daughters

October 31, 2014

Book Club Discussion: Glitter and Glue

Kelly Corrigan says in the prologue, “If you had asked me, after I graduated from college, whose voice I would hear in my head for the rest of my life, I’d have said some combination of my dad’s and my roommate Tracy’s and Jackson Browne’s. I would have continued with ten or twenty or two hundred others before I got to my mom.” But in her early twenties, Kelly traveled halfway around the world only to discover that she was more like her mother than she ever dreamed.

Discussion #1: Are You the Glitter or the Glue?

When Kelly was in high school, her mother summarized the difference between her and Kelly’s father with these words: “Your father’s the glitter but I’m the glue.” In other words, her dad might have been the more charming, fun parent, but her mom was the one who held everything together.

In your home growing up, did you have one parent who was the glitter and one who was the glue? In your home now, are you the glitter or the glue?

Discussion #2: Appreciating Your Mother

Kelly didn’t think she was much like her mother and didn’t understand her very well until she became a nanny and found herself quoting her mom and acting just like her as she cared for the children. After a long day full of meeting the needs of people who were dependent on her, she said: “Maybe the reason my mother was so exhausted all the time wasn’t because she was doing so much, but because she was feeling so much.”

Was there a pivotal season or moment in your life when you starting appreciating or understanding your mom in a new way?

Discussion #3: Leaving Home

It took going all the way to Australia for Kelly to discover that she was her mother’s daughter. As she cared for the Tanner children, she realized she was becoming “less smitten with world travelers and their ripping yarns, and more awed by people who have thrown themselves into the one gig that really matters: parenthood.”

Do you think the author would have had the same epiphanies if she’d stayed home? Have you ever had to leave home to find out who you really are?

Rating

I would give this book four stars. Kelly is a born storyteller, and she has a knack for recounting ordinary events in a compelling way. She delves into the complex relationships between mothers and daughters in an authentic, emotive way. I recommend it—whether you’re a daughter or a mother, or both.

How many stars would you give this book?

{Remember: There will be a free book giveaway for one lucky commenter! Just enter a comment with your thoughts about the book below.}

September 2, 2014

Announcing the Next Book Club

Thanks to everyone who participated in our discussion about The Invention of Wings, which we talked about here. Congratulations to Maggie, the winner of the free book giveaway!

Please join us for our next book club discussion on Glitter and Glue by Kelly Corrigan. Here’s the description of the book taken from Barnes and Noble

From the author of The Middle Place comes a new memoir that examines the bond—sometimes nourishing, sometimes exasperating, occasionally divine—between mothers and daughters.

When Kelly Corrigan was in high school, her mother neatly summarized the family dynamic as “Your father’s the glitter but I’m the glue.” This meant nothing to Kelly, who left childhood sure that her mom—with her inviolable commandments and proud stoicism—would be nothing more than background chatter for the rest of Kelly’s life, which she was carefully orienting toward adventure. After college, armed with a backpack, her personal mission statement, and a wad of traveler’s checks, she took off for Australia to see things and do things and Become Interesting.

But it didn’t turn out the way she pictured it. In a matter of months, her savings shot, she had a choice: get a job or go home. That’s how Kelly met John Tanner, a newly widowed father of two looking for a live-in nanny. They chatted for an hour, discussed timing and pay, and a week later, Kelly moved in. And there, in that house in a suburb north of Sydney, 10,000 miles from the house where she was raised, her mother’s voice was suddenly everywhere, nudging and advising, cautioning and directing, escorting her through a terrain as foreign as any she had ever trekked. Every day she spent with the Tanner kids was a day spent reconsidering her relationship with her mother, turning it over in her hands like a shell, straining to hear whatever messages might be trapped in its spiral.

This is a book about the difference between travel and life experience, stepping out and stepping up, fathers and mothers. But mostly it’s about who you admire and why, and how that changes over time.

We’ll be discussing this book at the end of October. Hope you will join us! (And remember—there will be a free book giveaway for one lucky winner!)

June 11, 2014

Dear Dad: A Non-Apology Letter

I heard the sickening scraping sound before I saw it. A piece of wood trim that had been firmly attached to the garage just moments before. I was only 16, my license shiny and new in my wallet. Still, I knew better, Dad. And I should be sorry for peeling out of the garage and ripping off a chunk of the wall. But I’m not.

Do you remember that day as clearly as I do? Mom was out of town, and you let me drive her car while she was gone. It was a big deal—the first time I got to drive myself to school instead of taking the bus. I was well aware that this was a privilege, and one that could be easily revoked. But I heard the school bus coming, and I knew that if I didn’t hurry, I’d be stuck behind the bus all the way there.

So with single-minded focus, I backed the car out of the driveway, eyes on the rearview mirror, scanning for the bus. That’s when I heard it. First the scraping, then the thunk. The wooden trim around the door was no match for the side of the car. But there was no time to assess the damage. I kept driving.

I should be sorry about the car, about the garage door you had to fix, about my lack of responsibility. But I’m not. Because that evening, when I told you what I’d done (which you’d already pieced together), you played for me notes of grace that have echoed in my ears ever since. You didn’t let me off the hook—as I recall, we spent the evening together with a hammer, a few nails, and a bucket of paint. And later that night, I had a confessional phone call to make to Mom.

But in that moment you showed me what forgiveness looks like: you loved me just the same in spite of what I’d done, and then you went to work doing the cleanup right alongside me.

I wasn’t sorry several months later, either, when I won the safe driver contest at that ceremony at the fancy hotel. Remember how I looked over at you, wide eyed, when they announced my name? I knew there was no way I deserved it. But you just winked at me, nudging me to go up and accept the award.

Can you believe it’s been almost exactly twenty years since the infamous garage door incident? If I’d backed out the way you taught me, I wouldn’t remember that moment all these years later. So no, I’m not sorry, because right then I knew that whenever I crashed again at some point in the future—whether behind the wheel of a car or otherwise—I could come to you with the broken pieces.

Some days when I’m back home visiting you and Mom, I walk past the same garage door, with the repainted trim, and I marvel that it’s intact again. To anyone else, it probably looks as if nothing ever happened. But I’ll never forget the ugly squeals and scrapes I heard that day, followed by the echoes of pounding grace.

May 9, 2014

Whatever You Do, Don’t Cartwheel with Gum in Your Hair

When I was a kid, I didn’t so much walk down the hallway at home. Instead, I cartwheeled from one end to the other, or, if I was feeling fancy, I walked on my hands.

Mom was okay with this, under two conditions:

1) I had to look behind me before I launched into cartwheel mode. (Sorry for all the times I kicked you, Little Brother.)

2) I was not, under any circumstances, to tumble with gum in my mouth.

I cartwheeled to my heart’s content without incident for some time . . . until that fateful afternoon when I was six. I was chewing gum while turning cartwheels, and sure enough, the bright green wad fell out of my mouth and landed squarely in my bangs.

I raced to the bathroom, closing the door behind me so I could assess the damage. I tugged, I yanked, I wrestled, but to no avail. The gum would not budge.

I can’t let Mom find out! In a panic, I raced through my options until I finally hit on a stroke of genius.

Aha! I’ll cut the gum out with the nail clippers! Mom will never know.

It was a foolproof plan . . . until, that is, I opened the bathroom door. I’m sure you’ll be shocked to hear that Mom noticed immediately—whether because of the large notch of hair missing from my forehead or because of the guilt etched on my face, I’ll never know.

Mom and I had a heart-to-heart at that point about what I’d done and why the rules were there in the first place.

Then Mom gave me a hug, tussling my freshly hacked bangs. “Now what are we going to do about picture day tomorrow?”

It was only then that the magnitude of my transgression struck me. Between sobs, I managed to squeak out a dramatic pronouncement: “OH NO! I CANNOT go to school tomorrow!”

But as usual, Mom came to the rescue. Armed with authentic haircutting scissors, a curling iron, and some well-placed barrettes, she managed to make me look somewhat presentable for the school photo.

As I reflect on Mother’s Day, I’m reminded how much God’s love looks like mother-love. Like a mom, God knows precisely how we’re going to fail from the very start, despite his fair warnings. Then, after we come to him in repentance and he talks through the consequences with us, he holds us and comforts us—and even helps us fix the mess we’ve made.

And later, after our bangs have grown out and the school pictures come in, I have to believe he shares a gentle laugh with us too.

So happy Mother’s Day, Mom. Thanks for faithfully showing me what God’s love looks like.

***

In honor of Mother’s Day, do you have a story to share about how your mom or another woman in your life has shown you God’s love?

If you comment below, you’ll be eligible to win a free copy of Lisa-Jo Baker’s new book, Surprised by Motherhood.

October 4, 2013

Happy (Thirty) Sixth Birthday to Me

Thirty years ago today—my 6^th birthday—the Worst Birthday Disaster Ever turned into my Best Birthday Party Ever. (Because obviously, when you’re six, the world is one big superlative.)

When September rolled around, Mom said, “It’s time to start thinking about your birthday!” just as she did every year. So we sat down at the kitchen table and went through the annual checklist to pull off a party personalized just for me. And as always, I felt like the most special girl in the whole world.

What theme do you want for your party? (I must have had some undue influence from Rainbow Brite, because the theme always seemed to include some variation of rainbows and hearts.)

What shape do you want for your cake? (Yes, Mom made it from scratch.)

What flavor do you want for the cake? (Cherry. Every single time.)

Everything was nailed down, and I could feel my little heart fluttering in anticipation.

But then came the final question:

Who do you want to invite to your party?

I swallowed hard. “Mom,” I said, “I wish my birthday was in the spring, not the fall.”

She looked at me quizzically. “Why, honey?”

“It’s too early in the year. I don’t have friends yet.

And it was true. I was the slow-to-warm-up kid, the shy girl, the one who stood on the outskirts at recess until she worked up the confidence to break in sometime around second semester.

Mom didn’t miss a beat. “No problem,” she said. “We’ll just invite all the girls in your class.”

There was no trace of panic in her eyes, but looking back now, I have to wonder if she was secretly hyperventilating. How on earth would she fit 16 girls in our house?

But at the age of almost-six, I didn’t notice. My eyes were already dancing with visions of hearts and rainbows. In an instant, through the magic of Mom’s words, I’d gone from having zero friends to having 15.

And when it was time to blow out the candles on my heart-shaped cake, surrounded by every single girl in my class, I felt so happy I might as well have swallowed a rainbow whole. For once, everything seemed so perfect I could hardly think of anything to wish for. I remember offering a halfhearted wish for the ultimate icing on the day: an actual rainbow in the sky.

But I have a hunch God gave priority to a mom’s prayers in that moment. A mom who was whispering prayers for the heart of a little girl who wanted a friend. A mom who was making a wish herself—for a day free of rain (and accompanying rainbows) so there would be room for 16 little girls in party hats at the table outside.

This is 30 years late, but thanks, Mom. Thanks for the Best Birthday Party Ever.

June 17, 2013

The Gift of Presence

When I was fifteen, I decided to exchange my gymnastics leotard for a basketball jersey. There was just one little problem (and I do mean little): I was barely four foot eleven, with shoes on.

I practiced hard that season, but whenever game time came, I warmed the bench. With the rare exception of a major blowout, my sub-five-foot frame didn’t see any action on the court the moment the game clock started.

But my dad . . . my dad was at every game. Every. Single. Game. He’d leave work early and sit up in the bleachers with my mom, still in his dress shirt and tie. All so he could watch me warm the bench.

When I came out of the locker room with the team before each game, I’d find him in his usual spot—left side, near the back—and he’d flash our family’s secret signal, which, roughly translated, meant, “Hey, I see you. I’m here.”

He was there, even though we all knew I wouldn’t be out there shooting or dribbling or passing or doing any of the other things he’d been helping me with in our hoop out back.

And he was there after each game for his trademark “postgame talk” when I was feeling discouraged after yet another four quarters of not even taking off my warm-up jacket.

“We’ll keep practicing,” he told me. “Just wait—you’re going to be a starter one of these days.”

***

Right around that time, I found myself plunged into the waters of teenage awkwardness, and along the way, I started losing track of how to connect with my dad. I was self-conscious in my own skin, clumsy about hugging him, so we mostly exchanged fist bumps instead. I didn’t quite know how to talk to him about the things that made up my world either—friend drama, boys, how I was trying to sludge through this new space to figure out who I was and where I fit in. How could we show love to each other surrounded by so much awkward?

But Dad found a way. I’m sure I didn’t realize what was happening back then, but each time he showed up, each time he watched me sit the bench, he was giving me a rare gift: the gift of presence. He was there, and there said, “I love you.”

***

All through the next summer, Dad coached me as I relearned my basketball shot. It was brutal at first, but he was right—it paid off. My senior year, when they announced the starting lineup for my team, there was a new jersey out on the court—number ten, measuring in at barely five feet tall. When they called my name, I ran out onto there, shoes squeaking on the hardwood, my eyes scanning the stands for one face.

He was there, of course. I flashed Dad the trademark family signal and grinned to myself. I’d been wishing for this moment for a long time, but when it arrived, I realized that what I’d needed most had been there all along.

“The greatest gift is a portion of thyself.”

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sometimes love is complicated, multilayered. Sometimes it means having deep talks and hashing everything out. But other times love is simple. Sometimes love is just showing up.

So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks for teaching me how to shoot a basketball. Thanks for watching all my games. Most of all, thanks for always showing up. (And by the way, I didn’t get you anything for Father’s Day, so please consider this your gift.)

May 13, 2013

The Mother-Love of God

My friend Sarah had a baby shower not long ago, and I was asked to share something before gift-opening time. I found myself stymied at first, not knowing firsthand what it’s like to be a mom, but as I pondered more, I realized I do know what it’s like to have a mom. I’ve been given the incomparable gift of a mom whose unconditional love has pointed me to the love of God. So whether you are a mom or have had a mom, I’d like to share Sarah’s shower message with you.

***

When we think about God, we usually picture him as a Father, and it’s true—he’s everything a good dad should be: loving, protective, strong, fair in his discipline. But who knew? The Bible also says that God is like a mother. Apparently there’s something about the love of a mom that shows us a side of God’s character nothing else can.

1. Like a mom, God loves his children before they’re even born.

Sarah, when you and John announced that you were expecting a baby, the room could barely contain your excitement. We could tell how overjoyed you were about this little person, even before you met her. Even when you were so sick you could barely get out of bed, you were already forming a special connection with her. The truth was obvious to the world: you loved your little girl.

God feels the same way about us, his children. He knew us even before we were born, just as he knows your baby girl even now, all four pounds of her. He knows every little detail about her—what color her eyes will be, if she’ll be musical or artistic or social, what will make her giggle, what will make her cry, what will make her heart pound with passion, what will make her heart break. And God loves her, even now.

You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body

and knit me together in my mother’s womb….

You saw me before I was born.

Every day of my life was recorded in your book.

Every moment was laid out

before a single day had passed.

How precious are your thoughts about me, O God.

They cannot be numbered!

—Psalm 139:13, 16-17

2. Like a mom, God loves his children when they’re completely dependent on him.

Sarah, when that baby is placed in your arms in the hospital, the love will be a little one-sided at first. She won’t be able to pay you for taking care of her, she won’t be able to do any chores around the house to earn her keep, she won’t even be able to say thank you. But you know what? You’ll love her anyway, even though she can’t reciprocate your love.

That unconditional mother-love is the kind of love God has for us. We don’t deserve it, we can’t earn it, and we’re totally dependent on him. Yet he showers his love on us anyway.

Can a mother forget her nursing child?

Can she feel no love for the child she has borne?

But even if that were possible,

I would not forget you!

—Isaiah 49:15

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3. Like a mom, God loves his children as they grow up.

Sarah, as your daughter grows up and starts to spread her wings, your love for her will only grow deeper. The way you show her love will look different—you won’t be changing her diaper or feeding her mashed peas anymore—but your love won’t change. You’ll always be her mom.

Psalm 131 talks about the beautiful bond that takes place between a mother and a child when the child chooses to be close—not because they need something, but just because they love their mom.

I have calmed and quieted myself,

like a weaned child who no longer cries for its mother’s milk.

Yes, like a weaned child is my soul within me.

—Psalm 131:2

Sarah, I see that in your relationship with your own mom. You talk with her, you laugh with her, you share things with her—not just when you need something, but because she’s your friend. The same is true in our relationship with God. He wants us to come to him with our needs, yes, but he also delights when we come to him simply because we want to be in his presence. Like a weaned child.

So, Sarah, as you enter motherhood and as your daughter goes through each stage, I pray that you will grow in your love for her. And along the way, I pray that God will give you new glimpses into his own love. His unconditional, extravagant, mother-like love.

***

Postscript: Sarah and John’s baby girl, Hannah, entered the world two months ago. Happy first Mother’s Day, Sarah!