Disability, Adoption, and the Heart of the Gospel

I was 24 years old. I was walking up Ionia Avenue, back to work from my lunch break. It was an unusually cold and icy day in March 2014, and served as a reminder that Grand Rapids, Michigan had just survived the "Polar Vortex".  It had been a terrifying winter for me. That winter, my body had been blackened and bruised by ice and pavement over and over again. I was so afraid to leave my apartment every morning. I didn't trust my body to keep me safe. 

A co-worker of mine had been pregnant that winter, and as her belly grew with new life, I noted how challenging it was for her to navigate through her daily life. I was thinking about her as I was walking back to the office that day. I was thinking about my own limitations with Cerebral Palsy, and how I couldn't even fathom the compound difficulties of carrying a human life in my often hostile body.  And then, just like a light switch, an idea came to my mind. "I don't need to give birth in order to be a mother." 

I was single at the time, and in my first year of graduate school to become a social worker. I had never been in a serious relationship, so the hope of marriage seemed very unrealistic. Yet, this idea of adoption-only motherhood opened the possibility that I could still love a child, and raise a family, even if I didn't have a husband. 

This decision sat in my heart and mind for a while, with more than just my disability building the logic of my case.  As a social work student, I was continually being exposed to the overwhelming need for good and loving parents in a very broken foster-care system. To live out the social justice of my profession, I had a moral responsibility to adopt and advocate for adoption above all else. I even wondered why couples were still choosing to have biological children -- didn't they know that this world is overcrowded, and that thousands of children age of out foster care without knowing the stability of loving parents? Adoption, I self-righteously believed, would be my radical proclamation that my children don't need to look like me in order to be loved by me. As an adoptive mother, I would be respecting my physical limitations and reflecting my professional convictions. 

Sharing my decision, however, was something I was less comfortable with. I knew that people face infertility, so choose to adopt. Or I knew people like my parents who, as part of their deliberate family plan, have two biological children and one adopted child. But were there people who could have children, but chose to adopt instead? Would people consider me less of a woman because I was willingly giving up a natural, God-given function of my biology? 

Some people cautioned that my feelings would change when I met the "right man”. They assured that if he wanted biological children, I would, too, and that it wasn't entirely fair of me to make this decision on my own as a single woman. Or, from the disability angle, they would tell me stories of other women they knew who have Cerebral Palsy, and how, "She had children, you can, too!" Even my gynecologist was skeptical of my absolution. She shared stories about patients who have Cerebral Palsy and actually experienced relief during pregnancy. She didn’t want me to make such a life-altering decision at such a young age. 

The following summer (2015), was an incredibly reforming summer for me. I began truly exploring my Christian faith for the first time in a long time. I began reading books and articles about the importance of honoring Christ as a celibate, single Christian. In that elementary research, I began to learn very sound Biblical teachings about the rightness and importance of adoption in the Christian life. It was refreshing and relieving, so different from the "be fruitful and multiply" Christian rhetoric and culture that I was so familiar with. 

That same summer, I met David, and for the first time, saw the glimmer of a good and God-honoring relationship. When he and I were first spending time together, I was nervous about sharing my convictions with him. My choice to not have biological children was resolute, and if he expected to marry a gal who would bear him lots of children, then I had to tell him wasn’t the one for him. I brought up this “deal-breaker” on our second date, and carefully outlined all of my reasons. He was immediately affirming of my decision, and pointed to Scripture’s revelation that we are adopted through Christ. He shared stories of Christian couples he knew who chose adoption as a way in which they deliberately lived out the Gospel, and as an answer to the problem of abortion. I had never heard of this before, and I deeply respected it.  

My thoughts on parenthood and fertility and reproductive choice have ebbed and flowed over these last three years, and this blog piece has been drafted, deleted and re-written numerous times over the last year – our first year of marriage. This summer, I discovered the writings of Rosaria Butterfield, and though I resonated with so much of her clear, direct Gospel-centered writing, the way that she writes about her role as a foster and adoptive mother, has finally prompted my own writing about this subject. I cheered out loud when I read the following passage from her book, The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert. She writes about the struggles and heartbreak of a failed adoption when she says: 

“Betrayal and risk are at the heart of the gospel life. This I know: God heard my prayers. In this broken world, people break promises (and contracts). The social worker that made the contract and the social worker that broke the contract are women I respect and value. We come to the table with different points of view. Because we are Christ’s, we know that children are not grafted into a family to resolve our fertility problems or to boost our ego or to complete our family pictures or because we match color or race or nationalities. We know, because we are Christ’s, that adoption is miracle. In a spiritual sense, it is the miracle at the center of the Christian life. We who are adopted by God are those given a new heart, a ‘rebirth’.”

If David and I adopt children, we know that there is potential for heartbreak and struggle and uncertainty. Yet we also hold firmly to the convictions that Paul writes in Ephesians 1:4-14: 

“For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight. In love he predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will— to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves. In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace that he lavished on us. With all wisdom and understanding, he made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ, to be put into effect when the times reach their fulfillment—to bring unity to all things in heaven and on earth under Christ.

In him we were also chosen, having been predestined according to the plan of him who works out everything in conformity with the purpose of his will,  in order that we, who were the first to put our hope in Christ, might be for the praise of his glory. And you also were included in Christ when you heard the message of truth, the gospel of your salvation. When you believed, you were marked in him with a seal, the promised Holy Spirit, who is a deposit guaranteeing our inheritance until the redemption of those who are God’s possession— to the praise of his glory.”

This is our aim in marriage, in (potential) parenting, and in life. That all things may be done to the praise of his glory. 

About My Dad

My dad and I got together for a late afternoon lunch date on Friday afternoon. We hadn't spent a significant amount of time together since I got married, so the chance to catch up at our two favorite places, (Panera Bread and Barnes &  Noble) was the perfect way to end a long workweek. So much has changed for our family since Dad and I last had a meal out together.

When we were at Barnes & Noble, I took the escalator to the second floor to find a few books in the Christian Living section. Dad promised to wait for me on the main floor. Once I found my selections, I moved to step onto the down escalator, and my body rebelled. I couldn't see where one stair ended and another began, and my brain no longer trusted the step that I was in the middle of taking.  I twitched and pitched forward, nearly falling, as the stairs continued to roll beneath me. Scared, I jumped back and away from the escalator, and began to panic.

I decided to circle the floor to find an elevator, but after three rounds, I couldn't see where it was located. I couldn't find a salesperson, either. Anxiety and embarrassment flooded through my adrenaline. "I'm stuck on the second floor of a bookstore!" I told myself, momentarily thinking that it really might not be the WORST place to be stranded forever. But I had to get down to the main floor sooner rather than later.

I needed my dad.

I peeked over the railing to see the first floor beneath me. There was my dad, tall and relaxed, his arms folded over his chest, his snow-white hair like a beacon in the store light. He was watching out for me, just like he has been watching out for me my entire life.

When he turned his face in my direction, I waved my hand in a quick, "Come here!" motion, and he strode towards the escalator.

"Couldn't you find your book?" he asked once we met at the top.

"No, I found it," I answered.  "I'm really embarrassed, but...I'm scared to go down the escalator. I almost fell, and now I'm too scared, and I need your help."

"Oh! You don't need to be embarrassed about that, sweetie!" Dad assured. "Tell me what you need."

"If you'll just let me take your arm to steady myself and then tell me when to step down, I think that'll be great," I explained.

Dad offered his right arm, and as I rested my left hand on top of it, he said in his gentle tone, "I'll never stop being your dad, you know. You don't need to be afraid to ask me for anything."

Those words would have been dear and cherished at any time in my life, yet hearing them on that day held significant meaning

Two months ago, my dad was diagnosed with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. At the time of diagnosis, his life expectancy was predicted to be another three to five years. Since then, there is hope that he could live longer -- maybe ten to fourteen years -- but there's such uncertainty in every single aspect of the diagnosis, that in my mind, it just feels like a numbers game.

What we do know for certain is that this diagnosis will end my father's life, and though he and his doctors are doing everything in their power to impede the disease's progression, when the time comes, Dad's death will be a long process, and it will be incredibly painful.

"It's weird, y'know, having this knowledge about how I'm going to die," Dad said to me earlier in the day as we sat in Panera Bread and talked about everything from work, to summer plans, to what it means to grieve a future death.

We cried together a few times in this conversation, and it was healing and relieving for me. I haven't been confronting news of Dad's diagnosis in my every day, but there are moments when I am stopped and stilled by the enormous weight of uncertainty, the real possibility that I may not see my father become the retired old man that he wants to be, that my mom will lose her life partner, and that these things will happen sooner than any of us planned. There are times when grief sneaks up in uninvited spaces -- a few harsh words towards my husband, or unnecessary anxiety about a simple mistake at work. To sit and look into my Dad's eyes and speak about how we're processing what's happening to his body and how it will affect our family, was therapeutic.

"I just don't want to remembered as an angry, dying man, Cassaundra," Dad continued. "I don't want this illness to make me some guy who's pissed off at the world simply because he's dying and it isn't fair."

"You won't be, Dad." I stated.

Whether it's five, ten or -- Lord willing -- fifteen years from now when my Dad does pass away, he wil not be remembered for anger or bitterness, because that's not in his character. Jeff Bell will be remembered exactly as he was in that store on Friday -- a man who deeply cares for his family, who always holds his kids' safety and interests at heart, and who is willing to help in any situation.

So begins our walk into the valley of the shadow of death. And if, during this journey, I'm afraid to take shaky, uneven steps, if I am afraid of falling forward into despair, I know that my dad will offer me his arm; he will be there to steady me, to talk with me, just like on that escalator. And I'll be there to steady him, and we will cry and grieve and celebrate life together, all of us, as a family.

Together, we are learning what it means to grieve monumental loss, even as we still live.

The Disabled Bride

 

Though I have lived with this body of mine for 28 years, I'm still learning how to listen to it. Disability affects every part of my life. As I've learned rather suddenly, this includes even my thoughts and actions as a bride-to-be. When David and I got engaged in November, with a wedding planned for the spring, I was genuinely concerned with how the stress of planning a wedding would compound my chronic pain and fatigue, especially knowing that Michigan winters and professional stressors make the effects of my spastic Cerebral Palsy much more pronounced in my daily living during these cold months. However, I knew that a short engagement was a non-negotiable for us. We knew that God was calling us into marriage, and we wanted to honor that call as soon as possible.

I sought advice from other professionals in my field. I talked with my doctors about my health concerns.. I talked with my future husband. How could  we all work together so that I could maintain my professional sanity, my personal health, and my commitment to planning this event?  I seriously considered forgoing the whole event, and instead, thought of marrying David in an intimate ceremony with only our siblings, parents and grandparents in attendance. There were a lot of reasons for this consideration, but my concerns for my physical stamina to get through this season were prominent.  Maybe other people could do the big wedding, I thought. But maybe those people aren’t battling their bodies on a daily basis. We have reasonable accommodations in the workplace; can we think about extending those to societal events and expectations?  

I recalled, rather grimly, how on my brother Joshua’s wedding day, my other brother, Christopher, had to carry me to the van after we had our pictures taken because my muscles locked up in the early November chill, and I couldn’t move my legs. Thanks to some pretty strong muscle relaxants and Advil, I was able to celebrate and dance that night, but those moments of pain still punctuate my memory of an otherwise joyous day.  I was afraid that on my own wedding day, with nerves and excitement at an all-time high, and everyone watching my every move, my body would just be like, “Um, yeah, I’m not gonna function anymore today, ‘cause this pressure is too much. BYYYE!” and I would be in visible pain, and everyone would be sad and blah blah blah.

David and I decided to go the route of traditional wedding – the people, the cake, the dancing and the whole bit – so I decided to change my mindset. I decided that the wedding itself was periphery to the actual thing I wanted. A marriage. So, I told myself, I wasn’t going to care about being a bride, when really all I wanted was to be David’s wife.

With that shift in focus, I decided that wedding planning would not alter my life in any way. It would be the thing that I could use to fill my time, when I had time. Like a hobby or something. I did not want to compromise my work goals, or my social engagements, or my physical health. It would be great! I would be an example for all women who felt that they had to cave to these cultural norms and pressures of planning a really expensive party, AND I would be an advocate for disabled brides everywhere! “Your body doesn’t need this stress of planning a big wedding, ladies! Don’t even think about it!”

 Haha.

For the most part, I have been really mindful of my self-care. The days that I have taken away from work have been primarily due to my spastic Cerebral Palsy, and have had very little to do with actual wedding planning, which makes me happy.  However, I think that weddings bring a whole lotta stress, no matter who you are, so my body has been reacting to that in full force these last few weeks. It’s been fatiguing  in the worst ways.

This blog post, for example, began as an idea I had on Monday night, when I was awake until two in the morning, battling insomnia, a killer migraine and fully body spasms, all while simultaneously bursting into lists of things I hadn’t accomplished yet or even thought about for our wedding day. As I shoved my face into the pillow and hit snooze a million times on Tuesday morning, for the first time in this whole process, I regretted my decision to just keep charging ahead as if nothing monumental was happening. As if I didn’t have physical limitations.

I wish I would have been better about listening to the needs of my body. I wish I would have taken the time off; not because I’m a bride, but because I am a woman with a physical disability that demands that I carefully steward my time and energy.

I know that my wedding day might look a little different behind the scenes. I already made the emotionally painful decision to not wear high heels on my wedding day. No matter how pretty and feminine I feel in them, I know that they are the first class ticket to immediate spasticity and immobility.  I’m prepared to bring my support cane, or a walker to rest as much as possible. I’m prepared to advocate for my needs, as they arise, even if it seems a little unconventional.  We might just take a lot of sitting pictures. Or fewer pictures. I don’t know. I’ll know as the need arises. I might have to sit during part of the ceremony. That’s fine.

 This is a learning process, living with a disability, and I am fortunate to have the friends and family to support me through it. Whatever happens, in 9 days, I will marry the love of my life, my partner in all things, and my biggest encourager and supporter. And I am overjoyed.

Why "It Happened To Me" Needs To Be Taylor Swift's Next Single

I was sitting in the East Lansing Greyhound bus station in October of last year when I received a breaking news alert about then-Presidential candidate Donald Trump. Reading over the exchange now makes me just as sick as it did on that autumn day.

 

"I moved on her and I failed. I'll admit it," Trump said. "I did try and fuck her. She was married."

"...You know I'm automatically attracted to beautiful -- I just start kissing them. It's like a magnet. Just kiss. I don't even wait."

"And when you're a star, they let you do it. You can do anything ... Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything."

 

Of all of the horrible, vile, inappropriate things Trump had said up until that point, this revelation, from an exchange in 2005, was the one that devastated me to my very core. Because I know what it's like to be victimized by dehumanizing language and predatory actions. I have friends - male and female - who have been victims of intimate atrocities.

 

And, God help me, I struggle to respect and understand why people whom I genuinely love and get along with would vote for him after that. Why they defend this so-called "locker room talk."  I want to scream at them: How dare you?  How dare you betray the dignity and worth of your fellow human being by electing someone who uses his power to prey on the vulnerable? How dare you?

 

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On Monday afternoon, after four days of testimony, Taylor Swift won her countersuit against former disc jockey, David Mueller, for sexual assault and battery. She accused that, in June of 2013, he had groped her during a photo opportunity at a meet-and-greet. 

 

In her 2016 deposition, Swift said, “Right as the moment came for us to pose for the photo, he took his hand and put it up my dress and grabbed onto my ass cheek, and no matter how much I scooted over, it was still there. It was not an accident, it was completely intentional, and I have never been so sure of anything in my life.” To the court, she stated, “It happened to me. He had a handful of my ass. It happened to me.”

 

I have always been a huge fan of Taylor Swift. We are the same age. We share an affinity for fashion, red lipstick and cats. Taylor's music has provided the soundtrack to my life for the better part of a decade, and I have often wished that I was in her "squad" of famous ladies. In reading about her 2013 assault, and how she has responded to it through the court system, my respect and admiration for her has only deepened. And, sadly, this incident has given me even more commonality with the pop star.

 

In August of 2013, it happened to me. He had a handful of my ass. It happened to me.

 

Richard and I had just ended our second date, and I knew this would be the last. I hesitated even accepting the second date, because he had crossed boundaries. On our first date, I stammered, "I don't do that,"  as he slipped his hand past my dress and up my thigh. "I'm a virgin." I was proud of my chastity, and I thought it would protect me; thought that he wouldn't want to pursue someone who is inexperienced. I couldn't imagine that knowledge of my virginity would only heighten the chase.

 

He asked to walk me to the door. I declined, making some witty comment about independence and feminism. I wanted to appear confident, but truly, I couldn't wait to leave the confines of his customized European car. Richard insisted. "Let me be a gentleman. I'm old-fashioned."

Old-fashioned, perhaps, but most certainly old. Richard was nearly four decades older than me. Yes, you read that correctly. He was around the same age as our President was when he made those comments about grabbing pussy back in 2005.  I was 23. Richard was 62.  I was lonely. He was lecherous. I had Old Hollywood ideals of an older man (I blame you, Cary Grant!), and Richard knew how to play that daydream.  He told me I was his embodied fantasy. His Grace Kelly. His fairy queen. He confessed that every time we shared an elevator, or whenever I walked past him, "I just want to grab you and kiss you!" Sound familiar?

 

I just start kissing them. It's like a magnet. Just kiss. I don't even wait.

 

All of these were red flags (Taylor Swift's song lyric, "I knew you were trouble when you walked in", comes to mind, here!), but I was experimenting. (He was exploiting.) I allowed him to walk me to the door. He leaned in for a hug, I was hesitant. And suddenly, his hand was far below my waistline, clamped. He had a handful of my ass.

 

Two thoughts simultaneously erupted in my mind at that moment. 1.) NO. 2.) Shouldn't I be enjoying this? Isn't this the part of the date where my hormones are supposed to get all hot and heavy, and my heart, wild and hurried?

I pushed him away.  I rushed up to my apartment, alone, suddenly fearful and feeling incredibly vulnerable.

Richard and I worked in the same building. The next day, I had an all day conference out-of-town. The day after that, I called in sick. I didn't want to see him. I verbally told him that I didn't want to see him.

 

Richard was persistent. He sent me cards through interoffice mail. He made me a mix CD of love songs. He bought me a huge glass bottle of Coca-Cola. About a month after our first date, he followed me as I waited for the Go!Bus and presented me with a gift. He bought me jewelry with a card that said, "Please accept this as a token of my esteem." I refused. He became angry with me. He accused me of being dramatic when I insisted that men don't buy jewelry for a woman unless they are expecting something from her. He was insulted, and forced the gift into my hands. Richard left the building just as my bus arrived.

 

He was using his power to try and buy me. We hadn't slept together, but in that moment, I felt like a prostitute.

 

Richard proceeded to stalk me while I was at work. I didn't use that word for it at the time - I was too afraid, but that's what he did. He was everywhere that I was, in and outside that building. And I'll never forget his casually predatory stance -- always leaned up against a wall, always watching me, and undressing me with his eyes. I could just feel him. And at those times when I was brave enough to confront him with my own gaze and a forced congeniality, Richard would shuffle his feet and lower his head. More than once I asked him to leave me alone.

 

Six months after our first date, he cornered me in the mailroom and invited me to move in with him, as if we were already in the middle of an intimate conversation. His tone of voice was so soft and matter-of-fact. He said, "I can just picture you there. You would look so well in my kitchen," and "You deserve to be the belle of Grand Rapids. Just like your last name."

 

For two and a half years, Richard and I worked in that same building, and his patterns of "causally bumping into me" stayed mostly the same, with only a few creative exceptions of showing up at my office with his grandson, or whatever. I found out that he was only one of two individuals in the building who had access to the security cameras, which explained why he knew exactly where I was at all times. I was constantly anxious, wondering where he watched, and how often, and if he would show up at my apartment. And once, he saw me in Barnes & Noble with a date. He didn't approach me there....he simply watched me and my date from the second floor, and told me about it the next Monday.

 

I was too afraid to make any formal reports. I told my parents and my coworkers and my roommates, but beyond that, Richard was just that creepy guy who grabbed my ass and worked in my office building. By his own account, he had previously worked for law enforcement, so even as I thought about pursuing legal action, I was horrified that he would find a way to turn it all back on me. That he would say that I was just a lonely graduate student who got confused about her dating choices.

 

Which is why I am devastated that Donald Trump can so carelessly speak about inappropriately touching women and be elected to our highest office. Which is why I am so thankful that Taylor Swift won a dollar worth of damages as a symbol for women like me. Which is why she needs to write about it, And sing about it. These things are connected. And they are vitally important.

 

It happened to me. He had a handful of my ass. It happened to me.

 

 

 

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#ThrowbackThursday - Norman Bates and Birth Control

Dreams are weird.

The other day, some girlfriends and I were sitting around, talking about some of our most memorable dreams. In college, I used to write my dreams in short-story form, and then read them aloud at get-togethers. Some of them are still pretty legendary for a few friends.  Like that one time when I had a dream that I was an unwed teen mom, circa 1900, and so, to save my dignity, I married Michigan-born actor, Jeff Daniels, and we had six kids, and he had cancer, and then it was in remission, and then it came back, and the dream ended. I can still picture the gaslights that adorned our Victorian-era living room. And our kids were all incredibly blonde. That dream, because of it's dramatics, is still one of my favorites. (Cue: Jeff Daniels, carrying our youngest up to bed, turning to face me, and exclaiming with a dramatic sigh, "Cassaundra! The cancer's back!" End Scene.) My friend, Hope quoted that final line to me as we were reminiscing this past weekend.

When I think about past dreams, especially during this time of year, I always have a small smile for the holiday-themed-love affair my subconscious brewed up in December of 2010. I was kind of obsessed with classic Hollywood actor, Anthony Perkins, during that stressful Final Exam season. Though he is best known for playing literal lady-killer Norman Bates in Hitchcock's 1960 masterpiece, "Psycho", I always found him rather swoon-y in a tall, lanky and shy kind of way. That fall, I had discovered his lesser-known attempts at crooning (that guy had multiple jazz albums!), and romantic comedies, and used his films as distractions from my studies.

In honor of that night (or, early morning...?) I want to share the dream again, on the six-year anniversary. #ThrowbackThursday to that time when I dream-dated Anthony Perkins, referenced the Bates Motel, and refused birth control even though we were moving in together. All while having dinner with my family. Y'know, typical Christmas stuff...

The Man of My Dreams: Anthony Perkins - December 15, 2010

December 15, 2010 at 10:22am

 

My dream about Tony Perkins – December 15, 2010

*AUTHOR'S NOTE: I always have the strangest dreams. I think this one comes from the fact that I have been cramming my mind with Biology (you'll see this represented in the mention of human gestation/pregnancy), thinking about publishing my writing (I feel my subconciois gave poet Mary Karr a shout out when, in my dream, Tony talks about babies being no bigger than a bite of burger. I think Mary wote a poem about that.), and the fact that last night as a study break, I watched Anthony Perkins playing a cute college kid in the romantic comedy, "Tall Story". Also, this dream was written right after it happened, so it's not my best work, but it makes me laugh. Also, the dream ends where it does because at that moment, I was woken up at 7:44am. by a woman who had a wrong number. She thought I was Kim, and she was telling me to tell Jim something about a freezer.  Weird. So, here's my dream....I hope it amuses you! :) *

Snow swirled around the twinkling lights that hung above the frosted windows. Made to look like a cozy, secluded cabin in the woods, this restaurant planted in the middle of a busy stretch of McDonald’s and Wendy’s, seemed out of place, but I was glad that we could get out of the cold, and enjoy a nice dinner before heading back and cramming for the rest of our exams.

Tony parked his little green Bug, sloshing it up against the snow bank. He turned off the car, and settled back against the seat. His short, silky dark hair caught the glow of the winter moonlight, and smiling at me,  he leaned over and pecked my cheek, warming me from head to toe. Oh, how I loved him! But there was something behind that smile; it didn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes, and it told me that he wasn’t altogether happy. The nervousness that lingered below his charming exterior worried me. I knew that he could get so wound up, so anxious, and I was uncertain of how I would handle him if he had one of those episodes again. 

We got out of the car, and together walked, hand in hand to the restaurant. A nice couple walked in ahead of us, and the gentleman held the door open for Tony and me. Tony just stood there. Underneath the glow of the restaurant’s light, I looked up at him. His tall, skinny frame was covered only in a stylish grey sweater and dark, denim slacks. I was always worried about his health – that man never ate anything – and now without a coat, I was worried that he would just catch a death of cold out there in the December snow. Plus, I thought it was rude and awkward that he was just standing there, especially because that other couple was waiting for us.

 “Anthony,” I grabbed his hand again. “let’s go inside.”

He stiffened. “I –I don’t want to. Not yet.”

 Oh, dear. “Well, you can’t just stand here, letting all the cold air in. Plus, these nice people are waiting to come in. Come on. I think my parents are right over there.  I’m sorry!” I smiled at the couple who were waiting, and I let them shuffle past us. Anthony still didn’t move.

“I – I think I’ve changed my mind. I’m n-not very hungry, you know,” he stuttered.

I sighed and grabbed his hand, practically yanking him behind me. I directed our paths to a booth where my parents sat with another couple.

“Tony!” The man who sat across from my father turned around and reached out to shake my boyfriend’s hand. "How are you, my boy? Does your mother still own that old motel?"

Tony stiffly nodded – it seemed more like a jerk of the head. “Yes, -uh, H-hello. Good to see you. Um, darling,” he cleared his throat and directed his attention back to me. “I – I think I’ll go sit over there where your brothers are, if you-you don’t mind.”

Before I could respond, he slipped past me, placing his hands on my shoulders for the briefest moment as he left. I watched him practically fold himself in half to get into that tiny booth, his long legs crowding under the table.

“Hey, what’s the matter with Tony tonight?” my mother inquired.

“Yes,” the man who had originally spoken to Tony agreed. “I haven’t sen him since he graduated high school, and I wanted to see how he was fairing. It’s good to see alumni back in these parts again.”

“Oh, you know,” I smiled. “End of term finals, things like that. He’s fine.”

I really had no idea, so I left my comments there, and joined the trio of boys at the table. My brothers had already ordered their meal, and were close to finishing once the waitress finally came to take our orders. As we waited for our food, Tony and I laughed together with my brothers, chatting about Christmas-y things. It all seemed to e going very well, until --

“Let me see that last bit of burger, there,” Tony began and before anyone could object, he reached across the table, and with his long, delicate pale fingers, he plucked the grizzled and gnawed bit of burger off of my brother’s plate. My eyes widened when Tony took this deformed piece of food, and held it against my abdomen, the grease clinging to the wool of my sweater.

“Um, Anthony? W-what are you doing?”

‘Do you see this piece of burger?” Tony began as he spread his fingers over my belly. “This bite of burger is no bigger than what an embryo will be in your uterus in a matter of weeks. Of course, assuming implantation occurs. ” (*side note: OH MY GOSH!!!! I HATE Biology!)

“What??”

“Did you ask your mother about birth control pills?”

“Tony!!” I gasped as I looked at my brothers wildly. Their expressions were that of shock and discomfort. “No, I didn’t ask her, and I mean – why would – just no!”

“Well, you’ll need to ask her,” he began matter-of-factly.  I really didn't like his insistant tone.  “Because I’m moving in tonight and the sooner you get them, the better; we can’t take any chances of you getting pregnant.”

“Um – No! Tony, this is a really inappropriate conversation to be having in front of my brothers. Plus, just because you’re moving in, doesn’t mean that we’re going to start having sex.  I never said that. And even if we did, how is it that you’re so confident that you would get me pregnant right away, anyway?”

He chuckled as he laid aside the burger. “Well, darling,” he took my hand in both of his, beaming that smile of his. It reached his eyes this time.  “I know that you’re a bookworm  extraordinaire, and that  an educated woman like yourself has little time or interest for any sort of recreation, but I was hoping I could…p-persuade you.”

He only faltered on the last two words.

“Well, I –I don’t know….” My words faded to nothing as the waiter came with our meals. Suddenly, my double cheeseburger with the works and onion rings didn’t seem appealing at all.

Tony Perkins: Man of my dreams...or at least this dream! :)

Premature Mom Guilt

No, I'm not pregnant. You can all take a deep breath.

However, last Friday, when I ran home for a very late lunch break, and scrubbed dishes in-between organizing my mail and gulping lukewarm soup from the only clean bowl left in my possession, I thought of all of the moms I know, and wondered how often they hear the negative whispers that I heard that day. That nagging, buzzing refrain of, "Your apartment is a wreck! Your cat is being ignored! Bills need to be paid, and WHEN was the last time you vacuumed?!" screamed in my brain. I thought, "Huh. This must be what that whole 'Mom Guilt' thing is all about."  I realized that this is something I could be very prone to experiencing if, Lord willing, I have a family of my own, someday.

Never doing enough. Never being enough. Never completing all of the things on that never-ending to-do list. Never feeling like I'm properly managing that whole "work-life-balance" thing. Sound familiar?  

Now, of course, I know that “Mom Guilt” isn’t a real diagnostic term. It’s just a clever, gendered title for something that has ailed all of humanity since the beginning of creation. Those co-occurring lies of Worthlessness and Required Perfection. We cannot listen or live up to either parts of that lie. But, oh! How tempting and trapping those thoughts become to me.

I’ve learned a lot about this during the last year, and I have my disability to thank for providing the lessons. Spastic Cerebral Palsy, though technically not degenerative or life-threatening, is a chronic disability, and its effects in my day-to-day have been much more disruptive and apparent in my young adult life than I could have ever imagined. Immobilizing pain and dangerous falls. Every muscle within me will spasm, and burn and throb, and jolt, as though electricity is coursing through every vein. And sometimes, I listen to my body, and I use a support cane to navigate. I take a few hours or a day off from work. I rest and stretch and soak in boiling bubble baths.

These days of pain, though, have become more frequent, and so my willingness to “take a day” for myself has been dwindling. I have to work, because, bills! And professional development! And, I-Worked-Hard-For-This-Masters-Degree-So-I-Had-Better-Work! You know, that whole Required Perfection lie. That whole Worthlessness thing.

I have to choose where my energy goes, because if there’s one thing I have learned, it’s that physical pain is absolutely exhausting. This week is a prime example of that choice. I am proud about the ways in which my professional life is flourishing. I successfully closed one of my most difficult client cases, I began writing a blog for our organization (which means that I’m a paid writer, now!), and I began teaching a 10-week Employment Readiness class. However, these professional successes have come at a personal cost. My dishes are half-done, clean clothes are strewn all over the bedroom floor, and I can’t seem to stand for more than five minutes when I get home at the end of the day.  

And that’s when  the Premature Mom Guilt settles in. I keep thinking, “I’m not doing enough in my personal life.” Currently, I am in bed, with three pillows and a heating pad supporting me, and all I want is a neck massage, a glass of wine, and Barry Manilow’s Christmas album playing all night long. I am frustrated and thankful all at the same time. Frustrated that I can’t do these things for myself as well as I would like. Thankful that no one else is depending on me to accomplish them. Thankful that it’s just me and my cat, living in this apartment. Frustrated that it’s just the two of us.

I hope that in ten years, if I’m fortunate enough to be someone’s Mom, I’ll remember this blog post. I’ll remember my tendency to believe the lies of Worthlessness and Required Perfection, and I’ll be a little more gracious with myself and all that I am trying to accomplish in this beautiful life that God has given me. I’ll remember, amidst the homework, and parent--teacher conferences, and his-and-hers-work obligations, and physical exhaustion, that I am doing the best that I can.  After all, that’s all that any of us can ask of ourselves. And in ten years, there will be wine, and neck massages, and Barry Manilow’s Christmas album – all these, reminders of contentment and rest, rejuvenation and joy.

Be kind to yourself -- tonight, tomorrow, ten years from now.

Learning to Lament: Thoughts on Vision Loss

Public transportation has been hugely impactful on my ability to live an independent life. And for all it's imperfections and frustrations, I'm thankful for it. And friends, family, and loved ones have always "gone the extra mile" (pun TOTALLY intended) to help me get where I want to be. And they will never know the full depth of my gratitude for that.

Yet, for all of these blessings, there are moments when I feel trapped by my inability to drive. Trapped by this visual impairment. And my heart aches so deeply because of it.  The pain is suffocating. The pain that I can't be where I want to be, when I want to be there. My heart is so willing, but my eyes are unable.

Tonight is one of those nights.

I don't write this to invite you to a pity party.  I write this as a reminder to myself (and to anyone dealing with chronic setbacks) that no matter how independent I feel on my best days, there will always be, I think, a mourning for things that cannot be because of this disability.  And that's OK. It is called "Vision Loss", after all.

Too often, I get caught up in who I think I'm supposed to be, who society expects me to be, as a woman who is legally blind. I think I've been inherently taught that I need to be continually optimistic, because when I walk around Grand Rapids with my white cane, I'm the Face of Disability. And, heaven forbid that this face is marred by mascara-stained tears.

For the most part, I'm totally OK with pursuing that optimism. My very nature is one of sunny altruism, and I never want that to change.  I recognize that I am abundantly blessed, so that I may bless others. I've just started a job in my field, at an agency I love. I have amazing friends and family, and I am in a loving, committed relationship with the kindest man I have ever met. God has sustained me graciously and lovingly for 26 years, and I rejoice in all of that. I rejoice every single day.

Yet there is still vision loss. And, on nights like tonight, when all I want is to get in a car and drive to Ypsilanti to surprise my boyfriend, the profundity of that loss hits me like news of a death, and I am angry and saddened. It is a loss of spontaneity. A loss of complete autonomy. A loss, on some level, of dreams that I envision for my life, both now and in the future.

And so, I grieve.  I am learning that, on some level, I will always have moments of this grief. Seasons of my life will change, and so too, will the limitations. So too, will the lamentations.  I'm finally accepting this truth.

I believe that making peace with the pain, and allowing myself these authentic moments of sadness, can only increase my capacity to seek those authentic moments of joy.  And it is the search for this joy, and the hope for it, that makes all of this suffering worthwhile.