PearlS | The Average Pearl

Off the mountain.

I gave the boys haircuts tonight. Since we’ve lived in the city now for awhile, and since they go to a pretty mixed school (where being white makes us a minority), they’ve started caring a little more about hair. Every Latino boy with caramel skin has good hair, made perfect for gelling up and slicking over to the side. I’ve only every buzzed the boys’ hair, so I didn’t know exactly what would happen when they decided to grow it out. I can’t say I was surprised that Jubal’s tendency was to grow bangs straight down his forehead. “Just trim the front, Mom!” he begged, but I couldn’t make him see that it wouldn’t work that way, wouldn’t make his hair any thicker or darker. I had to give it to him straight–his hair, like his skin, eyes, heritage–it’s all different than his friends. It isn’t a bad thing! I told him, it’s just different! He eyed me, dubious.

They want so badly to fit in. I remember it all exactly, mostly because I’m only a couple years on this side of not caring. Oh, I pretended I didn’t care for a long time, probably from the time I lived in a group home with ten foster kids. When someone spit in my hair on the bus in kindergarten. When I realized I wouldn’t get the fringed Roper boots in third grade like everyone else.

But I realized as an adult I still did care a lot about identity. Why is it we morph into the people around us so easily? I began looking like everyone else in southwest Colorado–eating organic, unprocessed food, growing my hair, buying “natural” deodorant, giving birth unmedicated, homeschooling. I ordered my life needs off Amazon and pretended I was still a great steward to the earth when I flattened and recycled all the boxes. I cloth-diapered and ran half marathons and tried to be nonchalant about it all. It wasn’t a bad way to live except for the fact that it was costing me my sanity. It took four babies to realize how unrealistic it was to live on the side of a north facing mountain seventeen hours away from my mom and thirty minutes from the nearest grocery store. How insane it was to wake up in the morning to three feet of snow trapping my un-garaged car in the driveway. I had snow tires on my Pilot year round and a bad back from hauling kids up the road in an Ergo carrier while pushing a double stroller.

Still, the whole package of mountain living had an admirable sheen, we weren’t willing to yet trade it in for anything less shiny. My kids could grow up to be skiers and ultra runners or mountain lion trappers and wear flat brimmed hats and have summer jobs getting tan as rafting guides. We lived a dream, snow dumping on our cozy home, staring at the mountains while sipping coffee near the woodstove. The kids might’ve blissfully never known what it was like to share Doritos with a hungry kid at school (too many preservatives and unnatural coloring). We would’ve been fine, and we could’ve convinced ourselves for awhile we were happy. Pride leads you up that sort of mountain where it becomes something to conquer–the idea of making it to the top before you’re satisfied that the people around you know you never took the easy route. Before you know it, you’ve left the valley and forgotten your redeemed self, the one who knew by heart that “whoever loses their life for [the sake of Christ] will find it.” (Matt.10:39)

Identity can be forged, sure, in enjoyment of the mountains, in the unspoiled idea of “living our best life.” If you can keep yourself busy enough, you never really come face to face with how empty you feel. It’s an illusion, a trick as old as the hills. It was Satan’s first words to Eve, the first deception breathed into God’s perfect creation, “Did God really say….?” (Gen.3:1) A serpent planted that seed of doubt in a heart that previously only knew the Lord’s provision. She took the bait–what if God isn’t really good? Why would He keep things from us if He is good? She gambled the only identity she knew, her pure-hearted, unblemished reflection of God’s love–for the lie that if she knew more, she could really and truly be living her best life.

In 2017, southwest Colorado had the highest suicide rate in the state, more than twice the national average. It wasn’t druggies or alcoholics. It was kids and moms and grandpas. Every death in the local newspaper dealt a shocking blow. Why? Everyone in town whispered. But the unspoken questions were louder: How could you be unhappy in a place like this? Joe and I looked at each other, and we knew. If identity points to who we are truly and factually on the inside, then pain will always eventually overflow from inner self to outward expression. No rocky mountain high, season ski pass, or any amount of self-actualization can hide a broken heart. The liar from the garden lures people up the mountain even today, his voice sweet and compelling. The Bible says Satan disguises himself as an angel of light (2 Cor. 11:14) and he is prowling around like a lion, looking for someone to devour (1 Peter 5:8). He has his bachelor’s in psychology and his master’s in business, selling us on the idea that one’s identity can be found in something other than knowing the Creator.

Fitting in can be dangerous; living our “best life” can send us right down the path of self destruction.

These old roots under me have expanded the soil like a big maple tree ripples a sidewalk after decades of growth. I tripped right over it–Joe did too–and we stared down at the ground in front of us. This wasn’t the direction we were supposed to be walking. Something in our past made us remember. That skinny little 4-H boy with the huge glasses. The little girl who was poor and ashamed. Those kids didn’t know it, but their biggest blessing was their disadvantage. It stamped a longing in their souls to be known and loved fully as they were. It protected them for a long time from the love of money and prestige, and it led them back home when they strayed.

We want our kids to have it, too, an identity deep inside pointing them home. A warning system flashing red when they care more about what others say than what God says. We sit and talk about how to grow discomfort in their lives so they might know their Father in heaven, the true Comforter. I’m certain this isn’t popular. Who am I kidding, it sounds absurd. But discipline, the goal of being intentional, isn’t to harm. It is to train to prevent a greater injury. I can’t think of a worse outcome than suicide, which is the ultimate act of despair in masking hopelessness.

God, may they be poor in spirit, so they might recognize the kingdom of heaven. May they hunger and thirst for righteousness, that you might fill them up.

Nursing Home

I suppose I’m not as regular at posting on this blog as I’d like. When it comes to writing, I am only absolutely sure of one thing—and that is this: it is secondary to just about everything else. This is why I say “I write” rather than, “I’m a writer.” A lot of living and thinking, reading and note-taking seems to be the prerequisite for me. It is also a private matter, how I think and process. Many words will never see the light of day, for which you and I both are grateful. However, it doesn’t take much to conjure up a story of past events, and peculiarity is always a fascinating character trait. Also, I am due for a post. So here I go.

When I was in college, I regularly visited the nursing home to try and cheer up the residents. When I look back on it, I think how odd it must have looked, a young person of no relation popping in, peach pie and flowers in hand, to celebrate a birthday of a stranger. There were many, and I certainly didn’t count them strangers, but I can imagine what onlookers thought. Mr. P was crazy (I knew this certifiably as I had a work-study job filing paperwork at the local hospital’s neuropsychology department) but loved chocolate milkshakes, so I’d pick one up for him every Wednesday. Hattie was bald and toothless and giggly. Carrie, my special friend, was quiet and stoic. She was only sixty something and she hated living in the nursing home, one wall away from the locked Alzheimer’s ward. A gerbera daisy lived in a pot on her windowsill, the only thing she was able to nurture. It gave her great pleasure to talk to it as if it were a friend. She joked, “that flower loves my carbon dioxide, and Lord knows I make a lot of it.” She was firmly attached to an oxygen tank, and her hands were permanently curled up tight, the aftermath of a stroke. I would work on her fingers and she would smile and ask me all about school.

I always had a Bible in hand to read them a few verses, but only if they saw it and mentioned it, or if there ever fell an awkward silence. My go-to chapter was 1 John 3. “We know that we have passed from death to life, because we love each other,” –a reminder to myself as much as anyone. I’m not going to lie, there were a lot of times I didn’t want to visit. There were quite a few residents at the nursing home that were hard to love, situations where I felt unwelcome, workers whom I felt sorry for, workers who were clearly annoyed with me (for not having a good reason to be there) and the overall weirdness of showing up unannounced. I pushed aside a lot of discomfort and self-doubt to show up. This is a common theme in life.

Most of us are trying to overcome wounds or shortcomings from our childhood. If we were raised to believe we’d never measure up, or if there was abuse or neglect, prejudice, certain things were unsafe, off-limits—it shaped us into a grownup that needs to overcome something in our life. It seems like there are people who genuinely want to make the world a better place, but most of us are just trying our best to crush some sort of resistance that lives deep in our soul. We recognize, in our core, a motivation to serve a higher purpose. To be kind. To find joy. This is how I know there is a God; not just in the glory of His creation, but by the anticipation and thrill of overcoming self. It always requires action–beautiful, yes, but it always begins with conquering fear, doubt, self-preservation.

The nursing home is where I broke in the greenhorn in me. It’swhere I practiced getting brave, marching into the unknown, understanding the value and frailty of life. Every single one of us longs to be loved, touched,wanted. I recognize it in my own human nature, but maybe I saw it first in the nursing home.

I take my kids there now. I have since they were little. We recruit other friends and bring crafts to pass out to the residents. We playinstruments and sing songs. We lean in and speak up, because old ears are hard of hearing.

Life, every part of it, deserves a front row seat.

You might have to kick your own self out of the way to get the best view. Do it anyway.

Dear Marie Kondo.

Oh, Marie Kondo.

Has it really come to this? It takes us lounging on the sofa and watching a show on Netflix to motivate ourselves to get rid of junk that’s been piling up in our house? It takes you, a woman from the other side of the world, to appear on our TV screen and remind us that joy isn’t found in the material? I’m laughing at the irony of it. I’m mourning, because it is such a shallow fix.

We want peace and a lightened load, but only in the most humanistic ways. There must be tangible, guaranteed results if you expect me to hop on your bandwagon. Whole30? Crossfit? Minimalism? I’ll get on board with that—I’ve seen before and after pictures; Instagram doesn’t lie. I just want a change that makes me happy.

Marie Kondo, let me tell the time I lived in a one bedroom apartment with nothing but a used love seat and a lousy marriage. My husband didn’t bring me joy, should I have given him the boot? I was jobless and directionless. No one would hire me and I wallowed in self-pity: tell me how to tidy up that sort of mess. Is happiness found in a clutter-free life?

Jesus once met a woman a well in Samaria. This wasn’t a kosher thing to do, by the way. Jewish men especially weren’t supposed to talk to Samaritans of the female variety. They were both thirsty. Jesus asked her for a drink of water, as she had a bucket and He did not. She was suspicious—what Jewish man would drink from a Samaritan well? And then He said this:

“If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”

The woman was rightly confused. She didn’t see him looking straight at her heart, with all its messy closets and skeletons. She had come to the well for water, not for some esoteric conversation with a stranger. But the idea of living water piqued her interest. Was this guy a salesman? Did he have some fix-it-quick water solution to maker her life easier so she wouldn’t have keep making the daily jaunt to the well?

Jesus pointed at the well.

“Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”

She felt her pockets, ready to pull out her wallet and buy what this guy was selling. I’ll pay anything if it makes my life a little easier, if it helps me get my crap together. Then He revealed to her what was in her heart.

“Go, call your husband and come back.”

“I have no husband,” she replied.

Jesus said to her, “You are right when you say you have no husband. The fact is, you have had five husbands, and the man you have now is not your husband. What you have just said is quite true.”

Immediately, the woman realized this wasn’t a salesman, and He wasn’t selling drinking water. Jesus was tenderly exposing the larger mess in her life, the one where despair and hopelessness was piled up, wreaking havoc. He could see into her soul and it was unsettling. He must be a prophet, she thought. I better get this conversation back on track, prove that I’m not just a Samaritan whore.

I can relate to this attitude—just give me a second, Jesus, to put on my best face and pretend everything is ok. My marriage isn’t really on the rocks, my life isn’t totally falling apart. This is awkward! How does he know? Can I salvage the conversation where we were talking about water?

“Sir,” the woman said, “I can see that you are a prophet. Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, but you Jews claim that the place where we must worship is in Jerusalem.”

Jesus settled the question for her:

“A time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth.”

The woman probably shrugged, reached down to pick up her water pot and leave. An odd day, conversation, man at the well, nothing more.

“I know that Messiah (called Christ) is coming,” she said. “When he comes, he will explain everything to us.”

Then Jesus declared, “I who speak to you am he.”

The pot slipped out of her hands. Holy crap, who is this guy?

She ran back to the town where everyone already knew her history, shouting the news, “Come see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Christ?”

In just a few minutes, he Marie Kondo’ed the junk in her soul, wiped her slate clean. Right there, she knew she could be forgiven, made whole, start fresh.

Isn’t that what we all are really looking for? Not a clean house, but a clean heart? For the Savior to notice us and come running to the rescue? Joy that bubbles out like streams of living water. Our eternal thirst, quenched.

John 4:39-42 says,

Many of the Samaritans from that town believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, “He told me everything I ever did.” So when the Samaritans came to him, they urged him to stay with them, and he stayed two days. And because of his words many more became believers.
They said to the woman, “We no longer believe just because of what you said; now we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this man really is the Savior of the world.”

Let me tell you what Jesus has done for me personally. He looked and saw the junk in my heart. All the times I thought I was right and wasn’t. All the lies I had ever told. All the lies I believed. The forgiveness I refused to offer. The hurt I dragged around like luggage.

And then He offered to sweep it clean. He filled up that empty heart with springs of living water.

Jesus changed everything.

Marie Kondo, it might be a joy like nothing you’ve ever experienced.

Finding Church.

We are back at church. It’s been awhile–it took us several months to drop the landing gear after we moved. This is a story in itself, because we weren’t looking for one. What I mean is this: we weren’t looking for a place that was selling “church”. There are lots of places that sell a sweet package, but they don’t look like Jesus; they look like everybody else. This is a clue for us to keep searching. I was a good girl for a long time before I figured out “good” wasn’t what Jesus wanted from me. We have been in well-oiled churches before as participants and quasi-members (another tangent no doubt related to an Enneagram number, ha), but the megachurch/mega-show variety is new to us. We walked into a few by accident.

Maybe they think they are relevant. The building is always tastefully gorgeous. The parking lot is simply packed. There’s a coffee bar right inside the door, with real cream and sugar in the raw, to boot. The greeters are friendly, notice our kids, and point us straight to the children’s ministry wing. We can drop them right off, everyone is background checked and wonderful with children. They’ll have so much fun.

I clutch the kids’ hands even though they beg me to let them go. It could be because I’m unfamiliar with the people. More likely, though, I don’t want them to get the idea that church is all about having fun. I feel a fleeting stab of guilt for being a stick-in-the-mud. It doesn’t matter; what’s happening in the auditorium is equally as exciting for my sheltered children. I half expect the ushers to hand us a bag of popcorn as the lights dim. The congregation (audience) sits in theater seats below a well lit stage. We are lucky to find seats for our family. First we sing worship songs, the words up on a screen. Our voices are drowned out by electric guitars and drums, and I look at Joe and roll my eyes. I’m too old fashioned. The instrumental breaks are killing me. Am I supposed to be experiencing a spiritual moment? Everyone else is swaying. The kids are starting to wiggle and whine. Our theater pew mates toss furtive, slightly annoyed glances our way–shouldn’t those kids be in a class?

A man steps on stage, tattoos stretching down his arms from his t-shirt sleeves to wrists, a Bible in hand. He’s mod, well-liked, and refers often to a rough past. He cracks a few jokes and everyone is feeling great. He talks about loving our neighbors, but doesn’t open his Bible. He turns emotional. He prays.

More singing, and then a special song.

The snazzy guy tickling the ivories, belting out something about lovin’ and livin’ like he’s Billy Joel–he’s singing for “those who might not have been moved by the message but would respond better to music.” The piece de resistance.

We are in the cheap seats, but we can see it from here. He was only warming up in the spotlight, waiting for the ovation. This is as good as Broadway for him. He’ll have Chipotle for lunch and watch football later this afternoon, just like his friends in the audience.

I wonder, what would he know about loving his enemy? Would he ever step into a nursing home, sit down at their piano, and offer his talent to people who can’t remember his name? Where is his reward if it isn’t everyone flocking in to see him put on a show on Sunday mornings?

The ushers silently pass baskets and people drop money in. They’re paying for their morning entertainment. Everyone feels good but us. We can’t bear to be there another minute.

Is this even church? You’d have a hard time convincing me. I know people that hated church growing up; the stiffness, formality, hours of sitting still with only half a stick of Doublemint, a bulletin, and a dull pencil to keep them occupied. But it was the cross I carried, and it netted me all sorts of good girl points. (I remember making acrostic poems of our names. When I got to R, I wrote, “reproachless”. Groan.)

It’s no wonder this generation has changed the church landscape to feel more welcoming. Has it gone too far? I don’t want my kids to hate church, but I also don’t want them to think Sunday mornings are for worshipping themselves. I really don’t want them ever thinking they hold the trump card or that they’re a “good” kid, above reproach.

It’s made us take a closer look at church, at culture, at what it means to deny ourselves and follow Jesus.

Shouldn’t church be a comfort cure for our sin-sickness and rest for our battle-weary souls? Shouldn’t we lift our voices together as one and sing hymns, earnest and unashamed–“Oh to be like Thee”? Shouldn’t we be confronted with the utter hopelessness in the world but spurred on by the hope that a Savior came and redeemed us? The salve I desperately want isn’t a good cup of coffee or a surface level chat about how much snow we got this week.

It can’t be found at many churches.

We’re too consumed with self, too afraid to let Jesus press us into His mold. We want a relevant preacher, the type that tosses out irreverence so we don’t feel bad about watching dirty shows on Netflix. We want the religious books we read to be slathered in satire. Let the message at least be humorous–a spoonful of sugar, you know. Sedate me with vague nods at the awful state of the world we live in, but don’t tread too heavy on guilt. When it comes to my flesh, I demand the closest shave, the premium razor. But when it comes to my conscience, I’d prefer the cheap single blade.

I know in my soul this isn’t okay, but it takes a fight to win control over my feelings and penchant for sloth. It takes diligence and a lot of paying attention. When I study Jesus I see that he had no air of superiority. He didn’t stroke anyone’s ego. He didn’t butter them up with self-deprecation, jokes made about his own poor dress and appearance. He was genuinely humble. He only spoke truth and he didn’t cower at the response of the haughty. He gave hope and life to people willing to receive it. Mostly they were destitute, ragged, sick, lonely, poor. These people were ready for someone to break their bondage and flip their lives around.

Four months. Sixteen Sundays. We ended up finding a dying church a mile from our house. There appeared to be no kids, so for a few weeks we avoided going back. When we did return, it was because a kind, older man gently pointed out, “Well, if you started attending, there would be kids, wouldn’t there?” Indeed.

We are a band of misfits and no one resembles anyone else. There are many languages and accents, and later, home confessions, “I couldn’t understand a single thing he said!” Some women in the church cover their heads. Some don’t. One man stands, his arms outstretched, the entire service. My kids are sometimes restless in the pew, but I catch them singing in tune with the congregation. I look around and think we are trying our best. To worship. To become more like Jesus.

It is deliberate and beautiful, plain and unassuming. I will always prefer it to coffee bars and unlimited childcare.

When You’re Unsure About What to do Next

Winter break ends tomorrow, and we are all counting the hours. The boys miss school– the structure, the camaraderie, the sense of purpose. School sparks a love of learning and doing that no amount of reading Garfield comics can elicit. When I homeschooled, the lines got blurred. I counted some days on break as homeschool, because I wanted to beef up academically. After all, if a child’s play is his work, then he’s doing double duty and I ought to record it, no? If we turn the Legos into a car propelled by a balloon, we can fill in a block of science, so why wouldn’t I? Instead of “Please stop reading comics aloud, I’m trying to think!” it was “Please read Garfield aloud so we can test your reading comprehension.” Reading is reading, and who would ever stop a kid from reading? (Answer: Only a mother who is about to lose her mind.) Then the real world called and reminded me I was doing them no favors.

Boundaries–those at school and at home–are actually tools for expansion and growth, not a fence to hoard everything inside. It’s better to have a bird’s eye view of the property than one standing on my tiptoes, straining to see what’s over the fence.

The kids, post holiday, are bored with home life and ready to jump back into the arena. Luke, who I had to bribe to try the school lunch three months ago, said, “I can’t wait for pizza day. Boy, I hope we get homework.” It’s only been two weeks, and I surely sound sappy (maybe because we didn’t have extended family visit for Christmas)–but we’re anxious to see our friends again.

I can feel the eye rolls of the righteous. I sing the public school love song not because I’m in love with the system but because I know that stepping out in faith is my very best offering to Christ. I’ve cast my bread out on the water and it has returned to me. My children haven’t suffered, the result of pack mentality. There is so much beauty in knowing and being known. The teachers are the cream of the crop. They are in it because they love kids and no paycheck offers satisfaction like pointing students down the path to success. They are the first to rejoice when skills improve and they are the first to worry when the absences pile up unexplained.

Last week I was presented with a new school-related opportunity. The email landed in my inbox with fireworks–Check out these test scores! Your kid qualifies! Don’t miss the boat!

It would change our direction and put the kids in what would be called a “better” school. “Better”–supposedly more academically challenging for my under-academically-challenged kid. I feel like it’s a dilemma even if common sense would tell me it’s a no-brainer. I’m world-weary. Must we always be chasing the highest route?

Lots of times I’ve been consoled by someone with, “Well, you’ve got to do what’s right for your family/what’s best for your kids.”

But what if my idea of right or best isn’t God’s idea of what’s right or best?

Usually my idea amounts to pouring energy into my own affairs. Controlling my future, securing my assets. A lot of times I want to barter with Him because I hate risk. Loss. Failure. Disappointment. In fact God, don’t worry about me. I’ll use my job, money, health, youth, looks, influence, reasoning, mental muscle and I’ll just brace up this whole system. You know I’m a hard worker. I have enough willpower and motivation for it to be a straight path to success.

What a fool I am to think I’ve got it under control! He can see farther into the future than I. In my mind, if I just stick to what I know, keep my kids away from troublemakers, I’ve got a great shot at things turning out. But Jesus laid out his perspective on things: “In this world you will have trouble,” He promised (John 16:33). It isn’t my job to figure out how to skirt problems. He already knows what I don’t. “But take heart! I have overcome the world.” He promises to walk in it with me.

While I’m secretly fretting about middle school and potential teenage nastiness, He’s already got it planned–He knows the roadblocks that will ultimately change my little bookworm boys into men of outstanding character.

Finally, if I’m doing what is right and best, sticking to what has always been safest, where does my self and family idolatry end? Also–where’s the adventure?

His ways are ultimately way better than mine. Yes, I trust you Lord, even with my kids. If we know anything about Jesus, it is that He doesn’t play the game of Life like we do. His economy, his calendar is not like ours. We try to be wise, and we think being wise looks like staying on the beaten path, the historically proven course. The college path over career, a couple kids, retirement. But He doesn’t look down from Heaven and see jagged cliffs and dead ends when we move to another city, quit college, take a different job, have ten kids, or enroll our kids in school. Better stay on the right path, Pearl! Don’t blow it!

No, the wise person trusts Him, and His assurance is this:

He will keep in perfect peace those whose mind is fixed on Him; because he trusts in Him.

Isaiah 26:3

I say this with great reverence: He is a benevolent GPS, redirecting our course when we miss the left turn. He is a good Shepherd, lighting our path as we walk around in freedom. He can turn bad things into good. He straightens out the curves. He is the Light, the only way to see clearly in the dark.

Our God isn’t a great cosmic couch potato with a remote in His hand, waiting to zap us. No, we trust He is good, that He is love, and that His love is being poured out on us when we are uncertain about our future. This is our worship, to fix our minds on Him, to trust Him. He points us to the eternal, and it’s just a few stepping stones away.

party manners

Before Christmas we had a little party for our newest seven year old. I’m terrible at parties, if you want to know the truth. I don’t bother with decorations and I don’t plan things around my unpredictable children. This doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a good party, it just means my kids won’t have the pleasure of cone shaped hats, noisemakers, or a Paw Patrol/Moana theme. Forget favors and personalized cake; I can’t waste time dreaming up the cute stuff. I have to clean the bathroom and make a plan to keep boys from trying to impress guests (the number one reason kids get hurt). RSVPs are never necessary because I don’t send out invitations until two hours before. Our optimal, preferred party guest has no time to buy a gift. They must be able to show up with zero advanced notice and know how to thaw a shrimp ring in my kitchen sink.

I’m not getting any better at planning things, either. One time, moments before guests arrived, I dumped a container of frozen meatballs into a pot of chili (no questions, please). I was still fishing them out when the doorbell rang. I’ve served tamales still frozen. Apple pie, underbaked. Cookies, burnt. I’ve spilled an entire tub of spinach artichoke dip upside down on the floor just trying to get it from fridge to counter. These were all due to terrible time management skills with which I am cursed.

I used to feel guilty, that maybe this meant I didn’t deserve to have people at my house. And we don’t have family in the area–shouldn’t I try a little harder to make birthdays special for my kids? At least invite all their school buddies? Plan a two-hour gymnastics romp and pizza at the local rec center? I’ve been to parties like that before–my kids beg for it. Parents drop their kids off and return to pick them up, sugar buzzed and exhausted, just another Saturday afternoon. I never wanted to host a party like that, perhaps because I’m terrified of being in charge of a ton of kids.

That’s what I told myself, and it’s partly true. But secretly I think it’s because I’m not sure it’s a worthy investment. Sure, my kids enjoy the attention and gifts, but what I really am after is an opportunity to welcome people into our life. I mean, how many birthday parties could I throw with balloons and cake and never truly interact with any of the guests? Four kids times twelve birthdays a piece (I’ll give them till they’re twelve to tire of the rec center fun), that’s somewhere near fifty parties! That’s one hundred hours of party time, not counting the planning (which I guess I can’t count anyway, not with my record). All it would make me is tired and glad for it to be over.

How can I lower the bar on celebrations without a) disappointing my kids and b) wasting less time and money? A quandary for the cheap introvert, no?

I have chosen to blaze a path anyhow into that dense forest of kid birthday parties. Expectations be danged. I’m unprepared like Tom Hanks on an island with a beachball, but I’m game for a good time. The first thing we did was make it clear to the kids that a couple of friends are welcome to celebrate their special day, but it’ll have to happen at home. And the neighbors must always be number one on the guest list. My boys are used to my spur of the moment ways and are quick to scribble invitations to pass out door-to-door.

Surprisingly, my lame-o party ways are successful in the most fascinating way. My sub par social skills have made it easy for me to stay home and entertain on the fly. Most people that have it all together won’t commit to such a low brow party. They already have their weekends and evenings planned out. At our parties, the most intriguing mix of folks show up. Usually it is neighbors and families we have met at school, random strangers we meet at a park. They come for the food and company and stay. No grownups drop their children off and dash away for a quick date. Nope. They re-warm tamales in my microwave and rifle through the cabinets, looking for a fresh trash bag liner. They pour drinks. I’m sure they entertain jokes at my amateur party planning, but they never say it out loud. They throw their hands up in the air at my frozen shrimp conundrum and pop it in the microwave.

There are lonely people out there. Some live right next door to us. At our party I heard one elderly neighbor say to another, “Well now, I believe we’ve lived across the street from one another for forty year and we’ve never met.” Forty years!
A Vietnamese couple confided that it’s hard making friends with Americans–it’s so unlikely to be invited into their homes and families.

I want it to change; I want there to be fewer lonely people. We have a home, and at least one bathroom will be clean. We have a family, not a perfect one–my boys are crazy maniacs. Even little sister (she’s two) hollers “stop being wild!” as they invite guests to participate in head first races on a baby bed mattress down the basement stairs.

We’re energetic and friendly. We’re eager to share whatever we’ve got. Maybe that’s as good a reason to have a party as any.