It takes a Community

I’d like to rephrase the common saying:  “It takes a village…,” to, “It takes a (church) community.” 

Not as smooth, I know, but true, non-the-less. 

Growing up in a pastor’s home, I know this to be the case.  My parents were often busy on Sunday mornings with various responsibilities, so sometimes we were left to fend for ourselves.  That was the idea, but the reality was that the church came along side my parents and took to heart the vow that each member takes when a child is baptized promising to “assist the parents in the nurture and admonition of this child.”

There was a couple in our church who faithfully sat with us each Sunday while Dad preached and Mom sang in the choir.   They helped practically.  And then there were Sunday school teachers, children’s church leaders, and others who helped in nurturing us spiritually.  

It was my younger sister, though, who experienced the sweet necessity of this community in a truly unique way. 

Shortly after returning home from a long morning at church, there was a knock at the door.  A church member stood on our front step, looking curiously at my dad.  “Rodney, did you forget anything at church today?” 

I will never forget his response:  “Did I forget my Bible?”

“No,” she was totally trying not to laugh.  “You forgot your daughter.”  And in walked the poor soul of my younger sister – forever scarred by being forgotten and all Erin and I could do was laugh…. 

I’m telling you, it takes a community. 

I will never forget the chills of emotion that ran through my body upon each of my own children’s baptism’s as the congregation faced us raising their hands promising to help us in the nurture of our own children. 

If only each group knew what they were really getting into coming alongside the Polski clan. 

My oldest two kids were young when we moved to St. Simons Island, Ga., where Chris took his first job as a Sr. Pastor.  I embraced the fact that there were many young mothers in the church when we began there, but I was also drawn to the particularly refined nature of those who lived on the Island; even the children seemed consistently polished. 

I tried to learn the fine art of refinement, but somehow I never seemed to quite get it.  What I remember about my daughter’s first day of preschool, for example, is a picture of six girls with big bows, smock dresses and curls and then my daughter, right in the middle, sticking out like a sore thumb, with her shorts and t-shirt.

On one Sunday, still fairly new to our church community, I pulled a fellow mother aside and asked her if I could get some advice.  She seemed very willing.    

I got right to the point:  I needed to know how to potty train a boy.  Coming from a family with three girls and potty training one little girl, I didn’t have a clue what to do with a boy.  Do they sit, stand?   I had even heard about floating toys that could be purchased at Walmart that help boys “aim” in the right direction. 

Clearly taken back by my question, she pulled me in and said simply and quietly, “You just do the same thing you did with your daughter.” 

Yes, of course.   I felt like combating my previous bit with, “Yea, I knew that.  I just wanted to make sure.” But, especially after seeking out her knowledge on the potty floating toys from Walmart, nothing seemed more appropriate than, “Thanks for the advice.” 

The next Sunday, immediately following the service, my husband and I stood in the foyer greeting and meeting various people from the congregation.  While talking to one of the new -comers about our move to the Island, I saw something out of the corner of my eye that will remain embedded in my memory forever. 

My son was running naked through the hallway toward the foyer of people.  He was fully unclothed except for his dress shoes and socks.  Before I could will my body to move, my son stood there, naked, clinging to my leg, acting, of course, as if this was a normal occurrence for our family.  The brief moment wasn’t doing much for me in the refining department.    

The scene was like one from the movies.  The chatting stopped and the attention was given to me….and my naked child.  I actually welcomed the few chuckles and tried to joke my way out of the situation by saying, “well, at least he has on his Loafers!” 

I’m not sure what I was thinking by pointing to his Penny Loafers as the silver lining in a deeply embarrassing situation. 

I took him back down the hallway and tried to figure out, with all the calmness I could muster, why in the world he had no clothes on.  His explanation was as simple and direct as I should have expected it to be:  he had to go to potty. 

I wasn’t sure if taking off his clothes happened before or after going potty, but what I was sure about was the sweet look of pity from my potty-training advice friend as she followed me down the hallway, not with the purpose of chastising me, but instead admitting with me that perhaps we will need to go about the potty training thing differently than I did with Ella.   Her use of “we” was quite purposeful.

It takes a community, no matter how different we are from one another. 

The beautiful thing is that a church community can really become an extended family.  Extended fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters – just as God intended it to be. 

This morning at church, when I sat down in my familiar spot getting ready for the sermon, there were two pointed movements that happened simultaneously.  The woman sitting to my right routinely held her Bible in such a way that I could read along.  It seems as though I can remember everything for church from music to cheerios to water cups to nursery tools, but I tend to forget my Bible, and my friend knew this.    

At the same moment, the woman sitting in front of me held behind her a pen and piece of paper, knowing that I would have neither with me, but understanding that I love to take notes while the sermon is preached. 

And then I considered something.  It takes a community.  It takes a community both practically and spiritually…..for all of us. 

Get Your Head in the Game

There isn't a day that goes by that I am not inspired to try something new.  My ideas rarely become a reality, but at times I become so passionate about them, I can feel my new found plan right at my finger tips.  My husband has learned to listen to my ideas and dreams, knowing (and at times, hoping) that they will probably remain ideas and dreams. 

During the course of our marriage, I have suggested to my husband that I  pursue the following:  The FBI, accounting, the medical field, broadcasting, and journalism.  These are only a few of my engaging suggestions, and while he would support my pursuit in any such area, the problem has been consistency.  If I wanted to be a personal trainer one day, the next day I had the fabulous idea of becoming an in home nanny.  The nanny idea, incidentally, lasted about three minutes. 

Admittedly, part of my issue is contentment.  But then there's also the fear factor.  Trying something new just isn't easy.

A few weeks ago, however, I followed through and decided to try something new.

I joined a basketball league.

When the opportunity presented itself, I almost passed it by for many reasons.  First, the games take place on a night of the week that is just plain inconvenient.  Second, and perhaps most significantly, I haven't played basketball in a while.  Oh, in ten years.  But there was something in me that really wanted to go for it.  So, I did.

This week, we had our first game.  I'll admit, I did not walk into the gym with my head held high.  There was no sign in me of a confident, fearless athlete.  Instead, I walked into an unfamiliar facility with my knees shaking.  But, as I browsed around watching a few athletes do their thing, I talked myself into the fact that I could hold my own.  I could play and they wouldn't know, not for a second, that I was rusty at the game. 

And then I got a glance at the rest of the team.  It was then that I was forced to face an undeniable fact: I was not prepared for my new found adventure.

The other players carried gym bags filled with basketball- type equipment.  I carried in my diaper bag that I conveniently identify as my "purse."  While they pulled out special socks and shoes, I pulled out my kid's diaper and a barbie.  There weren't many laughs that ensued.  I guess I wasn't helping in getting our "heads in the game." 

The other players wore basketball shoes (I suppose this should not have taken me by surprise).  I, on the other hand, wore my glaringly white Wimbledon Tennis shoes.

And then, of course, there were the long basketball shorts.  I didn't have those either.

So, I shook off my nerves, and unfolded the shorts that I had folded over like I do at the pool, and introduced myself to the team.  Right away I made clear to the girls that I was excited to play but that it had been a while since I was competitive on the court.  Immediately, another team member chimed in:

"Oh, I totally understand.  It's been like six months for me."  I decided to not even attempt a joke about the TEN years it had been for me.

Once we were formerly introduced, we began shooting around.  My Wimbledon Tennis Shoes did me alright.  I was making basket after basket and, quite frankly, feeling pretty good about my game.

Then the whistle blew.  As soon as the ball was in the air, I panicked.  I couldn't recall which basket was ours.  So I just began running.  Thankfully, the whistle blew - almost immediately.  I felt a great amount of relief that I would have a second to gather my barrings. 

But then I realized....the referee was speaking to me.  "Take off your ring!  You could poke an eye out!"  After a failed attempt to be sarcastic about the true size of my diamond in the middle of a competitive game, it occurred to me that perhaps I was out of my league....on so many different levels.

None-the-less, I ran back with a renewed sense of competitive spirit - and fouled twice within the first five minutes.  I decided that while the competitive spirit was good, it would not be in my best interest to foul out in the first half of the game.

Because I run long distances, I wasn't sure why, only ten minutes into the game, there weren't other players wheezing like I was.  So I called out a sub.

While sitting on the bench, I did three things simultaneously:  I watched the Post players so I could remember what in the world I was supposed to do; I reviewed for myself the essence of the game:  sprint, rebound, shoot;  and then I listened to a "fan" strongly urge our players to consider various plays to run.  And then I began to laugh.

What in the world was I doing?  I asked myself the question out of humor, not disappointment.  It was humorous to me that I joined a group of young athletes whose weakest player had gone a whole six months without playing basketball and still scored within the first several minutes .  It was laughable to me that I was wearing the same shorts I wore to the pool earlier in the day, and it was even more funny that I thought I would join in and show everyone else how it was done.  Really, what in the world?

But I laughed out of humor, not disappointment.  I had more fun in that hour than I had in a long time, even though I did come home with a stiff neck.  And while I disappointed my son who thought I would be on T.V., I was proud of myself for trying something new.  I even scored six points.  I will admit, however, that even with that small boost of confidence, I still bought new shorts.

Creativity

I’m not creative, nor ever claimed to be. 

There were simply other gifts that were saved for me. 

My daughter, however, is quite inventive.

She makes things from nothing, with no real Incentive.  

On one occasion she needed a cast. 

An idea came to her unbelievably fast.

A long sleeved shirt became sleeveless in minutes.

I gave credit where due, but that reached my limits. 

On another day she threw a big bash. 

With no real decorations, she made her own stash.

So she cut and she tied and created a sight! 

But it was momma picking up till’ well past midnight. 

And then just recent, she took a long “trip.” 

She packed clothes and toys and a suit for a dip. 

They were off to the Beach, with nothing to lack…

It only took me three days to unpack. 

Then one day, trying to get my shopping done,  

The kids acted up, so I thought I’d have fun. 

I changed my voice and called myself Daisy.  

My kids laughed, though others thought I was crazy. 

It occurred to me, then, in the middle of the store:

I’m OK with the messes; there will no doubt be more. 

My daughter’s an example of a great way to live.   

Perhaps she's teaching me… how to be creative…

Two Ears and ONE Mouth

Sometimes I talk too much.  I often remind my kids that God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.  But, I don't always follow my own advice.  More often than not, folks just need a listening ear, but instead of following this logic, I too often try to encourage people with my words, rather than listening to theirs.  

My husband is good at talking to people.  It's an important part of his job.  What my husband does, that I often fail to do, is listen carefully, getting the full story.  Then he speaks.  He waits and makes sure that he understands the big picture of a person's situation. 

Not long ago, I found myself engaged in a conversation with someone who I knew had surgery fairly recently.  What I didn't know at the time, however, was the kind of surgery this friend endured.  When it was too late, I discovered, thanks to my knowledgeable husband, that it was bladder surgery.  My half informed conversation with this person went something like this: 

"How have you been since the surgery?" 

"Fairly good.  In fact, I had a good week, but then had an accident this weekend, kind of setting me back a bit." 

Again, being uninformed, I assumed this meant a car accident.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," and then tried to think of comforting words just for her and her situation.  "You know, I've had a lot of those and although it's been a while, just remember that it happens to us all."  And then I hugged her as if my words of encouragement would soar through her anxious spirit. 

At the time, I was glad to be able to give her cheer with my words. 

Only now, I wish I would have listened....

It's a Curious Thing

It's a curious thing to me.  My daughter decides to play "school" with her younger brother, and curiously he does every single thing she tells him to do.

When Ella deems it time, Jrod opens his workbook and does every page she puts out; no matter how long it takes him.  When it's recess time, he goes out in the 100 degree heat and runs laps until Ella tells him to stop.  And then, when it's time for music class, Jrod sits at the piano and works even harder when Ella raises her voice and exclaims: "that note is staccato not legato!"  She even asks him to do finger strengthening exercises (whatever that is) and....he does it. Curiously. 

It's interesting to me because my simple requests, such as putting dirty clothes in the hamper, get regularly ignored.  But Ella asks him to do finger exercises (telling him to "ignore the pain") and subtraction problems, and Jrod's working before she can finish her directions. 

Their "game" entertains them for an entire day, so I don't disrupt them until it's time to eat.  And these "school" lunch times are also curious.  It's the only time Jrod actually eats.  Ella comes upstairs, introduces me as lunch lady Louise, and explains that whatever gets placed in front of them is what they will eat.  Done and done.  Jrod will eat everything that lunch lady Louise places in front of him, a rare occurrence.  Maybe I need to change my name to Louise for dinner time. 

There are times when I find myself experimenting with Ella's little tricks.  Could it be that she's figured out the nuances of parenting at the age of eight?  I'm thirty-one and can't accomplish with Jrod nearly as much as Ella seems to be able to during their "school" time.  Maybe I could try growling (I heard Ella do this at one point during the morning). 

But then I considered something this morning.  My sisters "curiously" did the same thing as Jrod.  They used to do everything that I told them to do.

There were times that I'd be lying around watching cartoons and out of pure and utter laziness would ask one of my sisters to get me a cup of water.  The initial response was not only reasonable but completely deserved:  "No."

But then I would come back at them:  "I'll time you.  And if you get a really good time, I'll throw a carnival for you."

Before I could share with them the "fine print" on my offer, one of my sisters would be racing up the stairs gathering me a cold drink of ice-water.  When my sister would return, she'd fine a piece of paper taped to my door:  "Due to unforeseen circumstances, the carnival is canceled for the day."  They were never mad at me - only at the unforeseen circumstances.  Curiously, this kind of occurrence would happen over and over again.   

When we were younger, my sisters and I would have our own "school" days.  And, like Ella, I was always the teacher.  And, like Jrod, neither of my sisters would ever question my role.   Only we had the school at our fingertips.....literally.  My sisters and I would cross the street with my dad on Saturday mornings, and while he studied upstairs, we entered the world of make believe downstairs.  My game, though, was all too real.

There were times when my younger sister would actually cry when I didn't give her a good marking for the day.   She would be dismayed when my other sister would receive two stars on her "work" and she would only get one.  Bekah, my younger sister, was like Jrod.  Whatever I said, she did. 

This was an unfortunate reality for Bekah.  Once I realized she would not question me (Erin would always give me a little lip), there was no going back.  It was even better when I realized that Bekah had a fear of being sent to the Principal's Office.  So on one particular day, as her teacher, I decided she didn't listen well enough and off to the Principal's office she went. 

And, of course, I was the principal as well as the teacher.  As we walked down the quiet hallway, I explained to Bekah what she did wrong and why she was going to the dreaded "office."  She was very apologetic, but I told her there was nothing she could do at this point.  With that, she began crying.

Once we reached the office, I quickly switched roles and put on my Principal face.  Sitting Bekah in a chair in front of me (picture Jack Bauer and his prey awaiting the torture that was inevitable), I simply pointed to a door in the back of the room:

"Rebekah," I used my Principal voice," do you know what happens to kids who get sent to the Principal's office?"

"No," she was totally shaking in her boots.  "I've never been sent here before."

"Well, Rebekah, when you get sent to the Principal's office, you go into that back room.  And in that back room, Rebekah, there is an electric chair.  They electrocute you when you get sent to the office."

"No, no, no....!"

I realized at this point that my sister truly did not know where the line between real and make believe existed, so I told her that she would not have to enter the closet room as long as she "behaved the rest of the day. "

She thanked me profusely and once I was her teacher again, I took her hand and led her back to the classroom where I gave her five minutes to complete the math problems I had written on the chalkboard.  And she did them.  Curiously.

Later that week, during real life school, my sister Bekah was practicing for a musical with her class.  One of the boys was being disrespectful, so the teacher sent him to the Principal's office. 

There was silence as the "real" teacher reprimanded the student.  Silence, except for my sister.  No one in the room could explain or understand her wailing and subsequent yelling, "No, please!  Don't electrocute him!"

I believe this experience had a profound impact on Bekah's view of me as her valiant, older sister.  She never did play my games quite like she did before the Principal's office experience.  In fact, she would come at me at times and say, "You're not my boss," something Erin learned earlier on.  Without a doubt, I thoroughly enjoyed the many years that passed before my younger sister actually figured out that indeed, I was not her boss.

So, enjoy it, Ella.  Enjoy the curious fact that Jrod will do whatever you tell him to do.  One day, however, he will have the same eye opening moment as your Aunt Bekah.  And when that comes....well....Lily, you better watch out.  

Teaching Tact

Most children are not socially graceful.  "Tact" is not something they come by naturally.    It's one of those areas that most parents don't think to provide instruction for until the opportunity presents itself.  And, unfortunately, when confronted with the urgency of teaching children how to say something in a graceful way, an uncomfortable situation has usually already occurred.  

My children do not merely lack social grace, they are, at times, just plain socially awkward.

Today, while jumping around at Monkey Joe's, Jrod made a friend who he thoroughly enjoyed playing with.  After a while, he lost his little buddy, so he asked if I would help find him.  I didn't know who in the world I was looking for, so I told him to spend a few more minutes looking.

He returned discouraged and told me that he "looked in every possible place there ever is or was."  So I told him that his buddy probably went home.  Jrod then pointed to a family sitting a few feet from us: 

"That's his mom and dad."

"Then ask them where your friend is." 

So Jrod meandered over to the couple and stood right in front of them.  "Excuse me.  I'm looking for your boy.  The one in the orange shirt, with brown hair, yellowish teeth, shorter than me, and he is of colored skin.  But he's not of the black kind, he's of the white kind."

It was one of those moments in life that you wish you could just pause and rewind.  I saw a commercial recently that portrays people in awkward situations.  They don't know what to say or do, so time freezes, they have a bite of a particular candy bar and, BAM!  The light bulb comes on and the situation is resolved in a smooth and satisfactory way. 

If only candy bar freezes were real in life.  But they are not.  So there I was starring at my boy confronting the adults, and I was desperate to think of a good way to explain my son's interpretation of their flesh and blood. 

I thought of three things I could do or say, knowing none of them were truly satisfactory.  My first option was to tell them that my son was definitely talking about another boy in an orange shirt.  Secondly, I thought I could just laugh and say, "Oh kids."  Pathetic; there's no doubt. 

I watched my son turn and skip away when he received no response from the adults.  So I went with my third option:  I pretended that I didn't know my child.  I walked in the opposite direction beckoning Lily to come and "jump over here" as if she was the only blood connection to me in the entire facility. 

Who would have thought that I would have to teach my son to not describe another child as having "yellowish teeth."  And when would I have ever considered to instruct him that it's not necessary to refer to races using the phrase "of the kind."  We're human beings, for heaven's sake, not aliens. 

None-the-less, the opportunity awkwardly presented itself this morning, so I did some instructing on the way home. 

Directionally Challenged

For me, simple is never simple.  An “easy” recipe turns into hours of nightmare and clean up, and there’s usually never much to show for it.  As I wrote earlier, the birthday cake, made especially for my two year old, was ruined in a massive way.  After careful review, I discovered that I left out the sugar and did not bake it for the appropriate amount of time.  The result was a doughy, bland, something or other.

I have an instruction- following problem.  My husband has suggested that I might benefit from some sort of a group therapy:  “Hello.  My name is Katie and I can’t follow directions.” 

This fact, however, has been my reality before a husband and children. And for each failed attempt through the years, there has been what I might have considered a good and descent explanation. 

As a child, I did not follow directions well in school. There wasn't a report card sent home that did not criticize my choice of social hour.   I tried to defend my behavior to my parents by explaining to them that God made me talkative.  I needed to be the person He wanted me to be.  That pretty much went nowhere.    

 I went through purgatory in a ninth grade classroom during my first year teaching.  There is no doubt that I was purposefully given the chattiest children in the entire school.  Each day I would publicly apologize to my teachers through the years while simultaneously giving my “if you talk again when I’m talking” speech, trying my hardest to put the same fear into them that the teachers tried to put in me.  I was about as successful that first year as my former teachers were with me. 

When I was ten, we visited my grandmother during a holiday vacation.  She instructed me to “trim the tree” on one particular day while she was gone shopping.  I heard that part of the directions, but missed the part when she told me where to find the ornaments.   I did just what I thought she asked. I followed my own version of her directions and turned her nicely framed artificial tree into something quite different using the shears I found in the garage.  I argued with my parents telling them that I heard MOST of the directions. 

During the end of my sophomore year of college, I stayed up all night cramming for an exam for which I was not prepared.  While shoving information into my brain minutes before the exam was passed out, I missed the all-too important announcement that anyone with an “A” was exempt from the exam.  I didn’t listen carefully and spent an unnecessary three hours on a written exam. 

When my professor asked me why I stayed, I just looked at him bewildered.  He then went on to tell me what I missed three hours before.  I told him I didn’t hear his instructions because I was trying to learn as much as possible.  He told me that I didn’t hear his instructions because I had procrastinated.  He was right. 

And then it wasn’t long ago that I purchased two bookshelves for my daughter’s room.  I wasn’t picky, so I chose the ones that seemed the easiest to put together.  Instead of taking the much needed time to follow the instructions, I threw them away and went with my constructional “gut.”    

What my husband would have put together in less than an hour, I completed in three hours.  And when presenting my accomplishment to the family, there was no hiding the large hole in the back of the first bookshelf and the chipped wood on the second.  These happened only after I put the first shelf together backward. 

The end result of this project was nothing short of ridiculous.   I tried to explain to my husband that the instructions were more difficult than they needed to be, and for that reason, I had decided I would be better off without them.  He said nothing.   All he had to do was point to the hole. 

A few days ago, I discovered a cultural phenomenon with directions that even a person like me can follow.  It’s called Red Box.  Stick your bucks in, walk away with some movies for a night, and stick them back in any Red Box the next day.

When it was time to return my DVD's, I went to a convenient location, walked up, pressed “return,” and let the machine suck in my first movie.  It was taken without a problem.  The second DVD was taken in the same way but almost immediately a warning came up on the screen:  “This box cannot read this DVD.  Please remove from below.” 

I blamed the machine for being insufficient and stuffed the second DVD back into the machine.  The same message came back up.  I literally began hitting the machine when I noticed something.  The machine was blue.  Red Box boxes were….red.  I backed up and saw the title, “Movie Cube,” strewn across the top. 

I declared Movie Cube unsatisfactory for stealing my first DVD.

Impatiently I got in the car and slammed the door.  Ella asked me what was wrong, so explained the whole situation and how ridiculous it was that Movie Cube would take my movie and not return it.  I was willing and ready to keep going on my rampage, but Ella interrupted me:  “Mom?  Aren’t YOU the one who put the wrong DVD in the wrong box?” 

And there you have it.  I was brought back to reality through my eight year old daughter.  No excuse here, folks.  Simple things are only simple… if you follow the directions.