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Jen Hale Christy

Coach and Writer

Writing

Motherhood Mondays: One Day They’ll Leave (Part 2: Kindergarten)

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The first day of kindergarten was the first big day of “leaving” for us – much moreso than the first day at this daycare or that one. Kindergarten signals the beginning of the educational journey that now has a departure date: 13 years from now. Thirteen years from now, for college or career or something else, you’re going to leave.

I’ve had three first-day-of-kindergarten drop-offs so far, and while all of them have been surprisingly emotional, I suspect the last one will be at least as hard as the first. We have about a year and a half until the last one, but I’m already anticipating it. On each of these days, I’ve been blindsided by an abrupt awareness of just how precious little time I’ve had with them so far, questioning whether I’ve had all the influence necessary before this journey begins – did I model kindness? Have I taught you how to be a good friend? Have we had all the fun and play and silliness I wanted to have before this day? I just want to hold you a little longer. I want you to stay little, for a little longer.

One day we’re sending you off to kindergarten, hopeful you’ll make friends and have fun and learn how to be a student. Just thirteen short years later, we’ll be sending you off to college or wherever you’re headed after high school, hopeful you’ll continue to make good choices and build a good life and learn how to be an adult.

The time we have together is so short. One day you’re going to leave, so today I’m going to hug you as much as you’ll let me, tell you I love you until you’re sick of hearing it, and be fully present for our life with all of its laughter, crankiness, silliness, dancing, arguing, and forgiving. One day you’ll leave, but you’re here today so I’m going to slow down and listen and notice and love you with all that I am.

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Has your child started kindergarten yet? What was it like for you?

Motherhood Mondays: One Day They’ll Leave (Part 1: Enjoy)

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“When you want to run away because everything is so hard and so crazy and so much—lean in and savor the moment…the hardest part about being a parent is when they leave…”

This morning I made a new friend who is a few years down the parenting road and she offered me this reflection and advice. Her youngest is 18 and the older two have flown the coop. She says the quiet, cleanness of the mostly-empty house is far more difficult than the stresses of a busy, loud, full house with young children.

There’s a thing we used to hear a lot when people would meet our babies or toddlers: “Enjoy them! Enjoy these years!” I would smile, but inwardly thought: do you hear what you’re saying to this stressed-out sleep-deprived mama?! Joy is the most elusive thing you could tell me to reach for in this moment. Yes, motherhood brings great joy, generally speaking. But that comes mostly in the quieter moments, when everyone is asleep or in a rare episode of feeling fully rested. Enjoying my children was a difficult concept for me to understand, let alone live into.

A few years out of sleepless nights and diapers and nursing and potty training and all the accoutrement… I finally get it.

My oldest is 10 and my youngest is almost four. These 10+ years have lasted thirty years and thirty days and thirty minutes all at the same time. There’s a surrealness and a blurring and a timelessness around parenthood. Some moments feel as if they’ll last happily ever after and other exhausting seasons feel like they’ll never end.

But the truth is this: one day, they’ll leave. Even writing that sentence brings tears to my eyes. It’s a brutiful thing—watching your children grow. I blinked, and she turned double digits. One minute I was longing for her to be potty-trained, and the next moment she was begging to wear makeup. I was only gone a few minutes, but he was reading when I returned. My baby is almost four. ALMOST FOUR!

Dear time: I know I’ve said I wanted you to hurry up. There were moments and days and seasons I wanted to rush through. But I was wrong. Slow down. Please! For the love of all that is good in this world. Slow. DOWN! I have so little time with them.

One day, they’ll leave. So I’m enjoying the time I have with them now. I’m finding joy in the stage of life we’re in as a family and the stage each of them is in. I’m trying to say yes more, to accept the interruptions and be pulled by the hand to see their creations and listen to their stories however long and rambling they may be. I’m failing more often than not, but I’m trying to let go of my need to control everything. I’m putting away my phone (more often) when they’re around, because I want them to know they’re more important than whatever’s happening in my digital world.

Where are you in this journey? Are you struggling with how to enjoy your child(ren)? If you’re enjoying your child(ren), how do you do it? Share here for encouragement!

Without Hope or One in Christ?

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“We sang “God Bless America” and believed that God wanted us to have life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We saw no conflict between capitalism and Christianity, the American dream and the cost of discipleship. Faith was a correct system of beliefs, and religion was defined by where you spent Sunday morning and whether you avoided certain words and substances. The soul was something that mattered only in terms of its final destination. We were following the course of this world.”

I recently posted an article on Char.is Conversations focused on Ephesians 2.11-22. Check it out here!

Give Me Some Jesus

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She grabbed the communion goblet with both hands, wrestling it awkwardly out of the officiant’s hands, and took a big gulp. Her teenage daughter followed suit.

This happened recently as some friends and I had gathered for a church service before a preaching conference.

After we had lots of laughs over their “mistake” of not practicing intinction (dipping the bread in the juice), it struck me that perhaps they just needed a little more of the cleansing blood that day. A little more Jesus.

In my tradition (Churches of Christ), the time for confessing when you need a little more Jesus has mostly passed. In fact we don’t really confess much other than our beliefs. I wonder sometimes if the lack of confession (of sins) is perhaps less about rejecting priests, and more about maintaining appearances. Because we’ve bought into the notion that our outward appearance is a reflection of our inward disposition. So if we shower, put on our “Sunday best,” and watch our language, people will think we’re strong in our faith and convictions, with just some “minor” sins sprinkled in because, hey—nobody’s perfect.

But if we really wore our sins on the outside, if we were willing to confess the ugliness that lies within, what then? Would we be labeled, judged, and rejected?

Perhaps if everyone was willing, we would come to find that we all have ugliness inside of us that no amount of scrubbing on the outside will cleanse.

And perhaps, if we wore our sins on the outside, we would start behaving as if we really believe that Jesus’s blood is the only thing that can cleanse us. And maybe then we would be the ones grabbing that goblet and gulping down the blood of Christ so that we could be once again washed from the inside out.

May God forgive us for hiding our shortcomings, and judging others who are brave enough to admit theirs. May we cultivate spaces where confession is safe, welcomed, and a means of healing.

Have you experienced confession working in a healthy way? Share here so we can encourage one another and creatively consider how we might cultivate such spaces.

The Sacrament of Cleaning the Kitchen

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I love to cook. I haven’t always loved cleaning the kitchen.

Dave and I have an agreement regarding post-dinner time: he takes the kids upstairs for baths and showers, I clean up the kitchen.

For the first few years, this was an efficient and logical arrangement, but not a particularly happy one for me – even though it was my suggestion. Sometimes I resented that I was the one cooking and cleaning. Most days though, I just wanted more time to relax and read or watch a show. But the more I’ve worked on cultivating gratitude, the less resentment I feel. The more I practice seeing the divine in the ordinary, the less ordinary it feels.

I have my post-dinner rituals. First I completely clear the table and cooking/prep surfaces, moving everything next to the sink. I’m grateful for a sturdy table and six healthy bodies (or more!) that enjoy good food and conversation around it each day.

I spray and wipe down the table, cooktop, and counters. I’m grateful to have access to a variety of fresh, local, whole foods and all of these pans and pots and appliances and tools.

I rinse each dish and load it into the dishwasher. I’m grateful for the flexibility in my job that allows me to be home with the kids each afternoon, and to make dinner for our family each evening.

I take one last minute to relocate things that have landed on the counters throughout the day, setting everything back in its proper place. On an evening when the kitchen is unusually messy from extra places at the table or a complicated recipe, these finishing touches are even more satisfying.

This is the place where I feed my family. This is where the girls love to make guacamole and vegan “meatballs,” and the boys love to make energy bites and any variety of bread. This is where Dave and I sometimes have a few moments of quiet before they wake up. This is where we’ve broken bread with dozens of friends and family members from near and far. This is where we’ve experimented with different eating challenges and hundreds of recipes (my sweet family has endured a lot of ahem–variety–in our food choices). This is the room in our home where I spend the most time in any given day, except for sleeping.

This is where with soapy hands my mind settles, thoughts wander, and God sometimes speaks to me. The quiet affords space to reflect on the day, considering what was life-giving and what was life-taking. I offer an unconventional, rambling stream of prayers and silence. I consider moments when I did not choose kindness, and reaffirm my intention to choose kindness tomorrow. These evening rituals have become a sacrament for me, the ground–holy.

And each evening as the kids head upstairs and voices fade away, this sacrament of cleaning and restoring everything to its proper place imparts a sense of peace. I know I can rest deeply and when I wake, the kitchen will be ready for us to make another delicious mess of it all tomorrow.