Loving Mr. Ning-Neong

We Becketts went to our very first Albuquerque Isotopes game this weekend. Connor’s T-Ball team was one of the teams of the game. It was a beautiful day for baseball. We enjoyed a pre-game all-you-can-eat lunch. Connor and his fellow Phillies were able to follow the mascot, Orbit, down onto the field to get introduced on the loud speaker with their faces projected on the big screen. They were able to stand by the dugout and get autographs from the players. Then they got to stand on the field beside the players for the national anthem. We had great seats and there was constant entertainment between innings. Albuquerque may not have a major professional sports team, but experiences like these would most likely never happen with the Cubs or White Sox unless lottery winnings paid for them.

Pre-game lunch

Connor with 2nd baseman Herrera just after the national anthem

Connor with players’ autographs on his hat

We enjoyed overpriced lemonade, the excitement of foul balls flying our way, and the home team winning 6-2. The seats were not all filled which was nice for Connor who climbed and roamed a little when the game could not fully captivate him. Blessed with the gift of eavesdropping, I overheard a particular person two rows behind us. Besides being unable to complete a sentence without an expletive, he also had said something that sounded racist to me. I honestly cannot remember what it was, but it was enough to make me consider saying something to him.

Then at one point of boredom, Connor was turned around and looking the guy’s way probably because he had done or said something strange. His girlfriend noticed and giggled at Connor looking at him. His response was one of those strange noises that people demeaningly throw at Asians. It was not ching-chong but something to that effect, maybe ning-neong? Regardless, I heard it. I turned around to look. They were not engaged at all in looking my way and as was the case for most of the game just focused on themselves. It was the guy, his buddy on one side, his girlfriend on the other and her daughter who was about Ethan’s age.

I turned back around and let my mind race. What to do or say? Connor either did not hear or did not understand and was already moving on to climbing over seats. I don’t know if anyone else even heard; Mike two seats down from me did not. I listened to the guy tell his girlfriend how badly she sucked at softball while I contemplated my options.

Option 1: My first thought was to stand up and make a scene with the same expletives he had been spewing all afternoon. There were words like “racist” and “ignorant” and insults to his intelligence. It was also fueled by the ferocity of a Mama Bear protecting her cub. My claws were extended. –> What would this accomplish besides me blowing off steam? On one hand, I could think that I was confronting his racism and not letting it pass. Maybe the crowd would be sympathetic and he would be humiliated. On the other hand, a reaction like that from me would most likely only feed his already poor opinion of Asians. Any microscopic iota of shame he might feel would convert to growing hatred for my peeps to make him better able to live with himself. And if he went off, who knows what other horrible things he could say to me in the presence of my children and the many families also with young children around us? Is this the example I want to give impressionable young minds?

Option 2: After thinking through the possible outcomes of my first reaction, I thought maybe the best way would be the friendly approach. Initiate dialogue with a smile by saying what a nice day it is and asking if they are enjoying the game. Maybe I would start with the fellow mother and pose a “hypothetical” question to her: “If someone insulted your precious little daughter or made fun of her, what would you do? Would you just let it go or would you say something? Well, I am just wondering the same situation myself after your boyfriend made those insulting noises to my preschooler.” (And then Mama Bear starts resurfacing and I have to hold back my inner Blagojevich to finish the conversation civilly.) “What kind of example do you want your daughter to grow up with? Do you want her to be someone who respects people or shows gross ignorance because she mimics what she sees around her? Think about it and do the right thing.” –> This kinder, gentler version sounds better than the first, but I still thought the reaction could be bad. Giggles and more insults were what came to mind.

Option 3: Ignore. All my life, my mother taught me to ignore the racism I received. She said many are simply ignorant and do not know better. She instructed me not to let it bother me and give them the satisfaction of irritation. It is just an inevitable part of life that we face as ethnic minorities. –> On one hand, this is turning the cheek. Her advice would definitely not make me lose my own dignity by stooping to the low levels of others. However, I struggle with if this keep-the-peace approach does anything to solve the problem? Of course, being confronted has helped some, but racism does not seem to go away. It has always been and seems like will always be, just like many of our social ills. But that does not mean I can feel satisfied with just ignoring because of a fatalistic nothing changes attitude. Then why feed the hungry? There will always be poor without food. Why heal the hurting? There will always be pain. Jesus instructed us to turn the cheek, but He was anything but inactive and fatalistic.

I chose option 3 if for no other reason than leaving undecided. The only option I thought that would lead to the remote possibility of success would be to establish a relationship with them. Invite them over for dinner. Do life together. I could not realistically see this happening in that situation especially as my claws were having a hard time fully retracting. But in this world of division, stereotypes and easily distancing from those unlike us, I want to walk in the shoes of those not like me and continue to establish as many relationships that cross over the various divides even if those divides feel uncomfortable to cross. There is value in discomfort. I do believe there is always a common humanity underneath our vast differences.

Last night I thought of what a wonderful day it was. We enjoyed 99% of the baseball game. We had a great time with company at dinner. We went to bed happy. However, my mind could not shut off so easily once in bed. I could not help but think of the ning-neong guy and imagine a fake scenario of confrontation before slumber came to me. I did not allow him to ruin my day, but I did allow him to cause further reflection on how to raise my children to handle these inevitable circumstances. What for many would only be a nice day at the ball field will for them be potential for facing the ugliness of racial attacks because of how God created them to be. And it is not because we now live in a city where Asians are as few as cloudy, rainy days. As I have written before here and here, the ugly face of racism is everywhere even in a city where Asians are plentiful.

Today I thought about Jonah who tried to run away from God and had to spend 3 nights in the belly of a fish (imagine that smell and filth!) because he did not want to have compassion on the evil Ninevites. I found new love for the stubborn prophet who most likely would have gone for Option 1. I thought of how the love of God is beyond my comprehension. I thought of how He did not tell me off when I deserved it, but reached out to me in love. I found myself praying for racist ning-neong guy, his buddy, his girlfriend and especially the little girl in their midst. This is not to say that next time someone racially or otherwise insults my children I will not growl and attack them with full Mama Bear force. But it is to say that I will try to follow the footsteps of Him who gave them to me. I will try to be the example that I want them to follow in loving others even those most difficult to love. Ultimately, I want them to follow Him who gave everything for them to experience that kind of love themselves.

My beloved bookworms, one way to broaden their minds

Savoring Sometimes

Much of the time, our mornings are crazy and hectic. I am constantly moving and barking orders at the boys in attempts to conquer the miraculous feat of getting to school on time. Ethan starts his high-pitched screaming as if that will successfully encourage his slow-poke brother to HURRY UP! Connor breaks records on how long it takes to get shoes on one’s feet. I transform our quiet neighborhood into an action movie thriller with my car skidding out the driveway. The race to school includes Ethan’s oncoming panic attack as he laments the possibility of being tardy…again.

Sometimes, like today, they get up early. Before I can start my drill sergeant routine, I realize that they have already gotten dressed, made their beds, placed their PJ’s off the floor and in their proper place, and managed a couple rounds of relatively quiet Star Wars battles. They eat breakfast, brush their teeth and one of them remembers to bus his dishes. ON THEIR OWN WITHOUT CUES FROM ME, they pack their backpacks, put on their shoes and jackets, and wait in the car. They sit in the dark garage buckled in their seats for 15 minutes which for two young kids is almost an eternity. I drive normally and both kids are EARLY to school.

Much of the time I want to wear ear plugs. I have to tell the kids that they do not need to scream at each other from one feet away. If there is a rare moment of peace, it could be because they are climbing up the ceiling-high, built-in bookshelves without thinking that their mom would rather not have a trip to the ER today.

Sometimes, they speak in normal inside voices. Sometimes, when I do not hear anything from them for awhile, my growing sense of doom is quickly laid to rest after I am greeted by the beautiful image of them reading books together. It makes me not even mind when my overstimulated ears hear Ethan shouting to me, “MAMA! Did you know it takes Saturn 29,004 years to orbit the sun?!?!”

Quietly reading between light sabers

Much of the time, I hone my referee skills multiple times a day. I yell at the boys to stop fighting and in a truly tyrannous tone instruct them to speak nicely to each other. I am counting in the most threatening of ways that parental anthem of  ”1…2…3!…4!!…” for them to listen to me the first and not 20th time. I am doling out due punishment and subsequently considered as “mean Mommy” or the cause of wailing tear-flow that rivals Niagara Falls. Big brother will find entertainment at little brother’s expense by hiding from him and laughing hysterically at little brother’s cries of heartache when he cannot find him. Ethan finds it his personal duty to torment Connor much of the time.

Captain America in the corner because hitting your brother is not considered fighting crime here.

Sometimes, like yesterday, my younger son will come up to me, wrap his little arms around me, and say, “I love you, Mama” just seconds after being punished, lectured, and forced to make amends with his greatest nemesis (big brother). Sometimes, they will immediately respond to a command and cause a shocked mother to retract the habitual next breath’s start of counting off. Sometimes, older brother will pretend not to see his hiding little brother who unlike his skilled big bro chooses a painfully obvious spot. Instead, Ethan will count loudly, voice his wonder at where Connor could possibly be, and eventually find him with heartfelt congratulations: “Wow, Connor, you picked a GREAT spot!” Connor’s pure joy produced by Ethan’s loving act almost matches his Mama’s.

Connor hiding where Ethan chooses not to see

Sometimes, after constant battling that produces the most horrific war scenes and deafening soundtracks, Ethan will end the long day with a sincere melt-this-Mama’s-heart conclusion: “I’m glad I have a little brother.”

Ethan reads a book to Connor at bedtime

Sometimes, I will stop and focus on the many “sometimes” and recognize that what appears to happen much-of-the-time is not as ubiquitous as I think. When I savor the “sometimes,” I realize that they outnumber the grueling other times in my motherly memory (even if that memory is not completely accurate). The power of those sweet moments outweigh the actual occurrences of the others. And I realize that my life is full of beautiful sometimes.

Run (!!!) Against Traffick

I recently brought up how strange it was that fellow girlfriends and I are close friends with someone who owns a life-sized poster of Josh Groban. This friend shall remain nameless as should all who squeal with girlish delight when he croons, “You lift me UP!” (My apologies to big fans out there. I know there are many, some still in the closet, but you are in good company. Just not mine.) She accurately countered with excellent points on the many things that are way more strange in my life right now. Among that long, truthful list was the fact that I picked up the highly unlikely habit of running since we moved to Albuquerque.

I took that incredulous fact up a notch this weekend by completing my first official 5K race. It has gotten to the point that my friends are rightly asking me, “WHO ARE YOU?!?!” They know me as the girl you would have to pay to run (or at least hold some chocolate croissants in front of), not the girl who would actually pay money to run. Is it not ludicrous that people pay money to partake in torture with other sadistically-minded folks? Months ago, I would have shouted loudly, “LUDICROUS!”

However, the registration fee for this race was going to help Spoken For, a ministry at our church working to combat human trafficking. I definitely wanted to support their first race.

Trafficking of humans is the second largest criminal industry in the world and is the fastest growing. – US Dept. of Health & Human Services

When the boys found out I was running it, they wanted to run as well. Lucky for them, there was a kids fun run. We decided to skip their baseball games that morning (what’s 1 game out of 100?!) and register them. It became a family affair (well, almost, I could not convince Mike to run with us, but he was there for moral support).

All ready for race day!

I started jogging in the middle back of the pack with my friend Sandra. She wanted to walk it but jogged the beginning so we could start together. Once I saw the crowds take off I was like a dog excitedly wanting to chase the squirrels. Sandra graciously gave me permission to go ahead. Confession: this harmony-loving, conflict-hating, kumbayah-singing girl (see here) has a little competitiveness in her. It is why the day before the race the peaceful, beautiful morning in our neighborhood park was ruined when Mike and I showed up to play tennis (see here). The tranquility of the birds’ melodious chirping was shattered by loud shouts, trash-talking, and exaggerated gestures on the court.

I have to admit that passing runners was a little exhilarating. Of course, that was mostly in the first half of the downhill course. The latter part was uphill, and others enjoyed the satisfaction of going ahead of my heaving, panting self. I also should have emptied my bladder before starting the race. While feeling thirsty, I had to refuse the offer of water telling the volunteer more than he wanted to know: “No, thanks! I already have to pee!!” Despite the hills and full bladder, let the record show: I did it!

Coming down the final stretch soon to be given high-fives by my boys

Who says miracles have ceased? I not only finished but had my best running pace to date (27:32:95…what do those last 2 digits even mean?!), thanks to that little competitive spirit pushing me through the people. I also have to admit, it felt pretty good. WHAT?! WHO AM I?! Believe it or not, I think I am beginning to understand runners and athletes who find satisfaction in making goals and completing them. Goals in life give you something to work towards and propel you with purpose. It felt somewhat anticlimactic resuming my regular run this morning. No, that does not mean I’ll be signing up for a half-marathon (unless Alex does carry me on her back). It does mean that striving for more is not a bad thing. I wonder how different Paul’s life would have been had he not always been “pressing on towards the goal (Phil. 3:14).”

As great as I felt about my first official race, it paled in comparison to how proud I was of my boys for completing theirs.

At the starting line with the other kids

I knew it was set up as a 1K, but I did not really know how far that would be for their little legs. They did “train” by running around the living room couch a couple times. In actuality, they should have ran around the couch a zillion times! The boys are like their parents, meaning running (or any exercise for that matter) is not a preferred past time. Before their race even started, Ethan already told me he was feeling tired. I was worried enough about them and the true distance that I decided to jog along.

Me: “Go, Connor, go! Go, Ethan, go!”

These two youngest racers of the day kept at it (even if leisurely at times). They stopped to drink water half way and completed the run even when their breathing sounded as labored as their panting Mama’s. I was impressed after my serious doubts were quieted.

Crossing the finish line

It was a successful day for the event and for us four. Sandra did impressively well walking. The boys and I had fun, and we were all glad to take part in promoting a great cause for justice.

The best part of the morning for the boys was that they got medals. Ethan said with awe, “Mama, this is my first medal ever!” He asked me to take this picture of them with their prizes. I overheard Connor saying that his medal was worth millions of dollars. While that is obviously untrue, the morning itself was indeed priceless.

 If you think you have come in contact with a victim of human trafficking, call the National Human Trafficking Resource Center (NHTRC). It is a national, toll-free hotline, available to answer calls and texts from anywhere in the country, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, every day of the year. 1-888-373-7888 or text BeFree (233733). NHTRC can provide local resources in your community.

Just the Way You Are

A few weeks ago, I was running on the treadmill. I have a playlist for running but also am technologically challenged. Somehow I had synced every device so that songs I normally would not hear while working out started playing. Have you tried running to Sarah McLachlan? It would be like playing your kids’ most annoying CD of songs that they dearly love but that you passionately hate (“This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb…”) to get in the mood with your mate (“AHH, get away from me or we might have to buy more CD’s like this!”). I quickly skipped her before my meager motivation became a ball of mush and tears.

I was similarly caught off guard when a particular song came on during my run. This time I listened. And this time I did become a ball of mush and tears. I cried like a baby on that moving belt of torture, but the pain was emotional not physical.

“Just the Way You Are” by Bruno Mars came out around the end of 2010. By early 2011, it was duly overplayed on all pop and hip-hop stations. At about the same time, Mike and I had officially started our adoption process. Being somewhat of a dreamer, I had already imagined many of the “what-if’s” and mentally pictured the time we would travel overseas to get her. I even imagined announcing her addition to our family by making a video slideshow of our journey. This song seemed to be the perfect accompaniment for snapshots that I had already visualized so far in advance.

When I see your face, there’s not a thing that I would change.
‘Cause you’re amazing, just the way you are.
And when you smile, the whole world stops and stares for awhile,
‘Cause girl, you’re amazing, just the way you are.

Years before I would potentially hold her or even see a picture of her, I knew she was perfect. I knew that I would love her with deep intensity. I knew that she would be amazing to me, just the way she was. She was technically a stranger, yet I was singing Mars’ lyrics to her before she was even conceived.

2012 knocked that dream out of the biosphere. 2012 was insanely difficult and a huge game-changer for our family. It was also filled with cloudy confusion that still covers us to this day. We try not to dwell on it. We have been successfully moving on since that topic has gotten old for us (and you, too). However, there are moments that force those thoughts to recur in our minds. What I had thought was over and done with suddenly had me back in surprised grief on the treadmill with Bruno singing words I never got to deliver to their intended subject.

A couple weeks after that bereavement session, I was outside running with my iPod. The song came on again. With this 2nd hearing, I was moving on in my stages from depression to acceptance. (I thought I had already done that earlier, but grief is ongoing and cyclical like that.) As I gazed on the majestic mountains filling my view, I felt the “This is surreal” feeling again. A year ago I would never have imagined myself RUNNING (!!) IN ALBUQUERQUE (!!!). Never. I imagined being on a plane bringing back our daughter to live with us in Chicago.

During the time of these reunions with Bruno, I had also been reading through Isaiah. That blessed book was my career counselor leading me to social work during my college years. It got me through the worst physical pain I have endured in my life when I had two herniated discs and subsequent surgery. It always comforts me in my inherent faithlessness by reminding me of His unchanging love. It felt right to read it again in my surreal life where the theme has been to be spiritually awake.

Isaiah’s words, mountain views, and a runner’s high replaced the former sorrow with convicting inspiration. Adopting a child into our family may not be the way to honor Isaiah’s (& Bruno’s) verses right now. However, I asked myself how could I still sing those lyrics to others? Everyone deserves to know that they are loved just the way they are. This is the truth of the gospel. How can I spread it? I have no clear answers. But I want to be open, to be actively pursuing and to find other ways to adopt the orphan, free the oppressed, and share my bread.

It is easier said than done. These honorable notions often get as clouded as my confusion over our uprooted plans. Life, largely in the form of myself, gets in the way. Remember that scene in Schindler’s List when Schindler is leaving his factory for good? His accountant Stern gives him a gold ring of gratitude from the hundreds of Jewish workers whose lives he rescued. In that moment, he recognizes with regret that he could have done so much more. Even the gifted gold ring he translates into two more lives he could have saved. It is a profound moment that I can relate to in some ways. In hindsight, so much of my life will seem frivolous, wasteful and almost criminal. I can predict that I will say I could have done so much more with what I have.

Two more lives

What is the purpose of my life and am I fulfilling it? I have a long way to go in living radically for good. While wondering how to do so and reduce later regret, I simultaneously recognized the profundity of being faithful in the little things. Maybe it is building inner strength in my older son when he feels nervous as he often does these days. Maybe it is filling my younger son’s life with the affection he craves to counter all my barking orders of the day. Maybe it is squeezing my husband’s hand three times to remind him of our secret (or not so secret now) way of communicating that we love each other. Maybe it is remembering that close to the holy words admonishing me to fast by clothing the naked are the words to eat, drink, and be glad (Ecc. 8:15).

Who knew Bruno Mars could bring about existential thoughts? My hope and prayer for myself and for you is that we are continually telling others in our lives with words and deeds that they are amazing, just the way they are.

Easter Dinner 2013

As a child of Korean immigrants, I did not grow up with Easter baskets, bunnies, egg dying or egg hunting. (What do those things really have to do with Easter anyways?) Instead, my childhood had the best patterns from Simplicity or McCalls in my talented and resourceful mother’s hands. I wore newly sewn Easter dresses to church every year. One time she even made a little pink lacy pouch purse that matched my pink lacy dress, and I LOVED wrapping the long, white ribbon straps around my arm to carry it.

While I do remember my mother making a completely traditional (kimchee-less) Thanksgiving meal, I have no recollection of any Easter dinner traditions. Somehow in my adult life, I have decided that I like the idea of it anyways. I have tried to fudge my way through it in various years. This year was another such year.

What would we otherwise non-resourceful 2nd generation children do without the internet to make a classic Easter meal? I put Google to good use and found a meal that had stress-reducing “do ahead” options. Perfect. I canceled out the fancy appetizers for opening packages of crackers, cured meats and cheeses. Guests were bringing dessert and bread. That left me with only three items I had to make. Perfect.

Google was also helpful at the grocery store. Had it not been for an image search of an ingredient while standing puzzled in the produce section, I might have made a fatal mistake. I posted the picture on Facebook assuming that I would stump the world as well. About 2 seconds after I posted the image, someone correctly guessed it before others not only guessed but also told me how they had prepared it in the past. I felt like a neophyte saying something as naive as “Did you know you could actually make your own bolognese sauce from scratch and not crack open a jar of Newman’s Own?!?!” (I may have posted something like that a few weeks ago.)

Celery root…DUH!

Was I supposed to make my life easier by actually doing those do-ahead things ahead of time? I did not. Was I supposed to feel relaxed since I was only cooking three items? I did not. Contrast this to the night before Easter when we were treated to a lovely dinner party hosted by friends. Kirsten had made at least ten different dishes in massive amounts. Not only that, she also set the boys up for make-your-own-pizzas that they had with mac-n-cheese fixed just for them. She essentially pulled off with beautiful ease what I would have assumed only a catering company could do. Mike and I should have raised our hands up and down like Wayne & Garth, “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

Making their own pizzas

When I felt a little concerned about my measly three dishes, I tried to channel Kirsten for inspiration. Are you not supposed to try brand new recipes out on dinner guests? Did I mention all three were brand new recipes, some of whose ingredients I had never bought before in my life? Worse case scenerio, I knew I had packages of Shin Ramyun (Korean instant ramen) in my pantry that could be ready in 10 minutes should the need arise.

YouTube is my friend. Thanks to instructional videos, I was able to trim, clean and cut leeks and celery root. YouTube also helped me out with trimming, rolling and tying the leg of lamb. Another item I had never bought and used before this weekend is kitchen twine. Sunday was like sky diving and white water rafting in my kitchen; I was being so darn adventurous.

It started out very promising. My sister-in-law had given me a Pampered Chef mandolin slicer that I had only used a handful of times for grating. I remember her mentioning how handy it was for gratin. I almost had an adrenaline rush as I watched each thinly sliced potato piece fall. What a gift from heaven! Thank you, sister!

Artichoke, Leek, and Potato Gratin ready to bake

I continued to feel the sweetness of success after managing to prepare the lamb. I was on a roll with my bad self. I was already anticipating when some poor novice would post a picture of celery root on Facebook and in record time I would share my wealth of knowledge on this roast as an Herbs-de-Provence-seasoned veteran.

Herb-Roasted Leg of Lamb with Vegetables and Jus ready to bake

While both dishes were baking in the oven, I tackled the “Green Salad with Orange, Fennel (Fennel?! Should I post a picture? No, I learned my lesson.), and Asparagus.” Did you know you could make your own salad dressing?! My dependence on Newman’s Own products may have gone down dramatically! (Who am I kidding? Nothing beats the ease and convenience of popping open ready-made products.)

Just as my high was escalating to dangerously prideful heights, I noticed smoke coming out of the oven. A lot of smoke. The gratin was bubbling over and sizzling on the oven’s bottom! Mike placed it on a cookie sheet forcing it on another rack while I opened windows and doors to the lovely sound of our LOUD smoke detector. I lost count to how many times it went off. If I close my eyes right now, I can still distinctly hear the BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The lamb was supposed to have jus but only had a couple drops of grease left in the pan. This was probably due to overcooking because my meat looked, well, overcooked. Another sign was the vegetables, some of which had a hardened black crust that Mike dutifully cut off for me. While the gratin itself looked decent when done, my formerly clear glass baking dish was now completely browned with a layer of baked-on crud. That crud took me three days to remove. Three days. (On the 3rd day, Jesus and my glass pan rose from the dead.) I had almost thrown it out along with the cookie sheet that had blackened, crusted gunk all over it as well.

The green chile bread and cake were really, really good!

Courtesy of ABC Cake Shop & Bakery

I have to say that all in all, dinner was edible. Need proof? Ok, you skeptics, here you go.

What mattered most is that we were able to celebrate Easter with a traditional meal that had plenty of mishaps but lots of love. People are more important than food (WHAT?! But, of course!). Sharing the table with friends who are becoming family definitely had a hand in making each dish taste delectable. They are blurry here because 1) I wanted to protect their identities, 2) there was still too much smoke in the house, or 3) my hands were shaking from adventurous overuse.

Perhaps the Easter tradition my kids will remember growing up with is the BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! of the smoke detector and always having Shin Ramyun in the pantry. Regardless, I (and my adventurous kitchen) lived to see another day. And LIVING is what it’s all about. He lives and we can, too.

Tradition & Change

I LOVE traditions. (Sometimes.) Yes, I almost forgot about dying Easter eggs, but I still have the weekend to make my kids happy.

Our family was privileged to share in a Passover Seder this year. Our gracious hostess explained to us guests why she loved growing up with this Jewish festival. I heartily agree with her reasons. It is a family affair where everyone gets involved. We all took turns reading from the Haggadah. Even Connor who happened to be the youngest was still included. He was responsible for asking the Four Questions. Thanks to some early notice and rehearsal time (captured on this video with his cheat sheets), he did great!

Everything is symbolic. It has meaning. It is sacred and yet it is familiar. It celebrates what God has done for His people. It was ordained for followers to carry out each year in order to remember always. And people have been remembering for thousands and thousands of years. How awesome is that? What is there not to love about it? (Did I mention the four glasses of wine?!) It was a lovely evening with even lovelier company.

The beautiful table set for Passover Seder

I also LOVE change. (Sometimes.) I will not deny that it can be hard. But I can still love it in its difficulty.

This morning while flipping through the paper (yes, kids, I still read a prehistoric literal paper), I read a little article in the Albuquerque Journal on the new Pope Francis. Here it is online (same article, different news source). It told of how Pope Francis is entering his new papacy in such a strikingly different manner than those of years past. He wears a simple robe. He lives in the more austere Vatican Hotel and not the grand Apostolic Palace. On this Maundy Thursday, rather than wash priests feet in the Basilica, he went to a juvenile detention center to wash the feet of inmates.

Pope Francis washing inmates’ feet

The Catholic church has been around for centuries. It carries so much deep tradition. In many ways, that rich longevity is worthy of our respect regardless of its shortcomings and whatever personal disagreements we may have with it. This change from Francis I find so refreshing. It does not take away from the history or tradition. I would say it actually deepens it and even brings it back to its Christ-centered roots: to love and to serve.

Change does not obliterate tradition. People centuries later still honor Passover even if they do so sitting up in chairs and not truly reclining. Centuries later the Catholic church still has a Pope even if he is a bit “no-frills.” Sometimes change enhances tradition. It shows fulfillment of prophecy or returned attention to the least of these. The deep-seated roots of tradition will carry on for centuries more regardless of what inevitable changes come. And those changes that come may deepen it, may bring it back to its roots, and may make it refreshingly beautiful.

Baseball Blues

From the time we moved to Albuquerque in September, Ethan has not wanted to do any extracurriculars at all. He even said no to after school Lego class. HE EVEN SAID NO TO AFTER SCHOOL LEGO CLASS! I would suggest things and accept each of his predictable declines. I took it to mean that he is still adjusting and feeling “new” in a new activity is not something he felt up for understandably. However, he was indifferent without a definitive rejection when I suggested baseball so of course I signed the boys up.

Baseball is great on many levels. It gets them active and physically moving. It provides socialization with peers and all the teaching values that come with team sports. It is something we can all enjoy together (tell that to my husband who froze at a chilly 7AM game). Ethan played soccer, baseball and tennis in the past, too. While he is no star athlete, he has enjoyed each to some extent and seemed to complain the least about baseball (complaint count is how we non-athletes choose our sports).

Connor is psyched about his first T-ball experience. Ethan is now in the Rookie division. For me, they should have called it the Facing Manhood or Loss of Childhood or most appropriately Mom Agony division. One thing is for sure, this ain’t no T-ball anymore.

In T-ball, the outliers are the truly gifted kids who throw across the T-ball field to first base like they came out of the womb with that powerful overhanded arc. In Rookies, the outliers are the poor kids like Ethan whose batting form ends in the beautiful twirl of a ballerina. Throughout the initial month of practices, I told myself repeatedly that it is all about having fun. I even found a thought floating in my head that having Ethan on their team will be good for the other kids to learn humble sportsmanship.

When one of the coaches suggested we work with our kids at home (I could have sworn through his sunglasses that he was staring at me the whole time he said that), I took it to heart. I never played any kind of baseball or softball. Never. Last week was the VERY first time in my entire life that I held a baseball in my hand and attempted to throw it and catch it. Motherly love drives you to do crazy things. I ironically coached him to keep his eye on the ball, move towards it, and be fierce like a tiger. Then when he would throw the missed ball back to me, I would look away, lean back and stifle screams of fear. Do as Mommy says, not as Mommy does.

The absolute worst part of that brief practice session was when he had a meltdown complete with throwing his glove, kicking rocks and screaming through tears. I had made the unforgivable mistake of laughing at one of his sad attempts to catch. It happened so naturally that I did not even realize what I had done until he pointed at me and cried, “Mommy’s mean!” You other moms have done something equally evil before, too, right? Right? (Sybil’s mom is shaking her schizophrenic head at me.) I apologized profusely while cradling the almost 60-pound boy on my undersized lap, wiping tears with heavy doses of guilt and feeling the flames of hell at my heels. He later whimpered that he just wanted to catch one measly ball. I switched to a light underhanded toss, and he managed to land the ball in his glove successfully. Did we win the lottery? Did we bring about world peace? You might have thought so with our reaction. We high-fived maybe 20 times.

Friday night was opening night for the league. Towards the end, I was with my boys and two brothers on Ethan’s team. Their dad had gone to look for his wife while Mike had gone to the bathroom. I asked for their names and told them ours. The older brother repeated Ethan’s name and casually said that he gets him confused with “the other handicapped kid” on the team. I was speechless while my heart shattered into a million and one little pieces. It dawned on me that it was not only obvious to me and other parents, but of course it was also clear to the kids…including Ethan. He has to know that his lack of skill makes this kid think something is physically wrong with him. It might explain why his feelings about their first game was “nervous” and not the “good” that his excited little brother had.

He feels shy with his team. Ethan has a great affinity to his peers. This is nice in that he makes friends fairly easily and loves spending time with them. It is not so great when he feels the need to be liked and approved by them. In past mom speeches about doing the right thing, he admitted the difficulty of standing up to meanness because it puts him out there. His insecurities do not always allow for his good conscience to make itself known. This is also disastrous when plenty of peers are around to witness his areas of weakness.

Yes, it is all about having fun, but how fun is it when the basics are a struggle and you are the notable team handicap? Did I set him up for heartache? Mine has already been broken, and the (long, painful) season just started. Was this all a mistake? Maybe I should have looked to sign him up for something that I already knew he was good at doing. Where is the league for inquisitive minds where asking a thousand questions gives you a solid win? He could be MVP for the “Mama-can-you-Google-it?” tournament. I should have been able to predict that he would get his pants dirty on opening night not because he was diving for a catch but because he was very busy looking for four-leaf clovers in the field. If only reading levels or math questions got you home runs…

Thoughts like these had been plaguing my mind all week to the point that I found myself praying for Ethan and baseball on my morning jog. Please, dear God, protect his fragile self-esteem. Please let him survive the season and have some fun. Please fortify his little sense of self throughout the torture of baseball. And if it be Your good and perfect will, let him catch and hit the ball a few times! Yes, I could have been using those 10 minutes to pray for much more meaningful things like the cure for cancer or the end of gang violence, but I could not stop myself from pleading about baseball.

Saturday morning was his very first game. I helped him get ready. I told him to have fun, do his best, and keep moving to stay warm (even in Albuquerque, 7AM is cold). After he and Mike left, I crawled into Connor’s bed feeling like I had just sent a helpless sheep to cruel slaughter. Even comforting snuggle-buggles from my affectionate younger son could not keep the ache and worry away. So of course I started this therapy session. Before I could finish, Mike texts me that the game got canceled. After two innings of play, the strong winds made the chilly morning unbearable so that some of the kids were even crying. When they came home, I nervously asked Ethan how it went. He told me that he did not get a chance to bat so he said, “I was glad.” He also told me that he did have fun and likes baseball, just not cold games at 7AM. Thank you, Jesus, for answering my silly prayers for this short 2-inning game.

The Marlin’s #16

Mike and I are at the beginning of season 2 watching Friday Night Lights. The nerdy Landry is on the football team as a bench-warmer. The last episode we watched has him getting pummeled by players in his inability to block them. He gets thrown to the ground endlessly. After that gruesome practice, his dad tells him that he is proud of him. In disbelief, Landry asks if his dad was even watching. His dad assures him that he was and repeats his fatherly pride. Real life is not TV. Ethan will not get a hot girl to like him because somehow she can see the quality of his character over his awkward lack of game. In real life, he may get hurt emotionally more than physically with his unnatural attempts to play baseball. But in real life, his father and I will repeat to him how proud we are, how much we love him and how his value goes beyond his ability to catch or hit. Mean Mommy may have signed him up for a long and painful season, but she will be there to cheer him on with as much pride as possible each and every time.

His little league season goes until mid-June. That sounds like a massive amount of therapy blog posts. At least Connor is still in the glory days of innocent and adorable T-ball. At his game, Ethan asked me, “Why do you keep saying, ‘So cute!’?” When the 3rd base coach told Connor to run to home and be sure to touch the plate, Connor dutifully ran down the line, bent over, and slapped that plate with his hand. SO CUTE!

The Phillies #9

Cute or not, we will all get through this season, even in the Mom Agony division. It may take many silly jogging prayers, super long blog posts, and spiked beverages, but somehow I (think I) am ready to say, “PLAY BALL!” In the areas of excelling and especially in the areas of struggle, I will always cheer my beloved boys on throughout their lives. They will forever be my little MVP’s.