Gone

my phone, still feeling smug

Recently, Alan’s supposedly smart phone stupidly died. His dad lent him a Nokia so old that the ‘Picture message’ folder was full of pixelated alarm clocks and flowers and aeroplanes. Though he was able to message and call people again, Alan whinged that he couldn’t email. He whinged about missing his phone so much that someone gave him their old smart phone. It’s a different brand to his one; now he whinges that he can’t figure out how to use it.

I wasn’t too sympathetic about the death of his phone; I thought he’d start being in the moment! and living life! without the temptation to continually check for updates on Facebook and smh.com and whatever-the-latest-addictive-game-is.

Now I just want him to have his bloody phone back.

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If you want to bring back memories, check google’s image results for “old Nokia.”

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I lost my wallet a few weeks ago, somewhere between Sydney and Adelaide airports. I should have expected something like that to happen – in the days leading up to our trip I’d been the epitome of scatterbrained. Knowing the vague state I was in, I sat down on the Friday before we left and wrote out all of the details we’d need for our trip: phone, reservation and flight numbers, addresses, names, and information about our hire car arrangements. I then folded up the piece of paper, put it somewhere safe, and immediately forgot where “safe“ was. I still haven’t found it.

Anywho. I decided not to be too bothered by the discovery that my wallet was missing; I knew I had just enough emotional energy to get me through what was planned for the day, nothing more, so I couldn’t afford to spend any tears on the unplanned. A voice in my head told me kindly that it was all replaceable. Meanwhile, another voice continued to sing in the background, “I am going to make it through this weekend if it kills me.”

My sadness didn’t kick in until a few days after we’d returned, when it was clear my wallet wasn’t coming back. I don’t like change – even new-wallet-sized change. My old one was practically perfect in every way; a guy at the fruit shop once commented on how impressively simple it was, which was possibly the best compliment I’ve ever received. My new one is still small, but it has a zip where I’d prefer a button, and a three-fold instead of a two. I’m telling myself that pretty soon I’ll be able to hand over cards and cash without first staring at the wallet to figure out how to access them, and then, in 8 or so years’ time, I’ll be just as sad to see this one lost or stolen. 

Only 7 years and 11 and a half months to go. 

A letter to my church

Dear Christ Church,

Hey. This is weird. You may have noticed I’ve been avoiding you lately; Hazel’s birth came at a good time. I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about us, but I don’t like this awkwardness; I thought maybe writing to you would be a good way to try to bring clarity to my thoughts and let you know what’s going on in my head (I know it’s egotistical to think that you care, but I also don’t want you making any assumptions). Had you guessed that I’ve been thinking of leaving you? I am. I should say, though: it’s me, not you.

I mean, at first I was pretty sure it was all you! There are so many things we disagree on, so many things I’d do differently if I were you. I tolerate the songs whose lyrics make no sense to me and the baptising of babies, to name just a couple of things that make me question why we’re even together. For a long time now I’ve tolerated your views on women, too, thinking I was okay with simply agreeing to disagree. But the decisions made a couple of months ago made me realise I wasn’t okay, and though I could let the songs and the baptisms and the other things go, the women stuff is too close to my heart to ignore.

You say you love women, that you love me, that of course we’re equal, of course my opinions matter, of course my faith and spiritual well-being is as important as those of the men in the congregation. And then you act in ways that make me question your words, and I have to wonder whether it’s just some women you love, the ones who think the same way as you and bring the morning tea and keep the kids’ church roster full and don’t ask why there are three men employed by the church to look after the pastoral needs of the men, but no women to look after the women? I see no proof of your professed esteem for me and my sisters, so your talk of love and respect and equality feels empty and hurtful.

I think the hurt’s the thing that always bothers me most, because it comes as a surprise every time and leaves me feeling like an idiot for ever hoping again. Earlier this year I was feeling so enthusiastic about working together with you to figure out answers to the questions we had. Now I feel disillusioned, disenfranchised, disaffected. Dissed. And foolish. Why did I think you would listen to my arguments when you believe so wholeheartedly that there’s something about my body parts that makes me incapable of explaining the Bible to men? Silly me. 

And this is why it’s my fault, not yours: I wasn’t happy with who you were and I expected you to change, which was wrong of me. I’ve realised it’d be like joining the Greens party and then complaining about the fact that they cared so much about the environment. Those beliefs are part of who you are, and I should never have convinced myself (as I obviously did) that you’d rethink them.

I’ve never coped well with the different varieties of Christian, it’s something that bothered me even before I was one. The way my Brethren grandparents did church was entirely different to the worship I saw in my aunty’s Pentecostal church; I often wondered – I still wonder! – how, despite such extreme differences, they could all possibly be talking to and about the very same God. I don’t like this confusion – it’s one of the things that makes me question Christianity the most, although I’ve always come to the conclusion that my problem is with Christians rather than Christ.

Thinking through the differences you and I have in how we interpret and apply the Bible gets to me in this same way. I don’t feel encouraged by Sundays anymore; Sundays now involve crying in the cry room, holding my baby girl. I’m tired of feeling like the annoying one, I’m tired of being the one who’s against, the one who’s seen as rebellious for my (valid but different) interpretation of those key passages of the Bible, the one who has to provide the evidence for my views rather than the one who gets to ask the questions. It’s exhausting.

I know you’re thinking, “But it’s not all about you, that’s such a consumerist attitude to church!” I think I agree. To an extent. Pain and exhaustion aren’t necessarily enough of a reason to throw up my hands and walk out (I’m married, I know this). But there must be a point with church where agreeing to disagree isn’t enough, and people have to move on, or else there’d just be “Protestant” and no Presbyterian, Anglican, Uniting, etc. So how do I figure out where that point lies? This is my question. And here’s another: Can I retain any integrity while continuing to be close to you, you who feels this way about women in general, and therefore about me in particular? Continuing to hang out with you appears as if we’re on the same team, and I don’t know that we are anymore. I don’t want to accidentally send the message that I’m on board with everything you believe and practise to anyone who may wonder, including my children. And I don’t want to become bitter about you or to whinge about you; both of these temptations would be lessened or removed if we parted ways.

(In case it’s crossing your mind, I’ve thought about the distinction between gospel versus non-gospel issues; I’m not sure into which category you’d place the issue of women in the home and church. Certainly if we think of salvation in post-death terms we’d agree. But if we think about what that salvation should look like in this life, I’d argue it’s absolutely a gospel issue: if a large aspect of the gospel – the good news – for our lives right now doesn’t include Jesus breaking down social hierarchies in order to promote equality and unity with one another, then a) I’ve obviously misunderstood entire books of the New Testament, and b) the “good news” isn’t good news at all for Gentiles, slaves and women.)

I don’t want to be difficult. I honestly wish this stuff didn’t matter to me. I wish I didn’t notice the all-male teams, the exclusive language used, the assumptions and the stereotypes perpetuated. I wish I could go back to the early days, when I first joined a church, when everything was black and white, and there were always answers, and the answers were always acceptable.

Me: What is it about men that makes them leaders and about women that makes them followers? Why did God set it up this way?

Them: God is God and He can do things that don’t make sense sometimes just to prove that His ways are higher than our ways. I can’t think of another example of this, but it totally applies to the men/women stuff, okay?

Me: OKAY!

Faith was much easier back then.

It’s easy to sound cold in writing, but these thoughts and questions I have about us breaking up aren’t simple or painless. You’re not just an abstract idea that I could easily let go of – I’d be walking away from people I enjoy hanging out with, a structure and doctrines that have become comfortable and familiar. I’d have to look for a replacement you, which would inevitably make me remember and miss all of the things that I love about you. Staying or leaving will both involve heartache. I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

Just thought I should let you know.

Belle

Expectations

As I mentioned in a previous post, I was told while pregnant with Hazel that when she was born I should spend time with Moses while she slept, presumably because she would require most of my attention while awake and this way Moses would still enjoy some quality one-on-one mum time. It’s great advice, but it assumes that the baby will kindly stagger her sleep times; mine obviously never received that memo. In reality, they’re usually both awake at the same time, which means a lot of my day involves being yelled at by one child while I tend to the needs of the other, or, if I put my foot down and insist on doing something extravagant for myself like eating breakfast or showering, being yelled at by both children at the same time.

Throughout my pregnancy with Hazel I never worried that I’d have enough love to cover both her and Moses, I knew I would. It turns out my time is harder than my heart to divide. I expected to be my best mothery self for both kids, making the most of the moments I had alone with each; instead, there isn’t much time alone with either, and I mostly feel like I’m split in two (three, if I include myself), always neglecting at least one person.

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Since Hazel arrived, I’ve noticed how limited Mo’s energy and volume settings are.

The other day I caught myself feeling irritated and thinking, “This boy is driving me crazy!” I realised not long after that he was just acting like a three-year-old, and in fact it’s been me driving myself crazy by expecting him not to.

Bubble

from here

From Hazel’s birth until last week, my life was an introvert’s paradise. I stayed mostly at home with my family, venturing out only when and where I felt like it, and time passed in a blur of naps and feeds and nappy changes and West Wing episodes. Visitors came mostly in ones or twos. No one expected me to remember anything or feel particularly chatty or function normally. It was quiet. It was safe. It. was. AWESOME.

I’m still feeling dazed after being catapulted back into The Real World where Alan goes to work and sisters get married in Adelaide and people argue with each other online and there are church events to organise and attend and a whole election campaign underway (it came as a bit of a shock to realise that voting for Josiah Bartlet won’t be an option come Saturday).

I want the bubble back.