Peppa Pig and Maternity Leave

From the Ashland Times-Gazette.

Having set the alarm for 4:30 a.m., I watched the sun rise as I traveled towards Canton, looking forward to my Nana day with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday. I wish our days together were simply because I enjoy spending time with the girls, but the reality is that our extended family is attempting to cobble together child care coverage for Greg and Lauren’s children. A typical weekly schedule includes my one day a week visit, Madelyn’s time with her Pee-Paw, two days at a babysitter for little Liza, and a staggered schedule for Lauren so she can have two weekdays off. Greg then cares for Madelyn and the screamin’ demon (oh, I mean sweet little Liza) on Saturday and Sunday. Although the girls are loved deeply by all their care-givers, Madelyn articulates the challenges of this arrangement when she asks, “Where am I going tomorrow?”

I am terribly torn as I watch my kids stagger through these early days with a new baby in the house. They are both dreadfully sleep deprived, for Elizabeth hasn’t yet discovered how to lay in her cradle and coo – no, this little one demands attention as soon as her eyes open, and they open quite a bit.

I’m torn because I feel strongly that women should be able to work outside the home, to discover their gifts, and to have a life outside of diaper pails and Peppa Pig (a British cartoon that’s a favorite of Madelyn’s). 

Yet here’s this nine week old baby who still hasn’t settled into a rhythm of nursing and sleeping, perhaps in part due to her stay in the NICU, where day and night look exactly the same. As great as Nana is, little Liza still needs her mother.

In 2015, working outside the home has become a necessity rather than an option for many young women. Some are carrying the medical insurance for their family. Some are single mothers with no safety net underneath their babies when the cradle rocks, unable to survive on the cash assistance of $465 a month they’d get as welfare moms with two kids (2014 figure). So within weeks of giving birth, they’re back in the restaurants, factories, offices and classrooms, running on two to three hours of sleep.

I remember those days, as the baby screamed uncontrollably, laundry reproduced around me, and my work gathered dust in my office. And I was one of the fortunate ones, with lots of flexibility in my schedule. I didn’t have to clock in every morning at 7 a.m. Try maintaining breast-feeding with that kind of schedule.

A recent Huffington Post video made two striking statements. First, one in four new mothers is back to work within two weeks of giving birth. Women are afraid of losing their jobs, or can’t exist on unpaid leave or reduced disability payments. Anyone who’s ever given birth knows what the post-partum body looks and feels like on day fourteen, definitely not ready for prime time – or the assembly line.

Here’s the second statement. “There is only one developed country in the world that doesn’t offer paid maternity leave.” According to a report by McGill University’s Institute for Health and Social Policy, the United States, along with Papua New Guinea, Swaziland, Liberia and Lesotha, are some of the only countries in the world that provide no type of financial support for new mothers. In at least 178 countries, paid leave is guaranteed for working moms, and more than fifty countries provide wage benefits for new fathers.

But wait – isn’t there a Family and Medical Leave Act? Yes, FMLA is available for up to twelve weeks, but 40% of new mothers don’t qualify, and it’s unpaid. New mothers who live paycheck to paycheck can’t risk being evicted or having the electricity turned off in order to have a few weeks on the couch watching Peppa Pig oink.

I wonder if Mummy Pig took advantage of the United Kingdom’s thirty-nine week paid maternity leave when Peppa’s brother George was born. Wouldn’t it be great if one day, Mummy Shade and other young mothers could get the same kind of help without moving to London?  

Minions

I’m definitely not a movie aficionado. I visit the movie theater about twice a year, and generally have to be bribed to watch a movie at home with the family. I’d rather read the book. But since the Times-Gazette doesn’t have its own movie critic on staff, I’m using this week’s seven hundred words to blather on about “The Minion Movie.“

Ever since we saw the original “Despicable Me,” the lovely Madelyn Simone and I have laughed together over the minions, those adorable banana-colored creatures who don’t speak English. When the trailer for this summer’s movie first appeared last November, I had a terrible time convincing Madelyn that the movie wasn’t ready yet. She was adamant that we go to see it immediately, today, and so I promised we would see it together when it was finally released.

The Minion Movie has become the highest grossing animated film not produced by Disney, only beaten out at the animation box office by Disney’s “Toy Story 3” and “Frozen.” But was it a great film? Not in my opinion. I agree with Michael O’Sullivan (The Washington Post’s bona-fide film critic) who gave it two and a half stars out of four. He commented, “I, too, once enjoyed the Minions in the small does that they came in. But the extra-strength Minions is, for better or worse, too much of a good thing.”  

Great movie or not, I really am amazed at the minions. If you've been privileged to make the acquaintance of Stuart, Kevin and Bob, you know they can be adorable. These pesky little creatures carried an entire movie while speaking a language based on gibberish, without the need for a single sub-title. According to Pierre Coffin, one of the films's directors and the voice of the minions, he tossed in some Indian, French, English, Spanish, and Italian phrases. He "mix[ed] up all these ridiculous sounding words just because they sound good, not because they necessarily mean anything." Yet somehow, we, the viewers, understand what the minions are saying. What a fascinating experiment in linguistics.

Instead of inventing a word to describe them, their creators used an English word meaning a follower or underling to a powerful person. The word itself derives from the French word mignon, defined as small or pretty, darling. But in actuality, the minions really aren’t so darling after all, for the historical overview at the beginning of the film suggests they exist only to serve the world’s most villainous masters.

Now as a woman of the cloth, I’ve been keenly aware of the presence of evil in our world. Using Christian terminology, I understand the damage sin can cause in an unrepentant heart, and how our destructive actions can injure other human beings. If you’re not convinced of that, just go back and read the headlines of the Times-Gazette over the past few weeks. Even here in Ashland.

As I’ve thought more about “The Minion Movie,” I recognize that our world isn’t quite as black and white as the big screen suggests. Yes, there are those like movie scoundrels Scarlet Overkill, Dr. Nefario, and Gru who are proud to be labeled supervillains. However, evil can also be insidious, appearing to be harmless yet seducing its targets as easily as did the three sirens in “O Brother, Where Art Thou.” Yet whether evil is blatant or hidden, Scarlet Overkill’s question is haunting: “Doesn’t it feel good to be bad?”

Gru prides himself on being bad, but he’s faced with his own feelings of love for others as the Despicable Me movies unfold, leaving me aware of the tension between the power of redemption and the beguiling call of the sirens. Perhaps what Gru discovers is that it also feels good – and is good – to be good.

In the end, the Minion Movie offered up zany characters and wacky antics that entertained Madelyn and family for ninety-one minutes, even if it did overdose on yellow. It also invited me to contemplate the lure of evil and the possibility of redemption, much food for thought. Yet I am still left with one nagging question: Why am I so charmed by those naughty minions?  

Life Adds Up To Something

from this morning's Ashland Times-Gazette

The invitation came by way of an e-mailed newsletter from an Ashland church, to remain nameless to protect the innocent. “We’ve been cleaning out our church closets and have items you can have for a small donation.” Since I’ve seen my fair share of the contents of church closets, I made a bee-line for the church basement, where I found rows of tables, covered with hundreds of object, a story in the making.

The first to catch my eye was a set of golf clubs, a bit dusty. Had one of the previous pastors given up chasing that dimpled ball down the fairway, or had he (they were men’s clubs) left them for his successor? Surely those golf clubs were privy to spiritual conversations and whispered prayers of all sorts.

There were many reminders of days gone by, similar to most every garage sale, although with a religious bent. The Bible on cassette tape. An assortment of slides, probably of missionaries in Papua New Guinea. Those giant visual aids so Sunday School children could sing a hymn each week, long before high-tech computer imagery invaded the sanctuary. Who would want any of these now?

There was also quite a nice set of quilted hangers. Perhaps they had held the assortment of bathrobes and sashes that comprise a church’s costume collection, or maybe choir robes. That thought took me back to the first Sunday I sang in the senior choir, slipping into my choir robe and ascending the steps to the balcony with such a sense of joy and accomplishment.

I’m curious as to the source of the four Vote Democrat plates. Were they an offering of repentance, or did a disgruntled parishioner donate them to the rummage sale when Bill Clinton was having issues? Was anyone brave enough to purchase them?

They also had an ancient eye exam kit, the kind where the E’s pointed in various directions. Perhaps the Lion’s Club met in the church basement and left it behind, or the church tested pre-schoolers in preparation for kindergarten. Who knows?

There was a box of assorted hotel soaps probably collected in the last century – you know, like so many other items you bring home and then end up throwing out ten years later. I really thought I might use it someday . . .

Some items had languished in the lost and found before they made their way to the church cupboard. I was always fascinated by the bizarre items in the Kroc Center lost and found. How could someone go home without their shoes or car keys – or their false teeth?  

A lone figure from a nativity scene rested on one of the tables, the baby Jesus abandoned by the rest of his entourage. It reminded me of when my mother helped clean out her church’s closets prior to a massive remodeling job. She came home cradling the baby Jesus doll, the veteran of years of Christmas pageants, then relegated to an upper shelf in the third floor storage closet. Jesus seemed a bit worse for wear, but my mother brought him home, freshened up his clothes, and let the grandkids play with him. That, my friends, can preach.

As I moved from table to table, I chuckled over the odds and ends of life assembled over the course of many years. Unless we follow Dave Bruno, with his 100 Thing Challenge and minimalist lifestyle, we’ve all got closets of junk (oops, I mean treasures), items long past their prime but held onto just because. Like the detritus of the church, our tucked away treasures tell the stories of service given to a community and family, of shared history, and of great joy, deep sorrow, and hopeful expectations.

In my narrow home office, I’m surrounded by similar reminders: the RJ Kroc Bobblehead, a Buffalo Bills magnet, artistic creations by the lovely Madelyn Simone, and the red porcelain shoe reminiscent of seminary days. One day they too will be relegated to the garage sale table or trash bin, but for now they remain as story-teller, reminding us, as Frederick Buechner noted, that “life adds up to something.”

Just Do It

The New York Times recently reported on a fitness study in Denmark. The general question asked was, “Can intense exercise be fun?” The researchers determined that a potential new approach to intense interval training “could appeal even to those of us who, until now, have been disinclined to push ourselves during exercise.” Not so sure about that.

Fun or not, Americans certainly spend a lot of time and money in their attempts to be physically fit. Unlike a generation or two ago, where the daily routines of hard work and outdoor play provided the necessary physical activity, gym memberships, Zumba classes, FitBit trackers, kindergarten soccer teams, and 5K runs attempt to create appealing opportunities for young and old. Add to that list the plethora of nutritional aids, diets, and cleanses, and we can agree that at least some of us put priority on forming our bodies in ways that invite health and wellness. We may not consider it to be fun, but do so in order to improve.

With considerably less hype, there are also people who consider the formation of their spiritual being to be of as much if not more importance to their personal well-being. Through many years of pastoral ministry, I’ve wrestled with this question: what can we do to care for our spirit? Most of us aren’t prepared to retreat to a monastery or hermitage for the next thirty years, or to live “enclosed,” in a room adjacent to the church as a young woman did in the 14^th century (whom we remember as Julian of Norwich). We have jobs and families, commitments on a daily basis that keep most of us from devoting large blocks of time to marathon training or the mystic’s withdrawal into the woods or desert.

There are definitely many less radical options available to those who desire to grow in the things of the spirit. We can begin through involvement in a church body, attending worship and participating in the life of the congregation. The Kroc Center’s labyrinth, on the southwest corner of the campus, provides a meditative path for spiritual seeking. Book discussions, such as one recently begun at Park Street Brethren Church, allow us to read spiritual literature together, currently Henri Nouwen’s “Return of the Prodigal Son.” And we are blessed as Ashland Theological Seminary often opens its doors wide to the community as with the October 2 and 3 visit of Shane Claiborne of “The Simple Way” to Ashland.

In 1995, several professors and students from the seminary began dreaming of a school of spiritual formation located outside its walls. From that dream, a two-year ‘school,’ Lifespring, was developed that practices a rhythm of retreat and rest on a monthly basis, inviting its participants to experience God joyfully and to serve others effectively. Lifespring is currently welcoming new participants to its next cohort of instruction and experience.

What is best? As in physical exercise, what’s best is the type of activity we are likely to actually do, rather than just plan for or think about (how much exercise equipment is gathering dust in your basement?) Some of us do best with an exercise or spiritual practice that is routine, becoming as regular a habit as brushing our teeth or walking the dog. For others, variety truly is the spice of life, and our best exercise of the body or the spirit is new every morning.

Carrie Bergman, who works with The Center for Contemplative Mind in Society, created a visual tree of contemplative practices that begins with the roots of communion, connection and awareness. The tree expands into branches described as stillness, generative, creative, activist, relational, movement, and ritual/cyclical. While she makes note of about thirty leaves, there are hundreds of possible combinations of individual practices that can form a holy shade over us and around us.

Thoughtful spiritual formation can be as profoundly life-changing as regular exercise, yet whether for a healthy body, mind, and/or spirit, our own part of the equation is summed up in Nikes’ now iconic three words. “Just do it.” Your “it’ may look different than mine, but it is in the doing that we find health and wholeness – body and soul.

Women, Past and Future

After surviving the challenge of raising three sons, I am thrilled to have two beautiful granddaughters. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed spoiling the lovely Madelyn Simone over the last five years, but, as the Bob Dylan prophetically teaches us, “the times, they are a-changin’.” Lauren’s maternity leave is over, so Thursday will be my first day with the delightful Elizabeth Holiday (age seven weeks). I do hope she lives up to my descriptor and doesn’t cry all day.

I’m sure Madelyn will offer me much expert assistance, although she’s already made it very clear that she doesn’t do diapers. But her help will be short-lived, as she’ll leave me high – and hopefully dry – my second week, on her way to kindergarten. How can that be?

Ah, what will the future be like for Madelyn and little Liza? Born female and American in the twenty-first century, it’s likely they will have few restrictions on what they want to be when they grow up (a question I struggle to answer even at age sixty).

It hasn’t always been so. That question was answered in a much narrower way for girls born one hundred or two hundred years ago, and it generally involved a life within the home. Those women who sought opportunities in the world around them did so at the risk of chastisement for overstepping their boundaries, sometimes forbidden to continue in the direction of their choosing. Most women accepted the norms of the day, but, as happens in today’s world, some pushed the envelope, finding success in a variety of endeavors.

We were reminded of this reality as Deleasa Randall-Griffiths portrayed the life of Carrie Chapman Catt during this year’s Ashland Chautauqua. Mrs. Catt determined early in  life that she was charged with a mission – obtaining the vote for women. I’d never heard of her before, so was glad to make her acquaintance through Randall-Griffiths’ compelling performance.

While Mrs. Catt functioned on the national stage, women here in Ashland were also stepping forward. Shirley Fulk Boyd has compiled an excellent resource in recognition of Ashland’s bicentennial entitled Ashland Women: 1815-2015. I loved reading the snippets of biography describing women such as Bella Osborn, the high school principal for many years, and Norah Abbe, superintendent of the early Samaritan Hospital. Some were noted for their achievement of a “first,” such as Helen Arnold, Ashland’s first probation officer; Sarah Wartman, admitted to the Ohio bar in 1893; Catherine Luther Sampsel, the first Ashlander with a piano; and Agnes Duice, Ashland’s first woman to wear pantalettes. Scandalous!

Many women worked tirelessly to make Ashland a better place for all. Clara Miller founded the YWCA and Mary Freer raised orphan children, while others fought against the scourge of alcohol, banding together in the Ladies Indignation Society (sounds like a great book title). Boyd notes that women like Caroline Jackson Kellogg stood nightly outside Ashland saloons to protest the easy flow of alcohol, while at the church, her husband Bolivar prayed for her success.

My favorite Ashland athlete from the book was Ann Petrovic, who starred for the Kenosha Comets in the women’s baseball league made famous by the film, A League of Her Own. Others, such as M. Lucille Sprague, joined the military. Sprague later provided leadership in our country’s Housing Administration.

Many who succeeded in business did so in partnership with their husbands, opening stores, medical practices, and even factories. After the death of her husband, Edna Garber ran the A.L. Garber Company from 1941-1969. I’m guessing her accomplishment gave courage to her daughter, Lucille Garber Ford, whose presence as the Grand Marshall of the fabulous Ashland bicentennial parade honored her own achievements within our community.

Regardless of circumstances, regardless of cultural barriers, Caroline and Clara, Ann and Bella, and Edna and Lucille remind us of what we can be, what we can achieve. Today, their courage reaches through the years to Madelyn and Elizabeth and to all the girls – and boys – of our community and our world. With continued encouragement and support, one day they too will say with Carrie Chapman Catt: “I have lived to realize the greatest dream of my life.”

There's Always Next Year

True Confession. I love Facebook. I love to be able to connect with friends, to type my happy birthday wishes instead of trying to remember to send a card, and to attempt to boost my book sales from time to time, not very successfully, I’m afraid. And I love hearing from friends around the world when I post my T-G column on Facebook each week. I got lots of reaction from the Unadulterated Triscuit column, and I keep expecting to get a box or two in the mail.

However, I’m having issues with Facebook because it allows my friends to post photos from Maine. This is the time of year when we make our annual pilgrimage to the ocean, where many Salvation Army friends gather for shared worship in the grove, nightly fun at the pier, and the welcoming sand and surf. But unfortunately, RJ’s Spraypark at the Kroc Center was the closest I got to water this week.

When we made the decision to forgo our Maine vacation this year, it made perfect sense. We really couldn’t afford the expense, and we were anticipating that our new granddaughter, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, would only be a week or so old – definitely not the time to leave Ohio.

It turns out that due to her early arrival, E.H. is already six weeks old, so we could have gone to Maine.  And now I am being bombarded with reminders of what I’m missing by way of Facebook. Jealousy and Envy may be high on the list of sins, but I’m asking for absolution in advance for my wayward ways, at least for this week.

Feeling bad about staying home, I suggested our family try to replicate our Old Orchard Beach, Maine vacation right here in Ohio. Brilliant idea, right? The Despicable Me movies have traditionally been a good option for rainy days in Maine. Pop-Pop falls asleep halfway through the movie, and we all laugh at those pesky yet adorable Minions. So we went to see The Minion Movie together, just like Maine. Pop-Pop stayed awake this time, but Unkie fell asleep. Somebody has to – it’s tradition!

Maybe, I thought, we could go for a ride together and get lost like we usually do on our way to Two Lights. Or we could walk around Ashland in our bathing suits – NOT! I’m not even brave enough to wear my bathing suit at the spraypark.

Another favorite pastime of ours in Maine is eating fresh seafood after church, but when I suggested Long John Silvers for lunch, I was met with rolled eyes and groans. Really, Mom? I don’t dare mention lobster rolls, Pier Fries, or Lisa’s Pizza. But in honor of my annual Dairy Queen ‘date’ with a dear friend, we talked for about an hour on the phone and I did order a hot fudge sundae at our local DQ. Somehow,  it didn’t taste quite as good without Lauren.

I’ve always tried to look on the bright side of life, so realizing that I won’t have to spend two mortgage payments to rent a house for the week does my heart and my checkbook good. There won’t be any sand in my sandwich, and our lunch will be safe from the seagulls. No sunburn either. It is a terribly long ride from Ohio to Maine, and we always manage to experience at least an hour or two of bumper-to-bumper traffic – won’t miss that either.

Life as a Northeast Ohio sports fan teaches us that we can’t always get what we want in life. I am grateful for our memories of years gone by, and, jealousy aside, for the joy my friends are finding at the ocean. It wasn’t to be this summer and I’m OK with that. As for our family, we’ll take a page from the Cavs, the Indians, and the Browns: “There’s always next year.” Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, next July we’ll be stuck in traffic on the road to the ocean, as the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday watch the minions on the DVD player. Can you say, “Be-do, be-do, be-do?” Can’t wait! 

The Temple of My Familiar

A captivating video clip popped up on my Facebook feed this week. The caption indicated that a popular Christian author prophesized the demise of the pipe organ, suggesting it be broken down for firewood. Ouch! I’ve not been able to locate the actual quote so the author will remain unnamed, but his words deserve to be challenged. That’s where the video comes in, as Baltimore’s Dr. Patrick Alston disputes his prediction without uttering a word. Instead, the master organist Alston sits at the keyboard and allows the music to swell through his hands and feet.

The church has not escaped the winds of change blowing across our world throughout the last few decades. Blame it on the Beatles or the devil if you want, but the pipe organ has often fallen victim to those who clamor for a more contemporary sound to speak to our itching ears. But still, there is nothing in this world like the sound of a magnificent pipe organ as its notes echo from the rafters of a cathedral or sanctuary.

The day after my mother’s death, I attended the church where I grew up. On that sorrowful morning, I longed for the comfort of the traditional liturgy of my childhood, the familiarity of the stained glass windows, and the resonance of the organ. However, once a month, the keyboard, guitar and drums take the place of the organ, and guess what Sunday it was. No pipe organ for me that day.

I was so disappointed that morning, curious about the intensity of my reaction. In that tender time of early grief, I believe I was seeking what novelist Alice Walker called “the temple of my familiar.” I don’t remember her story line, but the sentiment of the title fits. While there is always room for the new, sometimes we simply want to return to the temple of our familiar, the sacred words, the remembered tunes, the ancient paths, and even the familiar scents and tastes.

As a young woman, I dreamed of being the organist in that Presbyterian Church on Broad Street in Tonawanda. At fourteen, I stepped toward that dream by starting organ lessons to supplement my piano skills. I often rode my bike to the silent church, where I would ascend the steps to the choir loft and allow the music to envelop me in its fumbling glory. I’d discovered an arrangement of The Lost Chord, and Adelaide Procter’s words challenged me: “My fingers wandered idly over the noisy keys. I know not what I was playing, or what I was dreaming then; but I struck one chord of music like the sound of a great Amen.”

However, in what can only be described as the comical will of God, I never did get to discover that lost chord on the organ. Instead, my young organ instructor was moving on from his church job, and asked if I’d be interested in taking his place. Where? The local Salvation Army, where I traded the pipe organ for an upright piano, the strains of Bach and Handel for gospel hymns and Sunday school choruses. And the rest is history. All for $4.65 a week.

In these days following the death of my mother and the birth of our new granddaughter, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, 

I’ve thought a lot about the past, the temple of my familiar, but also of the role that hopes and dreams play along the path to our future. In the unique search for our own lost chord, just one casual conversation or one seemingly insignificant decision can change the direction of a hoped-for path or a long-held dream. And yet when we least expect it, the abandoned dream whispers to us one more time, beckoning us to return.

Perhaps some quiet morning, if a church door is left ajar, I’ll wander into a silent choir loft to see if my fingers and feet can still touch the longings of a fifteen year old girl. The notes may be a bit rusty, but I’m hoping my own lost chord is still waiting to welcome me home before the predicted campfire burns away the glory.