Chicago

This weekend Ed and I went to Chicago for an overnight trip, taking in the sights and sounds of the Windy City. Chicago is a common destination around here. Just over two hours away, it’s the only truly large metro area around. But let me just say Chicago has never been a destination on my bucket list. I’ve driven around its confines and flown into it often and those distant views were enough to satisfy my little interest in it. And while I will say I was rather surprised that I enjoyed it more than I thought, I’ll also add that perhaps the residents should have just let it die after the 1871 fire. It certainly didn’t excite me enough that I have a desire to visit again.

Chicago prides itself in its resilience. In the fact that it reinstated itself as a bustling City within years of burning to the ground. It’s proud of its tall buildings, lakefront property and historic sports teams. It also quickly sweeps its crime rate under the rug, ignoring its roots or effects. And I got so sick of rainbow flags, I wanted to sit down and cry. It was also interesting to note in the twenty-two miles we walked, I saw only two churches (Catholic and liberal Presbyterian) and a Jewish meeting place. And while I am sure even Chicago has Christians, I left wondering why God didn’t rain down fire upon it. I certainly would.

Despite all that, Ed and I had a good time roaming around, exploring a new place and taking some time away from life and the kids (who were happily exhausting Grandpa and Grandma). 

 Wrigley Field – it’s hard to see, but the infamous Ivy Wall is there.

We took a tour, which was probably the best part of the trip. But be careful – goats are not to be mentioned!

The Navy Pier.

Sun breaking through storm clouds over the city.

Deep dish pizza, of course! (We also tried a Chicago hotdog.)

The city at our feet…or below it from the Sky View at Willis Tower (formerly Sears Tower).

The Bean. Don’t ask. I can’t explain it. I’m not sure anyone can.

Who Am I? - Part 3

I moved to Pittsburgh exactly one week before my wedding day. I wouldn’t advise a game plan like that. A little longer may have worked out better. Or, at least, it wouldn’t have felt quite so rushed leading up to the big day. On the other hand, I don’t think any amount of time eliminates all the things that need to be done the days prior to a wedding. So, it probably didn’t matter a whole lot.

But it was a lot of change in a very short span of time. Moving from Minnesota to Pittsburgh via Indiana – a change that was, in retrospect, huge. I didn’t realize how very different a place Pittsburgh is compared to other places I had lived. The fact that it is next to impossible to navigate being one of those challenges, not to mention that Pittsburghers aren’t really partial to outsiders. A wedding is a lot to take in, even if it is all rather hazy both during and after it takes place. Then there was all the unpacking and trying to figure out where to put stuff in a new place, which followed upon the stress of my stuff arriving later than planned. For me, a new church and new people to introduce yourself to – a challenge when I realized I was no longer single old Melissa Sturm but now newly married Melissa Camus, whoever that was. Then I found a job two weeks after we were married, a huge answer to prayer, but yet another thing to adjust to. Followed by the discovery that I was pregnant with Emry two months later. It was a lot to work through. A lot.

All that may go a long way into explaining why Pittsburgh is not my favorite place. Too much to deal with and work through all at once. Rather like the first time I lived in New Hampshire and faced so much change in so short a time I hated the place. Now, of course, I love New Hampshire. And while I can’t say I’ll ever love Pittsburgh, it certainly holds some dear memories, even though I don’t want to go through that changing period ever again.

Even though our life in Pittsburgh grew comfortable, nearly every day I would look at myself in the mirror and wonder who in the world I was. I felt the well-known mid-thirties single Melissa Sturm had been completely lost. No friends. No restful conversations in coffee shops. No lazy Saturdays. No long bike rides. Little time to read and no time to write. I never could figure out where I fit into the strata of the church. I was no longer the single young woman (or old maid) who taught the kids and knew I didn’t really fit into certain conversations among all the other (married) women my age. But I could have fellowship with them because I was well aware of the my place versus theirs. Now married and soon a mother, I finally“arrived” and yet still felt like I was ousted because I still worked a job, I was a good decade older than other women with kids the age of mine but my kids a good decade younger than the kids of women my own age and I never knew what I was supposed to say in the certain conversations I could now be a part of because my experience as married and a mom were so new I knew practically nothing on either subject. The only time I truly felt like me was when I was at work, doing something I knew I was good at and felt like I could contribute. I spent five years in Pittsburgh walking a balance beam and struggling to figure out who I was, who I had become and, therefore, who I was supposed to be.

I wish I could now say I took all these struggles to the Lord in prayer and came out on the mountaintop of beautiful vistas in the end. But I have to confess my prayer life is now more sporadic as I don’t have long evenings or weekends to spend pouring out my struggles to the Lord. They are more likely to get poured out in spurts in the shower or stirring something on the stove, forgotten as I rush off to break up Emry and Ethan whose playing became fighting. I can honestly say, though, that God hears even those prayers. Which is good, because I’m certainly not at the end yet!

I think we often have the idea that change is immediate. I heard often as a teenager that our lives are like the life of a butterfly. We start as a caterpillar, God puts us in a chrysalis and after a struggle, we come out a beautiful butterfly! In essence, that is the case…but it isn’t reality. Our struggle – our sanctification – takes a lot longer than the brief struggle a butterfly has as it leaves behind the chrysalis where it had lain passive as it changed from a caterpillar. By nature, humans are not passive. Even if we desire change, we often fight it tooth and nail. And the struggle is rarely brief, thanks to our stubborn personalities. If only we were butterflies!

Even as I write this, I am reminded how I continue to fight the change from being single to being married and a mom. The move to Indiana has certainly brought some closure to who I now am. I meet other wives and moms at church, and I’m just one of them. Conversations no longer feel awkward and stilted, even if I feel I still have very little to contribute to them. It has taken several years, but God has brought me to the acceptance of this part of His sovereign will in my life – mostly. For there are still days when I would give my very life for a mere half hour of quiet time to read or write without work e-mails to answer, Emry tiptoeing in when she should be taking a nap or laundry piling up. But the struggle is me, not God.  It is me focusing on who I wish I could be instead of seeing the beauty in who God is sanctifying me to be. My life is forever changing. It has to be so. For if I am not changing then I am not being made into the image of God. And becoming more like God is who I want to be! Because my identity isn’t what truly matters. It is who God is that matters. And the more I am made like God, the more I reflect Him to others.  

Out of the Mouth of Babes

Yesterday morning after he had already gotten into countless of his sister’s things, jumped all over the house and dashed around in circles, I asked my little two-year-old son: “Ethan, are you a good boy?”

“No,” he answered. “I’m Ethan.”

Amen!

So Dizzy!

This week has begun a new chapter in our lives. On Sunday evening as I tucked her into bed, I told Emry what the next couple of days of her young life would look like. Swimming lessons Monday morning, swimming lessons again Tuesday morning and then dance lessons Tuesday evening. 

“Mama!” she exclaimed. “I am so dizzy!”

I laughed. “Busy, Emry,” I replied. “You mean busy. But, yes, it might make us a bit dizzy.”

I think she was a bit nervous about her swimming lessons. She told me more than once that she didn’t know how to swim. I explained to her that the other children there wouldn’t know how to either – that is why we take swimming lessons! But she had no trouble following her instructors into the water. There are so many instructors and so few children taking lessons during her 45 minutes, she has one-on-one instruction. Within a few minutes, her instructor had her ducking her head into the water, floating on her back while he held her and kicking happily on the edge. Today we stayed after lessons for a picnic and then to swim, and she was very confidently swimming with her face under water, kicking and paddling with her little hands and feet. So, swimming lessons has been a great success.

This evening she had her first ballet lessons. I don’t think she was nervous about those at all. She sat patiently while I finangled her ringlets into a bun and danced about as she put on her dance outfit (the same one I wore 35 years ago to dance class). She was delighted to pick up her ballet slippers, scampered into the room with the other little girls and I could hear her in there dancing about to Disney princess music. The parents were allowed in the last five minutes of the lesson to see what they had learned: first and second position and how to curtsey. One of the tiniest little dancers there, she flowed through them all. Afterwards she chattered all about it as we drove home. I was glad she enjoyed it because, oddly enough, I was the one who had a flutter of butterflies take off in my stomach for a brief moment as I helped her out of the car to walk into the studio. 

Swimming lessons will last for two weeks, each morning from Monday to Thursday. Dance lessons are each Tuesday for six weeks, enough to give her a taste of them to see if she enjoys them. “Extra curricular activities”. It’s hard to believe we have already come upon that chapter – one that promises to continue for years!

Emry “floating” on her back.

The Nature of Spring

I hate science. Well, “hate” is a rather strong word. I just don’t like it. It doesn’t interest me. The whole world functions as it ought and, one day, Christ will return again and it will all be destroyed. I could care less if Miami could one day be under water (which might be an improvement) or if the hundreds of bike lanes Pittsburgh insists are important are really cutting down on emissions and the concept people have of the “Steel City” being covered in smog (which they aren’t). And while the creativity and amazing pieces God has put in place so this whole universe does function are staggering, I usually stand in awe for a mere moment before turning back to the history book I was reading on the War Between the States. Because history is fascinating. Science not so much.

However, as a mom, I am trying. I truly don’t want my children growing up without knowing how food is grown, or what flowers are which (even if I need a Google search to help) or that a robin’s eggs are blue. Because God speaks through His creation. He shows Himself through His creation so that all men can know there is a Creator and, therefore, no man is without excuse. I want my children to know God the Creator. And springtime is certainly a good time to learn that.

So, if we’re out playing I try to point things out to them and answer their questions. I explained what the millions of “helicopters” they loved to toss into the air were and showed them the tiny trees they became, making our yard look like the start of a forest. Even though the ants are the bane of my life as they creep into my house, I try to explain their better attributes to Emry and Ethan. And they are forever fascinated with butterflies, worms, rolly-pollies and other harmless insects. This week we got a lesson in mama birds teaching their babies to fly.

I saw the baby bird (some sort of finch, I think) several hours before the kids came across it as they went outside after their naps. I had seen the mama bird, her beak full of a large crust of bread she had found, trying to coax the little one to fly up into the bushes. Baby bird was having nothing to do with that. In fact, most of the time he was wandering about completely ignoring his mother who sat up in the bush tweeting at him. The whole scenario reminded me of Ethan, tuning me out and going about his business as if I don’t even exist. I understood mama bird’s frustration.

After their naps, the kids discovered the baby bird playing in the flower beds in our front yard. Mama bird still sat in the bush. Still tweeted at the baby. Still held that apparently not so enticing crust of bread in her mouth. Aside from moving from the neighbor’s yard to ours, the baby bird had made no progress. Nor do I think he cared. The kids were fascinated. Even as I warned them not to get too close, lest mama bird got angry, they followed the baby about amazed that it didn’t fly away. I explained to them how the mama was trying to teach the baby to fly. How that’s the mama’s job and how the baby birds learn. It was hard to tell if Ethan heard me, but Emry certainly did and talked about it for days.

I was quite happy with the impromptu science lesson. Proud, even, that we could actually incorporate science into our daily routine. I sincerely hope mama bird can say the same in the flying lesson department. We haven’t seen the baby again, so I think she may have finally been successful. I only hope I can one day say the same about teaching my children science, but I have a feeling I may need a lot of help in that direction!

Who Am I? - Part 2

The year I turned 22 (2002), the domino effect began. That was to be expected. Twenty-two, despite the rise of the average age of Americans getting married, is still the “age of passage” when it comes to getting married. When I was the tender age of eight, I had written into my life plan to get married at the age of 22. The problem? Well, I watched a lot dominoes fall over the next year…but I was not a piece of that effect.

Between 2002 and 2003, I spent more money on wedding presents, wedding showers, wedding ideas. I was very happy for my friends and their new spouses, but it was also very heart wrenching. One, the change in those friendships was often difficult. And, two, there wasn’t a knight in shining armor anywhere near my line of vision. No amount of hoping was going to bring him, either.

Thinking back now 17 years, it’s hard to remember clearly the thoughts that took up residence in my mind. But I do know I often asked myself who in the world am I? I honestly didn’t know then. To be single for the rest of my life was not a road I either wanted to dwell on or had any clue what it meant. The past ten years of my life certainly hadn’t prepared me to contemplate a life of singleness. ATI taught that, ultimately, a woman’s only purpose was to get married even though it also strongly discouraged it. On the flip side of that already two-edged sword, it did absolutely nothing to train or educate a young woman on what to do until (or if never) Prince Charming showed up. So, here I was at the age of 23 without a prince and no clue as to how to be productive. Thankfully, I was not alone.

A few years previous, upon moving to New Hampshire, the Lord started drawing me to Him in a myriad of ways. For the first time in my life, I knew God was real. I knew He loved me. I knew He was holy. I knew He was sovereign. I knew He heard me. And I was learning to “give a reason for the hope that lies within me” – a verse that had always left me confused and afraid. The path the Lord led me upon as I entered my twenties and started the painful march through them was not a path I would have ever chosen. It was a path of shattered dreams. It was a path of some of the deepest hurts I would ever face. It was a path of darkness. But there was forever a Light shining at my feet. Not enough to see anything, but enough to take one more step. And then another. And then another. Steps that often took me in surprising directions as I learned not just about myself but mostly about my God.

I think the world has an idea that the age of discovery and figuring out who we are and what we will be for the rest of our lives happens in our twenties. After all, that’s when we finish college, get “real” jobs, find our spouse, start a family and all the other “big decisions” that define who we are. But anyone who has survived their twenties will tell you that’s just silly. Even if the finishing college, real job, marriage, kids, mortgage, etc. does all come to fruition in your twenties you are far from sailing peacefully through your remaining decades. You could loose that job. Kids turn your life upside down. What if you have to move? Sorry.  There is simply no such thing as “smooth sailing”.

If anything, my twenties were a massive hurricane with the peaceful moments of brief passings through the eye of the storm. I watched some of my dearest friends get married and have kids. My brother graduated from high school and turned his back on his family. One job after the other fell to pieces through no real fault of my own. I tutored and spent the summers at a camp in North Carolina surrounded by idiotic college students who I came to love. My dearest friend and sister chose someone else and eloped. Allyson came into my life. I moved to Indiana because my family did and watched everything I had built in New Hampshire disappear over the horizon. And, finally, I left home and moved to Texas at the age of 29, no clue as to what that step was going to lead to. My twenties did not answer the question “Who am I?” They were simply a myriad of stepping stones along the path of life. Some wonderfully beautiful. Others deceptively slippery. All of them placed there by my loving and sovereign Heavenly Father.

I’m not saying my twenties didn’t have millions of moments of utter selfishness, wanting to know who I was, and what I was to do, and if that stupid Prince Charming was ever going to show or I could just discount that idea wholesale. So often I focused on that wrong question. That self-focused, prideful question. But not as much. Because God used those years and the stones He placed in my path as markers to look at Him. To see Him. To know Him. And to ask Him who He is. I can honestly say, I wouldn’t have survived my twenties without Him. Without His demanding that I look at Him. Not at me. At Him. And to realize that who I am, ultimately, is all about who He is. 

Our Anniversary!

 

5 years – not long, and yet has it really been that long?

Who Am I? - Part 1

By the time one is nearly forty, married and has kids; you would think I’d be able to answer the question above. But, for some reason, that very question came to mind a couple of weeks ago. I can’t remember why. Likely it had something to do with something my kids were doing and, probably, started out more like, “How in the world did I get here in my life?!?!? Was it really my heart’s desire to be a wife and mother? Ethan, stop climbing that railing before you kill yourself!” Because that’s usually where this sort of thinking starts…

Truthfully, I don’t have a lot of time to do any deep thinking these days. Not when I’m trying to help Ethan survive the age of two or coaxing Emry to enjoy four versus jumping right to fourteen. But the question floated around in my head for days and was brought home by two things: 1) our new Sunday School topic being “Who Am I? My Identity in Christ”, and 2) the burning of the Dallas Training Center.

The latter was stunning, and not because the videos the fire were staggering. An entire 115-year-old, six-story stone structure went up in flames in a matter of hours. The fire was so destructive, what remained was immediately brought down by a wrecking ball. Ironically, it seemed like a fitting end to a building that was a prominent piece of my late teens.

Actually, I wish I had known more about its history when I spent so much time there now twenty-two years ago. I think that might have helped put what was meant to be an icon into a better perspective. But, of course, that was the point. An icon can only be an icon if it is painted in a particular light. And the fact that three presidents had passed through the doors of what had been therich-and-famous place to stay in Dallas at the turn of the last century or that the bricked up tunnel in the basement (which I had seen and heard whispers about) had not simply been a way to get to the stables across the street for the gorgeously dressed women but an escape route from a speakeasy was not the light ATI was aiming for. Instead they focused on the oldest operating elevator west of the Mississippi and left it at that. Because heaven forbid we ATI students should have any idea of the meaning of “speakeasy” or “politics”. Especially if we were girls. The very words might endanger our very souls and put us on a path to hell. And, therefore, ruin ATI.

Granted, all of that may be a bit harsh and extremely unforgiving, but watching that beautiful, historical building go up in flames brought back a rush of memories I realized I had brushed aside. Some of you may have no idea what I mean when I reference “ATI” but you may know the name Bill Gothard (it’s founder). Others of you have an idea of it. The rest of you, like me, who spent years in its culture are of two minds: 1) hate it with a passion and blame it for every bad thing that has ever happened to us, or 2) take the good and, hopefully, brush the rest aside. I try to be of the latter camp. For I met some great people in ATI, people who are still a part of my life and have been a huge blessing to me. But as for what ATI taught and attempted to indoctrinate into us…well, I try to leave that far behind.

The 115-year-old former Ambassador Hotel (just placed on the National Historic Registry) is the building that burned to the ground just a couple of weeks ago on May 28. It was, truly, a beautiful building both inside and out. I spent hours vacuuming its rich carpets, brasso-ing all the railings and doors, enjoying what few cool breezes Dallas can offer on the side porticos. Now in a bad part of town, the developer who will now have to start from scratch on his new “micro-apartments” was getting in on the forefront of the “revitalization” of that area. But just over twenty years ago, the Ambassador Hotel was owned by ATI and was a conference center for, mostly, mother’s retreats, the midwifery school and Excel (their several month long program for teenage girls to learn to be sew, arrange flowers, cook and whatever else it takes to be a proper wife and mother, all the while ATI discouraged both – one of many strange contradictions the program had). And I spent quite a bit of time there in 1997, at the tender age of 17.

My first introduction to the “training center” was two years previous when I stayed in Texas with my grandparents one summer in order to work a “Children’s Institute” during a conference. Without a lot of detail, these Children’s Institutes where I spent an exhausting week teaching eight to ten kids every night was one of the ATI programs I appreciate. I was to stay at the training center and my grandparents had the brilliant idea of taking me down there one Saturday to see it before I would actually be there for a week. To give you an idea of what this meant, the real purpose of the drive down to Dallas was to spend a hot, sticky August Texas day at the museums on the fairgrounds. So, naturally, I intended to wear shorts and a t-shirt. This was such a far cry from proper ATI attire (long skirts and modest, plain tops) that I might as well have been wearing a bikini. But there was no way to explain this to my grandparents so I spent the entire tour slinking around the halls of the training center, scared to death that I was now condemned to hell for wearing shorts and a t-shirt. No penance would ever suffice to save my wretched, sinful soul. 

Now, maybe, you understand a little bit of ATI.

Still, the following week as I was property attired, I truly enjoyed 95% of my time in Dallas and met some great people. And, secretly, felt if I could keep this part of my life up I might slip into Heaven. Providing God ignored other things. It’s safe to say that idea of a sovereign God who saves by grace alone apart from works was something not taught in ATI. So when I did think about such things, at that time of my life, I set them aside.

The following year we moved to Texas. And the year after that, my dad thought it would be a good idea for me “serve” a few weeks at the Dallas Training Center. I wasn’t given an option, really, and as I needed some “good deeds” on my side, I packed my bags and ended up there for a full six weeks. Where I met some great people. As well as some real high-and-mighty bullies. After one conference I washed so many dishes I looked like I had just taken a shower in my clothes. I cut teapots out of old wallpaper until my hands cramped. I learned to properly make beds with crisp, neat corners. I spent twelve hours on my feet in shoes that weren’t made for that and watched them swell to twice their size. I had a lecture on “putting things back where they belong” in the walk-in refrigerator. I learned not all ATI boys have fangs or wrong motives. And within the space of those six weeks, I went to the park maybe six times, saw a shopping mall only once and attended church only once. While we did spend some time studying the Bible and personal devotions were encouraged, discussions on those things usually entailed how we felt and not what the Bible actually said. We were there to serve. Anything outside of that was peripheral.

All of us have awkward teenage years. It doesn’t matter how we’re educated, where we are in the social spectrum or how “in” our wardrobe was. Sixteen is sixteen. Twenty years later, it’s hard to remember what was so vitally important then. And, yet, those years also play a huge part of who we become. So, when the question “Who am I?” came to mind a few weeks ago, things that happened in my teenage years came back to me. When I heard the Dallas Training Center had burned down, I not only thought about my time there, but I also asked myself, “Who was I twenty years ago? And am I still that person today?”

The truth is, looking back at pictures of that summer, I hardly recognize that 17-year-old girl. I don’t remember why I thought my eternal soul could be saved more if I just served more. I don’t know why I worried so much about what some of the other girls thought of my hair, or skirt, or lack of make-up even though they clearly disdained me for some reason.  I don’t know why I ran myself in circles trying to please “ATI”, an insatiable monster if there ever was one. But I do know this: at 17, I had no idea who I was. Because, at 17, I didn’t know who God was.

Yes, even with the good memories, my teenage years have given me baggage I still can’t seem to put down. That baggage feeds the inadequacies of my adulthood, adding doubts to my answer to the question, “Who am I?” But the baggage isn’t the problem. Nor are my inadequacies. The problem is the question. Because the question focuses on me. On how I feel. On how I see myself. A focus rooted in my sin natured and fed by my pride. The question is all wrong. Who cares who I am? The rightful question is: Who is God?