Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Help I Don't Need

There is a dearth of good Christian radio stations where I live. Perhaps I should clarify: there is a dearth of Christian radio stations I enjoy listening to where I live. There are three stations, one of them mostly talk, and the other two mostly Casting Crowns, 4-Him, and Mercy Me, and all three of them mostly Republican. I have never subscribed to the notion that God is partisan-- in either direction-- and I've never felt more strongly about that than I do now. It's not that I am naïve enough to believe that mainstream media is any less biased; it's just that I believe as Christians, we should be held to a higher standard. So, for example, in my thinking, a Christian news organization should deliver the news in as fair and unbiased a manner as possible, as if unto God, the same way the rest of us are supposed to go about our jobs. I've had several of these issues recently that irritated me along my commute. This morning, this: "Two-thirds of Americans support domestic drilling efforts; Democrats disagree." So listeners are supposed to believe that a) two-thirds of Americans are Republicans, and b) all Democrats believe the same way? Because that's what an irresponsibly-worded sentence like that suggests.


But, alas, at this point, I expect my news to be pre-filtered for me, telling me what to think, so I take the time to read, watch and listen to multiple sources across the spectrum of media so that I may sort through the biases and form my own opinions. (Except for Fox News. After my 9-month employment seated in front of a 50-inch plasma screen projecting All Fox News All the Time, I think I've had enough Bill Hemmer and Shepard Smith and Neil Cavuto and Head-On, apply directly to the forehead, commercials to last me a lifetime.)


More troubling than all of this, though, are a couple of "uplifting and encouraging" messages I've been subject to recently on these radio stations. The first came from notorious Christian psychologist and radio personality, Dr. James Dobson. I wish I could find a transcript of his message, but I've been unable. I will paraphrase. He spoke of the challenge of being a woman through different phases and roles of life while I nodded:

"First you're somebody's daughter, then you're somebody's wife, then you're somebody's mother, then, perhaps, you're somebody's widow, and the only thing that stays constant through all of this change is Jesus Christ."

Some part of me understood and felt the heart of what he was saying, but still I felt anger in the pit of my stomach. As I drove my baby daughter to day care, I actually yelled aloud, "SO WHEN AM I ACTUALLY SOMEBODY?!" Of course I could not argue that my Jesus stays constant when nothing else does; in that I have always taken great comfort, even when I could find it nowhere else. But I cannot believe that He sees me only through these lenses. What if I had not married? Would I still then just be somebody's daughter, waiting for my next designation? Would I be somebody's future spouse? Why isn't it enough for me just to be me, a child of God and nothing more or less? I am my Heavenly Father's, most definitely, but why, according to Dr. Dobson and so many, am I only defined on this earth as what I am in relation to a man? I have turned this over in my mind in the months since I heard it, and while I know he might not have meant it maliciously, he still meant it, and I have tried to accept it, but I can't.


Since I experienced the complicated joy of becoming a mother nearly six months ago, I have struggled with identity. "What's wrong with being a mom?" One (childless) friend said. My mother, not really understanding what I meant when I shifted uncomfortably as people who are not my child addressed me as "mom," said somewhat defensively, "I always loved my role as a mom." Of course, I am a wife and daughter and sister and mother and friend and employee, and I relish each role independent of the others. But somewhere in all of that, aren't I a woman? An individual, "fearfully and wonderfully made?" Isn't that list made up of the situations in which I am myself? Don't I carry my transcendent identity into and between those locales? I tried to imagine a similar message going out to men, but I couldn't. It never would.

Another personality I have often admired, Dennis Rainey, spoke the other day on grandparents and how, in our culture, they seem to be raising their grandchildren in increasing numbers. I expected him to talk about teenage or ill-equipped parents, too immature or young to handle parenthood by themselves. Although he did credit single parenthood with contributing to this phenomenon, he also cited a rise in working mothers. He went so far as to shame the mothers for allowing their children to be "raised" by their grandparents. Now certainly I'm aware of situations in which this occurs. But I wonder what Mr. Rainey would have to say about my situation.

Aunt Nae is not Mirabella's grandmother. She is not related to us in any way, but she is the precious lady who loves my baby every day. She feeds her three times a day, keeps her warm and dry, plays with her, worries about her diaper rash, comforts her, and meets her needs until I come screeching up the driveway and down the stairs to scoop her up and squeeze her tight at 4:56 every day. I spend my days thinking about my daughter, providing for her, longing for her, and wishing and planning for days when I won't have to because I'll be with her. I spend my nights holding her, bathing her, rocking her, feeding her, playing with her, reading her stories and singing her to sleep. But am I really not the one who is raising my child? Should I be ashamed that we are unable to afford for me to stay home? Or, delving deeper in the guilt and shame department, does it mean I am less of a mother because I am not sure I'm cut out for being a full-time stay-at-home mom?


Nearly three years ago, newly engaged, on the day before I would start classes in the advanced degree program I now feel I may never finish, I proudly talked it over with my extended family. "But why are you going back to school," a relative asked earnestly, "don't you want to have children? What would be the point?" I remember talking lowly and slowly; I remember my face and neck turning red; I remember The Boy meeting me in the kitchen and, in soft tones, telling me we could leave. That's how I felt when I heard the words of Dobson and Rainey: defensive, inadequate, guilty, ashamed. Not remotely uplifted or encouraged, and I wonder if I'm the only one missing the point.

2 comments:

Newlywife said...

Why don't I know you and email with you constantly? We are leading parallel lives (only you seem to be a better writer)...

It is like you are reading my mind.

(but between you and me, my fears about being away from her melt away each day when she beams at me laughing and reaching for me when I get in the door. I am her mama, and she knows it...feels it.)

Christinahh said...

I know, right? Well now we can, hooray!

Upon further review, it appears you were wifed the year before I was. So I guess you are consistently leading the way for me; we are not quite parallel.

And I think you're right: based on my little one's newfound, all-out obsession with her mama, I'd say s he knows who I am :)

 
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