirt or put a sticker on your guitar case. (I'm pretty sure guitar-case stickers were the meme generators of the late 90s.)

  

Oh wait, that's something else...

Then, I got to Tanzania and I started working with a Pentecostal church...where EVERYBODY raises their hands, and people speak in tongues and healing happens IN SERVICE on SUNDAY morning! (What?) And the Holy Spirit is like the cool kid that everybody wants to be friends with even if they've never really met him. ("Oh, HS? Yeah, I know him. I was praying the other day and like 40 people just fell on their faces and like worshipped and there was healing and deliverance and stuff. It was awesome." ) And suddenly, the way to be close to Jesus was to hang out with the Holy Spirit, and pray for people, and use your gifts in worship... and speak in tongues.

But, here's the thing... I don't speak in tongues. (At least, not in the usual way... ) And my own life story involves God NOT healing me, no matter how much we prayed/worshipped/shouted at Him. (I mean, He had something else in mind... like a marriage and a family and stuff. But whatever.) So even though I was surrounded by "Holy Spirit People," I still didn't really know HOW to think about, let alone interact with the Holy Spirit. So staying close to Jesus now meant asking the Holy Spirit to help me read the Bible, pray about it, Hallelujah. But it was still MY job to stay close to Jesus.. My job to "move with the Spirit" (WTF?) to find God's will for my life... MY job to cooperate with whatever God wanted to do, whenever He wanted to do it.

And then God made me a mother... to two high energy boys and a little girl who NEVER stops moving! (like literally, never. Even in the womb it was like, Who's having a party in there?)

And now, I can't even go to the bathroom by myself. So finding time to pray? I can "lift up" a few things while I do the dishes, maybe... (But I'd rather watch old episodes of Stargate SG-1 just so I can hear an adult talk to me.) And reading my Bible? It's great, except if a kid sees me reading a book, he's going to be like, "Hey Mom, can you read me Curious George?" And I'm going to be like, "No, I'm reading my Bible." And he's going to be like, "Oh, I'll get my bible and you can read to me, too." And then he's going to go into his room and find his Bible and drop it on the floor and wake up his brother who is going to cry and come downstairs and insist that I snuggle him and then ask me to change his poopy diaper. And then the baby will start to cry while I'm changing the diaper because she also needs a new diaper and some breakfast. And I'm going to be so glad that I got up early to have some quiet time!!!

And when I finally get some time away on my own, I would love to WANT to go to Starbucks and sit with my cup of coffee and my Bible and read for hours and feel totally fulfilled. But I don't! When I get a break, I don't want to study!!

So last year, I told God, "Sorry. I can not find the time to sit quietly with you. I've tried. I've tried to involve my kids, or get up early or go to bed late. But none of it works. And I know if I feel far from you, "I'm the one who moved" so it's my job to find my way back. But I just can't right now. So, I'll see you when my kids turn 18."


And I thought that was it, you know? "God, I'll see ya in 18 years."

And then God spoke.
And He changed things.
He changed everything.
And He made me realize how much of HIM I was actually missing.

(But now my children are awake... well, they were already awake and I made them watch Daniel Tiger so I could finish this... well, they were awake watching Daniel Tiger last week when I finished this post and now they're getting ready to wake up again while I rewrite the last two sentences. So, I'll have to make this a two part blog. Stay tuned for the exciting continuation... or don't, or whatever. Because I'm sure you've got stuff to do also. ;)

inspired

My D is only 34 months old. But he faces fear like a CHAMPION! Seriously... this kid is legend (wait-for-it) dary! If there is something that he is afraid of, (or a thing of which he is afraid?) he screams this ear-splitting, high-pitched wail and stomps his feet while he turns in a circle, then runs in the opposite direction as fast as he can. Seriously...he even makes his brother cry.

But that's not the amazing part.

This is.

D insists... cries, stamps his foot, throws a fit until I turn the car around... on returning to the site of his flight and facing the thing which scared him. Seriously. This 2 and a half year old insists on facing his fears.

For example: Dogs scare D. (We lived next door to an untrained pit bull for the first 18 months of D's life. We had to instill a healthy fear of dogs in order to keep him safe.) Most of our family has small dogs. He has learned how to handle those... from a safe distance, while they're in a cage. But big dogs? No way, no how. He trembles. He screams. He shakes. And if one sneaks up on him at the park while he is climbing a rock and looking the other way... the whole community will hear his high-pitched panic. (Sorry about last Thursday everyone. ;) But he insists on facing the dog. He insists on trying to pet the dog. If he sees a plastic version of "Spot the Dog" at Target, he will first run away in fear. Then, he will traverse the aisles, his toddler size 9 converse plodding methodically behind Mommy keeping time to the rhythm of his mind, thinking about it. And after we find the diapers we are looking for, and after we use the self-checkout, and as we are walking to the car... he will stop. And he will stand. And he will square his shoulders and squeeze his fists together and say, "Mommy, I need to pet the doddie (doggie)." And he will turn around and march back in before his mother has a chance to say, "No, wait, stop." And he will get about 10 feet into the store, start to lose his nerve, bring both hands to his mouth and growl (causing his mother extreme concern when she finally catches up with him after using diaper boxes as a barrier to part the sea of humanity that washes through Target's automatic door.) Then he'll straighten up, literally square his shoulders and march his toddler legs right up to the doggy. And after a few more minutes of consideration, he will reach out his hand and pet that doggy! And the whole time he will wear a T-shirt that says, NOT ironically, "Tiny but Tough."

and his mother will drop the diaper boxes, find her phone, capture the moment digitally, write a blog post and cry. Because that's how she wants to be.

in Resignation

From: Mrs. Schlatt
Personal Assistant/Mother to Mr. D and Mr. B
Schlatt Industries
Dining Room Table

To: Misters D and B
Schlatt Industries
Bedroom #2
Crib 1 and Crib 2

Re: Letter of Resignation

Dear Sirs,
         This letter is to inform you of my resignation, effective 2 weeks from today. I have done my best to fulfill the duties of the job for which I was hired, but it has come to my attention that your requirements/demands far exceed the obligations of my original contract. I have tried to inform you of this incongruity (begging, pleading, bribing, disciplining) but neither of you seems willing to negotiate/listen to me. As a result, I will be resigning my position in 2 weeks time.
         Mr. D and Mr. B, you have employed my services as a personal chef and nutritionist since you both first joined the company. I have done my best to supply you with nutritious meals, feeding you whenever you are hungry, changing my own diet to suit your nutrition needs and even going so far as to give you both food from own plate and body. However, Mr. B, you still INSIST on eating old food off the floor and digging things out of the trash can when I am not looking. Last night, you peeled a farmer sticker off of a puzzle and ate his head!

        Mr. D, you are no better. You throw an absolute fit when I limit your sweet intake or give you water instead of the coffee that I am drinking. You also insist on eating whatever Mr. B is eating. Even if I have prepared an enchilada casserole, you still insist on eating cold, mashed green beans. I'm sorry but I can no longer serve in this capacity.
        Sirs, it is in my original job description that I must keep the house neat and tidy, your laundry clean and ready to wear and the dishes clean. I have attempted to fulfill these duties to the best of my ability. However, you have thwarted my efforts at every step! If I am vacuuming, Mr. B, you scream and insist on being held. If I am sweeping the kitchen, Mr. D, you insist on using your small broom to "help," when in reality, you are just scattering the dirt pile. (Mr. B, you then attempt to eat whatever I have managed to collect in the dustpan.) If I am attempting to wash the dishes, Mr. B, you climb into the dishwasher and try to pull out all the silverware and drink the dirty water that is collecting on the dishwasher door.

        When I finally manage, with much effort, to fold a load of laundry, you both cause a distraction (i.e. Mr. D hitting Mr. B in the face or Mr. B grabbing a toy away from Mr. D) then sneak over to the laundry basket and scatter the clothes. I'm sorry, sirs, but I can no longer serve as your housekeeper.
         Finally, sirs, I don't know if you realize but a full time job is typically 40 work hours a week. In dire circumstances, an employer may sometimes require 50 or 60 hours to meet a deadline or complete a project. Mr. D and Mr. B, you both require me to work 24 hours a day, 7 days a week! I get no vacation and no downtime. Sometimes, you even require me to work through my coffee breaks! There have also been numerous times where you both insist that I work all night long! This is far and above what any employer should require of an employee. My health is suffering as a result... I do not get enough sleep, I am living under more stress and worry than ever before, and having a healthy meal plan or a workout schedule seems impossible. I can no longer work under such extreme conditions.
      I don't know if either of you realize but I am overqualified for this job. I have two degrees that allow me to teach people far older than either of you. I spent a good amount of money for 5 years of college and now, you expect me to clean dirty diapers and wipe both of your noses/hands/bottoms. This is not an appropriate use of my talents. I'm sure that I will be able to find a job where I can use my degrees, where they treat me appropriately and where I am able to use my brain for solving complex problems, instead of reading the same mind-numbing Curious George book for the 12th week in a row!
     In short, Sirs, I no longer have the mental capacity to fulfill the job requirements that you insist upon. I will be retaining my position as mother, but resigning as personal chef, nanny and housekeeper. Thank you both for your time.

                                                                                                Sincerely,
                                                                                                        Your Mother

     PS: No fair learning to say Mama, Daddy and Da'id. No fair squealing with delight when we walk in the room. No fair tucking your head under my chin whenever I pick you up. My resolve will stay strong....

     PPS: Sigh. I cannot withstand the cuteness...

From: Mrs. Schlatt
Personal Assistant/Mother to Mr. D and Mr. B
Schlatt Industries
Dining Room Table

To: Misters D and B
Schlatt Industries
Bedroom #2
Crib 1 and Crib 2

Re: No longer resigning.

Dear Sirs,
     Please disregard my letter of resignation. Feeding you, caring for you, picking up after you... all small prices to pay for the privilege of watching you grow.

     Dinner will be ready soon... and please stop kicking your brother in the face.

                                                                                                Sincerely,
                                                                                                        Mom

in Respect

This is D...

This is D's "hat"...

In fact, it's not just a hat. It's a football helmet. It's a baseball cap. It's a prince's crown. It's a bargaining tool in the constant, daily toy battle with his baby brother.

He claims it's his football helmet.

A Prince's crown with sword. 

(It's actually the bottom part of a Bob the Builder's hard hat that he got for his birthday last year. Not that that matters to a two year old.)

He's kind of a hat kid. 

Well... they're both kind of hat kids. :) 

Okay, so maybe it runs in the family.

But, ahem, anyway. D's hat.



One evening, a few weeks ago, Mike was traveling for work. He had flown to DC for project meetings so it was just me and the boys for a couple days. When that happens, we Google Hangout with Daddy at bedtime. We sing, we laugh, we sometimes read books. Before we hang up, Mike always prays. This particular evening, D, as usual, was wearing his hat. When Mike started praying, this head-strong, stubborn toddler removed his hat. Yes, that's right, he REMOVED his hat!! A 2 year old... taking his hat off to pray.

Now, this wouldn't be so ridiculous if Mike wore hats, or we attended church softball games on a regular basis, or we went to church with a bunch of cowboys who routinely removed their Stetsons. But he doesn't. And we don't. And even though we live in horse country, no one wears a cowboy hat to church. We have no idea how D knew that this is a sign of respect, appropriate to the moment.

My only guess is based on something that happened at church that same morning.

Worship at our church is incredible! We love it. We love it even more when we get to church on time and we don't miss the first few songs. :) But that Sunday morning, even though we were running late, we were still hit with authentic, Spirit-filled worship as soon as we walked in the door. (Spirit-filled worship = the worship team spending less time playing perfectly and more time listening and responding through improvised melody.) We found some empty chairs, settled the kiddos, D standing next to me, B strapped to my front in the Ergo, and joined in with song. After a few minutes, Mike stepped away from our chairs and knelt down in response to what he was feeling. At our church, this isn't something that causes much distraction. People are free to worship and respond however they like. (Within reason... after all, we don't want anybody to lose an eye because their neighbor was wildly flinging his arms.) But when my husband knelt down and bowed his head before God, my toddler followed suit. He joined his Daddy on the floor, on his knees, head bowed.

My son is learning to respect Jesus because my husband respect's Jesus. And that is an incredible thing.

And also a terrifying responsibility.
They will love what we love. They will repeat what we repeat. They will see people how we see people. They will see themselves how we see ourselves. They will see God the way we see God.

And with God's help, they will be nothing like better than us.

in a Selfish phase... but not really

Some days, I feel like a great mommy! Like tonight... the dishes are done, the cloth diapers are soaking, the boys both went to sleep without screaming, I made myself a cup of tea and I actually wore real clothes today! (I mean like shoes and socks and everything!) Mama win!

And then somedays, D refuses to help clean up, and screams "No!" at me all day long, and then he spills his milk on the floor and I scream at my toddler for being clumsy and he cries and then I cry and then B cries because everybody is crying and that stresses out his little 10 month old heart.

That's right... I scream at my 2 year old for spilling his milk... and I make him cry.

Mama Fail.

We do live in Kentucky now...

Usually on those I-make-everybody-cry days, I have no coping skills. I am stressed, I am nervous, I am burnt out. I don't have the ability to stop myself and say, "It's okay. We'll clean it up." All I can think is, "You did that on purpose to defy me! AHHHHHH!" Not a rational thought by any stretch of the imagination. And I have come to realize that, most of the time, those are the days where I haven't thought about myself at all. Yes, you read that sentence right... on the days where I take no time for myself... no 30 minutes of morning Yoga, no lingering at the breakfast table to finish my cup of coffee, no admiring myself in the mirror while I try out a new eyeshadow... those are the days where I am the worst kind of mommy. The days where I've tried to only be a mommy, I'm the worst mommy. 

Monday night, at Women's Communion, our fabulous speaker, LE said, "You can't pour from an empty cup." 

So so true. Often, lovely women and devoted friends and family have filled my cup for me... the 6 weeks following my c-sections, for example. I am literally not able to do anything but sit and nurse a baby. So other people have to gather, take care, clean my house, feed my family and fill my cup. But most of the time, I need to be responsible for making sure my cup is being filled. I'm just now starting to figure out what that means...

Growing up in a Christian denomination that leaned toward legalism, I've always interpreted that phrase as reading your Bible and praying. "You want to be filled up? Do more devotions. Spend more time with Jesus. Getting bored with all that? Here are 17 verses taken totally out of context and vaguely related to perseverance." And then, once you were filled, you better be headed out to the mission field so that you can pour yourself out because "to whom much is given much will be expected." (Another oft quoted Bible verse taken totally out of context and used to "encourage" young Christians struggling with their faith lives.) 

But I've learned a fancy new term... Self-Care. Which, surprisingly, means taking care of yourself. And, being the brilliant scientist that I am, I am learning that if you don't take care of yourself, then you can't take care of other people. WHAT? I know. 

 

So here I am... doing Yoga, drinking decaf coffee (thank you, anxiety), and trying new eyeshadows. And being a better mommy because I'm selfishly (but not actually selfishly) taking time for myself. 

*And yes, somedays people are sick and no sleeping is happening and we have run out of coffee. And on those days I am grateful for Netflix. Because sometimes, Netflix makes me a better Mommy.*

in Conversation: things you shouldn't say to a mom of two kids... or any person... ever.

Not the post that I was intending to write this week. However, after an... let's say, interesting conversation in the cafeteria at lunch today, I decided it was time to look back at all the comments that were flung in my direction after announcing that I was pregnant with my second child only 9 months after giving birth to my first.

While still pregnant...

"Wow... Congratulations, I guess." Then, in a whisper, away from Michael... "You're happy about this, right?"

"Don't you think it's rude to get pregnant so fast when your (insert distant relative here) struggles with infertility?"

"How many babies are you planning on having?"

"Did you lose all the baby weight from the first one, yet?"

"You must really like sex a lot."

and my personal favorite... "You're pregnant again? What do you want your own reality TV show?"



The first time we brought B to church...

"I didn't know you were pregnant! I just thought you hadn't lost the baby weight."

"Does D like him? or has he tried to hurt the baby, yet?"

"He looks JUST like his brother."

"He looks NOTHING like his brother."

"Two boys? It's time to start trying for that girl!"

"Are you guys finished or do you want another one?"

"You must really like sex A LOT."

and an oldie but a goodie... "You had another baby already? What do you want your own reality TV show?"

In public with two kiddos...

"You really have your hands full."

"Are they BOTH yours?"

"My daughter/cousin/sister-in-law/best-friend-from-kindergarten had two kids close together like that... She said it was the hardest thing ever."

"Your boys are so cute! Do they look like their Dad?"

"Both of your boys are so cute, I could just steal one of them!"

"You're going to wait to have more kids... right?"

and still... "Two kids, 17 months apart? What do you want your own reality TV show?"

and from the cafeteria today... "I recognized your boys, but last time you didn't have any makeup on, your hair was kind of messy and you were in jogging pants. You looked really tired. That's why I didn't recognize you this time!"


Next time you see me in public and I look like a hot mess but both of my boys are alive and I'm still speaking to my husband... please consider the fact that it has probably taken every ounce of energy I have to just get out of the door without forgetting a snack/bottle/diaper/Thomas the Train engine.
        ...And my husband has probably asked me to "Get out and meet some people" in this new community that he so desperately wants to be a part of but is having a hard time finding the space in his schedule what with all the working/studying/fathering/husbanding.
        ...And it's probably such short notice that the best I could do was to change two diapers, make sure everyone has socks, change the baby's outfit again after he spit up/drooled/pooped all over himself, and hope to God that nobody will notice that I haven't showered in three days.
        ...And if you still feel the need to speak to me after the initial, "Hi, how are you? My name is____," (and please speak to me after the initial "Hi, how are you, my name is ___."); maybe you could just ask if I'm reading anything exciting right now. Chances are, there is a book open on my Kindle that I truly intend on finishing before my boys reach puberty.

...and maybe stand downwind... just in case. :)

in Transition: part 2 (our moving story)

Mike started school in September 2014, when I was a few months pregnant with B. At the time, we decided it would be a terrible idea to try to move. (And it would have been.) But this summer, when Mike and I looked at each other the first week of August and said, "We think we should move to Wilmore," we figured it would take a miracle of God to make it happen. After all, we needed an apartment in student housing, approval from Mike's company to work remotely, and, perhaps our biggest hurdle, we needed to sell our house in Ohio... quickly.

Three weeks later, we had an apartment, approval and our house on the market.

5 weeks later, it was sold.

Our house in Ohio... the day it went on the market. 

And we started packing a moving van.

D with our friend, Harry.

All the Grandparents came to help pack and hold kiddos. 

Packed up and ready to go!

Seriously... we needed lots and LOTS of help!
(Thank you also to the Daltons, the Wellers, and Danny R.)

We also had our car packed tight... with a baby gate in a car carrier strapped to our luggage rack. Mike drove the truck... I drove the heavily loaded car with both boys. We took our last family picture in front of the house, prayed for our travels, kissed grandparents goodbye and set off for our new adventure. 

And then things got crazy.

30 miles outside of Columbus, something in the car went KATHUNK, then rattled against the back window. I called Michael, "Something's wrong with the car top carrier! Help! Meet me at the next exit!!" Then another noise, WABOOSH! Kathunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.... Still on the phone with Michael... "Okay, the whole carrier just came loose... I've got to pull over... I don't know what to do....!" Heart beating, shaking, trying to drive carefully and not freak out the boys... I look in the rearview mirror and, miraculously, see the image of my mom's van! Still on the phone, "It's my mom! My mom is behind me! Oh my gosh... just keep going, Michael. it'll be okay!" I pulled off to the side of the highway, she pulled off behind me, and we moved the whole carrier into the back of her van. We discovered that the ratchet strap had come loose... the strap that held a 200 lb couch without slipping last weekend, popped and unrolled when holding down a baby gate. So yeah.

Thinking that that was our "crazy story" for the trip, I set off again with both boys still calmly sitting in the backseat looking at books/chewing whatever he could get his hands on.

20 miles later, just North of Cincinnati, B started screaming. I pulled over and executed Mommy-power-move-#3:quick diaper change in the backseat. Back on the road, half an hour later, B was still screaming as we crossed the bridge over the Ohio River and hit Kentucky. I pulled over and gave him a bottle in the parking lot of a mall, threw a snack at the toddler, then got back on the road. Our 3 hour trip now passing the 4 hour mark. 5 miles past the exit, B started screaming... again. Unfortunately, this is the part of I75 where there is nothing but hills, trees and trucks for 30 miles. There is nothing I can do. B is screaming, D is singing (loudly so he can be heard over his brother) and I am just trying to get us to Wilmore safely!

We started approaching the Owenton/Corinth exit... and I prayed. "Jesus, whatever darkness is trying to prevent us from reaching Wilmore, I tell it to go now in Jesus name." From the backseat, the toddler says, "Bye Bye," and the screaming baby falls fast asleep. Silence and peace for the first time in 4 hours. and I ugly cried for the remaining hour it took us to reach our new front door.

Later, when Mike and I had the chance to talk about it, I found out that he had faced some spiritual oppression as well... the man who never has a panic attack, had three on the drive down. The man who is not afraid of bridges, barely made it over the Ohio for fear of driving off the road. And when he reached the Kentucky border, it lifted.

We began our adventure here in Wilmore by fighting a battle. A battle that, we have since learned, is not unusual for families moving to be a part of the Asbury community. A battle that we want to be continually aware of and prepared for... a battle that we are training to help others be prepared for... Lord help us.

in Transition

Yeah, it's been awhile since I've been able to sit down and write... or think.. or feel... or do anything besides chase my kiddos. Seriously... now that B is never where I want him to be crawling, he and D like to go in opposite directions as often as possible. But more on him later (insert mommy guilt about not giving him equal time on the blog.)

Anyway...  I've had a baby, sold a house and moved to Kentucky since the last time I stopped by to vomit my thoughts onto paper the screen. That's a lot.

I mean a lot, a lot.

Yeah, I had a panic attack as soon as we turned onto our road coming back from Christmas holidays. (but more on that later as well.)

My very wise sister said to me, "Of course you had a panic attack! You've been through so much transition your body doesn't know how to handle it!" She was right.

So here I am again. Trying to find something that connects me to who I was before.. before I was a wife, before I was a mommy, before I was Katie. Something that was true about me then, and is still true about me now. (Yeah, yeah, I know I'm still a child of God and all that... we'll get to Him later.)

So please bear with me as I reconstruct some things that have happened the past few days, weeks, months, years... I have lots of stories to tell and I've decided that I'm going to find the time to tell them. Even if it's 9:30 on a Thursday night and I'm about to close down Starbucks. :)

in the Waiting Room, part 2

There are things that should make you cry... a funeral, a broken arm, Saving Private Ryan.

and then there are things that shouldn't make you cry... changing a dirty diaper, dishes, people talking at a graduation ceremony. And yet, all three of these things have sent me over the edge these past two weeks, weeping for hours. It's fairly obvious that I am stressed out about D's surgery... and since it's only two days away, the stress levels are skyrocketing.

So, we left the house. We started the dishwasher, put another load in the washing machine, and Little Man and I escaped to a coffee shop. I'm drinking a smoothie and he's smiling at me. Right now, I don't care that we're missing an afternoon nap. I don't care that my house needs vacuuming and that the cat is probably plotting revenge on our entire family since we left her alone... again... after being gone all weekend. Sometimes you just have to run away.

My Little Man, smiling at Garden Cafe. 

We're two days away from surgery... less than 48 hours... so our fear is increasing and our stress levels are soaring. Last Friday, we met with the surgeon and he seems competent and confident. We met with nurses who assured us that on the scale of 1 to Oh Dear God!, D's heart surgery is right in between life-threatening and oh-he'll-grow-out-of-it. So he's more serious than not serious and not as serious as super serious.

So we pray. and we pray. and we pray some more. And we want God to reassure us, to tell us why, to promise us that D will be okay. But He doesn't. We ask God to give us a glimpse of D's future, to explain His purposes, to tell us how He will use this. But He won't. We pray for God to heal, to restore proper pulse ox levels, to give surprising reports from the doctors. But He hasn't.

When D has appointments, we always dress him in shirts that say,
"Mommy's Little Hero," "Daddy's All-star," "Little Champ," etc.  

He has shown us that He hears us. M and I pray for D every night before bed. We've prayed for God to heal him from "the top of his head to the bottom of his feet." We've prayed for God to "cover him with the breastplate of righteousness." and we sing "Jesus loves me... little ones to Him belong, they are weak but He is strong." When we've taken him forward for prayer at church, people have asked God to heal D from "the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, " to "cover him with the breastplate of righteousness" and they've asked us to sing Jesus Loves Me over him. Each of those moments has felt like Jesus saying, "I hear you. I am with you every night when you pray over D."

and God has healed a part of D's heart... he used to have a hole between the upper chambers of his heart. It has closed which has given the surgeon the option of rerouting the left superior vena cava externally. (In his words, "if God gives you a tunnel, you use it. But if he hasn't, then it's better not to make one.")

and God has shown us one good thing that has already come from this... I can't say too much, you'll just have to ask my sister. ;)

But when we ask God why He didn't complete the healing, or why D has had to suffer to bring good things to other people, or why all of this had to happen in the first place; God says "I'm building D's testimony. It's his story. I hear you and I'm with you. That's enough."

and we're trying to let it be. Since the day David was born, we have prayed that God would use him to build His kingdom. But that's scary because we don't get to specify how or when or where. We don't get to specify the terms of D's life... and God never promises us safety... only that He will be with us.

 So I'm scared for Thursday... we love our Little Man so much that's it's hard to think about the possibility of losing him. And it would be much easier if we had a faith that believed that God only let good things happen to His children. But we don't. and He doesn't. So we will trust God when He says "I hear you and I am with you" and we will continue to believe that God is diligent in His goodness, in spite of our fear.

in the Christmas Spirit?

This was David's first Christmas... and only the second that Michael and I have celebrated together as husband and wife. I wanted it to be special, memorable, faith centered and captured on film so that one day it could be turned into a beautiful shutterfly photo book.

It's December 28th and only 3 of the advent candles ever got lit, it feels like we spent more time with our pediatrician than with our families, and the many attempts at a Family Christmas picture never quite produced a usable shot.

Two weeks before Christmas, at David's 2 month well check, we found out he was severely under weight. He was a little low at his one month visit but this is fairly normal for a kid with a heart condition (more on that in another post). This time, however, something was very wrong. So the pediatrician wanted me to start supplementing with a few ounces of formula after every feeding. But of course, David was NOT happy about this. What nursing kiddo would be? So he pretty much screamed for two days straight as I struggled to give him a bottle.

and why wasn't Mike helping, you ask? Because the day of David's visit, Mike had a flare up of his recurrent corneal erosion. (If you don't know what this is, it basically means that he feels like someone is shoving an ice pick in his eye for about 48 hours straight.) When this happens, he has to wear dark glasses, we have to keep all the lights in the house off and he literally can't open his eyes. Which means, not only was he in a tremendous amount of pain, but he couldn't help with David.

(When my mom called to check on me, I burst into tears. She came up and stayed with us for two days. Lifesaver. Literally.)

Since David was struggling to eat even the formula, we wanted to figure out what was going on. After a second visit to the pediatrician, we discovered David had pretty bad reflux. Then after our third visit to a lactation consultant we discovered that David has a high arched palate and a posterior tongue tie. Three problems that, when combined with his heart condition, make it nearly impossible for him to nurse. In fact, he was only getting about 1-2 ounces per feeding. At his age, he should have been taking in 5-8 ounces. Mike and I prayed for wisdom and struggled to decide what to do... should we quickly try to find a dentist to have the tongue tie taken care of? There's only one in all of Ohio who can handle David's particular type... and his office is closed until January. Should we continue to supplement with formula from a bottle? He even struggles with the wide neck bottles... the kind they recommend for breastfeeding babies. Finally, on December 23rd, the day before Christmas eve, David stopped nursing. He was tired of having to work so hard to get enough food. We decided that it's more important for him to eat than to nurse, so we switched him to the small nipple bottles and moved on.

Well, we're trying to move on. Now that David is finally getting full, he is struggling with constipation... which has given him a hernia... that will need surgery as soon as the holidays are over. (and a partridge in a pear tree.)

Before... 

... and after.
He gained a whole pound in one week.
Look! he has chubby cheeks now.

Mike and I have been floored by this. We thought everything was normal. We thought everything was fine. We thought that since we are healthy people who eat all the "right" things, who stay active, who avoid all the "wrong" things that we would have a healthy baby. A healthy baby that would be born naturally and who would nurse normally and who be adored by everyone as the happiest, most well adjusted baby on the block! Why is it than when you fall over your pride, it's not like tripping over a speed bump but more like plummeting off a tall cliff? We have been humbled and now realize that we have even less control over David's life than we originally thought... which we thought was pretty little to begin with. Our natural, non-medicated, granola plans have been replaced with formula bottles, reflux medication, dairy allergies and surgeries. But his needs trump our desires and, like Mary did in the first chapter of Luke, we will say, "Whatever, God. You do your thing. and Thanks for letting us ride along." (I'm paraphrasing, of course. :)

Despite everything going on in his body, this is the way he normally looks! We are amazed by him. 

in Celebration and in Mourning

So this is the Birth Story blogpost. It will probably get a little long, and may include some song lyrics and certain extraneous, long-winded details. If you are not a person who would enjoy this, I give you full permission to skip possible song-lyrics and long-winded details (you know, like when you read Lord of the Rings and you get to the part with Tom Bombadil) and go right for the details about the birth. :)

The long-winded details....
I've known most of my life that I would need to have a natural birth with no medication. I had my first surgery when I was 6 and ended up back in the hospital after 4 days of not being able to eat or drink and not being able to be woken by my parents. I remember the drive to the hospital, laying in the front seat of our van, my parents dropping my siblings off at Granny and Grandpa's house, not being able to open my eyes or respond to anyone in anyway thinking I was going to die. It was discovered that I have a high sensitivity to anesthesia. Even now, just going to the dentist and getting a local anesthetic shot I end up on the couch with the shakes the rest of the day.

So when Michael and I found out that we were pregnant, we signed up for Bradley Birthing classes and spent 12 weeks learning how to relax and breath and work through labor in a natural, unmedicated way. We were so ready for this birth! and when we starting having contractions at 37 weeks, we were pumped! Then the labor stopped.

3 days later, more contractions... here we go! Then the labor stopped.

3 days more, 3 days more, 3 days more.

September 30, our original due date hits, 40 weeks! We had 5 hours of 90 second contractions, 2-3 minutes apart. Here we go! It's real this time!! We called the doctor and she was also excited, having lived through a few of these episodes with us already. She told us she'd meet us at the hospital and we loaded up the car, called my mom and made the drive. We got to the hospital... and the labor stopped.

3 more days, more contractions, no more baby.

A week goes by, 41 weeks. We talk the doctor into letting us wait another week to give the baby and my body as much time as possible to go naturally. More contractions, more labor, no more baby. We start praying... we tell friends and family to start praying... we ask the ether of Facebook to start praying. The doctor schedules the induction which we don't want. We still feel like a natural labor would be the safest for our family. We beg, we plead, we pray.

and God says no.

Monday, Oct. 14... 42 weeks... the day we are going to be induced... Michael and I are trying to process the fact that our extra time has come and gone and we are out of options. The induction is going to happen. God has answered no and we aren't going to have the birth story we hoped and prayed for.

Birth-story details...
The day of the induction, my water actually breaks but the doctor (and the rest of the hospital staff) are very nervous about the fact that I am 2 weeks overdue, my water has broken and I'm only 2 cm dilated. So they decide to start pitocin anyway.

We are still feeling really good, pumped for this labor... Team Schlatt here we go! We thought that since I had already been through a month of contractions that my body would respond quickly and this would be a fast labor. And my body does respond quickly... with 90 second contractions, 3-4 minutes apart. But nothing else happens. One hour goes by, two hours, three hours... by this time, the contractions are still 90 seconds long, but only 2 minutes apart... and literally peaking off the scale. 8 hours later, my body starts losing control... a contraction hits, and I relax to breath through it. But then some part of my body spasms and I'm unable to control the pain or the contraction. My mom notices some slowing in the baby's heart rate. We know it will be a risk to try an epidural... would it make me sick? if so, what would it do to my body? what would it do to the baby? But we are seemingly out of options... I have lost control, the baby is starting to stress and we are still only 4 cm dilated. If we had been in natural labor, we could have gauged how far from pushing we were... but we didn't know; and we had been in labor for 11 hours. Michael and I decide an epidural is our best option... well, Michael makes the calm, rational decision... I'm in tears, frightened, out of control, and trying to leave the labor room. (I told everybody I was going home and getting into my own bed and that someone else would have to have this baby. :)

When the epidural hits my system, my blood pressure drops and the baby's heart rate tanks. The swat team of nurses, residents and pediatricians descends. We both recover... enough for now. For the next hour, Michael holds my hand and reads Bible verses from notecards. I ask him to repeat Prov. 3:5-6... Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. I ask him to repeat it again. Then I cry, "Michael, I don't understand why God said no!" and he responds, "But we can still trust him, even when we don't understand."

At that moment, one of the doctors leans around Michael and informs us that the Baby's heartbeat is still slowing with every contraction and that the time has come to get us to an OR. It was perfect timing... with God letting us know He is still in charge.

In surgery, Michael is sitting by my head, holding my hand. We are singing to keep ourselves calm... Chris Tomlin's song I Will Rise and Matt Redman's 10,000 Reasons, even though we can only remember the first verse (whatever may pass or whatever lies before me / let me be singing when the evening comes). About halfway through, my body starts reacting to the epidural and the pressure is more than I can handle. The anesthesiologist tries to gas me to help with the pain... and my body starts freaking out. I start thinking to myself, "Oh no, I'm dying. What's Michael going to do?" So I Twist my head from side to side, "Move the mask! Move the mask!" At this point, Michael tells me the anesthesiologist starts looking very worried and that I start saying the word "Jesus" over and over again. A few more worried/strange glances from the other doctors and nurses in the room, a lot more pressure and he is out. (Michael''s perspective: Yeah, you were so out of it, it seemed only a few more minutes. It wasn't. I thought they would never get him out!) The doctor lets Michael announce that it's a boy! and we both cry and marvel at this new little blessing and God's provision: If Michael had not decided on the epidural when he did, I probably would have had to be put under for the surgery. If we had not taken the Bradley classes, we would not have had the background knowledge that we needed to understand what the doctors and nurses were talking about (see Complications and Variations section of the workbook. :) and If God had not been fighting for us, the surgery itself could have taken a turn for the worst when my body started freaking out.

We did everything we could to avoid going through everything we went through. Michael and I knew an epidural and a c-section could be very bad for both me and David. We made all the plans we could to bypass medication, surgery and my body having to go through everything it did and is now going through. But God was and is still in charge. He answered "no" to our prayers and led us down a different path.
We don't understand why.
We don't have any answers to the questions,
          "What if we had waited longer?
            What if we hadn't gotten the epidural?
            What if we hadn't been induced?"
and we are still processing this.
But we can still trust God because He is good.
and we still have a beautiful baby boy, David John, born October 15, 2013 at 5:12 am.