Being a Christian in a God-Forsaken Country

Today I’m sharing My Hazardous Faith Story as part of a synchroblog connected with the release of Ed Cyzewski and Derek Cooper’s new book Hazardous: Committing to the Cost of Following Jesus. Follow along with the other posts by checking out the hashtag #HazardousFaith or at Ed’s blog, In A Mirror Dimly.


In the middle of winter during my junior year of college, I moved to St. Petersburg, Russia. Why I thought it would be a good idea to live in northern Russia during the cold winter and early spring months escapes me, but I went out of a deep love of the Russian people and language. While I had prepared to study abroad for years, the spiritual anguish I experienced while in the tsar’s city was nothing I could have ever predicted.

In a group of some thirty American students, I was the only Christian. Some didn’t grow up with any particular religious traditions. Others went to Mass on Christmas and Easter, if they remembered. One classmate, who would turn out to be my only friend in the program, was Jewish, but self-identified as more culturally than religiously Jewish. Eventually, the group learned that I identified as a Christian. From then on, I knew they were observing my behavior more closely.

During a vodka-infused dinner one night, the conversation turned to religion. A roommate declared how on her campus, “Bible-thumpers” would literally speak on soapboxes in the middle of campus about sin and salvation. They would pass out Bibles to students scurrying to class. My roommate proudly declared that “they tried to give me a Bible once. I told them to take their Scripture and shove it up their ass. They didn’t try to give me any book anymore!”

Bozhe moi, my God. I had to look away for them to not see my jaw literally drop. I hadn’t seen that coming. The statement was so matter-of-fact it felt like steel wool was scraping my ear drums. In the week to follow, I would quietly wake up to read my Russian-English parallelnaya Bibliya. Huddled in the dank kitchenette, tea kettle heating to purify the contaminated water for a cup of black tea, I would read the book of Job, then Lamentations, then Psalms to end with something lighter.

Then the days turned to grayscale.

I moved into a homestay with a plump Russian lady with jet-black hair and fuchsia lips. Only one other person in my program decided on homestay, meaning that all others were back in the Soviet-era university dormitory, enjoying group dinners of attempted borsht and the Russian beer, Baltika.

Without a cell phone or reliable internet access, connecting with the other students after class became near impossible. They’d return to their dorms, and I would scuffle through the gray slush onto a bus back to my house mom’s apartment.

The routine got old. And lonely.

While I could Skype with my fiance and family and friends, there were several hours due to the time difference when they would be sleeping and I would be home from classes. Those were the hours most fraught with anxiety and depression. Those were also the hours I most diligently searched for others like me -- Christians, those searching for something more, those open to real rather than superficial conversations, oh heck, even those not wanting to get wasted at dangerous Russian nightclubs every night.

One afternoon, I found an advertisement for a Christian church in the city. It was a bilingual English-Russian church. They had a website. They had an email.

I sent a message within a matter of minutes.

The next Sunday morning, alone and freezing despite the hand warmers, I ventured alone to the church, aptly named Nadezhda, Hope.

But I got lost. “Do you know you where the tserkov’ is?” I asked a passerby. The disgruntled man pointed down the street to the grand Orthodox cathedral, not even open for services anymore, the one that the Soviets destroyed all the icons in and used to store grain in the winter. “No, I mean the non-Orthodox tskerkov’ on Akademicheskaya road?” Shaking his head, confused, “What do you mean non-Orthodox church?” Nevermind. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.

Almost an hour after the service should’ve started, I headed home without finding the church. A few days later, I received an email back from the British expat pastor. Turns out that I was half a block away, but they couldn’t advertise their location on the street. They didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention from an increasingly hostile militsiya to foreigners, especially to foreign missionaries.

The next week I found the non-Orthodox tserkov’. My soul collapsed within me, sighing with relief that I had found a temporary tribe in the midst of a debilitating Russian winter.

And then they began to speak in tongues and heal people. Having grown up Catholic and despite attending an evangelical summer camp as a teen, I had never, ever experienced the charismatic child of Protestantism -- Pentecostalism. 


Yet I kept going to the tserkov’. 

I still read Job.

I remained depressed and lonely.

Then one morning I awoke slowly, blinded. The usual lack of contacts wasn’t the culprit of my disability this morning, though. A blood-orange, steadily rising orb ascended in the gray skies of dawn, awakening me to a new day, a day of hope.

Before this morning, I hadn’t seen the sun in two weeks. Others had warned us about it, the dreaded and aptly-named SAD -- seasonal affective disorder. “I grew up with harsh winters in Chicago,” I’d proudly remind myself, “I’ll be fine.” Looking back, I was more trying to quell my inner chaos than confidently assert my endurance.

I closed my tired eyes not to fall back asleep, but to take the emanating warmth in with every deep breath. Breath in, spasi breath out, bo. Spasibo, thank you, literally means “God saves.” And in some mysterious, holy way, I felt the presence of God’s Spirit do just that by whispering, ever so gently and lovingly, This is for you, my beloved.

And I knew it was true. Even if others on their early-morning commutes were seeing the same vermilion hue, rising slowly through the dull smog, this special moment was just for me. It was God’s love-song in the heavens.

A month later, we started the two-day trip home to the States. I could hardly contain my excitement to be home, to release the anxiety and depression that had plagued me every single day of my time in my adopted country. Exiting the airport, I took a deep breath outside the terminal, the exhaust of the nearby busses and taxis filling my lungs. “Fresh air at last!” I exclaimed. I had told my parents about the poor air quality, the wheezing masses of people in the streets, but until then, they hadn’t fully understood the detrimental effects of my time abroad. And that was just a physical symptom.  

A few days later, we had a coming home party. They asked how it was, multiple exclamation points embedded in their wide-eyed question. All I could muster was “It was interesting. It was worth it, but it was interesting.” No one wants to hear the grit, the 90 percent of my time abroad. They want to hear the glory, the 10 percent of visiting magnificent sky-blue palaces, majestic foundations, and ornate operas and ballets. Those were beautiful experiences, but they aren’t what I remember most.

I remember the piercing loneliness.

I remember the anxiety of taking public transportation alone.

I remember the suffocating darkness.

I remember almost passing out on a crowded, over-heated train and accepting the realization that if I passed out, I'd more likely be robbed than helped.

Isn’t that what the Christian life is like, too? That the majority of the time, it is hard. Dirt hard. We struggle to understand Jesus’s near impossible calling for us to simultaneously seek love and truth. We cover over our spiritual poverty with fancy new items and relationships, and for us introverts, books. We distance ourselves from those living in dire physical poverty both in our neighborhoods and around the world because it is hard. It’s hard to acknowledge privilege. And it’s even harder to relinquish it.

I understand why. Feeling anxious and depressed and downcast about the world’s problems isn’t fun. Fighting to alleviate that darkness isn’t glamorous -- ask any anti-slavery or anti-poverty or anti-anything unjust what it’s like, day-in, day-out, and you will get a very different picture than those glossy prints in Christmas giving catalogues.

Deep down, we know that as followers of Christ, we must lay down our privilege and pick up our cross. We must grow comfortable with being uncomfortable and uncomfortable with being comfortable. If bitter cold Russian winters with agonizing loneliness taught me anything, it’s that we aren’t meant to do this alone. We are meant for community, even if they speak another language, maybe literally another tongue, and even if it means living in a God-forsaken country. 

How to Join the Synchroblog This Week

During the week of August 27-September 1, write a post for your blog:

• Write a blog post sharing a personal story about a challenge you faced as a follower of Jesus.
• At the bottom of your post, link to the synchroblog landing page: http://wp.me/PewoB-SN so that others can share their own Hazardous Faith Stories.
• Add your post to the link up section at the bottom of the My Hazardous Faith Story landing page on Monday-Saturday. Don’t forget to read and comment on at least one other post!

The Weight of Despair

If only, she could see that being a size six
is not the end of the world
that growing, maturing beyond pre-pubescent hips
is a lesson in self-grace,
a challenge of body-acceptance,
a treatise on womanhood.

If only, she could see that thighs kissing
are mementos of what may come
strong hips, strong bodies
create strong life.
And look, look at those women
who leap and swim and twist
their muscles gleaming,
not to be shunned but to be praised
for that it how these athletes
go for the gold.

If only, she could see that being taller
than all of the little boys
in second grade is merely passing
that Disney channel doesn’t have
a monopoly on popularity
a rulebook for staying thin
but then again, I’m not so sure
this eight-year-old tells me
that she is afraid of being the “f” word
no, not that one
no, not my favorite one denoting equality
but the dreaded stigma of f-a-t.

If only, we could see that we are
more than victors in Christ
that the worries and standards of this
broken, dark world
are less than worthy of our
time
effort
energy
despair.

And yet, until then, we remain in the
thicket of thin and fat and ugly
of comparisons and photoshopped bodies
of the unreal and impractical
of the unhealthy and immoral
but there is hope in a Body
there is hope in a Savior
who rescues us from ourselves
with everlasting grace
acceptance
life
hope.

--
Photo credit: theloveyourselfchallenge.tumblr.com

Another Love Letter to Our Baby-Dog

 

On the near twelve-hour trip home from Jamaica last weekend, M and I talked at least on the hour of how excited we were to see our baby-dog, Martha. She's the only baby we have and will have for some time, and plus she's one of the smartest and sweetest pups out there. It only makes sense that we'd be missing her after a week in the sun. 

But when we opened the door after hours of anticipation of her glee, our baby-dog was hesitant, lethargic, and only slightly pleased to see us. She seemed distant and depressed, not at all what we had expected after a week away. I kept telling M that something wasn't right, that Martha was off. That she could be sick. He said she'd be just fine. I acquiesced, begrudgingly, holding onto my mama instinct that my baby wasn't quite right. We chalked it up to us being gone a bit longer than usual and her bonding with the next woman around, my mom. She'd snap out of it once she recalibrated her sense of mama and dad.

Except that she didn't snap out of it. Last Sunday she seemed more lethargic than she typically is, which says a lot since she sleeps and rests most of the day. She was not interested in her food. Her belly looked full. It could've just been a case of the grandparents over-indulging their grand-dog all week, but we felt that something was off. We resolved to take her to the vet the next day after M read through the pet version of WebMD for symptoms of heartworm, a potentially fatal condition in dogs and cats. But she hasn't been around mosquitoes even, M exclaimed, nervous and scared that our baby-dog was truly sick. We read more. Symptoms typically don't show up until five to seven months later, meaning that she could've gotten bitten in springtime, a time when owners don't usually give the anti-heartworm pill to their pups.

We're taking her to the vet, that's it. Bleary-eyed on the way home, we think of how much we love this precious baby-dog. The panic sets in of how if I can't bear to think of losing this dog, then how much more intense will it be with a human child? No, not now. I can't think of that now. After all, my dad always said that he couldn't think of anything more painful and heartbreaking than a parent losing their child.

The vet took blood and said she'd call back with the results. I anxiously waited at work, checking my phone every now and then. Anything? I thumbed into my phone to M. Not yet. He waited until I got home to let me know that the blood work was back. She's clear. Except we won't hear back about heartworm for a few days, perhaps. She's clear.

Martha is back to her normal self mostly. She is wagging her tail excitedly and woofing just quietly enough when she hears my key in the door, coming home from a long day away from her cuddly goodness. M hugs with me relief and joy, a smile across his face. She's clear.

Here's to many more years with the love of our lives, Martha.

Curled up in a ball of baby-dog
this little one in her spot
a morning of delights and yawns
and stretch, stretch, s t r e t c h e s
to salute the sun

Nestled softly on the pillow
nested fitfully to assure her comfort
this little one rests peacefully
for now and for the whole day

Baby-dog is getting older now
she has no patience for pups
but loves man and child
and especially mamas

Playing hide-and-go-seek
every night when I return
to see her jump with joy
and yelp and squeak and lick

A dog, nonetheless, but
somewhere, somehow, inside
she is more than just an animal
she is a baby-dog,
our baby and our dog,
aged nine but ahead of her time.

Why You Should Invest in Yourself

Odds and ends are hidden in every crevice, every purse and pocket and parcel. I’m unpacking one suitcase nearly two days after a weeklong vacation, a record for me. Usually the suitcase sits in the corner, taking up precious square footage in our one bedroom condo. I’ll put it all away tomorrow, I tell my husband, and days pass. It’s just as with our laundry habits. I can wash and dry and fold, but it takes me two weeks or more most times to transfer the items to hangers or drawers. I’m equally in awe and annoyed each time M swiftly unloads his laundry basket into his designated dresser. Really, I ask each time, you already put it away? We laugh at how different we are.

We have too much stuff! All this stuff! I exclaim for the tenth time this month. The clutter is getting to me. New rules are instituted. Anything that hasn’t been utilized in the year plus of our marriage must either go or be packaged and put into storage. Mostly this consists of books. What else can you expect from two introverts?

I continue unpacking. Sorting toiletries there. Dresses there. No more stuff, I tell myself. We already have more than enough.

Opening there, closing there, stuffing so it just about fits there, I find earring backs and grocery lists. Chapsticks in particular are tucked away in zippered compartments here and there, just in case. My lips get chapped, alright already? It’s basically an addiction. Please tell me I’m not alone in this.

My husband and his two siblings joke how their mother perpetually carries bundled up, already-used tissues on her everywhere she goes. In jeans, they’re crumbled and forgotten, only to be remembered by loads of white-capped waves of lint after the wash. In purses, they’re neatly folded in travel-size squares, only to be tucked into easy-to-access front pockets for middle of church achoos. The urge to sneeze always seems strongest when quiet is most expected.

Back to unpacking. Zoop, zoop, zoop as I round every angle of the suitcase. Unpacking complete. But oh no, I haven’t even thought of what’s under the bed. Didn’t I package more stuff under there the first month of our marriage? There wasn’t any space in the closets. Our drawers were stuffed to the brim. Cabinets bulging with pots and pans we haven’t even used some fourteen months later. We’re simpletons, after all. What else do we need other than a pan to boil and a pan to fry?

We have too much stuff, and yet, everything in our culture tells us that we don’t have enough. But it also tells us that without having enough, we aren’t enough. Don’t use this douching cleanser? No man will want to dance with you! Haven’t bought this anti-cellulite cream? Say goodbye to bathing suit season! Don’t have a chambray shirt, or better yet, don’t even know what chambray is? Clearly you don’t care about your appearance and style! And of course, these “are you enough?” advertisements and fear-factor slogans are heavily gendered. We all remember TIME magazine’s blazing red title in capital letters: ARE YOU MOM ENOUGH?

I’m tired of being told that stuff, our materialistic desires and gains, is what defines and validates our being. We are not only more than the sum of all this stuff, but we are also above and beyond this clutter.

As I’ve written on this little blog before, I’ve resolved to not buy anything new in 2012. It surprisingly hasn’t been that difficult for this thriftanista. But what’s harder is squelching those soft, yet unmerciful whispers of still not being enough.

Not enough pageviews.

Not enough Twitter followers.

Not enough sponsors.

Not enough book deals.

Not enough community.

Not enough influence.

In this void of not buying anything new, of being intentional about my purchases, I’ve failed to fill the inevitable void that the Target clearance rack and Forever21 sprees used to fill. I still refrain from buying new products, especially those from stores with less-than-appealing track records on human rights and the environment, but I now see the value in investing over buying.

Invest in writing and art for myself, for the future.

Invest in cherishing the relationships I’ve built through social media.

Invest in companies and organizations that share my values and commitments.

Invest in the two essay contributions to books I’m working on this year.

Invest in a small group, gulp, with other women.

Invest in events to network and build a presence where I feel called.

Buying doesn’t entail the level of risk that investing does. Purchasing an item comes with a receipt, a guarantee of satisfaction or a return. Investing in yourself and in community generates more sustainable and potentially father-reaching dividends, but it is risky. Rather than returning the item, you receive a return on investment. And that can either be embarrassingly negative or profitably positive.

In the riskiness, the anxiousness of the never-ending questions awaits me. What if people think my writing is a joke? What if I hear another small group sermon on Proverbs 31 about being a good wife and mother? What if I’m too shy to meet anyone at these events?

And then I face the inevitable question: If you won’t invest in yourself, why should others?

Another gulp. I know what this means.

Until this reluctant okay, okay turns into a resounding yes, yes!, I’m going to keep going. I will keep writing. I will keep connecting. And I will begin investing.

What about you? 

--
Photo credit: Mark'd Personal Branding Studio

[Anne] The Last Name Project

In this new series co-hosted by from two to one and The Feminist Mystique, we will be profiling an array of individuals and couples about their last name decisions upon marriage or what they expect to choose if they marry. The goal is to explore how individuals make decisions about their last name, and to highlight the many possibilities. We will be posting profiles periodically and encourage you to stay connected via Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.  If you would like to participate in this series, email Danielle at danielle [at] fromtwotoone [dot] com or Shannon at hill [dot] shannonp [at] gmail [dot] com. 

Background: Anne is a professor of communication studies.

Anne's Story:
A few days before my wedding at age 32, my father learned that I was keeping my birth name. My mother recalls the conversation as this:

Father: Hmm, what’s that all about?
Mother: I don’t know, I guess she just likes your name better than his.

Every time I think of this I laugh because my decision not to change my name was firmly based on feminist ideology. Having my consciousness raised by an array of undergrad and graduate Women’s Studies classes I was fully versed in the Anglo-Saxon “laws of coverture” on which many of the customs associated with marriage are based. It never occurred to me that by keeping my birth name I was continuing the tradition albeit in a slightly twisted form.

While my father never said a word to me directly about my decision, my father-in-law did. Interestingly, the conversation did not take place until 12 years into my marriage! (I guess he finally felt comfortable enough to ask me). I told him that I liked my own name and while he didn’t seem all that satisfied, he dropped the subject. My husband and I never actually discussed it either, I just said “I am keeping my own name after we get married” and that was that. He’s a pretty secure guy. Some relatives, however, are a different story. These are the ones who still send all cards, invitations, etc. to “The HisLastName Family”.

While I was pregnant with our only child we did have long discussions about names. I had no issue with the baby having his father’s last name, thinking that it would just be simpler and for the most part it is. I am all about honoring the ancestors so I made sure we did so with our son’s first and middle names. When I am introducing myself to a teacher or coach I always say, “Hi, I am Anne MyLastName, Mark’s mom.” I generally roll with it if someone addresses me as “Mrs. HisLastName.” I did, however, take exception to the school principal who kept referring to me as “Mother” in a tense meeting we had after my son had been sent home on the wrong bus in the first grade. “That’s Dr. MyLastName” I said icily, “or Professor if you prefer.” I am not sure he got my point.

“That’s Dr. MyLastName” I said icily, “or Professor if you prefer.” 
I am not sure he got my point. 

This is one topic that is sure to generate discussion and sometimes controversy among students in my Gender and Communication class. Recently one young man declared, “That would be a deal-breaker for me!” I asked him why and he replied “Because everyone in a family should share the same name, otherwise how would anyone know you are related?” Another student introduced him to the concept of blended-families. He remained unconvinced. I usually wait until close to the end of class to share that I kept my birth name. Typically the first question I get is, “What does your husband think?” My response, “I don’t know, he’s never said but I think after 20-plus years of marriage he’s had ample opportunity to share.”

There are times when I purposefully use his last name. A few years ago I was up late reading in our living room. Around midnight I heard a car door slam and glanced out the window. An unmarked truck was parked across the end of our driveway and a man was shimmying up the utility pole in front of our house. I thought it suspicious that someone would be out that late at night working, especially without an electric or cable logo visible on the truck. I decided to call the police. When the dispatcher answered I gave my name and address and told him about the guy climbing the pole. He responded, “What did you say your name was?” I told him again. He replied, “That’s not the name on my screen” I said, “Oh, the phone is in my husband’s name which is ‘HisLastName’ so anyway about the guy. . .” He interrupted, “Well, how does THAT work?” “What?” I asked. “Having different last names,” he replied. “It works fine,” I said. “Huh, really?” he asked. Exasperated, I said “Okay, about the guy on the pole who is now clipping wires and who could be some kind of terrorist. . .” “Oh, that’s the cable company,” he said, “they always work this late.” Needless to say, if I have occasion to call the police, I now identify myself as 'Anne HisLastName.'”


I do find it surprising that after three waves of American feminism we are still having this conversation. I guess I am not all that shocked. Discouraged, yes, but not shocked.
I do find it surprising that after three waves of American feminism we are still having this conversation. Though in an era when it is fashionable again for young men to ask their intended’s father for her hand in marriage, I guess I am not all that shocked and I don’t think Lucy Stone would be either. Discouraged, yes, but not shocked.

Vacation Recap: Part I

As you know from the guest posts all last week, my husband and I were on a much-needed vacation to celebrate my husband's graduation from his PhD program and our first anniversary! The vacation mostly consisted of reading and tanning on the beach, drinking local rum, and eating delicious food.

 

Because Shannon asked for it, I'll be writing a post on how we saved over $1300 on this all-inclusive vacation. Stay tuned!

 

Guest Post: 5 Lessons from A Newlywed

Today's guest post is by Alyssa Bacon-Liu. Alyssa is a new wife, southern California native, and wannabe world changer who lives with her husband in Los Angeles. She is passionate about justice, equality, anything sparkly, and reusable shopping bags. She blogs about life, love, and the pursuit of all things beautiful at www.allthingsbeautifulblog.com. You can also find her on Twitter (@alyssabaconliu).

--

We’ve heard it all before: The first year of marriage is the hardest.  My husband and I just celebrated our one year anniversary (phew, we made it!) and only time will tell if it actually was the hardest year. At times it was challenging and other times it was wonderful and most of the time it was just life. But as our one year anniversary drew closer, I started reflecting on all I had learned from my first 365 days of marriage. I could have picked a dozen things but I narrowed it down to five: Five Lessons from a Newlywed.

Lesson One: Get a Life

Everything in life is about balance, and marriage is definitely included in that. The first year comes with so many adjustments and changes that it's all too easy to get consumed in newlywed life. But you don’t want your entire identity to be found in your marriage.

One of the most romantic things my husband ever said to me was that I was his best friend. But just because your spouse is your best friend, doesn't mean they need to be your only friend. Just because you get married, doesn't mean your spouse has to be your entire world. The more people to enrich your life the better!  I learned that I should be encouraging my spouse to spend time with their friends and he should be doing the same. It's better for everyone involved and it's definitely better for our relationship. 

Signing my name on my marriage license did not sign away who I am as a person. There are times when I want to share certain experiences with my husband. But there are those equally as important times when I need to relax do things for myself and by myself. Setting aside that time has been harder now that we are married. It’s hard, but not impossible. I can't be my best if I'm not allowing myself time to continue to learn and grow as a person. I need to have things in my life that help me to feel happy and fulfilled, and I want my husband to have the same. Having my own goals, aspirations, hobbies, interests, likes, and dislikes is so essential to my personal health, which will only strengthen the health of my marriage. 

Lesson Two: Get it Together

When we first got married, I don't think I really understood all the responsibilities that came with merging two lives together. To be completely honest, I never worked with a budget before I got married. I typically tried to avoid looking at my bank account unless I absolutely had to. Unfortunately, I carried those bad habits with me into my marriage. For the first couple of months, my husband and I struggled to fully understand that it is our money now. We had to learn how to get it together when it came to our finances.

We got a financial advisor, we made a budget, and we put all of our bills into one big Google calendar. The day to day maintenance of our family takes a lot of planning, communication, and trust. But we also realized that taking care of each other today is great, but it's not enough. We had to think big picture and start planning for the future. Now that I'm building a family, I see so much more clearly that I can't just be so casual about my money and about my little family's financial security.

It's so easy for me to get caught up in the everyday demands of life. I hate (hate!) putting money away because I feel like I'm losing it. Money in our savings account or retirement fund doesn't feel like it's ours. But of course it's ours; it's just ours for the future. My husband and I don't personally believe that we will ever be wealthy. And that's OK. But we know that just because we won't be upper class anytime soon, that doesn't mean we can't start building a stable and secure future for our family now.

Lesson Three: Have Some Fun

When my husband and I first started dating, we had a long-distance relationship of sorts. He lived and worked in Los Angeles and I lived and worked almost 2 hours away. Not too bad, but we really didn't see each other except on the weekends. So when we did spend time together, we tried to make it as special as possible. We made a "bucket list" of all the really fun things we wanted to do together and each weekend we picked one or two things off the list.

Fast forward to a year into our marriage and we have had multiple moments where we turn to each other and say, "When is the last time we did something fun together?" Like we used to, before we had all these married people responsibilities.  I'm not saying I don't have fun with my husband anymore. I've just learned that your relationship with your partner evolves after you get married. It is so easy to get into a routine that you forget that you're allowed to have fun sometimes.

Now we've realized that we need to be more intentional about carving out time to just hang out and be weird and go on adventures. Yes, there are times where we need to be responsible and organized, because I like having a roof over my head and stuff. But this is also a relationship, which means that it's this living thing that needs to be cared for and nurtured. Married couples of the world: there is hope for us! Marriage gets a bad reputation as the ultimate buzz-kill, but it definitely doesn’t have to be.

Lesson Four: Show Some Grace

About six months into being married, my husband and I got into the worst fight of our entire relationship. This wasn't just an argument or a heated discussion. This was a fight of epic proportions. This time, I didn't just feel mad. I felt hurt. And this was a new feeling. This was my husband. He's not supposed to break my heart. But here I was: heartbroken by my own husband and only six months into our marriage.

I took a step out of my own hurt for just a second and looked at my husband through the lens of grace. We are going to be married for a long, long time. This won't be our only big fight. If we don't learn how to handle hurt and disappointment now, what will the rest of our marriage look like? Grace isn't determined by the person who receives it, but by the person who gives it. I had a choice to make. I could either punish my husband by exploiting his pain to make myself feel better. Or, I could show him grace. Stop yelling and start listening. Stop prying and start praying. Stop pushing him away and start pulling him closer. 

This is not meant to make me sound like this super awesome wife who is so holy and righteous. I give grace because God has given me more grace than I think I deserve. I give grace because God gave me the most incredible husband that I could have ever asked for and I did nothing to earn it. I give grace because I'm convinced that most days my husband is a better person than me and yet he shows me unconditional love. I give grace because I'm in awe of the grace that flows from the heart of the Almighty. With grace as our anchor, my husband and I were able to grow in our marriage in ways that have proven to be invaluable. My husband is the best person I've ever known. And I know that when I break his heart, he will show me nothing but grace. 

Lesson Five: Remember the Vows

My husband and I went back and forth for awhile about whether or not we wanted to write our own vows or recite traditional vows at our wedding. I decided against writing my own vows for a purely superficial reason: the more I talked at the altar, the more I knew I was going to cry. And I am the ugliest crier. So we opted for more traditional vows. We loved the idea of repeating promises to each other that have held together marriages for decades. And it meant the chances of me going into Ugly Crying Bride mode were greatly reduced.

Well, I ended up crying during the reciting of vows anyways and it was the only time I cried during the whole ceremony. They felt so real and special and sacred as they were leaving my mouth. But vows also recognize the realities and complexities of life. My vows did not come wrapped up in a pretty box with a nice bow. They came shrouded in the undeniable truth that life is wild and unpredictable. 

My vows give me perspective. In the midst of a fight, or an overdraft letter, or a fever, or a bad day, I need to remember the part of the vows that say Or Worse. In Sickness. For Poor. Because love is a choice. An action. It's not something I fell into with no control. Every day I have to choose to love my husband. And every time I choose to love, to forgive, to show grace, to be selfless, to be humble, to give, it's like I'm saying "I Do" all over again. 

With everything, I have learned that the habits that my husband and I form early on in our marriage will either help us or hurt us later on in life. I’m glad I can reflect on all that I’m learning now, but I also know I still have so much to learn.

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Photo Credit: Serena Grace Photography

Guest Post: Am I Just Another Housewife?

The following guest post is by Caris Adel, a Twitter and soon to be in-real-life friend. Caris is passionate about loving people, defending the oppressed, and being a voice for justice.  She is married, and in the midst of the chaos of raising 5 kids, she finds time to write about affirming the humanity at www.carisadel.com.

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"Lonely housewives are called that for a reason."  So said my mother-in-law. 

My husband started a new job a couple of months ago.  It was the first time he'd had to interview anywhere, and it's a step up in his career.  This new job came with perks, but also with some light traveling and a couple of months with 80 hour weeks.

As a woman who has chosen to stay home, with 5 kids, in a very small house, and as an introvert who also educates these same kids in this small house, the thought of my husband being gone more than 40 hours a week kind of did me in. 

The first month was a really rough transition for me.  Lots of tears and anxieties.  How will I handle doing more alone?  And deep down, a sense of unfairness.  Why, just because he leaves the house for work, does he get to travel, have more time alone, paid for meals and hotel rooms?  While my days continue on with their exhausting sameness?  Why does it feel that all of a sudden we are slotting into roles that have been sitting, waiting for us for years?  And why am I resisting so strongly?  Was I just jealous and discontent, or was there something deeper going on?

During the month, as I processed this time of change, I realized what I was really struggling with was what it means for me to be a stay at home parent.  If my role is simply to be a supportive submissive wife, then of course my job is to man the home front and learn to accept my lot in life.  This is my fate, my destiny once I became a Christian wife and mother. 

My husband, trying to be supportive, encouraged me to get a part-time job I'd been thinking about.  I worked one night and realized working outside the home is something I don't want to do.

But I still struggled.  Just because I wanted to be home with my kids, did that mean I had to completely conform to the typical conservative mold of a stay-at-home-mom? 

Then my M-I-L shows up one day to talk, to give some motherly advice, sharing that been-there-done-that experience.  "When you are feeling resentful or bitter, you just need to pray and find things to be thankful for."  And that lonely housewives thing.  "They're called that because it's true.  The men are gone a lot. Just focus on the good."

I talked about my frustrations with friends.  The reactions I got were, "This is the way it is.  The men travel and work hard and the women keep up the house and kids mostly alone.  You'll get used to it."  I realized the assumption for everyone I talked to was that this is normal.  This is the way it is supposed to be.

And to that I say, oh hell no!  Just because I am a woman who stays at home with children does not mean I have to only focus on my children! We should not be defining the role of a wife and mother as something so restrictive. 

I will not be reduced to a narrow role.  Your expectations will not define me.  If your choice in life is to sit back and just get used to it, then good on you.  But please, do not lay down your choice as a rule that every woman must follow.

By narrowing the expectations of my life, you narrow the call God has on me.  You ignore the person he has created me to be.  Global situations, other cultures, other stories cease to be important if my house is supposed to be my only focus.  How can I learn about, listen to, and love the other if it is inappropriate for me to focus on them?

A Christianity that tells me to only focus on my family is a selfish religion.  The Jesus I have been learning about had a bigger role for women to play than supporting bystanders.  It does not diminish my role as a wife or a mother to say there is more I can do.  My life does not have to simply consist of 'getting used to'.  Managing the home at the expense of our soul is not something that God has called women to.  He wants to see us thrive.

When we define a role by certain characteristics and force people to be in that role no matter who they are, we ignore the uniqueness of a person.

Why do we demean women by telling them to get used to it?  Choosing to stay home shouldn't equal a life long struggle with bitterness.  We shouldn't be telling women with kids that this isn't the season to do things that fulfill you as a person.  That season could span 25 years!  And I have met so many women, especially SAHM's who deeply struggle with frustration, resentment, and guilt for having to put everyone else first.

Do I want to tell my daughters that they can use their gifts however they want and achieve whatever they want, but only until they have children?  What kind of message is that?  No wonder people don't want to have kids.  The church treats it as an identity killer, and then turns around and treats you like a pariah if you don't have them!  It's a lose-lose situation for Christian couples.

But no more.  Not in this house.

What this whole season of transition has taught us is that I am just as important as anyone else in our family.  And I know, in theory, most people would say, 'Of course everyone is important.  Of course my wife is just as important as me.'  But it's one thing to say it, and another thing to live into it, especially when it's inconvenient and costs money.  I am probably never going to have a company pay to take me out to breakfast or give me an expense account, or fly me to a convention.  But that doesn't mean we can't make some effort at creating soul-filling perks for me.

I had to face my life.  What were my goals and desires? What did I want to spend my time on?  How did we practically address my needs?

We learned to make time alone, time for learning and recharging, a priority.  I try to go out once a week, by myself.  I took a day long silent retreat a few weeks ago. I go to a couple of retreats/conferences a year.  I have become much more intentional about writing, knowing that this is the specific desire that God has placed in me.  Even little things, such as going to a movie or a concert now take on more importance.  Instead of viewing them as non-essentials, a waste of money, now they have become necessities. 

Yes, this all cuts into our family budget and schedule.  But our family is the better for it.  I am worth it.  My choice to be home does not mean I have to resign myself to being a lonely housewife.

What do you think?  Have you struggled with what it means to be a Christian wife or mother?  What comments have you heard about what your identity is supposed to be?
  
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Photo Credit: Anne Taintor, Inc.

Guest Post: Raising A Future Feminist

Today's guest post is from Rachel, my Chicagoland neighbor and fellow Christian feminist. Someday, we'll grab a cup of coffee in real life rather than just chat via blog and Twitter. In the meantime, check out Rachel's blog, The Incorrigible Gingers (love, love that title), and connect with her on Twitter at @RStreitz.

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When I first found out I was having a son, I knew I wanted to raise him to be a feminist. I wanted him to value women as equals, to recognize stereotypes as such, and to be aware of our culture's remaining blind spots when it comes to sexism. I still desperately want those things for him. But as he's grown into his sweet two-year-old self, I've had to reevaluate some of my expectations of what raising a feminist son looks like on a practical level.

During the idealism of my pregnancy and into the tired happiness of the newborn months, I looked admiringly at gender-neutral toys and clothes. Ever practical, I gratefully accepted the many generous gifts and hand-me-downs that were clearly meant to be worn by a boy. Yet I knew that in the future, if my son wanted to question gender stereotypes, I would be happy to let him do so. I pictured my son joyfully nurturing baby dolls, playing dress up, rocking long curly hair if he wanted to. Expressing his individuality. Challenging cultural norms. All that good stuff.

Despite my fantasies--and some hard work and time invested crafting a charming handmade doll in the face of meager sewing skills--at eight months old, Judah saw his first toy car. He was thrilled. I had never seen my little guy so enthralled with a mere toy. It was green with yellow wheels from the dollar bin at Target, and Judah's passion for this car was rivaled only by his love of "milkies" and dogs. This was serious stuff.

Ever since that first encounter with a car, my son has had an unparalleled fascination with things that go. If you visit our apartment, you will see cars, trucks, and trains everywhere. The baby dolls are buried in the toy bin, where they are occasionally played with but always quickly set aside in favor of the vehicles. I cannot tell you the amount of people who have seen Judah playing and told me that "he is such a BOY." Well, yes, he is.

But more than being a boy, Judah is Judah. He happens to have a love affair with big machinery and never fails to notice an airplane flying overhead. He just got a haircut for his beautiful curls because he was complaining about his hair being in his face. He does enjoy trying on my necklaces, but just in the same way that he likes doing everything mom and dad do. Truthfully, right now he doesn't fit the mental vision I had of him as the little boy who would express my feminist proclivities to the world. Instead, he is exactly himself.

I'm raising a little feminist son who is noisy, messy, and although only a toddler, fits our culture's version of "all boy". And I am grateful for this, because recognizing people as people--with individual roles, skills, talents, and emotions--is the foundation of feminism. I'm learning early on to accept my son for who he is, dirt and kisses and all. In doing so, I hope to instill the value in him that I expect him have for others as he grows.

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Image Credit: Source

Guest Post: A Letter to My Daughters

This guest post is by Heretic Husband, an anonymous blogger who writes about his former church and his extended family. He lives at an undisclosed location in the Northeastern U.S. with his longsuffering wife of 11 years, two daughters (aged 4 and 18 months), and cat. He enjoys writing stories, writing computer software, and making people laugh. Connect with him on his blog, www.heretichusband.com, or on Twitter at @heretichusband. 

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To my daughters:

You are going to grow up in a world very different from the world I grew up in. Partly because the world is constantly changing, and partly because you are women and will experience the world through a different filter.

I don’t pretend to know what it’s like to be a woman. I do know what it’s like to be an adult, though, and I just want to share some of the things I’ve learned in the hopes that they will help you.

First, question everything. That includes everything your mother or I tell you, including what’s in this letter. If your mother or I get mad at you for asking questions, feel free to remind me I told you this. If someone tells you that you shouldn’t question something, that’s a good indication that it needs to be questioned even more. If someone claims to have absolute truth, they probably don’t.

And yes, questioning everything means you should question whether you really need to question everything.

You are complete as long as you are loved, and I can’t speak for anyone else, but your mother and I will always love you. You don’t need anything or anyone else to complete you. Not marriage, not children, not a career, not religion. Nothing. Anyone who says differently is selling something.

Love yourself, but be realistic about your faults. Forgive yourself for your mistakes, and learn from them. Treat yourself the way you would want others to treat you, and treat others the way you would want them to treat you. Be kind, but don’t confuse kindness with being a doormat.

Be open to criticism, but realize that some people judge women more harshly when they speak their mind, sometimes without even realizing it. Take this into account if people criticize you for what you say.

There is nothing you can’t do just because you’re a woman. There is nothing you have to do just because you’re a woman. There will probably always be people who don’t believe that. They might talk about differences in brain chemistry or hormones. They might point to their holy book, or just say “that’s the way it’s always been.” Some of them might even be women. Don’t listen to them. The only way to know if you can do something is to try it and see what happens.

Throughout your life, bad things will happen to you. Some of them will be your fault. Others will not. Learning to tell the difference is critical. A general rule is that you are not responsible for how others behave. For instance, if a man treats you like an object, he doesn’t get to say it’s your fault for how you were dressed.

There are many other things I want to talk to you about, so there will probably be other letters. For now, know this: There is absolutely nothing you can ever tell me or your mother that will make us love you any less. Nothing. I don’t care if you killed someone. If that happened, I promise you I will be a character witness at your trial.

Love,
Your Dad.

Guest Post: Marriage Still Means Something

This is a guest post from one of my all-time favorite bloggers, Balancing Jane, who is a part-time PhD student in rhetoric who also works full-time, mother of a young daughter, and wife to a lawyer (in no particular order). She writes about how to balance these roles and on modern marriage, media, and feminism. She also hosts the Identity in Balance series in which people share how they balance the sometimes conflicting roles in their lives. I wrote about how I am a feminist and a wife who submits to her husband as part of the series. I hope you enjoy her thoughts as much as I always do!

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The 2010 Census found that married couples were no longer the majority in America. Now 48% of Americans are married couples. If you compare that to 1950--when 78% were married--you can see that it's something of a dramatic drop.

An explanation for this drop?

In recent history, the marriage rate among Americans was at its highest in the 1950s, when the institution defined gender roles, family life and a person’s place in society. But as women moved into the work force, cohabitation lost its taboo label, and as society grew more secular, marriage lost some of its central authority.

That makes sense, right? When gender roles were stricter, marriage was a very attractive option. It meant financial security for a woman who didn't have many options on her own and household security for a man who didn't see child-rearing and housework as part of his responsibilities.

But look at those numbers again. Nearly half of all Americans today are married. Clearly, something about this institution remains attractive, even when the necessity of it has fallen away. In addition, everything from our pop culture to our religions instills the idea that marriage is a positive bond and that our weddings are important events.

And whether we're traditional brides who follow the handbook perfectly, quirky souls who dive off a bungee jump platform after saying "I Do," or minimalists who want only a courthouse ceremony, the fact that wedding culture is so pervasive further suggests that there's something more to the marriage thing. 

Getting married means something, and it's possible that, with the flexing of rigid gender roles, it now means even more. 

This Forbes article on the reasons for marrying cites marriage historian Stephanie Coontz who explains that marriage hasn't always been the way it is now:

"It's only in the last 20 years that women have said they'd marry just for love," says Coontz. "It used to be that people were embarrassed to admit they loved their spouse, but now they're embarrassed to admit the other reasons for marriage."

She also says that the image of the "marriage hungry" woman--she gives Charlotte from Sex and the City as an example--is no longer accurate. More opportunities mean that more women are delaying marriage, which means they aren't jumping in for reasons of security; they're looking for love.

Our Humor Hasn't Caught Up: The Ol' Ball and Chain

So, marriage has changed. And that change may account for the drastic drop between 1950 and today, but it might also mean that the people who marry now are more concerned with love than they ever have been before. Surveys are showing that men want to get married just as much as women do, and the reasons for doing so are aligning as well. It may also explain (in addition to a general open-mindedness) why more and more people are supportive of gay marriage. If we recognize the benefits of marriage outside of strict gender dynamics, then the sexuality and gender identification of the people getting married matters less, too.

So that means that the stereotypes of the commitment-phobic bachelor and the harpy of a woman who must "trap" herself a mate--while always cruel oversimplifications--now just don't make any sense at all.

And yet, that's exactly the rhetoric that our wedding humor falls into.

Here are some examples:

from wellcoolstuff.com

Here's a page of cake toppers. To be fair, they do have one "Runaway Bride" themed topper, but there are nine toppers that suggest the groom is the one who'll be trying to run. 

Cafe Press brings you a plethora of wedding humor selections:

In the vast majority of these jokes, women are seen as trying to catch a man, and men are seen as the helpless victims who are now unable to escape. 

Another Cafe Press gem.

I've even heard this kind of humor incorporated directly into the wedding ceremony, often by the officiant, no less. So here, the person who's supposed to be granted the sacred chance to oversee this bond is cracking jokes about how the man might want to run while he still can.

Wedding Night Humor

In addition to portraying women as desperate bearers of entrapment, wedding humor also suggests that men are only willing to enter into this trap because of all that sex they now get to have. In addition to holding women's virginity up to a pressure-filled standard that men don't have to face, it also suggests that women don't enjoy sex (which is, as I hope you know, untrue). These usually run along the lines of how the groom puts up with all of her wants on the big day so that he can get all of his wants on the big night. Some examples of this humor (also found on Cafe Press):

There's also the fact that there are entire companies dedicated to "wedding night lingerie." I wonder how much thought the typical groom puts into what underwear he'll be wearing (previous example excluded)?

What Does This Humor Do

What purpose did these jokes ever serve?

Well, by setting up the stereotype of a woman who has to "catch" a man and a man who might want to run, this entire line of thinking reinforces the stereotype that men are more valuable than women. Women are portrayed as vulnerable, the ones in need of a spouse in order to keep themselves together. Men are "caught" because they want someone to do the convenient work of housecleaning and child rearing (and a constant sex partner, exemplified by the jokes about how the wedding day is "hers" while the wedding night is "his"). In this stereotypical joke narrative, men aren't getting a spouse because she's bringing a valuable partnership into his life, but because she'll do the work that's beneath him. 

Beneath the surface (and not very deeply beneath the surface, at that) is the message that work that's traditionally considered "women's work" is not as valuable. These jokes reinforce a patriarchal structure that undermines everything from equal pay across gender lines to family friendly policies (for men and women) in the workforce. 

And sure, as Ariel Stallings points out in her commentary about wedding humor, we can get pointed at as just being too serious and not able to take a joke, but jokes exist for a reason. They're cultural texts that help inform the way we see the world. 

When these kinds of jokes have crept into the very ceremonies celebrating our love and commitment, they're worth looking at a little closer. 

Maybe there was a time when marriage was the only viable option for most people, but that's not the case anymore. We don't have to get married. But many of us keep doing it anyway, and many of us make that choice because we see the value in taking on a partner who will we can build a life with. We see the value in sharing responsibilities and risks. Maybe it's time our humor caught up.

How to Pack for A Beach Vacation

How to Pack for Beach Vacation

As some of you know, M and I are going on a much-needed, much-deserved vacation to a beach resort next week. While we're away, I've teed up some amazing guest posts from some bloggers and writers you are sure to love on topics near and dear to the heart of this little blog -- from what it means to be a Christian wife, how to raise feminist sons and daughters, why marriage still matters, and much more!  Thank you in advance for five gracious bloggers who contributed guest posts for next week. I'm so delighted to share your powerful voices and experiences on this little blog.

Until then, we're packing, spending time with family, and preparing to celebrate our one-year anniversary the right way -- sipping pina coladas on a beach!

What are your must-haves on vacation? Have I left anything out for the beach?