Deeper Story: The Politics of Marriage

wedding rings

An old post from Deeper Story: 

I’m going to school.

I’m auditing a class at the local state university called the “Politics of Marriage.” It’s an upper-level undergraduate class full of gender studies and anthropology seniors who are writing honors theses and likely applying to graduate school. They are young, fresh, appropriately cynical and ready to take on the world.

I’m clearly the old lady in class. Bags under my eyes. Haggard and always covered in sweat and a child’s vomit. And always carrying a bag overflowing with pacifiers and toy trains and diapers that fall out. Occasionally, a wipe might be pulled out to clean an iPad screen. I feel out of place. Weathered.


Since I don’t have any assignments to turn in I’m trying to write and reflect on the material so far but it’s difficult to sit down and sift through the questions. And readings. And discussions. And OnCourse (the online gathering place for the class like Blackboard). It’s all so…high tech. When I was in seminary more than a decade ago we were registering for class on pink notecards. And waiting in line physically in a hallway that was often dark. And doing everything by hand and in person. Reading course descriptions written in tiny fonts in thick, stapled paper packets. Putting down our preferences. On pink notecards. It’s a different time now. But one thing that remains necessary – to be engaged I have to do something responsive.

I’ve only written one blog post here. I have a couple of drafts but still mulling over the first week of readings and discussions. Mulling over theories about the relatively recent view of love as being an acceptable reason to get married versus some evolutionary theories that read culture and see the result of love bonds that surely were present from the beginning. All of it is blowing my mind a bit. Marxist interpretations of how marriage destroys women’s personhood and how capitalism relies on the marital unit. Picture brides. Gay penguins. Arranged marriages viewed not as oppression but exciting and a practical way for families to come together. The importance of marriage economically and socially. And polyandry was actually a thing??? I mean, sister wives, right, but, what…brother husbands? Who in their right mind would want more than one husband?! I mean, seriously?! One is basically a full-time job.

Thinking about it all it’s hard not to reflect on my own marriage. Deep down inside I quietly wonder whether we are all following some script simply for the proliferation of the species and civilization.

I spin my wedding ring over and over on my finger.


Love is weird. Real and actual, in-the-flesh-and-blood-and-tears love. And everything that Hollywood puts out there certainly compounds the confusion. Like all the nonsense about soulmates and destiny and waiting for The One. I gave up those notions before meeting Andy.

Because, truth be told, marriage is not as simple as falling in love.Click To Tweet

In the beginning it feels like that’s all that matters and is necessary…and then the bills start to come in. And work schedules have to be negotiated on a regular basis. And the tube of toothpaste is missing its cap (usually my fault). And the creamer is left out on the counter (again, my fault). And the dirty clothes are piling up in the laundry room. And you might get to a point where you look and wonder where’s the love now?

Quite simply: Falling in love just isn’t enough.


I know I was compatible with the other boys before Andy. Maybe in some ways even more compatible. Yes, actually definitely, I had more in common with others. It’s easy to say that something was missing in the end with them. But what was it? Did I ultimately need my parents’ approval? Was it maturity? Readiness? Timing?

Even still the timing wasn’t perfect with Andy. We were finishing up seminary and he was ready to take a call to his first church. I was still in school with one more year and my ordination exams looming around the corner. And that first year – living together only on the weekends – it was kind of, well, hellish. Not recommended at all. It felt like we had to cram in all the catching up, flirting, fighting, and time together in 2 days. The perfect storm of stress from marriage and school, marriage and work schedules, marriage and two different life seasons, and the commute battered our little vessel in the beginning. East coast commutes can really crush one’s soul and wreak a special havoc on one’s sanity.

In the beginning the thought – did I make the right decision? – began to creep in. Because it didn’t look anything like the movies. Or Shakespeare. Suddenly trying to decide about “falling in love” becomes fiercely significant. Those marriage vows feel huge. But the current state of “traditional” marriage is a war zone and all sorts of party lines are drawn in its changing sands. It’s confusing and statistics on divorce don’t help but only make more sense.


I've discovered that what anchors me is less love and more grace. Instead of love faith gives shape and substance to my perspective on marriage the most.Click To Tweet

Not love. Not butterflies-love. Not Romeo-Juliet-Leonardo-Dicaprio-Claire-Danes-Titanic-Kate-Winslet love. It’s faith. Living out the covenant promise as an expression of faith. Learning to be vulnerable and dependent on this other person as an expression of that same faith. Letting go of so much as an expression of faith. Realizing the miracle and grace in it all and the necessity of faith to sustain it through intentional and hard work. Accepting that fighting and conflicts are part of it, and even the ugliness we bring in can always be fodder for God’s deepest redemption.

Even if it means going to bed angry or frustrated with one another. Like tonight. When we were both exhausted from the day. And needed something more. But we fell short of each other’s expectations. That’s ok. It’s the faithfulness of God, the steadfast love and mercies that are new every morning that continues to sustain us. And faith helps me to sleep at night knowing in the morning and beyond we will weather anything and everything together.

‘What do you want in a woman, in life?’

I thought a moment…’The Rangers…we began to describe one another in a few simple words: El es muy bueno para cabalgar el rio. Meaning, ‘He’ll do to ride the river with.’

In Texan, it means, ‘I’d trust him with my life.’

I scratched my head. ‘I want someone to ride the river with.”

― Charles Martin, Thunder and Rain: A Novel

Picking Flowers


To clasp the hands in prayer is the beginning of an uprising against the disorder of the world.

– Karl Barth

It’s gray and wet today. Like a spring day closing the books on a long winter. It doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving is just around the corner, and then Advent, Christmas, New Year’s. It’s too balmy to be on the verge of winter.

Except it doesn’t feel like the cathartic relief that comes from seeing those first blooms on the trees or crocuses pushing up through remnants of snow. Post after post on any social media is something about the Paris attacks, something about Syrian refugee children, something about Africa and bombings, something about women being incarcerated or killed, something about guns and violence and hunger and terror. It feels weighty and somber, lonely and dark. I want to crawl back into bed and hide under the covers until Christmas.

But then, there’s the video of the father who tries to reassure his son after the Paris attacks last week. The father tells his son, “They have guns. But we have flowers.”

We have flowers.

I keep thinking about this past summer and how relentless Anna was when it came to picking flowers. We couldn’t go out anywhere anytime when she wouldn’t stop to pick flowers along the road. Maybe at the park. Maybe riding bikes on the B-Line. Maybe walking through the Target parking lot. Maybe our front yard after I just planted some. Flowers, all the time, and she would give them to me, a handful of weeds with the roots hanging off, saying each time, “I know you love flowers.”


Every morning on the drive to the children’s preschool we sing songs. Days of the Week where we sing “There’s Sunday and there’s Monday…” through to Saturday to the tune of the Adams Family. Instead of snapping our fingers we click our tongues. Sometimes “Rise and Shine,” and old familiar tunes, as I am reminded by Stina Busman Jost at her blog, like “Deep and Wide” and “I’ve Got a River of Life.” But they sing their songs, too, the ones that they are learning at Gan Shalom about Baby Beluga and the Shabbat songs and blessings. They’ve been interested in learning the ones that punctuate our Sunday worship services, too. The Kyrie. The Gloria Patri. The Doxology. The Sanctus when we have communion. We sing each one. Over and over.

Lord have mercy upon us.
Christ have mercy upon us.
Lord have mercy upon us.

I sing allowing the desperation tinge my voice while clutching the wheel for dear life like hands clasped in prayer. And then we go into the songs that praise and sing hosanna and acknowledge that heaven and earth are full of God’s glory. But, the Kyrie stays with me throughout the day. Like every flower – no matter how small or minute – Anna insists on putting in a glass full of water next to my laptop. Always there. This song feels like a protest chant – its persistent roots hanging off reminding me of the life that anchored it to the soil, words that live always on the edge of winter and spring. Because even as we sing these words, calling for mercy, we do so with the hope and belief that God’s mercy is already there.


I roll out of bed and land on my knees. Push myself up. Keep putting one foot in front of the other and do the sanctified work that’s there in front of me like Sarah Bessey reminds me. Keep looking. Keep seeing. Keep feeling. Keep trying to love like there’s no tomorrow. Love hard. Love recklessly. Hug a little longer. Play those irrational and illogical games with the twins. Read that board book with Ozzie for the 917th time. Try to answer Andy’s question about the schedule for the 15th time without exasperation. Let bathtime be like a baptism each night, and let the sweat that rolls off my face after a long run be an anointing. Laugh, cook, drink, clean, make a huge mess, sit and stare out the window. Let all of it mean something, mean gratitude, mean earnestness and hope, mean life abundant. And tell the children stories about this abundant life – how it’s meant to be shared, how it’s meant to be experienced by every single human being – even if it means we might have to tell the stories that are sad and hard. Because that’s okay. Those are the ones that will hopefully shape their empathy and compassion. All of it. All of it is necessary for life right now. All this work is worship.

Because all work can be worship, songs are prayers, prayers are protests, and picking flowers is resistance. Click To Tweet

Anna Flower

When Spiking Your Best Friend’s Drink Is Okay


Image above came from this tweet.

This was a week, no, actually a month, of one major uproar over another.

Football players. Halloween costumes. Frat parties. Ivy League professors and free speech. And then the above image tweeted out and the question why people were not in more of an uproar about it compared to the unbelievably lopsided insanity around the Starbucks’ coffee cups during the holiday season.

Because this Bloomingdale’s ad is blatantly and unabashedly violent towards women. I don’t care that they apologized for it already. It’s another example of the persistent war on women’s lives and bodies, and another reminder that women matter less. How anyone in Bloomingdale’s marketing department decided this would be at all appealing or appropriate is beyond me, I mean, didn’t we go through this recently with Budweiser? Remember:

The tag line: “The perfect beer for removing ‘no’ from your vocabulary for the night. #UpForWhatever.”

It literally was this past year. A beer company that thought it would be okay to perpetuate the insidious rape culture all around us. Now, it’s a high-end retailer, a department store, one of the ultimate symbols of privilege and wealth, an emblem of impossible standards of beauty, and a bastion of utter capitalism and wastefulness, it’s Bloomingdale’s that thinks it can get away with rape culture because its ad is couched in this cliche chatter of oh-so-cute-best-friend romance and holiday-oops-lets-get-drunkenness.

Let’s get this straight. It’s never okay to spike your best friend’s drink. It’s never okay to spike your friend’s drink. It’s never okay to spike your date’s drink. It’s never okay to spike anyone’s drink. Period.

This isn't just about the culture of consent, but a culture of respect for every fellow human being.Click To Tweet


Even now. Even at this very moment, when I think back to the summer of 2000, and that night, though I don’t have evidence of it, I know 100% in my flesh and blood that I did not drink enough to black out, and that one of the young men in the house hosting the party slipped something into my drink, but I still feel responsible, I still feel like it was my fault, I still feel like I deserved to wake up the next morning completely naked next to someone who was basically a stranger, confused and disoriented, ashamed and lost. Maybe I encouraged him. NO. I clearly remember at least that part, saying, NO, and trying to leave his room, and he shut the door and stood in front of it, and I said, No, No, No, and then the world went dark. 


I’m reminded, and frantic, almost, by the reality that I am raising a daughter in a world where the culture keeps imposing this horrific notion that women’s bodies are to be drugged and taken advantage, or that they are deserving of state-sanctioned violence, or that they are to be incarcerated or prostituted or abused or trafficked by the dominant culture. I KEEP HEARING THE ANGUISH IN THAT YOUNG BLACK FEMALE STUDENT’S VOICE AS SHE RIGHTFULLY DEMANDED HOW COULD THE RESIDENT ADVISOR AND PROFESSOR NOT SEE THAT THE ISSUE WAS ABOUT SAFETY? DIGNITY??? I don’t care that she shrieked or screamed or cursed because I was there with her – it was ultimately about her effort to protect her body, and realizing that terrible reality that women’s bodies are ever in danger. And, I struggle, STRUGGLE with how we need to teach our sons that women’s bodies are to be respected not because they are someone’s sister, daughter, or mother, but simply because they have the imago dei, the imprint of humanity and divinity on their skin and in their cells, and they are of value.

These ads remind me that women’s bodies are constantly being trafficked – their physical bodies, the images of their bodies, and the worth of their bodies. And I am aware of the various ways that women of color and transgendered women and then transgendered women of color – their bodies are appropriated and commodified, too, and always in danger, just look at the statistics – nearly 1 in 5 American women are raped in their lifetime (19%), and half of those rapes are “drug/alcohol-facilitated rapes.” Look at the number of black women jailed and killed, AAPI women like Purvi Patel convicted and jailed, and trans women of color murdered on the streets. I think of the words of my sister, Austin, who wrote a piece recently reminding me of the ways that the reality of sexual violence towards black women gets lost in these movements. Dr. Eboni Marshall Turman says that “Black women are the Black church,” but these issues of gender inequity and disparity ultimately begin within the church just as much as in the department stores or beer companies. And so, we need to be diligent, we need to name the ways both rape and purity culture go hand-in-hand to bind up our girls, with words, images, and stories, with physical violence, pitting the value of women against one another, and it will have to be the Church that needs to be a part of this movement to decenter and dismantle purity discourses because they are rooted in religious institutions and language. 

No more lip service, we have too much to do to uphold the dignity of every single woman, and anyone who is marginalized within our walls, and in our communities.  Click To Tweet

Because it’s 2015, and it’s almost the holiday season. I don’t care or worry what’s on the outside of my cups, but I also shouldn’t worry about what’s being put in them either. And no one, no woman, should ever have to think about it.

Resurrection as Shared Life

Anne Lamott Why Church

Before Ozzie came into our lives the moms in my new moms group would often lament to me that they were trying to teach their child to share but having a single child made that task difficult. They assumed that the twins had an environment that would lend itself naturally towards sharing.

Except here’s the thing. The kids, I would say, 80% of the time truly suck at sharing. They are very territorial. Very possessive. Anna has developed a strong and alarming tendency towards hoarding – if I’m missing a magazine or book I’ve been reading inevitably it will be found in the top drawer of her dresser. Sharing is not innate. It’s not normal. It’s definitely not easy. But it is a major facet of being in community – not only individual families, but college students and living on campus, people being in a neighborhood or city, workplaces. </DO PEOPLE STILL WATCH REAL WORLD OR ROAD RULES ON MTV?\> The kids might not get it now but I know eventually they will have to figure out how to take turns with markers.

For a joint, campus group Dinner Church last night we read from Acts about the life of the early church. Luke narrates how in these idyllic days, the faithful sold all their possessions and shared all they had with their sisters and brothers in faith so that there was not a needy person in their midst. It seems so clear, so easy. No other New Testament passage depicts the ideal of sharing with the Christ-following community so vividly.

This is a picture of the ideal community, one in which no one lacks anything. They obviously did not have preschoolers in charge. But, guess what? Though they seemed to be of one heart and one mind, in the next passage Luke recounts a story of a couple, a man named Ananias and his wife, Sapphira who sold some property but kept back some of the proceeds, and lied about it. When he was found out he literally dropped dead. Talk about some major drama I mean Real World Confessional drama. Apparently even the first church had some flaws when it came to community.

Here’s the reality. They were not of one heart and soul because they obligated to do it or because tried really hard. They did not sell their possessions because it was in their mission statement or required by law or the morally right thing to do. Instead, everything they did was because of their belief in the resurrection. And it was not only that Jesus overcame death but that the resurrection itself was a relational event. God resurrected Jesus, Jesus did not resurrect himself. God resurrects us not just for ourselves but for our fellow human beings.

All these moments together – whether Sunday church in our respective traditions and communities or like this evening – when we gather to break bread and share the cup in this way, we are embodying the meaning of resurrection – not only the reality of life thwarting the clutches of death and destruction – but that our lives are tied up together. The resurrection is certainly about the power of God countering annihilation and insignificance, grace countering sin, reconciliation countering estrangement, but for sure, love dispelling hate. And, it is not meant to be in isolation – it is always about each other – it is about our lives being inextricably connected, intertwined, and joined together.

So the text from Acts invites us to see this passage not as a mandate or moral prescription for church life but a description – an image of what community looks like when we table together. When we come together on a regular basis – in the midst of our shared fragility and vulnerability – our brokenness and neediness – we get a glimpse of that kingdom-come, heaven-on-earth that we ask for in the Lord’s Prayer. And yet, it’s not our commonalities that are the substance of this joining together but the reality that we can come together rooted in our differences and even disagreements, arguments and opposition. The miracle of our life together is that we are foreign and strange to one another, but in the same way God came to us – we who are so Other to God – it is at this table that we come to each other and experience the love that will not let us go – that love that will not give up on us.

“God wills our liberation, our exodus from Egypt. God wills our reconciliation, our return from exile. God wills our enlightenment, our seeing. God wills our forgiveness, our release from sin and guilt. God wills that we see ourselves as God’s beloved. God wills our resurrection, our passage from death to life. God wills for us food and drink that satisfy our hunger and thirst. God wills, comprehensively, our well-being—not just my well-being as an individual but the well-being of all of us and of the whole of creation. In short, God wills our salvation, our healing, here on earth. The Christian life is about participating in the salvation of God.”

Marcus J. Borg, The God We Never Knew: Beyond Dogmatic Religion to a More Authentic Contemporary Faith

And I am back at Jesus, again, thankful for the way God came to us, Emmanuel – GOD-WITH-US – who showed us the way to participate in this salvation – he shared his life with the disciples, he shared his life with us, he shares his life with all of humanity through the Holy Spirit so we can taste and see the ever present possibility of risen life, and life made new.

May you summon the courage, in Brennan Manning’s words, “to say yes to the present risenness of Jesus Christ.” May you feel that life shared and given for you in every moment of the day. May you live and love in the abundance of that goodness now and always.

The miracle of our life together is that we are foreign and strange to one another, but in the same way God came to us - we who are so Other to God - it is at this table that we experience the love that will not let us go - that love that will not give up on us.Click To Tweet

Confession as Resistance and Solidarity in Bloomington


An Indiana University student was arrested over the weekend after police say he attacked a Muslim woman, yelling racially charged comments at her and trying to remove her headscarf. Police on Monday did not identify the woman, but said that she had been dining in a Bloomington, Indiana, restaurant’s outdoor seating area Saturday night with her 9-year-old daughter when she was approached by 19-year-old Triceten Bickford. Police said the woman claimed Bickford was yelling things like “white power,” “kill the police” and derogatory statements about black people.

The following are remarks I gave at the Bloomington Against Islamophobia event today.

Good afternoon, my name is Mihee Kim-Kort, and I’m a Presbyterian minister and director of a campus ministry here in town and one of the conveners of Btown Justice. I’m honored to stand with the wider Bloomington community to speak out against Islamophobia.

A major tenet of Protestant faith is the act of confession, both as individuals and as a community. Confession can serve as a means to honestly and genuinely express not only one’s failures – or the failures of a community, but as way to acknowledge and lament the fragility of humanity. In that vein, I want to offer these remarks up in that posture – I am wholly and painfully aware of the ways in which those who profess to follow the Christian faith have failed over and over in not only the areas of tolerance but compassion – we do lip service but when it comes to truly knowing and loving our neighbors we have so much more work in front of us. Moreover, we have also been complicit in perpetuating those value systems – guilty of prejudice and violence towards those who are NON: non-Christian, non-white, non-male, non-hetero, non-normative at so many levels.

In the same way confession acts as a mode for honesty and vulnerability, as a way of interrogation and self-reflexivity, it is a way to proclaim and affirm the realities of the struggle and what it means to cling to hope despite the realities around us. Click To Tweet

As I reflected on the actions of the IU student, I couldn’t help but feel sad for him. He is a symptom and product of white supremacy. It is in the air we breathe and we consume it like food. This is to not excuse him or his actions or justify any of the violence done towards our brothers and sisters but a way to hold us accountable for our own actions and what we are called to do with the words and opportunities before us, too.

I identify as Asian American. My family and I have experienced physical, spiritual and emotional violence. We have received demeaning and disrespectful treatment, we have been used and tokenized and propped up to support white supremacy while being made to feel like an outsider. This is typical of many AAPI. In the eyes of some, Asians in America are, writes Erika Lee, “perpetual foreigners at worst, or probationary Americans at best.” If Asians sometimes remain silent in the face of racism, and if some seem to work unusually hard in the face of this difficult history, it is not because they want to be part of a “model minority” but because they have often had no other choice.

But I believe as one theologian writes that “prophetic grief transforms our sadness into seeking faith-rooted justice for all so we must speak up and repent by dismantling systemic racism within our institutions, churches, communities, families and hearts, and by becoming humble, supportive allies in the #‎BlackLivesMatter movement, accountable to those who suffer most.‬‬” ‬‬As a person who is committed to a faith that is centered around the life of a 1st century Palestinian who from the beginning stood with the marginalized, the rejected and isolated, the non-normative of society, and even himself experienced state-sanctioned violence and execution, because of his life – I believe and confess and affirm that black lives matter. Muslim lives matter.

#WhyChurch: Casseroles and Communion

Anne Lamott Why Church

There’s no one answer to “Why Church?”

Why do we keep on with church? When at its worst it is an instrument of exclusion, rejection, even yes, real violence … and (sometimes) at its best feels too polished and shiny like the individual silver chalice cups my former church used during communion. I can still remember the first time I stood up behind the communion table and lifted the lid off the tray expecting the typical Presbyterian plastic cups. Instead I marveled at the widening circles of goblets – each so miniature and a perfectly ornamented copy of the large communion cup next to the bread. I kind of wanted one for myself and was tempted to slip it into my pocket.

Last night on Twitter we had an incredible conversation around #whychurch, and the questions that garnered the most responses were:

“What defines church?”
“What are we trying to get out of church that we can’t get alone?”
“What is healing about church?”

And then #whychurch turned into #whycasserole because my wonderful partner and spouse decided to mention it, and now I think we need to write a whole new volume on a theology of casseroles to add to Calvin’s Institutes.

There’s so much more there, and going through the hashtag I feel my heart beat a little quicker, I remember why I fell in love, and what captured my soul about church, and I think, yes, I’m staying, I’m not going anywhere. Because not only do I need church…

The church needs me.

The church needs all of me. All of my failures and flaws, all of my baggage, even all of my struggles with ego and privilege because that’s where the transformation happens – in the midst of flesh-and-blood, brutal vulnerability and weakness. It happens in the woods and in the delivery room, yes, but most certainly, it was meant to happen in community, in the sanctuary, in the light of the candles, around the font and the table.

I’m – still, slowly – reading Lauren Winner’s Still: Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis, and I keep on thinking about communion:

I learn something about the elderly couple who, near the end of the Communion train, come to the rail and kneel, fragile as mushrooms. What I learn later is that for a dozen years, he has been afflicted by a wasting disease, an intestinal disease that makes it almost impossible for him to eat – he lives on Ensure and lemonade. But at the altar I don’t yet know that, I only know what I see: they each take a wafer from the priest; and when I come to them with the chalice, the wife dips as I say “The Blood of Christ keep you in everlasting life,” and she eats her wafer, and then her husband likewise instincts his round of Christ’s Body into the wine and then he hands the round of Body and Blood to his wife and she eats his wafer for him. There at the Communion rail, I don’t yet know what illness lies behind this gesture, I know only the couple’s hands and mouths, and that I am seeing one flesh. I have about this, heard sermons about a man and a woman becoming one flesh…

And here at the altar, I see that perhaps this is the way I come to know such intimacy myself: as part of the body of Christ, this body that numbers among is cells and sinews an octogenarian husband and wife who are Communion. Click To Tweet

Whether it’s a meal made up of creamy soup and noodles or mashed up food and crackers or gathering around a podcast sermon. We are called to be together. Being together matters. I matter. You matter. We matter together. 

The church was given to us as a way to care for each other, a way to be a glimmering of heaven-on-earth and God's kingdom-come, the church is meant to be food, meant to be breath, meant to be song.Click To Tweet

I Love Being A Soccer Mom


Never in a million years would I ever-ever-ever have imagined I’d say this out loud:

I love being a soccer mom.

But, wait. Soccer moms are put-together suburbanites. With perfectly bobbed hair, and outfits that look thoughtful even if technically activewear. With a roast chicken ready for dinner by the time their husbands walk through the doors. With children who are clean and smell like vanilla cookies. With homes that are immaculate and shiny. With mini-vans and yoga classes and music lessons.

Except I don’t know a single mom that is actually like this when I think about it. Maybe one. Or two, at the most. But, hardly any.

I wonder if the era of venerating the likes of June Cleaver and Carol Brady is over? Because these days I see more moms (and dads) out and about with their kids in leggings and sweats, tshirts covered in breakfast and toothpaste, and the most remarkable bedhead. Only a pillow and a restless night of sleep with a toddler across your face could create that kind of coif. When I look around it seems like many of us have for the most part stopped worrying about upholding some illusive ideal surrounding looks and parenthood. Not that you all don’t look good – I mean, you do, you all are really beautiful people – but the image of put-togetherness seems less of a priority. I feel it in the way my eyes flicker up to meet the quick glance of the mothers and fathers at the library or children’s museum like a silent fist-bump: I see you. It’s about solidarity and survival. Anyways, we likely – at least, I, – save the energy and effort that goes into brushing my teeth and hair for the rare occasion we go out in the evenings with friends or the significant other, and dress as if it’s 1999, and we are still in college, our lives and children not even a twinkle in the night full of jello shots and beer pong.

Sigh. I’m so glad those days are over. Jello shots. Gross.

“Mostly good is enough. Mostly good produces healthy kids who know they are valued and either forget the other parts or turn them into funny stories.”
Jen HatmakerFor the Love: Fighting for Grace in a World of Impossible Standards

Because, honestly, I seriously love being a soccer mom. I am ready to embrace it. You know, the kids are at an age where they are just learning and doing so much. The amount they figure out each day grows exponentially. We can hardly keep up with them. One minute they’re crying that they can’t take the lids off of the markers. The next minute they’re channeling Picasso and Monet with all sorts of mediums, not only markers, but glue and tape and scissors (mostly, supervised).

And so, this is what a soccer mom means to me. It means loving their stage of life right now.Click To Tweet

It means loving watching them run and kick and do the worst jumping jacks ever with Coach Keelan. It means loving watching the kids learn to play the piano, and actually sit longer than five minutes to pound out a couple of stanzas with Ms. Susan. It means loving seeing her absolute delight when she finally figures out how to do the monkey bars by herself and he feeds the dog and lets him out on his own initiative.

Who are these people?!?!?

Being a soccer mom means for me loving learning what it means to have children, and be a child. Because what they’re doing is changing and shaping me, teaching and transforming me on a regular basis. It means seeing differently. It means loving hard. It means learning how to receive and welcome. It means being okay with mistakes and failing gloriously.

It means a little bit more proximity to that elusive, but wonderful kingdom. Click To Tweet

I love it. I love it all. I mean, I am so unbelievably exhausted and I still yell and shout and get totally frustrated at their insanity, but I love it.

I love being a soccer mom. I really do. You all are my witnesses – I said it. I love it. Now I just need a minivan.