when love hangs out in the sludge

Fifteen years ago, all six of us were on the same page. We aren’t anymore. 

That realization would have launched me into a panic as a senior in college. I would have wept with confusion and fear and doubt, praying for us to come back together in agreement and unity. What I understand now that I didn’t before is that unity and agreement are not the same thing. 

We’ve all changed, but we haven't all changed in the same ways. We’re all asking questions, but not the same questions. We’re all letting go of some things, but not the same things. We’re all keeping some things, but not the same things. 

Disagreement is unsettling, and I have to fight my gut response to keep talking it out until we get back to common ground. It rattles my soul to think that ground might be gone, and my mind starts asking ridiculous questions like, “Can we still be friends, like best friends, if our faith doesn’t look the same? Will they think I’m naive because I still believe? Will they think I’m hellbound because I don’t?  Were we wrong before? Are we wrong now?” 

There was ease in reciting the answers our faith offered rather than wading through the muddy questions our faith compels. 

Maybe that’s our new common ground: murky, knee-deep sludge. 

It makes sense that love hangs out in the sludge. 

This season, these questions and doubts will forever hold a spot in our journey, but we all know better than to believe this is our landing spot. It can’t be. We’re not done yet.

---

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "280 Words".

getting her number

The three of us walked through the gate as I flashed our shiny new family membership card at the teenage boy behind the desk. My daughter was decked out in her swim gear, and my son sat in the stroller, content, a toy car clutched in each chubby hand.

I was ready for this.

I'd decided on cut-off jean shorts, a navy blue tank, flip flops, and pony tail, a casual but clean ensemble that said I was easy-going but actually did laundry every once in awhile. My mom bag hung over my shoulder bursting with towels, Goldfish crackers, and three baby dolls my daughter insisted join her at the pool. I eased over to the picnic tables, the scent of sunscreen and chlorine heavy in the air. My eyes darted back and forth behind sunglasses, scoping out the field.

This was it - the first day of swim lessons in our new town - the ultimate pick up scene. This place was crawling with moms, and I was on the prowl.

It was pretty new territory for me. In our previous town, all my girlfriends and I started having babies at the same time. My friends became my mom friends; no mom dating required. This worked for me. I was never very good at the witty banter and thoughtful questioning that first dates require. Today had to be different; I brought my A game.

I unloaded at an empty table and attended to my children, careful to present myself as available but not overly desperate. I knelt down to give my daughter the obligatory pep talk about obeying her teacher and being a kind friend. My speech faded off as I noticed a mom at the next table smothering her child in Banana Boat. We exchanged a quick glance and brief smile before our moment was cut short by a whistle and a lady with a clipboard. 

I walked my daughter over to the pool fence and casually hung around to check out the kids (read: moms) in her class. It was a small class, only five children, and one was dropped off by her dad. Useless.

I sat on a bench and began gauging the compatibility potential of each mom. Did she look friendly? Did she look funny? Was she too put together? Too frantic? Was she a high-strung mom or an I-don't-put-sunscreen-on-my-kids mom? Did she have other children? Did it look like she already had enough friends? Was she out of my league, or did I stand a fair chance?

First impression: everyone seemed taken. Moms were already paired up or huddled in small groups chatting about swim meets and The Bachelorette. Should I move closer? Maybe I looked unapproachable or uninterested sitting on this bench alone. I was just about to walk a lap with my son when I spotted her.

She was walking toward the fence, just a few feet from my bench with a baby on her hip, a toddler at her side, and waving to a boy in my daughter’s class. I gave her the quick once over. 

Nice smile. Must be friendly, maybe even funny. Bonus.

Sporty outfit. Hmmm. Might be one of those moms who exercises. We can work on that.

Alone. Perfect. She could be as desperate as I am.

This might be it. This could be my next mom friend.

I debated some of my best pick up lines —

"Do you live around here?"

"Cute yoga pants!"

"There's actually gin and tonic in this water bottle if you want some."

But instead of wooing her over with my wit and charm, I froze and spent the remainder of the swim lesson with a creepy smile and awkward stare.

Oof. It's a wonder I ever made any mom friends.

I came back the next day with gumption. To my dismay, my target dropped off her son and proceeded to leave.

Leave? Are moms allowed to leave during swim lessons? I'm not required to sit by the fence giving a thumbs up every time my daughter puts her whole head under water? Interesting. She was a bit of risk-taker. I liked her even more. 

Day three. I had to make it happen. I spotted her in the kiddie pool, sitting in the shallow end with a baby in her lap. A few days a week, the kiddie pool opens up during swim lessons, which is perfect for entertaining younger siblings. That's it. That's my line. I had to move quickly. I picked up my son, walked around the pool with confidence, and sat down next to her in the water, shamelessly invading her personal space.

"It is so nice that some days they open up the kiddie pool during swim lessons. Sure makes it easier than trying to entertain him myself for a half hour."

Hook, line, and sinker. She totally bought it, and we launched into first date chitchat.

Over the course of the next two weeks, the small talk continued. Conversation stayed within the recommended boundaries for early dates — summer vacation plans, preschool, and best local restaurants. Neither of us mentioned gender-neutral toy aisles, immunizations, organic food, or Donald Trump. Our children played together nicely with minimal toy snatching, and all signs pointed to compatibility. With the last day of swim lessons approaching, I knew what I needed to do. If this was going to continue, I had to get her number. 

Driving to the pool on the last day, I was determined to not let cold feet get the best of me. I tried rehearsing a few lines for casually exchanging numbers, but all I could hear was Carly Rae Jepsen's voice singing in my head. (Insert head bopping to chorus of Call Me Maybe.)

We met at our usual spot in the kiddie pool, chatting until swim lessons were over. Ring Pops and certificates were handed out as moms dried off their children and began packing up to head home.  Not us. We had plans. That's right. Plans. We had decided to pack picnic lunches for the kids and spend the afternoon at the pool. That's kinda like second base, yes?

The kids were all gathered around the table with pruney fingers grabbing at each other's food. This is a good sign; when your children are making serious trades like my pretzel for your BBQ chip, you know you're knee deep in this friendship thing.  No turning back now. My moment was here. 

Uh oh. Carly Rae's voice was back.

Hey, I just met you

And this is crazy

Come on, Joy. Speak. 

But here's my number. 

Do it. Get her number.

So call me maybe.

And then, something I never saw coming. She did it. She totally blindsided me. 

"Hey," she said, "Before you go, we have to be sure to exchange numbers."

Genius. So simple. So well-played.

She just swept right in there and stole my moment. She must really like me.

I bet she practiced in the car.

This essay was first published by Coffee + Crumbs, my favorite site for all things motherhood.

just for a season

I know my story is not your story, and my friends are not your friends, but if I had to guess, you too have experienced the toll that distance can take on a friendship.  You have lost touch with dear friends and feel guilty about it from time to time.  Making new friends sounds exhausting, and sometimes you'd rather just binge on Netflix than put in the time and effort it takes to make a friend who really knows you.  If I'm right, you just might see a little bit of yourself here. 

*****

It has been over fifteen years, and the loneliness of my first weeks as a college freshman can still tie my stomach into a knot.

Saying good-bye to my high school friends was excruciating.  You can chalk it up to teenage hormones or girly drama, but leaving the comfort of those friendships left me paralyzed.  When every other college freshman was running around with their friendly in high gear, I was being quiet at best, cold if I'm honest. I ached for people I had history with, people who knew me, and I had absolutely no interest in making new friends.  After all, I already had friends; they just didn't live near me anymore.

I didn't know at the time, but that transition forever changed how I handled future good-byes.

*****

As to be expected, I didn't stay a hermit for long.  I soon managed to put on my big girl panties, introduce myself to some friendly faces, and before long, I was all in on this friend thing.  College life creates the perfect condition for friendship at its finest.  You get more than just the highs and lows - you get the mundane - the weekday breakfasts in the dining commons before 8 AM classes, the drives to Walmart to buy white undershirts and puffy paint, the Thursday night countdown to the final episode of Friends.  And somehow, those hundreds of mundane moments add up to friends who know your heart.  

And within the blink of eye, four years of college was wrapping up.  I was again facing another round of goodbyes with the potential to crush me, but this time, it didn't.

It wasn't a conscience decision, or even one I realized I'd made until years later, but when faced with this second wave of goodbyes, I wasn't taken down the same way I had been four years earlier.  I suppose I knew going in these friendships were just for a season, and in order to protect my own heart, I wasn't so foolish as to think these friendships would forever stay the same. 

This term "just for a season" has become a running joke in our home.  All in good humor, Stephen will occasionally criticize me for being callous, hard-hearted, and giving up on friendships.  He doesn't understand my "heart of stone," and grieves deeply for friendships of the past. I have often felt the need to defend my perspective, eagerly proclaiming my affection for past friendships, while willingly admitting my acceptance that most friendships are just for a season.

*****

Earlier this year I flew to Arizona to spend the weekend with girls I haven't seen for nearly ten years.  These were the five girls I lived with my senior year in a house we dubbed The Ritz as it was the only house in small town Upland, Indiana that was built in the past decade and therefore was without leaky pipes, cracked walls, or the permanent stench of college boys.  Such luxury.

The first couple years after college the six of us kept in touch with an occasional email and enough weddings popping up that we'd see each other on the dance floor once a year, but we really hadn't all been together since 2005.

"Is it going to be awkward?" a colleague of mine asked when I told her about the upcoming reunion.

Awkward?  That thought had never occurred to me.

And sure enough, our weekend together proved what I knew to always be true.

There were no apologies for not calling to check in over the past ten years.  No "I'm sorry I didn't send a gift when you had a baby," or "I'm sorry I never texted on your birthday."  We'd all missed special occasions, and we all mistakenly thought everyone was doing fine when we weren't.

We all knew we were just trying to hold our own shit together, and our lack of communication didn't mean we didn't care.  It didn't mean we were never thinking of the others, and it didn't mean that every time we heard Kelly Clarkson's Breakaway, we weren't overtaken by a physical ache in our gut for the safety of friends who just knew.  (We experienced the first season of American Idol together, so Justin and Kelly -- both the people and their movie -- will always have a dear place in our hearts.)

And, most importantly, it didn't mean our friendship wasn't real.

That is what I'd tell my 18-year-old self.

Distance will separate you from your dearest friends.  Time and time again you will hug someone goodbye saying "til next time," not really knowing when that next time will be.  If you're lucky, next time will be in a few months.  If you're realistic, it will be in ten years.  You won't keep in touch, and you will miss all kinds of significant events in each others' lives.  You will begin to wonder if that friendship even mattered because if it had, shouldn't you be having weekly phone dates or yearly reunions?

There is great comfort in being surrounded by people who knew you, and it might be even more comforting than being around people who know you.  I have a deep love and admiration for the girl I used to be, and whenever I get the chance to catch up with people who knew that Joy, I am thankful for time to remember her.  It did my soul good that for one weekend I could visit with a part of me that had been buried under responsibilities like packing lunches, dealing with health insurance, and learning about 401Ks.

Although the six of us  did a fair share of lamenting over what a total drag grown up life can be, it was clear we were all a bit more confident and a bit wiser, readily admitted we didn't know as much as we thought we once did.  We are now more willing to hold future plans loosely because the past ten years have thrown us all the unexpected, both the confusing kind and the terrifying kind of unexpected, and I was so proud to be in the presence of women who loved Jesus through it all.

Shauna Niequist strings words together so beautifully to match my feelings that I often end up replying back to the pages of her books with an avid "Yes!" or "That is so true!"  In her book Cold Tangerines, she describes the deep sadness she had after moving from Chicago to Grand Rapids.  She goes on to describe the image of newborn puppies, huddled together in a box keeping warm.

"They didn't want to be held, even if you held them tight, 

because really they just wanted to be back in the box with other puppies."

Yes.  That is so true.

Through ever transition in my life, I have felt like I was lifted from my box of puppies, aching for the warmth and comfort friends provide by just being there.  Knowing my life will be a revolving door of transitions and goodbyes and awkward hellos is exhausting.

There is such potential for guilt when I think of the friends I should be calling, texting and flying across the country to visit.

There is such potential for frustration when I wonder how it is that for a season my life was intertwined with girlfriends I now only text when they're pregnant.

There is such potential for disappointment when I remember the season of my life when every picture, every weekend, every laugh, and every decision involved couples Stephen and I now only see at weddings (if we're lucky).

Ugh. I hate it.

But I will firmly plant my heart in the truth that these friends still matter, even if their physical presence in my life was just for a season. 

A lunch filled with laughter as we remembered our college crushes

rebuilding our village

Today I enter a new public writing territory -- motherhood.  It is a territory I have thoroughly explored in my private writing, but not one I have ventured out to publicly.

Motherhood is a tricky topic, and this is certainly not due to lack of material.  Moms are a wealth of stories to suit any crowd and any mood.  We're ready at any moment with the tear-jerkers, the tender moments, the terrifying, the hilarious, the disgusting, the melt-your-heart, the weird, the confusing, and the "so-cute-I-could-just-scream" stories.

But writing about mama life is very different than living mama life.  

A couple months ago, I wrote about surviving in our landominium that had long exceeded maximum capacity.  In this post, I explained that my perspective about overflowing out of our home gains much clarity when I'm writing in the early morning hours and all the darlings are still sleeping.  In those calm moments, I can find humor in the cozy chaos, but there are many moments I find no humor. The struggle is real and ugly.

The same goes for motherhood.

Days after our nine hour road trip with minimal napping, dozens of "I have to go potty" claims, whining, seat kicking, and no less than 247 requests for a snack, the rough edges have softened.  I can chuckle, turning that nightmare into an amusing story that would prompt any parent to nod along and feel my pain.  But there is no chuckling in that car; there is frustration, crabbiness, self doubt, and even tears, wondering how to pull myself up from the current exhausting moment and move into the next.

This is the balance of writing about motherhood.

It is my hope to bring out the humor, absurdity, and joy in it all, while carefully giving full weight to the struggles, questions, fears, and doubts.

And it is for that reason I have steered cleared.  But Andrew turned one a couple weeks ago, so my maternal walk down memory lane is in full stride as I recall exactly what we were doing one year ago today. The transition to two children was much more difficult than either Stephen or myself expected.  This wasn't due to lack of sleep or an extra needy big sister (well, not entirely), but because welcoming our second child were some of my loneliest days.

Our first child, Charlotte, had been born two years earlier, and within hours of her arrival, our hospital room was filled with at least a dozen friends, all of whom were bubbling over with love and excitement for our new daughter.  During our two-day stay in that room, there was a steady stream of visitors with lattes, cupcakes, Jimmy John's, and pink onesies in hand.  We arrived home to pink balloons decorating the porch and meals lined up for weeks.  There was hardly a day someone didn't stop by to just chat, check in, and keep us company.

I recognize that for many new moms, I have just described your worst nightmare. But for Stephen and me, this village of people celebrating with us was a showing of love that we will always treasure.

Two years later, nearly every detail surrounding Andrew's arrival differed from his sister's, but the most impactful difference was the absence of that village.  It was a harsh reminder that so many of our dear friends, as if almost on cue, moved away from Oxford over that past year.  This mass exiting from Oxford spread our closest friends all over the country from California to New York to Florida to Hawaii.  But this is the nature of a college town.  Very few people, particularly those in their twenties and early thirties, expect to stay more than five or six years, ourselves included. 

I remember sitting on the couch nursing Andrew and thinking about how I'd possibly survive the upcoming cold months of maternity leave with limited friends.  Who would I talk to?  Who would Charlotte play with?  Where would we go?  What if we didn't leave the house for weeks?  Would anyone check in on us?  My tremendous joy was being overshadowed with an intense state of loneliness.

I wasn't looking for someone to watch Charlotte or hold Andrew or fold my laundry.  I didn't need someone to relieve me so I could nap or shower or spring for a latte.  I was just looking for friends.  Friends to patiently listen to every boring detail of how my new baby spent the past twenty-four hours. Friends to scold me for trying on regular jeans far too soon.  Friends to remind me that the outside world was still in motion, and I would rejoin it again someday.

I slowly lowered myself to the ground and asked Jesus for friends, and more specifically, mom friends.  Not just mom friends to make small talk with, but mom friends I could really connect with, laugh with and be real with during this season.  I prayed God would slowly rebuild that village we missed so dearly.

I have prayed dozens of prayers on that living room floor.  There are requests I have been laying before the Lord for years, pleading with Him and waiting to see how He will work. But there have also been times God fulfills an immediate need almost before I've picked myself up off the floor.

This was one of those times. 

Within days, I received an invite to come over to a friend's house for a pancake breakfast, yoga pants expected.

A few days later, a young mom from our church invited Charlotte to join her and her girls at the library story hour so I could have time with just Andrew.  Her kindness led to multiple doughnut dates and a few day trips to the children's museum.

A month later I connected with another mom during Charlotte's toddler gymnastics class. This friendship led to playdates, some great conversation, and of course, doughnut dates. (Should I be embarrassed about all the doughnut dates I schedule?)

Those winter months chugged along, and I soon found myself laying out those work clothes I hadn't seen in months. I sat with Stephen on the couch processing the jumbled mess of emotions every mom feels at the end of maternity leave. 

God had been so faithful.

Andrew's arrival didn't come with the crowds and balloons that his sister's had.  The enormous community we had surrounding us at that time was unique, a precious season of our lives.  A village would have been great.  I always prefer a house full of people,  but what I learned so deeply in those months after Andrew's birth was that I didn't need an entire community.  God didn't rebuild that village of friends we'd lost, but instead He taught me the simply beauty of someone who would just say "come eat pancakes at my house," or "let's meet for doughnuts."

After all, no one, especially a new mom, is saying no to pancakes or doughnuts.

And in honor of Andrew Boston...

"I'm one!"