I can pick up accents. It's kind of a gift. Drop me anywhere in the western hemisphere (so far) and I can pick up the cadence, the lilt, the structure and the pronunciations of someone else's mother tongue. Places I've experimented with this include, but are not limited to, Wisconsin, Canada, New England, the Deep South, Ireland and England. Scotland is the lone exception. It it an impossible - though beautiful - accent.

And I used to do impressions. As a kid I had this great Ronald Reagan catchphrase. I don't even remember it now, but my mother would have me do it for her friends, my teachers would laugh with pride at my political wit, and late at night I would practice it for my inevitable audition tape for SNL. I was hilarious.

Oh, and I changed my name. A lot. Karen was just too... plain. Homely. I filled an old mead notebook with practiced signatures of Callie, Kali, Kim, Kat, Karin, Kari, etc, etc. Nothing stuck, though, apart from a 5th grade English teacher in a bolo tie who nicknamed me Irish, on account of my auburn hair and super shortness (you know, like a leprachaun).

Only recently have I put my finger on the pulse of this weird and slightly disconcerting talent.

I am always trying to be someone else. And when someone else doesn't work, I conform quickly and effortlessly.

Nearly every personality test (and teachers and most friends I have) told me I was an extrovert. Life of the party, friend to everyone, comfortable being out front and in charge, ready for action. This was me. This was who I wanted to be. Growing up, I would throw affection and attention to anyone who would return it. I'd cast my net out looking for a bite, a positive response, affirmation, and love.

Being loud and gregarious - and well, let's face it, dramatic - was the best way to get noticed. This was the Karen people wanted, I thought. But this Karen... this Karen was so uncomfortable, unhappy, and afraid. Being me was exhausting! Actually, it is exhausting! Because I'm still trying to figure out who Real Karen is (and I have the sneaking suspicion Real Karen is an introvert).

Even today, I mimic what I see and hear around me, quick to mirror the images I perceive to be normal, better, prettier, smarter. And I do this a lot here. Without even realizing it, I sit with an Irish friend and I project her beautiful words and phrases back at her. I replace my midwest tongue with a manufactured Irish brogue and, like a reflex, think to myself, "There, that's better. I'm Irish now."

What am I trying to hide? Who am I trying to be? Why can't I just, you know, be me? Karen, from Kansas. (or Kah-ren, from Kahn-sas, as the case may be).

"We should always start with who God made us to be and out of that find direction for our actions."

This quote scares the crap out of me. Today at 34, three great kids, a husband I love, a new life abroad, and I'm still asking, How has God made me to be?

"You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
before I’d even lived one day." Psalm 139:15-16 | the message

You know me, You know me, You know me.

I'm trying to drop the accent; the faux-Irish one, that is. Nearly three months in, and it's harder than it should be. I'm Karen, from Kansas. And I still don't know what I'm doing here, who I'm supposed to be here, where I fit or how this will all work out.

It's a little hilarious when you think about it. Mid-30s me, still a mess. But I think, deep down, I'm not alone in the mess. I think you might be here with me, too. I think, if we were to be honest about it, there's a lot of us here, trying to figure out who we really were made to be.

Then again, it could be just me.

***

Make me feel better. Are you a mess, too? Can we cut the crap together, leave Reagan in the 80s and just be real?

How to be called (on your birthday)

So, we call you Jack, now.

I mean, we've always called you Jack. Your grandparents, aunts, uncles and sister call you Jack, and it has bounced between our tongues in our home from the moment we carried you into that first apartment. But to others, to the outsiders, to those whom we love but are still somewhat separate from our tight crew, you have always been Jackson. Until now.

You love the story we tell, of how we chose your name. We wanted something strong; fun but formal; something that wouldn't hem you in, confine or define you. Your dad loved CS Lewis before I did, so that when he told me he'd like to call you Jack after him, I hadn't a clue. He gave me Surprised by Joy to read, in which Lewis offers up the proof: when he was four he named himself Jacksie after the dead dog. He would answer to nothing else, till after awhile he was somehow convinced to go by Jack, and there you have it.

I thought Jack was fine, though short. Being a Karen, I'd always wanted a classic name for formality, but a nickname for familiarity, so we compromised. You became a Jackson.

Just two weeks ago, on your first day of your new school in a new country, the principal was trying to squeeze you into a class. He checked with the teachers and the classes, and all the while you sat there with a big smile on your face, unafraid to be new. We're living an adventure, that's what we tell you. And, thank God, you're starting to believe it.

He came back to the office, successful in finding your place, barely looked up from your enrollment sheet and said, "So your name's Jackson, is that right?"

"Yep," you replied, smile still in place.

"Do you mind if we call you Jack? How 'bout we just call you Jack."

Not a question, but a statement. Here you are called Jack. You sign your name Jack. On the papers and the backpack and the tracksuit your name reads Jack. You have become new again. Your identity is coming into view.

I worried that you'd miss Jackson. Apart from family, you've always ever been Jackson to everyone else. But you said no. You said you liked being Jack here. You said it reminded you of family, that you were going back to your roots. "After all, you named me after CS Lewis, and he was a Jack. So I'm a Jack, too."

So, we call you Jack, now. On the eve of your 10th birthday, when I remember all those years ago practicing the full length of your name in cursive, then shortened, then in print, then typed in different fonts, I wondered what you'd end up being. I had it in my silly little mind that we were somehow creating you.

The truth is, we only chose the name, but you have chosen everything else. 

You chose how to trust, how to make do, how to look on the bright side, how to create, how to imagine, how to be kind, how to get along, how to organize your clothes in your dresser, how to wear your hair, how to sign your name, how to be brave and now... how to be called.

I was afraid I'd mess you up somehow, I was afraid to hold you for a long time, I was afraid to cut your hair, and then I was afraid at each passing birthday. "Oh time," I thought, "you move too fast! Soon he will be gone!"

But I'm beginning to take my cue from you. When I pray courage for you, when you choose courage, I pray it and choose it for myself. You go forward with joy and excitement, you pass time with ease, and every day is an adventure in the story you are writing.

Like the author we named you after - Jack - you are chasing after Aslan.

And I am following close behind you.



A love letter to the eldest on his 10th birthday, who is choosing what - and how - to be called. What do you want to be called? 

Cry, till it's out of sight

We have a moving tradition: we cry, till it's out of sight.

Our first home was in Oak Park. Matt moved in first, bringing hand-me-downs and woodworking projects to the brownstone apartment. I sat in the living room, under the bay windows, reading in a green chair. This was the life (as my sentimental mind remembers it): young love in romantic Chicago, stained glass over the mantle, a white cat and an antique bed ensuring - no matter how bad our fight was - we rolled to the middle, every night.

After our wedding and summer of getting to know yous (sharing a bathroom with a boy? another parking ticket?), I decided to take a semester off of school. Our parents were severely disappointed, no doubt, as the first sign of marital mediocrity was the wife without a degree. We'd made a promise to them - I would finish school - but I just couldn't go back. Not yet.

So I found a job. An independent bookstore. A large, loving Irish-Italian-Catholic family owned the place and ran it like it was an extension of their family tree (it was). They welcomed us naive newlyweds in, showered us with love and homemade tiramisu, honored our education and Biblical insight. I quickly became the go-to person on the slight semantic differences between the NIV and the NLT, sitting behind the desk inhaling the thick scent of new books and Yankee candles. This was heaven, and about as close to the Shop Around the Corner as I was ever going to get.

I've never loved any place as much as I loved Oak Park. We were surrounded by trees and art and front porches and children. As we exited Austin, turning left on our street, a sign greeted us: "Oak Park, IL is a nuclear weapon free zone." This was not comforting, but it was true to form. The People's Republic of Oak Park, we called it. Taxes were crazy, the rent only went up-up-up, and the hippies... oh, the crazy old hippies. And I loved it there, right up until we left it.

I went back to school full-time (still keeping my hours at the bookshop) and we tried to balance life and school and friends and books. Chicago itself was so busy, so fast. We were exhausted, couldn't keep up. Our building was bought out and I was graduating and paying an additional $200 in rent for our one-bedroom apartment just didn't add up.

The bookshop, too, was bought out. The family we had loved, in the face of big bad Fox Books Borders moving to town, decided to retire and move on. And we were both looking for full-time work that didn't leave us gasping for nickels and dimes at the end of the month. We knew we couldn't stay, we knew it was time to go, so we packed up our hand-me-downs and wedding-gifted afghans and cried.



I write this all with the next move at our fingertips. Every two years, this is what we do. We fall in love, we build a life, and for reasons beyond our control, one road ends while another opens up, and we move. 

And we cry, till it's out of sight.

Where was the first place you called home? And how did you leave it?

I am a Qualifier... wait, no...

Husband and I have many conversations that start and end like this.

Me: "I wish I were a writer."
Him: "You are a writer."

Then I laugh at him, laugh at myself, qualify the truth and belittle the feeling I get when I write down something hard, something beautiful, something meant only for that lined piece of paper... because I've never really been paid for it, because I've never really held a job doing it, because I've never really succeeded at it... I'm not actually it. A writer.

For ages now, I have been typing out here what I would never say outloud to anyone, even the husband. I refer to myself as a writer in the safety of the blogger template, I can put it on my twitter bio (again, qualified by the words "ocassional" and "freelance"), but when someone asks me what I do and I try to form the words, my tongue sticks and I weigh the words in my head before saying,

"Um, I'm a mom. And sometimes I blog, you know, kinda do some writing, but I never get paid for it, so you know, mainly mom. Yeah..........." End of convo. Nice to meet you.

But I can't really say that anymore, because I write everyday.

And I did get paid for it (shortlived, but wonderful to receive an actual paycheck with the beautiful word article in the memo line).

And my full-time job is to document the lives of my children, to find breath and worth in their shoelaces and dirty faces, to remember what it felt like on an Irish December night. 

And I write for Matt and myself and our life on mission here and over there, telling our friends and families what our life is like and why we went in the first place and how it's all worth it.

And the fact we are still in this thing, going back and telling more stories, means we have succeeded.

And I ask tough questions of myself and of my God, things that can't be answered yet, but He hears my heart in the asking and writing it down means I'm not giving up.

***

Several weeks ago we were handed business cards at church. Empty business cards. We were told to write two questions: Who am I? What do I do? The idea being this:

Who we are is simple. We are in Christ. He is my life. 

What we do is just a part of that. I mother and I write.

And now, I have to stop writing and go mother because the pretzel sticks will not pick up themselves and they all huddle in front of the tv while I take just one more minute or two to write and change and delete and format and reread and edit and edit and... 

Yeah, I am a writer.

***

If you're a writer, you should do this, too...

2011's not totally terrible writing : Toaster to the Fullest

I changed the name of this series because "best of" just sounded so, so, perfect. And me and my writing are so, so not. So it's 2011's not totally terrible writing. This one was an epiphany. Pure mind/heart explosion. And it's still true, but acknowleding it is half the battle, right?

 Right?

***

I don't read owner's manuals. I push buttons.

With each purchase or use of an electronic item, I blindly go forward, pushing buttons at random until I get the response or action I'm looking for. What do the buttons mean? I have no idea. I'm sure it's in the owner's manual. But let me just starting pushing and punching and selecting and eventually I'll get what I'm looking for.

In times of severe distress (or when I start erasing or burning things), I dig through drawers and cupboards, looking for that one coffee-stained manual. My trembling hands fumble deftly through the torn and crumpled pages, scanning for words like "menu" or "battery" or "smoke". If I'm lucky, I'll find the page that informs me how to undo what I just did, fix what I just broke, or dispose of what I just destroyed.

Occasionally I'll wonder if I'm missing something, if I'm not really enjoying these items or tools as much as I could. Perhaps the digital camera or toaster is not being used to its fullest potential. Maybe I'm not really using these items in the way they were meant to be used, therefore not allowing them the full impact they could have on my life. Perfect, unburnt toast. Photos with depth perception and clarity. Distinct alarms and sounds for every day of the week.

Maybe that would be nice.

But I'll never know. Because I don't read owner's manuals. I just push buttons.

Toaster to the fullest

I don't read owner's manuals. I push buttons.

With each purchase or use of an electronic item, I blindly go forward, pushing buttons at random until I get the response or action I'm looking for. What do the buttons mean? I have no idea. I'm sure it's in the owner's manual. But let me just starting pushing and punching and selecting and eventually I'll get what I'm looking for.

In times of severe distress (or when I start erasing or burning things), I dig through drawers and cupboards, looking for that one coffee-stained manual. My trembling hands fumble deftly through the torn and crumpled pages, scanning for words like "menu" or "battery" or "smoke". If I'm lucky, I'll find the page that informs me how to undo what I just did, fix what I just broke, or dispose of what I just destroyed.

Occasionally I'll wonder if I'm missing something, if I'm not really enjoying these items or tools as much as I could. Perhaps the digital camera or toaster is not being used to its fullest potential. Maybe I'm not really using these items in the way they were meant to be used, therefore not allowing them the full impact they could have on my life. Perfect, unburnt toast. Photos with depth perception and clarity. Distinct alarms and sounds for every day of the week.

Maybe that would be nice.

But I'll never know. Because I don't read owner's manuals. I just push buttons.

To write about something, the sequel

July is nearly over and I've done very little writing. As luck would have it, this week I'm at a conference for  "artists, geeks and storytellers". All three terms may describe me at any given time, so now is as good as any time to break away and write for a bit.

For those wondering, the baby is doing really well. He's had zero after-effects from his fall and is as wily and happy as ever. We feel so grateful to God for protecting his little skull and helping us to move on and forget the details of that bad day.

Our full-time work in the arts community downtown is closing up shop, both literally and figuratively. Where we invested the majority of our time has permanently closed its doors, opening up the door for us to spend more time investing in the climb back towards Ireland. Still, we are sad and a little bit aimless as we say goodbye to this sweet phase of ministry and relationship, while still looking forward to continuing this gospel-centred culture conversation on the other side.

I'm hoping to put some better thoughts down on screen later this week as this conference settles into my soul. For now, it's weird and slightly unnerving. In every direction, I see excess. Floor to ceiling screens, projections, free t-shirts and a fully functional coffee-shop, all within the confines of the largest church building I've ever been in. Culturally American Christianity is big business. And I feel more and more like just a mom, who's just trying to raise her kids to grow up to still love Him, and maybe try to love and serve some people in the meantime.

Do we really need a triple-wide-screen for that?

The literal call of motherhood, at 4 am

The baby woke up at 4 am this morning.

(perhaps I shouldn't call him "the baby" anymore, as he's all toddler and little boy and craziness, but seeing as how he doesn't say actually enunciated words yet and still gets his bum cleaned up every three hours, we'll stick with "the baby")

It's a strange dichotomy, this motherhood: the dire need for sleep and the utter inability to lift up one's head that early in the morning, together with the sweet thought of baby breath nestled in your neck and a human pillow to hold.

So, I gave in. After waiting for a few moments to see if the crying would peter out, which of course, it never did, I unhooked myself from the girl who had burrowed her way into our bed, steadied my feet in the extreme darkness, and headed towards his call.

The cuddling was short-lived (there was a need for milk), and the laying back down was traumatic (no mother wants to close the door on a baby who wails, "Mama!"), but within seconds the house was silent again. I made my way back to our room, where the mildly sick husband tried to inch out some free space apart from the sleeping daughter.

All it took was five minutes, if that. I did my job and went back to bed. The five of us content.

he has a dimple in his chin, wouldn't you know!

I'm that kind of mom

Last Friday it hit me: I get to be that kind of mom.

The kind of mom who accompanies field trips. The kind of mom who makes treats to send to school for birthdays. The kind of mom who parades the grounds with six preschoolers on field day, jumping through literal hoops and tying shoelaces. The kind of mom who reads to rambunctious seven- and eight-year-olds for an hour. The kind of mom who can and does say, "Yeah, I'll do it. No problem"

Because right now, it isn't a problem. We are flexible, transitioning, practicing equally-shared-parenting (most of the time), and incubating this brief familial era, holding it close to our hearts and gratefully investing in its eternal value.

This time in our lives comes, too, with a fantastic perk: I get to be that kind of mom!

Twelve years ago when we jumped off that matrimonial high dive, I didn't envision this, wasn't sure I wanted this, and there are times when I wake up kinda don't feel like doing this... but for the moms who don't get to, or because of life's circumstances can't, I don't want to throw away this priceless gift.

Because, the truth is, I couldn't have known I needed this.

Motherhood attire, in five

Motherhood should come with a pillow. A mobile one, at that. So when dinner is burned or skinned knees cannot be kissed away, I can lay my head down for a wee respite until my superheromom powers return.

Motherhood should come with a body double. My very own stunt woman who can run alongside the bike without training wheels, drive the school carpool while I'm resting on aforementioned pillow, and get up in the early morning hours to prepare the day.

Motherhood should come with a do-over. Anytime, anyday, when things go haywire, I can press stop and rewind.

Motherhood should come with a partner in crime. A man who not only holds onto your hand while you're holding for dear life during labour, but who spoons you at night when the tears fall from anxiety, who gently pushes you towards the mother he knows you will become, who walks in step with you and the children your love produced and smiles as he knows you as more than just mother.



Your turn now. Join us here at Gypsy Mama and let the world know what your five minutes have to say.

Homesickness, the Irish version

I've hit the homesickness wall on this side of the ocean. Missing Ireland and our friends and church and our house big time. BIG. TIME. Not that it's not amazing on this side. We love being near our family, enjoying reconnecting with old friends and joining some old and new fellowships, but still... it's home, but it's not home. So with that in mind, another top 10 list.

Top 10 thing I miss about Ireland:

1. The sea. Duh.
2. Seeing the mountains every day.
3. Road trips up to Belfast.
4. Having tea or coffee with friends or coworkers or youth or whoever happened to stop by.
5. Book club, the awesome ladies, and reading for fun.
6. Writing in Malahide. Oh how I miss writing in the rain and sleet in Malahide.
7. Church. Raw, acoustic, personal worship and teaching.
8. Dreaming with friends and coworkers about a future full of possibilities. Will we ever have a house in Galway with 6 bedrooms that are full of people and youth, looking for a safe place and community to belong to? Maybe not, but over there it seemed possible.
9. My house. Yes, that's right. That same house i used to complain about where not everything was my own...  I can be so silly!
10. Knowing we were where we were meant to be.

Birthday girl, take 2; or Will my kids grow up to hate me?

Today my girl Ella Cate (The Artist Formerly Known As "Eleanor") turns 2. She got her first princess dress today, her first purse, and her 2nd-3rd-and 4th baby dolls. I will also tell you that she was angry for most of the day, we didn't get a single picture of her opening presents, we forgot to sing happy birthday to her, and she didn't blow out any candles. But that was all OK... having a full house of new friends made up for it.

-----------------------------

Last night husband and I were reminiscing (regretting?) how many changes/transitions our kids have had to endure over these last 5 years. In Ella's two short years, we have moved 6 times. In Jackson's five years, we have never lived in the same place for more than 2 years - the shortest of which only being 6 weeks. It seems like we have packed them up, dragged them around, shown them off, and wiped away their tears of confusion more times than I would like to count. All because we wanted to follow God wherever we thought He wanted us to go.

No doubts about it, we know He wanted us to go to Ireland and He consistently confirms this fact to us, but I wonder if He didn't make the path a little bit straighter than how we chose to follow it. I wonder how much crap we piled on top of that path, until we could no longer see it clearly and didn't know where to step.

Perhaps the winding road we followed instead was exactly the one God meant for us to be on. But I can't help but wonder: will our children, who never chose to follow this path and instead are along for the ride, end up resenting us one day because of it...?