why I don't want to be a "blogger"

I’ve been writing for a long time. You see, I was one of those girls who grew up idolizing Anne (and Emily!), Betsy, and Jo. They all wanted to be writers, and as for me, well, reading stories was my best escape. I couldn’t imagine anything better than being a writer, too.

And so a writer I was. I climbed into a mesquite tree, nailed an empty bandaid box to its limb (Betsy had used a cigar box, but I wasn’t sure what that was), and kept tiny notebooks inside, where I wrote stories about disobedient children who were struck by lightning or mauled by bears. My first novel was entitled, “The White Haired Twins and the Mysterious Light in the Woods”. In junior high and highschool I wrote down my prayers every single night, and I wrote a dreamy short story that won something somewhere.

In college, of course, poetry and I had a fling; but mostly I turned to creative nonfiction, the essay, and academics. I won some little awards, I was published in some Christian places. I moved to Asia at 22, and to keep in touch, I started a blog. In the early mornings, I also worked on my second book, a work of nonfiction critiquing syncretism in the American church (that American flag at the front of the sanctuary? Let’s start with that.)

In Asia, there was my spiritual tailspin, when God grew silent, and I got quieter too. Maybe I became a little less likely to think I had something to say that was worth saying, or that I was sure was true.

But when I came back to California, I kept blogging, at least enough to say, “Here’s what I’m reading, and listening to, and - oh yeah - the man I’m in love with.”

After we married, I created this blog, and it, like all my blogging, has been personal. I write as a personal record of my life for myself, primarily, and for my family, who are always too far away. I’m not trying to write for a public audience. It might be fair to say that any ambition for writing went down with my faith in that tailspin of 2004.

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A couple of years ago, my lovely sister and I were complaining about a certain someone who writes as a “voice of our generation,” a man whose opinions on pop culture and “hipster christianity” we often disagree with. Katie said, “Why can’t YOU be the voice of our generation?” and (though deeply touched) I thought, “May it never be!” I’m postmodern enough to know that I can’t speak for a whole generation. I wouldn't even want to, if I could.

There’s a loud cacophony of voices speaking for my generation on the internet right now. I tend to think there are too many, and I don’t want to add to the clamor. I want to make it my ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind my own business and to work with my hands. I want to exist in a physical world with bread dough sticking to my hands and dirt under my fingernails (though hopefully not at the same time), with my feet planted and roots spiraling down. I want to talk with the woman smoking on her front porch across the street and the artists down the block and the cashier at the Dollar$mart. I want to bring you a casserole when you have a baby, not just tweet some congratulations at your disembodied self.

Besides that, the relentless self-promotion that seems to be required of “bloggers” has always turned me off. Maybe I’m a part of this Millennial generation, but I can’t stomach the idea that being the entrepreneurial generation means “we’re always selling ourselves. We use social media to create a product — to create a brand — and the product is us. We treat ourselves like little businesses, something to be managed and promoted.” (If I was trying to create myself as a product, I would not have linked to my earlier blogs! This is my honest, messy, changing self, not a carefully polished product.)

And when people ask me about “my writing,” I tend to downplay it. “I’m more of a reader than a writer,” I say, honestly enough.

“I just wanted to be a writer because my favorite books were about writers when I was growing up.” I claim it was a childish ambition, like being a spy (another one of my childhood dreams).

“I’m really too young to know what I want to say, yet. Maybe I’ll have something to say when I’m older.”

But this spring I’ve done a little writing, and I feel something kicking inside of me. Maybe it's a love of recognition; but maybe it's a love of writing. I didn’t know how much I missed that feeling.

All my reservations and excuses still stand. But I think I'm going to be writing more.

on her.meneutics

In case you missed it, last week I had two pieces on the Christianity Today women's blog, Her.meneutics.

(You probably didn't miss it since I tweeted incessantly about it.)

I wrote about Lena Dunham's new show on HBO, "Girls," and its painfully honest depiction of privileged twentysomethings trying to navigate adulthood.

I also interviewed Amy Spiegel about her new book Letting Go of Perfect. She is funny and sincere, and I've thought of her book several times since talking with her, as I am continually figuring out how this "Taylor bubble" community works.

mother's day

These days, Owen wakes up at 5. Yesterday Jack got up with him, and made chocolate chip waffles, and coffee, which he brought to me in bed at 8. Then I stayed home from church while Owen took his morning nap. And, well, I took a nap too. I spent most of the afternoon reading Till We Have Faces (which, incidentally, I had read in high school but did not understand at all; this time I thought it was amazing). Then we took a picnic for the kids to the Cardinal Greenway by the Gas City Mini Zoo. When they went to bed, Jack and I made steak salads and caught up on AMC. All in all, it was a lovely and relaxing day, but here is what I really wanted to tell you: do you remember my post about the signs at the Gas City Mini Zoo? An attempt has been made at correction.

The second "gum" has been removed. But not the "or". This makes me giggle.

ESL graduation

Last night we celebrated the end of the year with our full-time ESL students.some of them will return as full-time Taylor students next fall, and others are headed back to Korea. We will miss them.

to be happy

You can't make paella without saffron, and I forgot to buy saffron when I did the grocery shopping on Monday.

The paella is non-negotiable, as it is in honor of our sole Spanish student in the ESL program, and the end-of-semester dinner is nine hours away. So 8:30 AM finds us in the Wal-Mart parking lot.

We shop quickly and successfully, gliding through the aisles. I'm a marvel of a parent. The three year old and the one year old stay in the cart, with only minor whining. We get to the checkout.

And then. Of course. For some reason they won't let me pay with the diaper, the pink Pull-Up, the half-bag of Cadbury eggs left over from Easter, the plastic cell phone, or even my keys. I've exhausted the contents of my green suede purse. My wallet is in my red leather school satchel. At home.

It's not a big deal. It's just that our four square miles of town rests a solid 25 minutes from any grocery store which might carry saffron.

I sigh. We rebuckle carseats and prepare for another hour in the car.

"What's wrong, mommy?" Rosie asks.

"I'm just feeling a little mad at myself for forgetting my purse," I admit. (I euphemize. A little mad: reasonable substitute for pissed off.)

"Don't be mad, mommy. God wants us to be happy."

"Does he?" I ask. I am really asking.

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I tell her I will turn on some music to try to cheer myself up. I search for the CD with Adele and Fleet Foxes and Joanna Newsom. I tell her we will stop at the coffeeshop and get ourselves a little cinnamon treat to cheer ourselves up.

God wants us to be happy.

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The last thing I want is to teach my daughter to believe in some kind of easy, name-it-claim-it happy faith.

No, the last thing I want is to teach her that she has to deny her emotions -- anger, frustration -- and pretend to be happy, because that's what God wants her to be.

And I don't think I've taught her that. I try to model expressing negative emotions in healthy ways. (Of course, I also seem to model medicating emotions with music and sugar-indulgence. Need to work on that.)

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But I'm also not going to argue with her when she says that God wants us to be happy. I'm not going to say, "But what if God is more interested in us being holy than happy?"

She's not old enough to understand the ways in which being holy is the same as being happy. Maybe I'm not old enough to understand that either.

I believe God wants us to be happy. And I know why Rosie believes it. She heard it in the Bible, the one we've already read a half a dozen times.

From the beginning, God's children had been running from him and hiding. God knew his children could never be happy without him. But they couldn't get back to him by themselves -- they were lost, they didn't know the way back...

Jesus knew it was nearly time for him to leave the world and go back to God.
"I won't be with you long," he said. "You are going to be very sad. But God's Helper will come. And then you'll be filled up with a Forever Happiness that won't ever leave.
So don't be afraid.
You are my friends
and I love you.

We have reason to be happy. I just needed to be reminded.

top ten things I adored about the Festival of Faith and Writing

This weekend my sweet husband and friends watched the kiddos while I attended the Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin College in Michigan. As a person of faith, a reading fiend, and a sometime writer, this little retreat - with likeminded friends - was probably the most nourishing and restorative personal trip I've taken since Chiangmai, 2005. But enough general blathering. Here they are, the top ten highlights:

10. Learning from the diverse religious and artistic viewpoints of Judith Shulevitz, Jonathan Safran Foer, and Leila Aboulela.

9. Meeting in person - even briefly - some writers and editors I have enjoyed and respected online (like Rachel of Eat With Joy, Katelyn of Christianity Today, and Micha of Mama Monk), and also making new connections (how could Christie and I possibly have so much in common?) Although, I also have to admit that being at a conference with people I "know" from twitter felt kind of like a creepy preview of walking around with google glasses on.

8. Witnessing the graciousness and humility of Ann Voskamp in person.

7. Hearing fascinating stories of God at work around the world from Luis Urrea and Shane Claibourne.

6. Eating at Brewery Vivant and San Chez Tapas Bistro with my dear friends Jenn, Jane, Karen, and Linda (plus new friend Laura). Real! Restaurants! (Yes, our four square miles of cornfields are a bit lacking in this area.)

5. Marilyn McEntyre on caring for words. A seriously inspiring woman, speaker, poet, teacher, academic.

4. The car trips with Jennifer. Two mamas of preschoolers, it turns out, have a lot to say when they actually get a chance to sleep a full night and finish a complete thought. And what a relief to discover that I do still like road trips!

3. And along the same lines, the chance to finish a thought- and even whole conversations! Whole meals! Whole lectures!- without being interrupted by: "You pretend to be a mama wolf, and I'll pretend to be a baby wolf who was shot by gunners..."

2. Hearing Marilynne Robinson speak. Twice. I don't know if there is another living writer for whom I have as much admiration. I'll admit to being a bit starstruck. If you don't know Marilynne Robinson, I recommend to you Gilead.

1. The opening plenary session with Gary Schmidt, whose young adult novels make me cry. I think you should read them, and I'd start with the Newberry award-winningThe Wednesday Wars. I loved what he said about writers as servants, like Namaan's servant girl, suggesting to the pain of the world, "Why don't you try this?"


The audio from the conference should be available online soon. I'll link to it. In the meantime, if you are interested, here is the book list I came away with.

i fell in love again (all things go)

Lately I've been revisiting places which have strong nostalgic holds over me.

Like Denver. For three summers during college I spent time living at the base of Long's Peak, watching the sun set on Twin Sisters, soaking in beauty and living an undistracted, singleminded, physically present life. Driving from Denver towards the mountains last month just made me sad. I wanted to be 19 again, hiker, camp counselor, unencumbered.

At first, Chicago made me sad too. Chicago was where I had always imagined myself moving after graduation: working for a publisher, living in an apartment in the city with Mollie and our spiky-collared cat Beowulf, going to jazz clubs and basically becoming sitcom characters. Clearly, that never happened, but Chicago did become a special place of deep richness for me during the three summers I spent taking grad classes at Wheaton.

Coming back to America after the somewhat stark, spiritually barren, monocultural landscape of Vinh, it felt luxurious to be in green parks, hearing live banjo music, surrounded by the beauty of ethnic diversity. For the first time in months, I could go out anonymously, rather than being stared at as the one obvious foreigner in the city. I could go into a bookstore and browse titles in my native language. And at Wheaton my soul rested in the presence of friends who understood - because they had experienced it too - where I had been, what my life had been. I felt known and nourished by them. They let me talk, or they let me spend hours reading alone. I was flooded with gratitude.

The following summer, after I came home from Cambodia, Jack visited me at Wheaton, and we spent a week in Chicago when we were just five or six months into our dating relationship (see picture in sidebar, taken at Millenium Park!). We saw Andrew Bird play at the first ever Pitchfork Music Festival. We went to the Art Indtitute, and we did go to that jazz club, with Derek and Mollie, and I drank one glass too much. We got lost (this was before smartphones), and Jack saw me do my crazy walk for the first time.

I have always loved Chicago, and as we drove into town Friday night, accompanying our ESL students from Taylor, I started to feel sad. You can never go home again; and you can never go to Chicago again, or Estes, or Florence, or Taize, or Chiang Mai, or anywhere, can you? There are so many places I have loved, and I can never return to any of them. Even if the city is unchanged (it won't be), I am changed.

What I have loved about these places is partly imaginary, as all memories are, and even if it once existed, it never will again. What I loved is lost.

But by Saturday I realized that even if you can never step into the same river twice, you can still love the river every time, because I still love Chicago, in its earnest, unpretentious, midwestern big city-ness, and I also love sharing it with the coolest kids of all time.

happy birthday little O

On Owen's first birthday, he took his first steps. He starting hamming it up for the camera, squinting and smiling every time took it out. He absolutely loved having friends over for dinner and really had the time of his life.

Party hat and bib courtesy of Aunt Hannah!

Mac and cheese, pulled pork sandwiches with chipotle slaw, fruit, lemonade, and red velvet cupcakes.

In our traditional Asian prediction game, Owen chose the calculator- a math/science future for him?

patience and parenting and princess bikes

I'm not really one to tell people how to parent. (Or how to do anything, really; I have serious reservations about making general statements of "truth".)

But.

I will say that one thing I've grown to appreciate in the three and a half years I've been parenting is the value of waiting.

When Rosie was a baby, I spent way too many hours reading books and making charts and wondering what I was doing wrong as I tried to get her to sleep through the night.

The more I talked to other moms, and read other blogs, the more I realized that there wasn't one right way to parent, and that the fact that Rosie wasn't sleeping through the night wasn't a sign that i was parenting wrong. For me, having patience as I taught my daughter that she was heard and safe and cared for was the right thing.

It was the same with potty training. I pushed Rosie to do it when I was ready and she wasn't, and it didn't work. Months later, when she was ready for it, potty training was a breeze. It took a day and a half.

So with the pacifier thing, I've been waiting. I ignored the doctor and dentist who suggested I get rid of it. Of course, I haven't been totally passive. We did restrict paci usage to bed or rest time only. And we have talked on plenty of occasions about what it means to become a big girl. But my intuition told me that I was not to be the one to force my daughter to give up her dearest comfort (the mere mention of getting rid of it elicited tears, every time) and "grow up". I kept thinking about the story Grams tells of Aunt Patty, stubbornly throwing her pacifier in the fire place and declaring she was done. I wanted to wait until Rosie was ready, like little Patty, to resolve for herself.

We had mentioned -in passing, maybe twice- that bikes were for big girls. And so on Saturday when Rosie saw the neighborhood girls riding bikes again, she came straight home and threw her pacifier in the trash. "I want a bike," she said. And she went to sleep that night, and the next, without even a single tear. On Sunday she picked this bike out, and today she has ridden up and down our street for about four hours.

Waiting until your kid is ready makes parenting so much easier.

Easter

tex-mex comfort food

When I was growing up in San Antonio, my mom had weekly menu plans for our homeschool lunches. Something like this:

M: chicken nuggets
T: bean and cheese burritos
W: PB&J
Th: fish sticks and mac&cheese
F: (well, I can't remember the fifth one)

I'm totally over the nuggets and the PB&J, but the others remain as kind of comfort foods for me.

These days, this is how I make my bean and cheese burritos, and they are an extremely satisfying vegetarian dinner.

Homemade tortillas.

Retried beans without the refry.

Mexican rice. (use salsa instead of diced tomatoes)

Top with shredded colby jack, sour cream, and avocado slices, if you're feeling crazy.