Carry On, Warrior: Thoughts on Life Unarmed

by Glennon Melton

  Sometimes the magic of compassion will make you step into the middle of a bad situation right away.

  Compassion might lead you to tell a teaser to stop it and then ask the teased kid to play. You might invite a left-out kid to sit next to you at lunch. You might choose a kid for your team first who usually gets chosen last. These things will be hard to do, but you can do hard things.

  Sometimes you will feel compassion, but you won’t step in right away. That’s okay too. You might choose instead to tell your teacher and then to tell us. We are on your team—we are on your whole class’s team. Asking for help for someone who is hurting is not tattling; it is doing the right thing. If someone in your class needs help, please tell me, baby. We will make a plan to help together.

  When God speaks to you by making your heart hurt for another, by giving you compassion, just do something. Please do not ignore God whispering to you. I so wish I had not ignored God when he spoke to me about Adam. I remember him trying, I remember feeling compassion, but I chose fear over compassion. I wish I hadn’t. Adam could have used a friend, and I could have too.

  Chase, we do not care if you are the smartest or fastest or coolest or funniest. There will be lots of contests at school, and we don’t care if you win a single one of them. We don’t care if you get straight As. We don’t care if the girls think you’re cute or whether you’re picked first or last for kickball at recess. We don’t care if you are your teacher’s favorite or not. We don’t care if you have the best clothes or most trading cards or coolest gadgets. We just don’t care.

  We don’t send you to school to become the best at anything at all. We already love you as much as we possibly could. You do not have to earn our love or pride and you can’t lose it. That’s done.

  We send you to school to practice being brave and kind.

  Kind people are brave people. Brave is not something you should wait to feel. Brave is a decision. It is a decision that compassion is more important than fear, than fitting in, than following the crowd. Trust me, baby, it is. It is more important.

  Don’t try to be the best this year, honey. Just be grateful and kind and brave. That’s all you ever need to be.

  Take care of those classmates of yours, and your teacher too. You Belong to Each Other. You are one lucky boy with all of these new gifts to unwrap this year.

  I love you so much that my heart might explode. Enjoy and cherish your gifts. And thank you for being my favorite gift of all time.

  Love, Mama

  Whatever, Honestly

  I take the kids to the gym regularly. My Lyme disease doesn’t permit me to work out anymore, but I would never allow that minor detail to keep me from free child care. So I drop off the kids in the nursery and I sit in the sauna and read. It’s exactly like hot yoga, without the parts of hot yoga that I resent, like the moving part and the not allowed to read during part. When I come out, I am smarter. And warmer. And more peaceful. So now instead of meeting on the exercise bikes and sitting still and talking, Adrianne and I meet in the sauna and sit still and talk. And when we leave, we are so sweaty that we even believe we’ve worked out.

  Recently, following a particularly dramatic mommy meltdown, I bought some new workout clothes for my sauna exercise regimen.

  Let me explain.

  Once a week I have a breakdown during which I wail to Craig that for various reasons that I am too overwhelmed and despondent and incoherent to discuss in detail, my life is completely unmanageable. We call it a Mommy Meltdown in our home. My friend Erin calls it a Caretaker Fatigue Attack. Either way, mine include lots of tears and dramatic phrases thrown around, my favorite of which is: I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE. Craig once made the mistake of asking me what specifically the IT is that I am unable to TAKE, and let us just say that he will not make that mistake again.

  Often, as I start to cool off from a meltdown, I decide that the only thing that will improve my life is to leave the house alone—immediately—and buy lots of crap. I do not know why this is my solution, but when I arrive at whatever crap store to which my van drives, there are always many other maniacal-looking women also wandering the aisles aimlessly. So I must not be the only one who considers crap-buying a viable solution to: I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!

  On my last crap-buying trip, I purchased some new workout (sauna) clothes. One piece was a yoga top with massive pads in the bra. Pads in the bra. The irony of practicing yoga in order to connect with the universe and one’s inner self and find acceptance and self-love in a padded bra is not lost on me. As a matter of fact, it is so me. I bought two. I wore one of my new booby tops to the gym.

  After doing my time in the sauna, I wasn’t ready to leave yet, so I went out to walk on the treadmill. I smiled at the lady next to me and noticed that she was staring at me. I assumed that she was impressed by my huge boobs. I smiled humbly. The lady locked eyes with me and said, “Excuse me, your tag is still on.”

  Please understand that to me, this is like someone saying, “Excuse me, do you have the time?” No biggie. I always leave my tags on. Taking them off is just one of those things with which I can’t be bothered. And since I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE quite often, I have a lot of tags.

  I thanked the nice woman and continued walking. I didn’t look for the tag, didn’t even pretend to. I got 99 problems, lady, and a tag ain’t one.

  A half-hour later I was back in the locker room preparing to shower. Yes, I shower at the gym too. I refuse to retrieve my children until we have reached the full two-hour nursery maximum. If I arrive three minutes early, I wait outside the door and stare into space for three minutes.

  So I walked past the locker room mirror and did a double-take. Here’s the tag. Here’s the tag I was wearing, just like this, for my entire two hours at the very crowded gym.

  And there you have it.

  One, Two, Three

  When the doctor places your firstborn in your arms, you hold your breath. You bring him home understanding that the Universe has made a mistake, that someone more qualified and motherly will show up to retrieve him soon. To pass the terrifying time, you play house. You hold him with trembling, clutching, sweaty hands. You still do. Your love for him is colored by fear because you are afraid he will die any minute. You do not trust that he can navigate his world. You eye his doctors, his playmates, his teachers, even his grandparents with great suspicion. Will they be gentle enough with him? He is so sensitive.

  What you really mean is: I am so sensitive. I’m like Lazarus, fresh from the tomb, eyes burning from the sun’s brightness. I can’t handle the ferocity and fragility of this new love. Please be careful with us.

  You’re sure if you just hold his hand tight enough, read the right books, choose the healthiest foods, enroll him in the best schools, just hold your breath forever, he’ll be okay. You’re not sure what okay is anymore. Maybe okay means you’ll succeed at keeping him and the world apart forever. Maybe okay just means that you’ll both survive this love, this love so intense it threatens to consume you like a fire.

  Holding your second child, you start to breathe again. You are elated and concerned. Your firstborn is replaced. You can’t look at or listen to both of your babies at the same time. So you look at your baby while talking about your firstborn. You say, hold on, honey, all day. Your guilt is relentless. How will you convince them that they are each the center of your universe? This new angel seems like a stranger at first, and then your firstborn does. Suddenly he is some sort of giant. You wonder when he’ll start pulling his weight already. You are worried you’ll never find your balance. What is the right division of time, love, attention, fear, and worry? For the first time, you become concerned with how the juggling act you’re attempting to perform appears to the world. Am I doing it right? Am I saying the right things? Am I buying the right diaper bag, house, car, invitations? Are they wearing the right clothes? Am I? Do I appear to be enjoying motherhood enough???

  But then again, you have your moments, don
’t you? When they smile at each other, when he retrieves her toy, touches her hair, tickles her feet. When you hear two giggles coming from the family room for the first time. When you and your partner look at the two of them on the floor and exchange a glance that means, Look at what we did. We’re doing it. We’re making a family.

  Then the third arrives. And as you hold her for the first time, you notice that your hands are steady and you’re breathing easy. The all-consuming fire is gone. Love is just . . . love. You don’t feel threatened anymore by her or the world. Because all of a sudden you see in her teeny little face that she is the world. And you understand that you’re not her protector anyway; she has One of Those. You’re just her teacher. You’re just borrowing her for a little while. You decide not to spend so much of your precious time begging God to shield her from the world. Seems silly, all of a sudden. Because she, God, the world, they are all mixed up together inside that new skin.

  Then, as you count her tiny fingers with yours, you check your heart and find no guilt there. Because you understand that you are about to present your older children with the greatest gift of their lives. Who else but a sibling travels with you from the start of life’s path to the bitter end? And you know, now, that if your first and second born spend the next few months relearning that They’re Not the Center of the Universe, well, good then. It’s an important thing to know, and it’s a lesson best learned early. So there’s another gift to them, courtesy of you, and this littlest one.

  You understand that things will get tougher when she comes home. You will sweat and curse more at the grocery store. You will have less money to buy her the right things. You will look far less graceful at playdates. But you will care less. Because you have listened to and spoken to enough honest parents to understand that we’re all in this together. And that there is no prize for most composed. So you’ve decided to stop making parenthood harder by pretending it’s not hard.

  You look down at her, your third, and you think, what’s so different about you? But before you finish asking the question, you know the answer. And your heart says to hers: Oh. You’re not different from the other two. I am. I’m learning how to love without so much fear. How to relax a bit, in this brutiful world. How to let go and trust. You are helping me breathe easier, you three. One at a time, and together.

  Amma, you came to me and you said. It’s okay, Mama. We’re all going to be okay.

  I didn’t know that before you told me, baby girl. I really didn’t know.

  Rejoicing

  I get very anxious about Chase being away at school for eight hours each day. I would be more anxious if he were home eight hours a day, but still. That’s the thing about parenting: anxious if you do, anxious if you don’t. Every time I see that boy walk home from school I feel like Geppeto. Oh my God, I think. Look at him! He moves. He walks! He’s ALIVE! Chase is a miracle I want to protect.

  When I was in elementary school, all of these little things happened to me that made me embarrassed, or confused, or sad. Like when I had to stand against the huge cafeteria wall with my nose pressed against the big purple painted grapes, or when all the girls teased me at my lunch table because my hair was greasy. You could start a car with all that grease, they said. Or when the boys never chased me at recess. Or when a classmate brought a Playboy to school. Or when my friend Jennifer called me a gay wad. What’s a gay wad? But these things didn’t seem big enough to talk about, and I didn’t want my parents to know that all wasn’t perfect, so I kept sad and confusing things secret. And keeping secrets became second nature to me, which didn’t work out so well for a couple of decades.

  So when it comes to how my kids are doing at school, I don’t worry about academics. I worry about social things. I worry about their time at lunch, at recess, and on the bus. Mostly children learn to read and add and sit still eventually. But not everybody learns that he and others deserve to be treated with respect. Not everybody learns that he is OKAY and loved and precious and that it’s all right to feel hurt and all right to hurt others, as long as he apologizes and tries to fix what he broke. Not everybody learns that different is beautiful. And not everybody learns to stand up for himself and others, even when it’s scary. Eight is young to navigate a big social sea all by oneself. Thirty-six feels too young sometimes.

  So last week, I snuggled in bed with Chase and told him all about the embarrassing, sad, scary little things that happened to me in elementary school. I told him that I never gave Bubba and Tisha a chance to help me, because I kept my worries in my heart. And by keeping my worries secret, they became problems. I told him that this was a shame, because the beautiful thing about being a kid is that you don’t have any problems. You might have worries, but if you share those worries with your parents, they don’t have to become problems. I told him that his daddy and I are his team. That his worries are really our worries, and that the most important thing in the world to us is his heart.

  I explained to Chase that every night, he and I were going to lie in bed together and try to remember any sadness or worries that he had during the day. I told him that we were going to talk about them and then ask God to help us with them. Then he’d be able to relax and sleep soundly, knowing that God and Mommy and Daddy were on it.

  I’ve learned a lot about my little boy while we’ve cuddled and remembered his worries.

  For example, Chase thought that the first few weeks of school were a “tryout,” and if he wasn’t perfect, he could get cut. I was tempted to let him keep believing that one.

  And the reason he always wants his dad to take him to baseball practice is that I embarrass him by cheering for everybody whether he hits the ball or not. You’re not supposed to cheer and yell “THAT’S OKAY” when people drop the ball, Mom. It’s NOT GOOD to drop the ball. I don’t know if you really understand baseball, Mom.

  Also, there’s an older girl on the bus who’s a bit of a bully, and Chase is scared of her. I told him that on Monday, his job was to find out what color her eyes were. That’s all. Just find out what color her eyes are, Chase. Chase came home yesterday and said, “MOM! Her eyes are BLUE! But listen, while I was looking at her eyes to find out what color they are for you, she quit her mean face and looked away! And she didn’t look at me mean the rest of the bus ride! And then on the way home, she didn’t look at me at all! She just passed right by!”

  Yep. Always look them in the eye, buddy. Mean can’t handle the truth.

  I think this worry talk is a ritual worth keeping. Because if we empty our hearts every night, they won’t get too heavy or cluttered. Our hearts will stay light and open with lots of room for good new things to come.

  A Mountain I'm Willing

  to Die On

  Along with every other concerned parent, I watch America’s responses to bullying-related suicides closely. People always seem quite shocked by the cruelty that’s happening in America’s schools. I’m baffled by their shock, and I’m concerned about what’s not being addressed in their proposed solutions.

  The acceptable response seems to be that we should better educate students and teachers about what bullying is and how to react to it appropriately. This plan is positive, certainly. But on its own, it seems a little like bailing frantically without first looking for the hole in the boat.

  Each time these stories are reported, the sound bite is: “kids can be so cruel.” This is something we tend to say: kids these days, they can be so cruel. But I think this is just a phrase we toss around to excuse ourselves from facing the truth. I don’t think kids are any crueler than adults. I just think kids are less adept at disguising their cruelty.

  I heard a radio report that students who are most likely to be bullied are gay kids, overweight kids, and Muslim kids.

  Hmmmmm.

  I bet that at this point in American history, gay adults, overweight adults, and Muslim adults feel the most bullied as well.

  Children are not cruel. Children are mirrors. They want to be “grownup,” so they a
ct how grown-ups act when we think they’re not looking. They do not act how we tell them to act at school assemblies. They act how we really act. They believe what we believe. They say what we say. And we have taught them that gay people are not okay. That overweight people are not okay. That Muslim people are not okay. That they are not equal. That they are to be feared. And people hurt the things they fear. We know that. What they are doing in the schools, what we are doing in the media—it’s all the same. The only difference is that children bully in the hallways and the cafeterias while we bully from behind pulpits and legislative benches and sitcom one-liners.

  People are sensitive. People are heartbreakingly sensitive. If enough people tell someone over and over that he is not okay, he will believe it. And one way or another, he will die.

  So how is any of this surprising? It’s quite predictable, actually. It’s trickle-down cruelty.

  I don’t know much. But I know that each time I see something heartbreaking on the news, each time I encounter a problem outside, the answer to the problem is inside. The problem is always me and the solution is always me. If I want my world to be less vicious, then I must become more gentle. If I want my children to embrace other children for who they are, to treat other children with the dignity and respect every child of God deserves, then I had better treat other adults the same way. And I better make sure that my children know beyond a shadow of a doubt that in God’s and their father’s and my eyes, they are okay. They are loved as they are. Without a single unless. Because the kids who bully are those who are afraid that a secret part of themselves is not okay. To that end, I wrote this letter to my son: