i don't want your latte jesus

on loneliness and the garbage man

There is something in the water. The moms on my block have all said that their kids have been losing their minds. With their siblings, with their parents, with other kids. It’s comforting for me to hear that other parents are struggling with their kids because so often I feel like I’m doing this parenting thing shipwrecked. In a way, we are, and we did it to ourselves.

My husband David and I became certified foster parents almost four years ago. At the beginning of the 2020 shutdown, we brought home our first placement. We had no idea that the wrinkly little orange babe with blue eyes and peach fuzz would someday become our son. I remember how our hands shook as we tucked him into a used car seat. I remember realizing the nurse in the maternity ward never checked our ID’s as we drove home with this strange baby. It was bizarre. 

I forget that when most people have a baby, there aren’t social workers, lawyers, judges, and certifiers in the mix. I also forget that as new parents, we also navigated a global pandemic, minimal emotional and physical support from friends and family, a home-threatening wildfire, illegal behavior from a case worker, a short lived reunification, and a death (yes, you read that right) that shook our son’s case to its core. I forget these things because it’s all I’ve ever known. But what I don’t forget? The heaviness of it all. I can’t forget it because I feel it in my body everyday. Especially when David and I have carried so much of this alone. Or so it feels.

Sam, February 2023

We’re not sure how to be a normal family after living a story that would be considered too dark for Hallmark. Now that the government is out of our hair, we are still surprised by the baggage we carry. While there are resources, no one can teach how to parent a child with trauma. Sam is my own little box of chocolates—I never know what I’m going to get. My days spent mothering are either an ephemeral dream or the sixth circle of Dante’s Inferno. It is whiplash for the soul.

There was one day this week that was particularly hard. Everything went sideways and before it was 8am I was feeling completely disconnected from my body. After dropping Sam off at preschool, I went to workout with a friend. I was tempted to call her and try to punt things to another day, but to be honest, I needed the endorphins. We stretched our mats out in my living room and shook as we struggled through a Pilates routine. We laughed at our wobbly arms and afterward, took the time to catch up. It was good. 

Another friend attempted a last minute coffee date with me, but I was too frazzled from the morning, so she ran by soup and a pastry. She stood in my front yard in the gray afternoon drizzle and hugged me. Hard. It felt like a prayer.

Both of these women I have only known for six months since we recently moved to our new city, so to have this level of connection early on is a gift I cannot ignore. And what’s better? They are unafraid of my messy life and bruised heart. They reminded me that I am not alone.

In my very limited free time, I like to wander through local flea and vintage markets. I’m always on the lookout for a few things, one of them being accurate iconography. Fairly often I will encounter Jesus, but he’s white Jesus. You know who I’m talking about–blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect complexion, looking like he went to an upper class preparatory school with Serena van der Woodsen. He is unapproachable to me; too much of a Noxema commercial. I don’t doubt that this Jesus would make a killer latte and know where to find the best bánh mi in town, but he doesn’t look like someone who would get his hands dirty. He would find our story uncomfortable and messy. He’d try to change the subject or make a joke in inappropriate places. This Jesus is a bit of a sucker and I am completely uninterested in how he’s aced the art of the pour over. This Jesus is happy to share memes with me, but won’t be willing (or able) to hold me in my grief.

My Jesus comes running upstairs from his office to give me a break from our screaming toddler. He sits on the floor with me and does Pilates. He hugs me in the rain after bringing me soup, just because He could. My Jesus texts me and says “you’re a good mom–this shit is hard”. My Jesus says “shit” from time to time because He gets it. He’s more garbage man than latte artist. My Jesus is not afraid of the shit. He’s in it with me. What a lovely liturgy it is to find yourself shipwrecked and in the shit with the Savior. 

So here I am, in the already, and not yet. Already, not yet. If that’s not the heartbeat of Christendom, I don’t know what is. Every blessing is mine, but perfection is not (yet). The very goodness of God lives within me, but life is still so painful. Here’s the body and the blood, but I’ll still feel lonely. Tension and relief. Relief and tension. Disconnection and friendship. Tears and hot soup. Embracing and letting go. Sitting in the shit under a perfectly blue sky. What a beautiful paradox. What a hard reality.

Thank God for the garbage man. 

Always,
Emily

real life moment: this article was (mostly) written at a local wine bar where, apparently, I looked haggard enough for the bartender to gift me two half bottles to take home for the night. From glory to glory people–I cannot make this shit up.