Michele Minehart

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Category: Uncategorized (Page 20 of 188)

Ruining Magical Holidays since 2008

February 14, 2014 /

In case I’ve ever given you any reason to believe I’m one of those really good moms, allow me to pull back the curtain. I kinda suck. 

Not in a hurt-my-child or they-never-have-clean clothes kind of way. No, I care for my children, but on occasions that other (read: good) moms use for fun and celebration and magic, I use to teach a lesson. Usually in ways convenient to my agenda. 
We started the valentine’s-making way back at the beginning of the week because I know me and how I suck. I assisted by cutting the coffee filters into a heart but wouldn’t you know we don’t have any markers. So they were stuck with plain old crayons to decorate, and H-boy declared he could do his own cutting of hearts and opted for the thin, grayish, highly-recycled paper we had on hand. Gorgeous, I’m telling you. Just gorgeous. 
Yesterday we went another round of valentine-decorating. Miss M had laid out her special ones and named the friends she wished to give them. She had a whole stack so I worried little about needing to write names on each one. H-boy was writing them out to his friends (and their siblings, because that’s what he does). But by the time we boarded the minivan this morning it was clear that neither had finished their valentine-making. The boy, especially.  

The pile of unfinished, unimpressive homemade valentines. Go me. 
I decided not to care. I felt some guilt as Miss M put them in some boxes and not others, despite the teacher’s gracious supply of a class list. But I decided that the kids without one from her would never know the difference. 
The whole cluster made me reflect on the holiday practices and what we teach our children. The day celebrates love and showing affection, but we do this by buying little cards and writing names on them. And we insist the kids make one for every single person lest someone feel left out – I get that. I don’t want my kid to be the only one not getting cards. 
On the other hand, is it really love? Or are we teaching them how to give tokens of purchased affection because “that’s what we do” and provide yet another holiday to flood their little bloodstreams with sugar? To me, that seems to take away the magic of a day created to focus us on love and adoration. We can’t possibly love 20 people with deep and equal adoration, so perhaps giving to the 19 might be hindering us from honoring the one. 
While I love the discipline side of the practice – having him sit down and write out the names and give attention to the act will eventually grow in him a love and appreciation, or so the thought goes – I’m hesitant to force it upon him. What if he only wants to give 3 valentines? Why is that wrong? He’s a boy that loves fiercely to those closest to him – but it may take a while to reach that inner circle. I don’t want to instill the value of rote, thoughtless practice but rather cultivate a heart that desires to show affection. Forcing him to show affection to someone he doesn’t authentically love seems to be a step in the wrong direction, especially for this boy. 
I vow to all my kindergarten and elementary teacher friends, I’ll get on the ball before it becomes an issue of hurting feelings. I don’t need to be that mom all the time. But if we’re going to celebrate love, I want them to truly love, from their centers and with their actions, not just with their names scribbled on cards. 
***
Epilogue 
At lunch I decided to capitalize on opportunity. I had read an article about the roots of St. Valentine’s day, how the great saint had healed the enemy’s daughter before his beheading. I told the kids of the man, Saint Valentine and how we named the day after him because he was kind to people who were not kind to him. We talked about loving people who don’t always love us and being nice to people who might not be nice to us. 
I asked if they had anyone that perhaps wasn’t always nice to them (and winced hoping they said no) – it turns out they feel like their siblings aren’t always kind or loving toward them. H Boy said, “but I love her anyway.” And my heart swelled. 

Brother (and sister)’s keeper

February 13, 2014 /

Our society puts a lot of emphasis on “socialization.” I even take my kids to a preschool with a primary emphasis on navigating social relationships over more academic learning, so I clearly value it. It’s become a bit of a priority as H Boy continues to grow into his own person, one who has developed with a strongly introverted nature. 

He’s not quick to join new social settings or make friends quickly, especially if those friends come across loud and excited. He will hang back, observe and once he experiences what he deems as an indication of safety, he’ll join in. I try not to worry and allow him to be himself (without making it too easy for him to opt for solo activity every time), but the noise surrounding “well socialized” children gets pretty loud. 
But just watch him. He’s the most amazing big brother. His concern for his sisters, and now his baby brother, speaks louder than all my worries. He asks them to play, begs for one of them to sleep in his room for a nap, and entertains the baby more often than I wish he would. 
He’s sensitive to their feelings and watches out for them. He’s an all-around good brother. Why isn’t society applauding this kind of relational success? 

“Watch your step,” he says. 
Take a quick survey of the adults in your world – who do they spend time with? Who appears on your frequently called list? When family, specifically siblings, live nearby they tend to stick together. One of our favorite things is to spend time with my sister, her husband and children – we look forward to it and build it into our calendar on purpose. I have cousins who do the same, sharing mutual friends. Of course, there’s always the exception to the rule and often you hear the case of estranged siblings. And those stories tend to sink our hearts because deep down, we know something broke beyond a friendship gone awry. 
We have these precious early years that kids begin their sibling life, and then we send them off to school to “get socialized” only 18 years later to see that they’ve gravitated toward their sibs again. We spend time teaching kids how to “be a good friend” but what if that wasn’t the starting point? 
If we go digging in the family tree to find we’re all brothers and sisters. We come from the same place, whether you believe that’s Adam and Eve or an ape named Thor. It started somewhere and the rest of history seems to be this awful story of siblings spending more time in rivalry than seeking mutual edification. So if our basis is sibling love, it should extend out to all those with whom we share space. 
Sometimes it’s hard to love your brothers and sisters fully because you know them in their raw form. There’s no dressing them up because we find them in the kitchen with morning breath, at bedtime throwing tantrums and during playtime, stealing toys and teasing you about your name. But when we dig into the hard love, the real love, the honest love, we’re learning a skill for our lifetime (especially if you get married. Doubly so if you have children). 
It’s easy to fake a love for friends or people we see at select times and places. Siblings, however, serve as training ground for living out things like forgiveness, honesty and respect. And when it’s done well, you reap a lifetime of blessing living with family and friendship. 

When it’s not microwave-safe

February 12, 2014 /
My grandmothers told great stories. Grandma Mary told me once that she was ready for a first date, hair curled and dress pressed, when her dad told her she needed to come help pick tomatoes before she left. She carefully wove her way through the garden, making sure not to get too dirty, leaning around the plants and touching the fruit only with the tips of her fingers. Then her own father nailed her with a tomato and laughed and laughed and laughed. (She never believed this was a spiteful move, more of a lesson about getting ready for a 7pm date at 2:00 in the afternoon). 
Grandma ‘Cella had to milk the family cow every day, without fail. “That cow your grandpa Bud wanted so bad – we got her home and she hated him. Every time he went near, she’d try to kick him.” So on this tiny farm meant for providing for their immediate family, she had been locked into the daily milking duty. (And imagine it on this winter morning, but before the day of elaborate milking houses). 

The reality in which my grandparents grew up and raised their kids contained an element of extremely hard work. If not farmers by trade, families just a few generations ago farmed for the provision of their home. The bounty of tomatoes thrown at my grandmother became the spaghetti sauce and vegetable soup and chili of the following winter. 

***
We nicknamed my mother “Microwave Marj.” She, along with my aunt and many of the women in her social circle, had figured out how to use this fantastic black machine to get dinner on the table in less than 10. Even better, since she was working more days of the week, she could teach us children to open the can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, put it in the tupperware plastic bowl and hit 1 – 3 – 0 to make lunch. If we were hungry by the time The Young and The Restless began, it was our own fault. 
This generation of families pioneered new trails for how women contributed to society. More women earned college degrees and the majority of the women I knew growing up worked outside jobs, positions that required them to punch a clock and spend more time away from home. In order to make it all fit, something had to give. Willing corporations provided the milk, eggs, bread and spaghetti sauce that families didn’t have time to tend to for themselves. And the more popular this notion became, the cheaper it was to live the lifestyle – the demand helped increase supply and decrease price. One could hardly raise and feed a cow for the annual cost of milk, let alone factor in the price on your time to milk it (and, if you were my grandpa Bud, the pain and suffering involved in that endeavor). 
No blame lies in this – only observation. The years of hard work this particular generation watched their parents endure probably held little luster. Why spend so many days and hours of sweat and toil when a company will do that work for you? It made sense. 
***
I just returned from a gathering where women – representative of people, really – acknowledged a spiritual hunger and couldn’t quite put words to it. I spoke with longtime believers and those relatively new to the faith. Each conversation contained an element of longing, a dissatisfaction with status quo. A quick scan of the internets will yield you story after story of discontent, disagreement and diagnoses of “what the problem is.” Just last week the headlining story in the christiansphere was Donald Miller and why he doesn’t go to church any more (and why people agree or disagree with that approach). 
The problem doesn’t seem to be lack of products. Bibles are printed in abundance (I own no less than 15 if I had to guess. But I’m a nerd.) Churches offer class after class, bible study after bible study. Trips, conferences, seminars, podcasts – we’re one of the most well-resourced generations to learn about scripture and our faith and yet we seem to be one of the most cynical and discontented. 
***
When I survey my dining room table, it tends to be more reflective of my grandmother’s as opposed to my own mother’s, which is the way of the world, really. History repeats itself and each generation rebels against the one before in their own [passive-aggressive at times] way. As opposed to tossing my ear of corn in to the micro, wrapped in plastic, we steam it on the stove. Actually the micro tends to leaven my sourdough more than warm my meals. We buy eggs that were laid that morning and what I can’t grow due to my poor greenthumb, I buy from farmers without a marketing campaign (thanks to my co-op). 
I love to eat out – don’t get me wrong, I firmly believe it’s the “best part of going to a town bigger than your own.” So when an opportunity presents itself to chow down on some highly-processed, chemically-laden versions of food, I jump every time. One time, after leaving such an occasion, my sister remarked, “my belly is full, but I’m still ravenous. It’s like I ate something but my body is craving something with nutritional value.” The quick-n-ready forms of making meals has zapped the plate of nourishment. 
***
I have to wonder about the implications of a society that pre-packages entire diets, requiring nothing but peeling back a sheet of cellophane before zapping it with magical waves. Of course, a survey of our health conditions reflects just that – the high cholesterol, rates of heart disease, diabetes, obesity.  I think the sky-high occurrences of anxiety and depression also implicate our lifestyle, even if not our food. It’s not working. Actually, it’s making us sick. 
And thus, for our spirituality. What if the fact that we didn’t grow it, but instead picked it up off the shelf in pre-packaged (and well-marketed) form indicates that it might fill our bellies but leave us ravenous. And because we’re still hungry, we move on to consume the next thing. And the next. 
We’ve been put into a position where we need not work for our meals or our faith. It can be delivered. And, much of the time, we expect it to be. Just recently Relevant received backlash when an author said that “the pastor isn’t feeding me” isn’t a fair reason to leave a church. We’ve come to believe that it’s some other person’s job to grow, harvest, prepare and plate a meal for our immediate consumption that will fill us for the week.  I would argue we’re a few short steps away from offering it in intravenous form, saving our audience the pesky task of chewing. 
So we grab a Bible study on the run, gorging ourselves on activity while starving ourselves of the nourishment of a long obedience in the same direction*. A quick McRun won’t ruin our bodies forevermore, but a steady diet of ready-to-consume products won’t sustain a lifetime of healthy growth. 
***
This weekend we took communion after an emotionally-powerful moment of prayer and repentance. But as I approached the cup and bread, I felt it lacked something. While the moment mattered, it bore more resemblance to what Michael Pollan* would say “your grandparents wouldn’t recognize as food.” I could dine on this moment, but it was only a small part of the daily work involved with feeding my soul. This meal would only last until I boarded the plane. 
Until our generation realizes that the work of God can’t be microwaved, we’ll continue to starve. Our bellies will be filled with whatever we pick up at the drive-thru, but it will lack the vitamins and minerals required for a fully-functioning faith. Our spiritual health will suffer from our SAD (Standard American Diet) of low-quality offerings. 
We can’t approach the newest book, study or Sunday morning teaching as the means for which we will see life change. The acts of growing, chopping, simmering and slow-roasting, I believe, are lost but important parts of the eating process. We’ve reduced food, and spirituality, to what we put into our mouths, forgetting how it got there. When we remove ourselves from the preparation phase of a meal and look only at the final result on the plate – setting aside how it started in raw form, the earth it was grown in, the work involved in making an entire meal – we prioritize a consumption-driven lifestyle, even in our faith.  

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