riding the struggle bus

buckle up, buttercup--it's gonna be a helluva ride

When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Matthew 25: 38-40

Dear friends,

A few months back, Sam and I left occupational therapy in a heap of chaos.

I can’t remember what exactly had transpired. Maybe he was refusing to wear his shoes, maybe I was fed up with how long the morning had already been. All I know is when we got to the car, his body went stiff as a board and he wrapped his fingers around the sides of the car and refused to sit in his seat.

After attempting all the gentle parent bullshit I could muster, I quickly realized I was going to have to strong-arm him into his seat and buckle him in while lying across his lap as he pulled my hair and hit me in the face.

Dear reader, it was a banner morning.

In the midst of this, another woman sidled up next to our car as Sam screamed, and stood, just looking at us.

Wow! He really doesn’t want to go!

At this point, my brain was made of marshmallow fluff, so I said nothing.

He’s like ‘no thanks, mom’! she commented, again.

I GOT THIS, THANKS.

My words came out like a bark. She stepped back with her hands in the air, but didn’t move far. The cars in the lot were parked closely, and I was attempting to get Sam into his seat while not banging the door into the car next to us. The lady continued to stand there.

Can I HELP you?! I barked again.

I’m actually waiting for you to move.

it’s me, hi, i’m the problem, it’s me

Apparently, we had parked right next to her and Sam’s open door was blocking her from entering her car. I threw the door closed for a moment as she slid by, and went back to my violently upset child.

In that moment, I could not wrap my head around the women’s comments as she jokingly scrutinized my situation. Her assumed familiarity felt mockingly untoward. We were in the parking lot of occupational therapy for Christ’s sake—most of us here were on some sort of struggle bus. Read the room, Karen. But then, a wave of shame hit me for how I had spoken to her, especially since we were technically blocking her car door.

In the following weeks, I looked for this woman (in shame and embarrassment) at every appointment, thinking we would cross paths again, and I would have the opportunity to apologize for what I had said and how I had said it. A couple of times I thought I saw her, but our paths crossed quickly, shuffling our children in and out of the therapist’s office, and only polite smiles were exchanged. Finally, one morning she and I were in the waiting room and I pulled her aside:

Hey, I think I need to apologize to you. A few weeks back my son was struggling after therapy and we were blocking you from getting in your car. I was too harsh towards you when you spoke to us. I’m sorry. I was frustrated and I let that frustration out on you and I shouldn’t have.

This woman’s eyes were bright and her smile warm. She grinned from ear to ear.

Oh, that wasn’t me! But you’re sweet to try to apologize!

We both got a good laugh out of this moment and my embarrassment faded. I told her the story of what had happened and she assured me that she wouldn’t have said something like that to another mother who was struggling with her kid. She agreed with me—as parents who had kids at therapy, we were all simultaneously riding the struggle bus, and whoever I had snapped at clearly wasn’t someone coming from pediatric occupational therapy. Or at least, we thought not.

But you know, she said, even though it wasn’t me, you still did the right thing. It’s healing for the greater collective, right? We’re all in this together.

I have yet to see the woman I actually snapped at in the parking lot, but I have seen the woman I apologized to that wasn’t her. And I hope she’s right. I may not get the chance to apologize to the “right” person— but that might not even be necessary. Yes, I realize that wanting to do the right thing and actually doing the right thing are not the same. But while my first interaction with one stranger was painful, my first with another was soft. I was trying, and someone saw me try. Even more so, someone felt it. It didn’t solve the problem, but it didn’t hurt it either.

sam, under the weeping willow; we’re a fan when the willow does the weeping and not us

speaking to the collective

I’ve been thinking a lot about the “collective” lately and how we live so isolated from one another, that is until we find ourselves forced into situations where we can’t ignore each other anymore.

Recently, my personal life has been quieter. Sam is enjoying his routine, David is plugging away at work, and I am structuring our days with homemaking and community building. It’s a good monotony. One that we’ve prayed for and for which I am ridiculously thankful. But three weeks ago I received a horrifying phone call from one of my dearest friend’s. She called to tell me that her youngest daughter had just been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and had six to nine months left to live. My heart crumbled thinking of this sweet girl and her family, the loss they would all feel (and do already), and how any ten year old could grapple with leaving the world well before their time.

Two weeks after that phone call, I had the privilege to visit this friend and her girls. They seemed very much the same as they always had. While their spirits were visibly lower, they were still themselves, and if you passed them on the street corner, you would never know that they were literally walking through the valley of the shadow of death.

My “parking lot fit” is nothing compared to the heartache my friend is currently experiencing, but again, I thought about how no one would know my friend was struggling if they didn’t know her. She and her girls weren’t outwardly kicking and screaming, but they were and are in tremendous pain.

In this season of her life, there’s a good chance my friend won’t park her car at the grocery store perfectly—Lord knows her mind is elsewhere. She might forget to call someone back or leave off the postage on a letter. She’ll need grace from the greater collective. Grace that says yes, you just cut me off in traffic, but everyone is safe, so it’s ok. Grace that doesn’t need her to be bright and shiny with the barista or the bank teller. Grace that acknowledges the Jesus that lives inside of her even when there are arrows flying overhead.

I’m not about to tell anyone to smile. I’m a 21st century woman—I know better. But I am wondering if when we look at other people, we’re only trying to see ourselves. And if by genuinely smiling at a stranger, we put band-aids on the larger wound this world carries. The wound that says the world is dying, but Christ has conquered death.

Hear this: this is not a message of “spread kindness.” I hate those messages because they seem inauthentic and inadequate. We need more false morality. We need to break our mirrors. We need to see people as fathoms deep. We need to be willing to be uncomfortable. We need to be willing to smile at strangers and mean it.

I do not pretend to believe that a smile from a stranger will lift the spirits of my friend as she grieves with her girls. When we hurt this bad, there’s always a part of us that wants to watch the world burn. I also don’t want a stranger to try to be my bestie when I’m struggling. But I do want to know that I’m not alone in the fight. I want someone to recognize the Christ in me, even when I can’t feel Him. I want someone to sit next to me on the struggle bus and say we’re all in this together.

The Christ in me greets the Christ in you.
In the good.
In the hurt.
In the fullness of life.
In the loneliness of death.
And in the certainty of the resurrection.


Always,
Emily


P.S. Skip the next three pumpkin spice lattes from Starbs and put your money here instead.