Happier moments on the school run with CutiePyeGirl
The morning school run can be a most dreaded experience. It’s certainly not something I anticipated would be such a big part of my life. In America, people generally don’t walk to school, the ubiquitous yellow school bus doing away with parents needing to deposit their children at school each day. Not so in Britain, where the School Run is an institution. A daily time of sweet engagement with one’s offspring. Right? Or, as the case this week, meltdowns. And that’s not even the behavior of the kids.
Yep, I lost my patience yesterday and today. Yesterday with PyelotBoy, and today with CutiePyeGirl. Autonomy is important to PyelotBoy; he doesn’t like to be told what to do, and being instructed to wear a coat on a rainy morning can make life spiral downwards. Today CutiePyeGirl decided that she’s outgrown her Princess scooter and now will be laughed at by her friends, so using said scooter for the mile walk to school was a tear-filled experience, amplified by her stepping in poo and scooting through a massive puddle, with ramifications on both counts.
My daughter isn’t too old yet to reject the idea of me giving her a huge hug and whispering a prayer in her ear once we got through the school gates (phew, on time even with the challenges). I hope she’ll shake off the trials of the morning, as my son did yesterday (he seemed fine mid-morning when I dropped off the forgotten piano books – another sign of us not being on the ball). I know she’s tired; we’re nearing the half-term break, which we all seem to need during this busy autumn.
But as I think about this week and the school run, I sigh and ask God to forgive me for losing my cool with the kids. What do I need to do differently? How can I reign in my tongue? How can I impart fun and creative memories of this time I have with my kids? A season I know will soon pass. As I consider this season before God, I think of how he’s the perfect parent, never losing his cool with me. I’m grateful for that, and pray that I can pass along some of his divine love to my family.
So how about you? Do you do the school run, and if so, what tips do you have for making it a creative, happy experience? How do you keep your cool when you’re tired, not wanting to be late, and knowing your hair is going crazy in the mist?
Yesterday my husband and kids were meeting me at my parents’ home for dinner. They arrived in a jumble, the story spilling out of my children in fragments before Nicholas was able to park the car and come into the house:
PyelotSon: “An idiot/jerk almost hit us!” he said with a nervous giggle. (Sidenote: Yes, he’s picked up those derogatory terms from a couple of my times at the wheel.)
CutiePyeGirl: “We almost crashed!”
The chatter continued, and it took us some unraveling to figure out the chain of events when Nicholas walked in a moment later, shaking with adrenaline. He filled in the details in rapid succession: They were driving along the straight stretch before turning into my parents’ driveway when an oncoming car drifted into their lane. Nicholas honked (UK: hooted) the horn and the probable-young-person-who-was-texting reacted quickly, because he or she drove around my family – he/she moved onto the sidewalk/grass on the passenger’s side of my family’s borrowed van – to avert a head-on collision.
In this instance, we were saved. We were mercifully and miraculously saved from what could have been a life-taking or life-altering crash. I have my family intact, and the thought has kept me from sleeping as I recount the what-if’s, thinking about hospitals or funeral homes and write-offs of borrowed vehicles.
But we aren’t always kept from harm in this fallen world, for every day some form of sin, disease, or injustice seeps into our lives. I don’t know why God cushioned my family yesterday when other families lose sons and daughters, wives and husbands, mothers and fathers to accidents or cancer or abuse. But I’m grateful. I give thanks, mindful of the fragility of life, when a second can change everything.
Today I return thanks to God for saving me and mine. I want to be like the leper who returned to thank Jesus for healing him. The gift of the present moment feels all the more precious, the morning after the night before that didn’t change our lives forever.
All the talk of royal babies has got me thinking about the beloved cuddly toys of childhood. Do you still have a favorite stuffed animal? I do; my bear with its sewed-up neck peeks out in my study, more a thing of sentiment than of love these days. It’s old, musty, and is marked with paint. Its head won’t stay upright because I used to clutch it to me, throttling it close, neck in my arms. I keep as a reminder of childhood love.
PyelotBoy’s first favorite animal was Quackers. We had several, for fear of losing one. Indeed, when my dad took him and the duck for a walk, they lost Quackers. Thankfully we had another one that was easily exchanged.
But soon PyelotBoy knew which was the real Quackers, and no other one could substitute. The Quackers he loved had a “poor eye,” which was fitting, for PyelotBoy had a poor eye too, one that had to be strengthened through patching the other eye and eventually surgery.
Then Quackers lost some of his appeal when Freddy the Frog came onto the scene. Given to him by American friends, this frog was everything for awhile. Then he lost interest. And PyelotBoy has grown out of stuffed animals now, with Quackers and Freddy shoved into a corner of a wardrobe. When I catch sight of them, I smile and feel a rush of love, thinking of my sweet boy who is growing up so quickly.
But the two items that I see regularly around the house are Fleece and Baby Elmo. When I look at them, I feel that same swell of love and affection. For they are CutiePyeGirl’s favorite things. They have traveled to the States countless times, and have been to Ireland and Wales and Spain and many a place in England. Only one time were they left behind, when we spent a couple of days at our friends’ house outside of London. The first night was tough, but CutiePyeGirl coped.
I have to admit I fail to see the extent of Baby Elmo’s appeal. As a creature he’s not the most attractive with his big plastic head and wizened body. I have to be careful when handing him to CutiePyeGirl, for his head is hard and could hurt her. Fleece, in contrast, is all soft and cuddly, and has become a character in her eyes. It’s grown from the skin of a sheep to something that almost has its own living characteristics.
If our house was on fire and everyone was safe, I would definitely grab Quackers, Freddy, Fleece, and Baby Elmo. I’m grateful for the way the children have loved them. Our children aren’t royalty – they probably wouldn’t even qualify by marriage, being half Yankee-Doodles – but they certainly are a prince and princess to us. And to the King, to whom they are direct descendants.
Nicholas’s priesting, which happens a year after being ordained a deacon (who knew it was so complicated?). I know, the hat; what was I thinking? Nice photobomb too.
Today my husband has been ordained a minister in the Church of England for 15 years. I remember the occasion so clearly as I sat in the cavernous Guildford Cathedral with his family and witnessed him making his promises to love, hono(u)r, and serve God and God’s people. As we drove back to Cambridge, I was keenly aware of him wearing his dog collar for the first time when we stopped at a rest stop – I felt like he was broadcasting, “Hey, I’m one of those crazy Christians!”
While Nicholas went on the pre-ordination retreat, I had stayed with some of his friends in Guildford and prepared for the post-ordination meal. This was my first experience of putting on a party for his friends and the church. I remember making salads; this lovely broccoli one was probably quite foreign to Brits then (at that time salads hadn’t reached the level of acceptance as they have now on these shores). A woman from his church, surveying the heaping buffet table, said what a good vicar’s wife I would make. Oh, how I cringed at that. I had hosted the party as a gift of love for my new husband, not out of duty or expectation. Couldn’t she see that?
I’ve learned many a thing through the years of sleeping with the vicar (or curate). Like gently elbow him if he’s snoring and he’ll turn over. Here are two things I offer from my experience as a VW (vicar’s wife) to other clergy spouses. If you’re part of a church, perhaps these points will help you see the minister and spouse (if applicable) in a new light.
Our first home in Surrey.
Be yourself
One of the first people I ever met in Britain was a lovely American who was married to a Brit who was also a vicar. She was originally from Wisconsin (I come from the next-door state, Minnesota). Ah the wealth of advice and love she showered me with. We shared great laughter too.
She told me how on her husband’s induction to his first church as vicar, she wore a T-shirt under her coat emblazoned with the slogan, “I don’t bake cakes!” She had a strong sense of self and was cheerfully and playfully taking on any hidden assumptions from her husband’s new flock.
Now I do bake cakes, and in particular I’m happy to whip up a batch of my famous brownies for church events. In typical convenience-oriented American style, I serve up the amazing Ghirardelli brownies. Yes, from a mix. One of my friends at church was rather crushed to realize I hadn’t made them from scratch!
But there are lots of ministries at the church I don’t feel called to. I believe that if I step into those roles out of sheer duty, I’ll deprive someone else of fulfilling their calling to serve (and I’ll probably have a stonking attitude). Of course there’s a balance here, and we need to pitch in at times when we don’t feel called when the need is great. And sometimes God calls us into areas we might previously have eschewed. For me, children’s ministry is one of those. I find the prospect daunting and deenergizing, as much as I love my kids. But our church needed leaders so I agreed and now find the times I lead the pre-teen group to be filled with joy and good discussion and fulfillment. I’m a better discipler than teacher-of-the-young, which illustrates my heading for this section, “Be yourself.”
Embrace your instant community
When a publishing colleague heard I was marrying Nicholas, he said from his previous experience as a pastor, “You’ll always have community.” Now that that can be a good thing but sometimes a harmful thing too. Yet his comment brought light and clarity to me as I approached the quick succession of churches that Nicholas had roles with in the first half-dozen years of his ordained life (two curacies and then his first vicarship, where we remain nine years later). My friend’s advice echoed the words from the book of Ruth that reverberated through my mind as we drove to Surrey for Nicholas’s first curacy: “Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God” (Ruth 1:16, NIV). These were now my people – warts and all. And I was their people too – warts and all.
In my years as a VW I’ve witnessed episodes of the downside of community: backbiting, gossip, slander… It hasn’t been pretty at times and it can be excruciating to watch from the sidelines, feeling that all I can do is pray (which yes, I know is actually the biggest thing). Or having to gently disappoint people if they have expectations of me (which doesn’t happen often in our multicultural church in London). In Surrey during Nicholas’s first curacy I was working at HarperCollins. I was puzzled when one of the older ladies said to me during the refreshments after church, “I’m so looking forward to seeing you on Thursday!”
“I’m sorry; what do you mean?” I asked, trying to cover up my confusion.
“Nicholas is coming to our over-50s group.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” I replied. “I work in London during the week so I’m not able to come.”
This photo of a church in the Costwolds illustrates how the church community can be at times. Sometimes with dark clouds; sometimes with fluffy ones; sometimes both at the same time.
Although there can be negatives, community has its upside too, such as my friend’s comment about the instant nature of the potential for relationships in a church. In each of the three churches where my husband has served, I’ve asked God to give me some friends. In Surrey my closest friends were of non-English nationality (not that I sought this out): Scottish, South African, and Irish. In Harrow, Nicholas and I were blessed to have friendships blossom with the two clergy couples and another couple in the church who are now mission partners in Moldova. Here in north London I enjoy a wealth of friends, especially with my female peers. These are the true riches that God bestows on his people.
Unsolicited advice
If you’re part of a church, here’s a bit of advice of how to love your clergy/clergy family (as applies).
Love them as individuals. They will fail at times and soar at others. Love makes it all better and easier.
Hold your criticism of the preacher’s sermon until during the week, and not right after the service when comments can feel more bruising.
If your minister is married, don’t assume the spouse knows everything going on in the church. If the minister is doing the job in the right way, the spouse won’t know the confidences.
Celebrate your church leader when appropriate. They need praise too.
Pray for them. As Alfred, Lord Tennyson, said, “More things are wrought by prayer than the world dreams of.”
And how about you? What advice would you give if you’re part of a clergy setup? If not, what have you observed if you’re part of a church?
Today my parents celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary – five decades of loving each other and modeling that love to us in their quiet and understated way. I am so grateful for their commitment to each other and to us through the good and challenging times.
My mom and dad both grew up on farms in America’s Midwest, and both went to live in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis/St. Paul in the late fifties. My dad had left home when he was 17, for he wanted to be an artist. He worked hard to put himself through college, selling expensive cookware and sewing machines door to door and being a security guard during the night shift. My mom lived with a few other young women and was a good typist, so she got a job at Minnegasco (that sounds a funny name for a company now, doesn’t it?).
My dad became a different kind of artist, one who designed computer systems, than he might have thought as a child. Now that he has more time, he can pursue his visual art. Here’s a painting of my mother.
They met on a blind date that my dad’s friend Jerry arranged. At first my mom thought she had been paired with Jerry, but when my dad got into the back seat of the car with her she realized that he was her date. The evening must have gone well, for they went out for my dad’s birthday in October. After that my mom kept hoping he’d ask her out again so she could tell her work friends that she had a date for New Year’s Eve.
That first Christmas, my dad painted my mom a picture to give her as a present, and she gave him a sweater. How did she know his size? “I put my arms around him.”
They dated for three years before getting married, having such a long courtship because my dad had to do some national service, and wanted to get his degree and a job so that he could provide for his wife and any children they might have one day. Two years after they got married, they had my sister, then two years later me, then three years later my brother. Their family was complete.
But times haven’t always been easy for my parents, their love having to weather health-related storms. When my brother was three, he started to have seizures, which was terrifying for my parents to witness. Then he had such terrible stomach pains that he was operated on to see if he had an obstruction or cancer. He was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, an inflammatory disease of the intestines, which is not common in children.
One of the favorite activities with Gramps is painting.
A grandma and granddaughter.
My brother was in the hospital for over a month, and although as a six-year-old I didn’t know it at the time, he was near death. He looked like a starving child from a developing nation, for his stomach was extended and he was so thin. But after our parish priest came to the hospital and prayed over him, he eventually got well.
But his seizures continued, and he was diagnosed with epilepsy. The seizures were the worst when he was a teenager, as his hormones were wreaking havoc on his body and his medication seemed to have no effect. My parents learned what it meant to be sleep-deprived as they cared for my brother during the night, taking shifts while trying to get enough sleep for the next day as my dad went off to work and my mom cared for us three kids.
Their faith sustained them. As my dad said, “Through these great challenges, our faith has kept us strong and in love in our marriage. We’ve been able to forgive each other and live one day at a time, when it would be easy to hide from life. Eventually we got to the place of not even worrying – we would think, ‘Have we done everything we can?’ If the answer was yes, then we would give it all to the Lord and not even worry.
“My favorite bit of poetry goes like this: ‘But every desire we have for God, and every prayer, is like the stroke of a carpenter’s plane, wearing down the boards of our wooden-hearted incredulity. And when the boards are quite thin, we will see that God has been there all along, waiting for us to break through.” (From That Man is You by Louis Evely, translated by Edmond Bonin, Paulist Press, 1964.)
Mom and Dad, I love you and celebrate your marriage.
