To My Clergy Friends, Who Have All But Had It

For my clergy friends who are in the midst of the busiest, most stressful time of year: I am holding you in prayer. Persevere. The world is better for your work. 

I want to share with you my Christmas Eve story from two years ago. My brother, Ted, had died quite suddenly less than two months before. I traveled with my two young daughters to my parents' house so that we could all be together for Christmas and grieve together. I was five months pregnant. My husband, also an Episcopal Priest, stayed back to do his church services. On Christmas Eve, I took my four-year-old daughter to the family service at my parents' church. It wasn't the church I grew up going to, so I didn't know anyone. My parents didn't come because it was just too hard. So it was just me and my girl, (and baby boy, kicking me from the inside)--strangers in a small crowded church. 

We walked in and I immediately started crying. I cry at the Christmas Eve service every year. But this year, I was so overwhelmed by grief--I could barely manage to walk through the door. But as we headed to find seats, someone bent down to my daughter and said "Do you want to be an angel or a shepherd?" She beamed. We hadn't expected for her to be able to participate in a pageant that year. She said angel. The person handed her a white robe and glittery halo. They made this same offer to every child who walked in the door. And when it was time for the pageant, my daughter joined the other angels and marched proudly down the aisle. I wept through the entire service. I couldn't have felt more welcomed. My child was brought into the fold and so was I. The grace of hospitality was so real in this simple offer of angel or shepherd. 

I know you are doing hard work this week. I know you're tired. Maybe you're resentful about having to put so much effort in for people who only show up to your church on Christmas Eve. And maybe you're wondering if any of it matters in the long run. 

It matters. 

Blessings to all of you this week and thank you for the hospitality I know you will show to everyone who walks through your doors on Christmas Eve.

Luck Alone

I feel as though it is by luck alone that I get the kids out the door each morning. That they've eaten at least a quarter of a bagel. That everyone's wearing underwear. That we're only a few minutes late for school. That their hair has been brushed, or at least looks like it has been. That there's more than a 50/50 chance that homework has been done. That I've packed a reasonable lunch for myself (reasonable as in, something edible found its way to my purse). That there are two adult-sized socks and two matching running shoes in my gym bag. That dinner was more than toast and candy cane Joe-Joes. That teeth were decently brushed or at least each kid walked into the bathroom, picked up a toothbrush, and put it somewhere near their mouths. That lights went out with only a reasonable amount of stalling. That I could check my email using my nose on my Apple Watch while scratching my three-year-old's back "sixty-ten" times. That I can sit down with my husband and talk uninterrupted for 8 minutes. That I can get into bed with enough time to read at least one page in my book before falling asleep with book in hand.

Luck alone, friends. 

Sweet baby cheezits.

Saturday Night Patriarchy Lessons

Husband: so what is that stuff supposed to do?

Me: I dunno, I guess make me like myself more?

Dear Dunkin Donuts

Dear Dunkin Donuts drive through,

I'm not sure what to say. I've been awake since 2:30am, dealing with a plethora of kid issues--everything from needing a new bandaid, to a 4am request to go swimming. On top of that, I came into the kitchen to find that we were out of coffee. My husband left for work at 6am, so there I was, zombie-tired, no coffee, and relentless demands for Mickey Mouse pancakes. And then I thought of you, in all your pink and orange drive-through holiness. And I said, "Kids, would you like to get donuts this morning??" And without even a second prodding, they got their shoes on, helped each other buckle into their seats, and 10 minutes later, we had three donuts, a breakfast sandwich, and a gigantic coffee (I asked the drive-through attendant, "what's the largest size you have? I'll have that"). Now the kids are punching each other on the couch and fake-crying. But we had a grand 20 minutes of donut splendor, and I have enough coffee to make it through the put-your-church-clothes-on-NOW-or-there-will-be-consequences rush. So I guess what I really want to say, Dunkin Donuts, is thank you. From the bottom of my heart. 

Until next Sunday,

Me

The Internal Dialogue of a One-Year-Old

The internal dialogue of a one-year-old:

Aaaand we're walking...we're walking...we're walking...
Wait. I just heard a noise in the kitchen.
Aaaaand we're walking to the kitchen...we're walking...
Hold up, a cabinet is open. I must close it.
Ooh there are measuring spoons in the cabinet. I will throw them on the floor.
Now I will close cabinet.
Cabinet is closed. Moving on.
Stop. Everything.
I think there was one more spoon in the cabinet. Must inspect.
Someone just child locked the cabinet.
I cannot open the cabinet.
I CANNOT OPEN THE CABINET!!!!
THIS IS SO UNJUST!!!!
I AM LAYING ON THE FLOOR KICKING MY LEGS SO THAT EVERYONE KNOWS WHAT A CRUEL CRUEL WORLD THIS IS!
Wait, everyone just left the room. 

Aaaaand we're walking, we're walking....

Our Silence Is Making It Worse

I was driving my six-year-old daughter to camp this morning, my heart heavy with thoughts about Alton Sterling and Philando Castile. I've given a lot of thought about how I would talk with my white kids about race and privilege. I always figured that when they brought it up, I'd talk with them about it. My kids have yet to mention racial difference, even though they are surrounded by people of all different colors all the time. I figured, why disturb their innocence by bringing a difficult conversation into their lives. But today, I realized that I was not only doing a disservice to my child, but especially to all people of color, by allowing my child to remain blissfully unaware of the struggle going on all around us. 

So I told her: "There are kids with dark skin who get treated badly just because their skin is darker. They are not as safe as kids with light skin, just because their skin is darker. You have an important job. If you see someone being treated badly and they have dark skin, you stand up for them. You get in the way. You help protect them and make them feel safe. You get help. You tell them that you think they matter." 

I am embarrassed that I did not have this conversation sooner, as I know that parents of black and brown kids do not have the same luxury of allowing their kids to remain blissfully unaware. 

Parents of white kids, start the conversation. Find the words. The words might not be perfect, as I'm sure mine aren't. But start talking. Silence is making it worse.

It's a Boy

Luke and I are expecting our third child in April. It’s a boy. He’ll have two older sisters as his traveling companions in our family.

Ted knew that I was pregnant. When we told him the good news, we didn’t yet know the sex of the baby. He was hoping for another nephew—wanting to even up the score. I was hoping for another girl. We found out it was a boy about a week before Ted died, but we never got around to telling him. He knows now. 

I was a little disappointed when we found out. I was already immersed in little girl stuff and was  ready to add another one to the mix. I thought that raising three girls would feel like year-round summer camp. I didn’t know quite what to think when the nurse told me, “It’s a boy!”

I sat with a friend the day after we heard the good news and talked it over with her. I finally came around to the idea of raising a boy when I said, “I love having a brother. Now our girls will get to have one too.” And that thought did a complete 180 on my disappointment. 

Less than a week later, I lost my brother. And now, I couldn’t be more thrilled to bring a little boy into our family. What a gift our kids will be to one another. My girls don’t even know how lucky they are to get to grow up with a brother. They will, all three of them, learn so much from each other and I can’t wait to see it unfold.

As Luke and I walk through our house, imagining what it will be like to have three kids running around, I explain to him a little about what to expect. Luke grew up with only one sister who is 13 years older. He didn’t have quite the same experience as I did and can’t quite anticipate the chaos that is about to ensue. 

I was the middle child with Ted less than two years older and Berkley, about three years younger. We were a three-pronged unit. We were three slamming bedrooms doors. Three sets of coats, hats, mittens and snow boots. Three bikes in the garage. Three different favorite cereals. Three seats taken up in the minivan, three lifejackets in the boat. Three performers in the “shows” we put on for obliging family and guests. We were totally different from one another—people often congratulated my parents on raising three complete individuals. But we were always three. 

I tear up (and often all-out sob) when I anticipate our next family gathering. Ted’s absence will be a force. There will be only two of us siblings taking up spots at the table. Two siblings exchanging in sarcastic banter.

I’ve come to realize that Berkley and I will be now known as the two remaining Welles kids. But what we actually are is two-thirds. We will not be a whole number. ‘Two’ does not acknowledge our missing and missed brother. We will be a pie chart where 33% is left unshaded.

As sad as this realization makes me—and it hits me again and again like punches in the face, I am so very glad that I will get to raise my own three-pronged unit. I will teach them to love and appreciate each other. To be their own person but to also remember that they’re a team and to stand up for one another. Hopefully they will grow to learn that a sibling is never to be taken for granted and perhaps the greatest gift their parents ever gave them.