Of Flash Mobs and Ephiphany

Hi, everyone,

 

In my last post, I mentioned that I was able to co-lead a trip to Europe with Millersville students in May. What I didn’t mention was that shortly after arriving in the Netherlands, our group encountered a flash mob in the train station. A group of dancers had organized an interactive performance for commuters and travelers, eagerly inviting any passersby to join in. This dance struck me as distinctly European—their movements were so charmingly goofy and it seemed just as possible that it was choreographed as it was that it wasn’t.

 

I wasn’t the first in our group to notice it, but when I heard one of the students say something about a flash mob, I froze, dropped the luggage I had been hauling and ran back and forth like an over-excited cartoon for a few moments. I then sprinted closer to the dance and joined in immediately when prompted by an enthusiastic Dutch woman. My group, not yet willing to abandon me in Europe since we had been on the continent for only an hour or two, gradually moved in my direction and about half of the students joined in the dance as well.

 

I think that for most of our students, this was an amusing way to keep the jet lag at bay. Not for me. As I exclaimed to several of them while hopping around, “I honestly don’t have any more life goals!”

 

I wasn’t kidding. About ten years ago, if you’d asked me what my big hopes for my life were, I would have said, “I’d love to get married, I’d love to have children, I’d love to have a full-time job with a grownup’s salary, and I’d love to come upon a flash mob.” Check, check, check, and—as of this past May, check!

 

While the other three hopes were by no means guaranteed, I had at least some degree of agency in making them happen. But the beauty of a flash mob is that the spectators can’t plan it. The whole point of a flash mob is that it is a complete surprise to everyone except those organizing it. Everyone else can only go about their lives quietly hoping that one day they might stumble upon this most curious thing some of their fellow humans have chosen to do.

 

Most years, I try to write a blog entry during Advent, the period in the Christian calendar preceding Christmas. This year, that just… [insert the late end to my semester, a nasty respiratory virus, etc.] didn’t happen. So instead, I tried to revel in the 12 Days of Christmas which ends tonight (or tomorrow, depending on how you count them). Tomorrow is Epiphany, the day that Christians celebrate the arrival of the Three Kings in the Christmas narrative as well as the belief that God chose (and still chooses) to take on the form of humanity. And throughout this extended Christmas season, I have been thinking about flash mobs (that is, even more than I normally do!).

 

I’ve been thinking about the ways that the divine can break into our prosaic, everyday lives in totally unexpected ways. While the date of Christmas is obviously set on our calendars, the experience of God in humanity can’t be. Don’t get me wrong—I love the Advent and Christmas seasons, but if I were to map onto a calendar the times in my life when I believe I have experienced God’s presence in interaction with someone else, December and early January would by no means have a monopoly.  

 

I’ve been thinking about how both Christmas and flash mobs are pure gift; it’s as nonsensical to say that we can “earn Christmas” as it would be to say that spectators can “deserve a flash mob.” They just happen and we can choose whether or not to receive them gratefully when they come.

 

I’ve been thinking about what flash mobs do for and to those watching and about how two of the primary characteristics of God’s gifts are 1.) their inherent goodness and 2.) the way they encourage goodness in us. It is very hard to leave a flash mob unchanged in any way.

 

I’ve been thinking about how many flash mobs are expansive, starting with just one or two participants and then quickly growing to include dozens, even hundreds, and sometimes thousands of people. Some, like the one I encountered, actively encouraged participation from spectators. Whatever goodness we think the Christmas season signifies—hope, love, comfort, peace—surely it is meant to grow as we give and receive in relationship with each other.

 

I’ve been thinking about how, when flash mobs end, the participants typically walk away as though nothing at all had happened, as abrupt a return to the way things were as the performance was a disruption from them. Likewise, we are quick to return to business as usual after Christmas, and while participating in the extended celebration until Epiphany might delay that return somewhat, it must happen sometime. After we glimpse the extraordinary, we can worry that we have had our allotment of wonder and that everything afterward will be mundane by comparison.

 

Epiphany reminds us that even after the most stunning thing we could fathom—the divine becoming human—we should expect more. My experience in May of 2024 may have checked off my final life goal on my list, but if anything, it reminds me of the profound truth that flash mobs demonstrate: any place full of any people might be on the brink of something spectacular. And if I believe, as I do, that everyone has some spark of divinity in them, I must expect and look for God’s presence whenever I interact with anyone. In other words, knowing that at any given moment, a random stranger might be about to burst into an elaborate dance—partly as a gift to me and others—keeps my soul in shape.

 

Finally, I’ve been thinking about how flash mobs and the Christmas season both can challenge us to consider how we are gracing those around us with our talents, time, and imaginations. And this year, I’m realizing I need this dual challenge just as much, maybe more, after Christmas as I do before: how can I go into the next few weeks and months, as the decorations come down and routines go back to normal, expecting to encounter God in others and being open to God using me to serve others? Or, put another way, how can I internalize the well-known quote from St. Teresa of Ávila my pastor shared in church today:

Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
Compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.

 

I’m not saying that you should go out and initiate a flash mob (to be clear, I’m not not saying that either!!). But what can you do to live in anticipation of astonishment even as your daily life plods on? And what can you do to give others reason to hope for the same from you?

 

For those who celebrate, Merry Christmas and Happy Epiphany (Hapiphany?), and to everyone, may 2025 be a year when goodness and joy spreads like… well, I’m sure you’ve gotten the picture by now. 😊

 

Sarah/Mouse

 

Ps: In case you are unfamiliar with flash mobs and would like to get a taste for them, here are some ones that I (and a lot of the internet) like:

 

• Ode to Joy: My favorite. I dare you to watch this without tearing up a little.
• Circle of Life: Can you imagine a more magical subway ride? The answer is no. No, you cannot.
• Hallelujah Chorus: If you’re still in a festive mood and/or really like food courts.
• Glee medley: This is one of several medleys that flash mobbers did using songs from the show Glee in various locations around Seattle. I especially like how this one includes so many people who are so clearly having a good time together.
• Ohio State Union: A fun one for any OSU fans.  

Natural Pace

 

Hi, everyone,

 

In May, I had the incredible opportunity to co-lead a study abroad trip to several different countries in Europe with students from Millersville. We got to visit some fascinating international organizations like the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons and the International Criminal Court. We saw works of art from stunning Dutch painters like Vermeer and Rembrandt. We ate delicious food and I got to know some very impressive, kind, and interesting young people on the trip. But perhaps the thing I’ve been mulling over most in the weeks since our return is, well, quite pedestrian: my walking pace.

 

As is typical in Europe, we spent a good deal of time walking, either to our various destinations or simply to meander around the winding streets in the historic section of whatever city we were visiting that day. My co-leader was a colleague who is Very Tall. (I asked him once for the specifics, but after 6 foot, my brain registers all heights simply as “Very Tall.”) If you are reading this, you have likely met me and can attest that I am… not. During the first time I took on the responsibility of leading our group of 14 luggage-wheeling Americans through the busy streets of The Hague, I was notified by the person behind me in our weary, jet-lagged line that I was going too fast. While I paused to wait for everyone to catch up, I reflected on an irony that comes up on the rare occasions I am charged with leading a group through a space.

 

I have short legs, which makes my rate slower than, say, that of my Very Tall colleague, if we were going the same pace. But we’re not. My pace is usually quite a bit faster than that of anyone who is taller than me, and after a lifetime of compensating for having short legs, I often overcompensate when I’m leading others because I’m so worried I’m going too slowly! I have an adopted pace and a natural pace.

 

When I explained this to my colleague and to one of the (also Very Tall) students, they asked for a demonstration of my natural pace. At that point, the three of us were walking at what I’m sure we all thought was a reasonable pace. I abruptly slowed down to what feels most natural to me, to a rhythm that wasn’t asking my hips and knees and feet to operate in overdrive.

 

“Oh wow,” they both said. And the funny thing is, I almost did too. I am so used to being in overdrive mode that my natural mode felt clunky at first, like I’d suddenly gone from 5^th gear straight into 2^nd. Because I’ve been using my adopted pace for so long, that’s now my default. But as jarring as it was to slow down so suddenly, there was also something profoundly familiar and right about it, like hugging someone for the first time in ages and remembering the particular way you fit together.

 

Since then, I’ve been thinking a lot about my natural and adopted paces. There are times when it’s very useful to have the option of my adopted pace. There are social reasons for me to walk faster. When two or more people are walking together, they tend to adapt to each other’s pace and come up with an unspoken consensus one; a quicker pace helps me participate in social cohesion which is sometimes a good thing. But even when I’m alone, I almost always use my adapted pace and that has undoubtedly helped me get places less late than I would otherwise.

 

But that conversation on the trip made me realize that although I almost never use it anymore, my natural walking rhythm is still there, still a deep part of me. As my schedule has shifted into summer mode and I’m spending more time with the kiddos, I have had both time and occasion to recognize my natural pace in action. The reality is that, all things being equal, my body likes to walk at the same rate of a toddler (or two!) trotting down a sidewalk at a brisk clip. 

 

I’m starting to think that I was built not just for a toddler’s pace of ambulation, but for their pace of life. Despite the chaos that caring for two (now) two-year-olds can bring, on the whole, when I am with them, life slows down significantly. Alongside them, I notice tiny details: a miniature strawberry in the design on their shirt; a rock so unique among all the others on the road that it must certainly come home with us; a single syllable in a word they have started to pronounce correctly for the first time. With them, I experience emotions intensely but simply: utter delight at a balloon floating down from where it was tossed to nudge our upturned faces before being punched back up to do it all again; frustration as we try to figure out how to take turns with a coveted toy; awe-filled joy as they learn how to take care of each other when the other is scared or sad (“You ‘kay? You ‘kay?”). Because of them, I wonder about things I otherwise would never have had time to consider: how long before the baby cardinals (“car-na-na-nals”) in the nest outside our window learn to fly? Why is walking around in a circle over and over (“roun-an-roun”) so calming and meditative? How exactly does a lightbulb know to turn on or off (“On! On! Off! Off!”) after we flip the switch on the opposite side of the room?

 

In other words, when I’m functioning on Toddler Time, I’m calmer, I’m happier, I’m more… me. The pace of a toddler feels right to me in a way that more recent stages of life haven’t. That doesn’t mean I haven’t enjoyed being older than two or that the other parts of life haven’t served me well. But among the many things I’m learning from my children is something I’ve known at a deep level all along: I am an inherently slow person. This is why my favorite form of communication is snail mail. This is why I took way longer to get a cell phone than any of my peers (and once I did, way longer to get a smart phone). This is why I ask questions in conversations and meetings to understand things better before we just move on.

And maybe this is why, since I was a child, I’ve tried to hang out with young children as much as I can. They help me remember parts of myself that feel true and good but that the rest of my life doesn’t really have time for.

I wonder: are there stages of life that have felt like an especially good fit for you? Are there ones still ahead that you anticipate will better match your natural pace? What are the benefits of adapting to new paces in new phases of life?

As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts, and whatever the pace of your week, I hope it is fitting you well.

 

Sarah/Mouse

Holophrase

Hello, everyone!

 

I teach a course on early literacy and oral language development at Millersville and while I found the subject matter fascinating when I first started teaching the course, it has taken on a whole new level of interest for me now that I have two little people learning language and beginning their journeys as readers and writers. In fact, the babies—now toddlers, really—obligingly came to several of my classes as “guest speakers” so that my students could have real-life examples of early language to consider alongside the readings they had done for class.

 

It will come as a surprise to exactly no one who knows me that I am a nerd. If you haven’t spent any time with me and need proof of this, I will offer you this one fact which will, I trust, be sufficient: I have a favorite vocabulary word to teach my students. That’s right. It’s not enough for me to quietly enjoy some words in the privacy of my own brain. No, no. I am compelled to share these words in discipline-specific contexts, passing them on to the next generation in the hopes that they will love them too.

 

So, what, you are probably not asking, is my favorite vocabulary term from my emergent literacy and language course? One that has become extremely relevant for Sophie and Hazel:

 

Holophrase.

 

Holophrase can mean something slightly different when talking about adult speakers, but in the context of young language learners, it refers to a single word a baby or toddler says that carries the weight of a whole sentence (which they are not developmentally ready to say yet). Since they are at the stage where they can say only one word in an utterance, they choose the most important one to get their point across. For example, a baby might say, “Dog!” to mean, “Look, I see a dog!”

 

I love this phenomenon because it confirms my theory that very young children are poets; they instinctively know how to say a lot in an incredibly efficient way. Holo- means “whole” or “complete,” so a holophrase is a complete utterance in just one (often monosyllabic!) word. How incredible!

 

I also love that when babies and toddlers use a holophrase, the context matters even more than in other language events. For instance, when Hazel says “Dow!” (“down”) she might mean, “I want to go downstairs,” “Please put me down,” “I dropped a piece of apple off my highchair tray and it fell down,” “Sophie fell down and is crying,” or a number of other things.

 

Another example: Sophie might say, “Sh” (meaning “shoe”) and mean “Here is my shoe!” Or, “Here is Daddy’s shoe.” Or, “I have this shoe and I think Hazel should have it so I will

follow her around the living room until she takes it from me.” Or, “Look! I pulled all of the shoes off the shoe rack and now there is a small mountain of them on the floor! How wonderful!”

 

As with poetry, I have the best shot of understanding what the babies are saying when I am paying careful attention to the context of the utterance. Part of that context is situational (e.g., What happened immediately before they said their word? As they speak, how are they interacting with their environment in ways that relate to the word they are saying?). But part of that context is relational. Because Mike and I know the babies better than anyone else, we are most likely to be able to interpret any given holophrase because we know their personalities, the kinds of things they are currently interested in, how they have used that particular word in the past, etc. We don’t just know their circumstances, we know them.

 

Those of you who have been reading my writing for a while may pick up on the fact that it’s Christmas Eve and that is about the only time that I update this blog these days. So, you may be asking, what’s the connection to Advent/Christmas? [For those of you who aren’t Christian and/or just don’t feel like reading any further, here is an exit ramp; as you go, please take your complimentary vocab lesson, have a lovely weekend, and know there are no hard feelings.  For everyone, else, here we go:]

 

Christians often read the first chapter of John during Advent, the season leading up to Christmas. As I’ve been thinking about holophrases even more than usual this year, I read John 1:1 a bit differently. Unlike the other accounts of Jesus’ life, John’s narrative begins with the metaphor of speech: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Not a word of God. The word. Christians believe that if God’s message could be summed up in only one word, it would be the person of Jesus; Jesus is God’s holophrase.

 

What happens if we think of Jesus in this (admittedly very obscure) way? At least two things, I think, and they relate to how we can prepare for Christmas.

 

First, I think we need to recognize that, unlike with children’s holophrases, in this instance, the messenger IS the message. This is different than if a baby says their name and points to themselves. In that case, the word would still be representing the phrase “I am [name].” But while we see God communicate with humanity using words throughout the Bible (e.g., through the words of the prophets, the commandments and laws, the divinely-inspired scriptures, etc.), Christians believe that the culminating divine message is not only verbal. God’s message comes in the form of a person. Unlike the prophets, Jesus came not just to ANNOUNCE good news but to BE good news.

 

This affects how I anticipate Christmas. There is a difference between expecting a particular event, significant—life-changing, even!—as it might be, and expecting a person with whom I will be in relationship. God doesn’t just send a message on nice letterhead telling us that there is good news; God sends Godself because being able to be with God is the good news. And if I believe, which I do, that one of the ways God chooses to work is through the people in our lives, then one way I can prepare for Christmas is to tend to my relationships, not just my beliefs. I can go into any given interaction with a colleague, a student, a family member, a friend, a stranger, with the expectation that it could affect my relationship with the divine. As a bonus, I’ve found that on the (very!) rare occasion when I remember to do this, my relationships with people become just a little better too.

 

The second way thinking about Jesus as a holophrase can help us prepare for Christmas is by reminding us that the context of God’s holy utterance is essential. Certainly, we must consider the historical and cultural context of Jesus’ birth (and of the human authors of Jesus’ story). But just as Mike and I can best understand the babies’ single-word exclamations when we have spent a lot of time with them, listening to how they have used sounds in the past and observing  their personalities and interests, we also need to pay attention to the context of our relationship with God. Paradoxically, the way we prepare for God’s presence is by being with God. The way we prepare for God’s message to us is to remember God’s past messages to us. We need to know God’s character in order to best understand what God is saying.

 

So, in the hours that remain this Advent, let me be the first (and probably the only person ever) to wish you a Holy Holophrase, and to ask how you are preparing to hear and understand the Word in your current context?

 

To everyone who celebrates, Merry Christmas, and to everyone, a peaceful end of the year!

 

Sarah/Mouse

The Problem of Two Jesuses Part 3

 Hi, everyone,

 

This is the third of five posts that I’m writing about how having twins has helped me articulate and work through something I’ve struggled with my whole life: how to navigate multiple good things in my life which may at times compete or be mutually exclusive. In the first post, I discussed how seeing and serving Jesus in your child becomes much trickier when there are two of them, especially two who are at (more or less) the same developmental stages. What, I asked, do we do when we are trying to serve or simply be with two Jesuses simultaneously?

 

We just finished up the third week of Advent, the beginning of the Christian calendar and the season in which Christians concentrate on waiting for divinity to enter the world. The third week of Advent is typically centered around joy, so in this post, that’s what I want to emphasize.

 

But before I can do that, I need to focus on two other concepts that don’t seem so joyful: failure and fear. Buckle up!

 

Last week, I discussed two characteristics that having twins has required me to have which I believe are also useful in handling multiple competing goods. This week I’m exploring two more.

 

The third way of being I have considered since having twins is to fail constantly. I teach my students about the importance of failure. I assign readings on it. We spend a day in class discussing how typical schooling settings discourage failure to the detriment of students’ mental health, learning, and creativity. This last year, I added a discussion of this song to the day’s activities. And yet, I don’t typically enjoy failing.

 

Of course, like everyone, I fail in various ways in my daily life. I say things I regret. I run late to meetings. I burn the food I’m cooking. But in taking care of two babies simultaneously, I have really stepped up my failure game. I might be in the middle of giving one baby a bath and the other bursts out crying for any number of reasons. I might be able to identify what the problem is (or maybe not), but I can’t step away from Baby #1 who, for safety reasons, needs me to be with her. So, Baby #2 is going to have to just sit there and scream, simmering in what appears to be her unmitigated fury that I cannot attend to her right then.

 

Or I might be in the middle of dealing with a diaper blowout from one baby when the other decides that is the perfect moment to do a massive, overflowing spit up and a massive, overflowing poop simultaneously. Baby #2 is going to have to sit in her own stinky dampness for a time while I finish up with her sister.

 

In other words, even when I’m succeeding with one baby, I can also be failing with the other. Cool.

 

Those of you who tend toward graciousness and understanding might be thinking, hang on! That’s hardly fair to describe these situations as failure. They are out of your control! True. But first of all, there are plenty of times when things are in my control, and I mess up. So far, they have been relatively small mistakes (e.g., misjudging how long it will take to get ready for an event with two babies and showing up late), and people have been incredibly patient and kind in the wake of them. I know, though, that as the babies get bigger, so too will my mistakes.

 

And second, the main point here is that, for me at least, it is incredibly difficult to feel successful in two realms at the exact same time. And this is where I think about other competing goods in my life. For example, my job requires me to teach, to research, and to serve the university and community in various ways. On a weekly basis, I feel frustrated at how succeeding in one of these areas seems to mean failing, even temporarily, in another. I might finally be caught up with grading, but my inbox is full (or vice versa).

 

Maybe the solution is redefining failure. Maybe it’s about stepping back and seeing the big picture rather than what I’m feeling in the moment (e.g., I am not able to take care of one of the babies the way I’d like to right now, but in general, I am). But for the moment, my impulse is actually not to find a solution. Right now, I’m simply trying to sit in the reality of my own limitations, recognizing that there is something oddly comforting—almost freeing—about not being able to do it all (and, on many occasions, not being able to do much of anything!).

 

The fourth characteristic I am finding I need when caring for two babies is contentment. It will not be a surprise to many of you that I have struggled with FOMO—the fear of missing out—for much of my life. And if I let it, my FOMO could dominate my experience with the twins. As someone who finds children delightful and fascinating, there is a part of me that doesn’t want to miss a single moment of Sophie and Hazel’s first years. Obviously, this wouldn’t be possible even with a single baby, but it’s even less possible with two.

 

Just tonight, for example, I was holding Sophie on the couch as Mike was interacting with Hazel on the other side of the room out of my sight. They were clearly having fun and occasionally, Mike would update me about Hazel’s expressions or gestures. There was a part of me that wanted to get up and be part of that moment, to experience the good that Mike was experiencing. But that would have interrupted the good I was already experiencing—a top-notch Sophie snuggle.

 

Even when I’m looking at the babies side by side, I can’t easily take them both in at once; my gaze and attention oscillates between them. And really, this is true for all of life. Recently, studies have shown that multitasking is not possible and that when we try to do more than one thing at a time, our performance with either task decreases. So, for example, I might be at a larger social gathering and want to be part of two conversations at one time, each interesting and worthwhile—each good. However, when I try to listen in on a nearby conversation while still participating in the one that I appear to be part of, I miss out on both.

 

In recent years, I’ve heard about JOMO, the joy of missing out. Though I liked the idea of JOMO, I must confess that I never really understood it. How can missing something be joyful? And yet, as I spend more time with the babies, I find I’m starting to relax into something approaching joy when I miss certain things. I take Hazel upstairs to change her even as I hear visitors downstairs delighting in Sophie’s antics. And while a mild curiosity about what is going on with Sophie tugs at my attention, I hug Hazel a little tighter and relish those moments I have to focus on her. These babies have taught me that no matter which one of them I’m with at any given moment, it's good. They have taught me that attempting to maximize or combine goods can actually take away from what I already have.

 

I recognize that this will be immensely harder once I go back to work and am missing a lot more of the babies’ great moments throughout the day. But my challenge will be the same then as it is now: find the joy in what I am doing, in what I do get. As corny as it might sound, I need to choose contentment in what I do have over jealousy about what I don’t.

 

If we let it, Advent can be an incredibly focused time. Yes, there are the various fascinating and important characters in the Christmas story—the shepherds, the wise men, Mary, Joseph, the angels, etc.—but all of them circle around Jesus. Even Herod is in the story only because of his concern with Jesus. How can I take the habits of focus this season invites and apply them beyond the nativity story? How do I focus on the Jesus that is right in front of me rather than becoming distracted by the Jesus I am failing to attend to elsewhere or the Jesus who is someone else’s to see and serve in that moment? I don’t know yet, but as always, I’d love to hear any thoughts you have.

 

In my next post, I’ll talk about the final two characteristics having twins has required of me: acceptance and dependence.

 

Until then, I hope you have a joy-filled week!

 

Sarah/Mouse

 

The Problem of Two Jesuses Part 2

Hi, everyone, 

Last week, I started a mini-series during the season of Advent in which I am focusing on a question that has come up for me since our twins were born: What happens if you see the divine in two people at the same time? And the more tricky, related question: What happens when those two people need your limited self at the same time?

 

Each week, I’ll touch on two ways that having twins has helped me explore the broader tensions I experience any time there are multiple goods that compete for my limited time, energy, and resources (e.g., work life vs. family life; community service vs. necessary self care; traveling to visit friends and family vs. traveling to discover a new place; etc.). Specifically, I’ll be thinking through what having twins has taught me about how to be in the face of multiple often-competing good things in my life.   

 

First, having twins has required me to be CREATIVE. There are times when the babies both need something at the same time—to be fed, for example. When Mike or someone else is around and I am feeding just one of them, it is easiest and most effective for me to hold the baby in one arm and the bottle in the other. However, this clearly won’t work when I’m in charge of two bottles for two babies.

 

The last few months have seen me try some rather unorthodox ideas to ensure that the babies eat at the same time (which we want to do to keep them on the same schedule). I almost always put the babies on their mats or in their bouncy seats so I can hold both bottles, but in addition to that pretty obvious solution, I often prop swaddles on their chests in the hope that they will support the bottles. It works only about 75% of the time, but that’s a high enough success rate that it buys me a bit of time to deal with one baby’s fallen bottle before having to switch to the other’s. A few times, I’ve positioned the babies in a way that allows me to use each baby’s body as a support for the other’s bottle. I even tried feeding one baby with my feet and another with my hands.

 

I’m not trying to argue that the fact that I have twins has led me to the height of creativity or anything, but it has required that I innovate to try to accommodate both babies whenever possible.

 

This applies to me trying to meet my own needs/desires as well. When my family was here over Thanksgiving, my mom made what we always request: chocolate pudding, a dessert that combines chocolate cake and sauce topped with vanilla ice cream (think lava cake but 20 times better). Now, the timing of this dessert is crucial. You have to have it straight out of the oven so that the balance of hot and cold is just right. On this occasion, the chocolate pudding was ready right as the babies needed to eat. What to do? Get creative!

 

Sometimes you can have your cake (or your mom’s signature dessert!) and eat it too.

 

Likewise, there are times when I can figure out a creative way to combine different goods in my life that on the surface, might seem to compete. For instance, one way I have managed the tension between my professional life and my social life is by trying to attend conferences which my academic friends will be attending or which take place in locations where other friends live. It then feels like the conference is doing double duty in my life, helping me meet multiple priorities—scholarly pursuits and relationships—simultaneously.   

 

The second characteristic having twins has required of me is to be as FAIR as possible. There may be instances like those mentioned above when I can innovate and come up with a way to help both babies at the same time. But more often than not, that I can’t.

 

The other day, neither baby had slept much during the day, and they were both incredibly grumpy. They wouldn’t fall asleep, and it wasn’t yet time for them to eat. They both quickly worked themselves up into dueling fits of rage. Sometimes I can carry both babies at the same time, but as they get bigger, it is becoming harder, and for a variety of reasons, that wasn’t an option that day. So, what happens in this situation? I just took turns holding each baby, trying to comfort them as best I could. I would hold Sophie and count to 60 while Hazel screamed on their mat. Then, I’d put Sophie down and hold Hazel for 60 seconds. We went back and forth many times as I literally counted down the minutes before Mike got off work and could take one of them. There might have been other solutions I could have tried, but in the moment, this was the most fair thing I could think to do.

 

And I don’t think fairness is always that exact or easy to discern. There are some days when Hazel just needs me more than Sophie does. And vice versa. My job as a parent is to pay attention to my habits over time and to ensure that I don’t consistently give one child more support or affection than the other, though the specific kinds of support and affection each one needs will depend on her developing personalities and interests.

 

In her own way, Sophie tried taking turns between two competing good things a week or two ago. For over a month now, she has been working hard to suck her thumb, and she has recently had some triumph in that area. However, she is also still quite interested in having her pacifier in her mouth, and even as she was relishing her newfound thumb-sucking skill, she was frustrated that it came at the expense of this other experience she enjoys immensely. There were a number of moments when Sophie tried to “do it all” and learned (as I have almost every day of my life) that this is rarely possible. She could have her pacifier or her thumb in her mouth, but not both:

 

 

Every day, Sophie and Hazel are practicing turn-taking not just with what they put in their mouths but with what comes out of them. As the babies become more vocal, they are learning that what you say (expressive language) happens in relation to what you hear (receptive language). They speak and then they pause, listening for a response from Mike or me, or from each other. There is balance between the two goods of expressing oneself and listening to others.

 

Similarly, one of the main ways I have learned to deal with competing goods in my life is to take turns, to seek out as much fairness and balance as I can. This might look like switching back and forth between spending the holidays in OH (it is good to be with Mike’s people) and in WA (it is good to be with my people) [Note: this is a simplification; I’ve written elsewhere about how Mike’s people have become mine and mine have become his]. Or seeking fairness might mean walking to work sometimes (it is good to get exercise and to spend time outside) and driving at other times (it is good to get a bit more sleep before an 8am class). Or it might mean spending some of my free time with friends (it is good for me to connect with those I love) and some of my fair time alone (I am an introvert and it is good for me to have time to recharge).

Whether I am being creative and figuring out a way to enjoy two good things together or trying to split my time and attention fairly between them, the season of Advent leads me to believe that the divine is tangible in our daily lives. And because the divine is infinite, there is no limit to the ways we can experience it. This means that I am constantly having to choose which experiences of the divine to pursue and which others to set aside. Next week, I’ll share two more ways that having twins has helped me navigate competing goods in my life and talk specifically about how Sophie and Hazel have affected my lifelong fear of missing out.

 

Until then, have a good week!

 

Sarah/Mouse

The Problem of Two Jesuses Part 1

Hi, everyone!

Before I dive into the main ideas I want to explore here, a quick update for those of you who may not have heard: In late July, Mike and I welcomed Hazel and Sophie Cardillo Jackson into the outside world. They spent two and three weeks respectively in the NICU, as they were born quite early, but they were healthy the whole time and just needed a bit of assistance learning how to eat and regulate their body temperatures. I have recovered more or less completely from the unplanned c-section and, with the help of many, many people, Mike and I are adjusting to life as the parents of twins.

(If you’re interested, I’d be happy to share a few stories/photos individually, but we are trying to limit how much of their lives we’re revealing to the internet, so I’ll refrain from sharing too much about them in this more public forum.)

Moving on to my main thoughts for today…

 

Yesterday, Sophie and Hazel were baptized, which is one of the main rituals that Christians celebrate. It also marked the first day of Advent, the beginning of the Christian calendar and one of my favorite times of year. Each year, it seems, there is a new aspect of this season that stands out to me, challenges me, and leaves me in awe. This time around, I am considering a question that I doubt would have occurred to me before this year: What if Jesus had been a twin?

 

On the one hand, this is a philosophical/theological question that leads to a host of related questions (e.g., could Jesus have been a twin? If so, would his twin have also been divine? Would it make a difference if he were a fraternal or identical twin? Would God still be considered Triune in this situation? Etc.). On the other hand, it is a rather practical question for me as a parent of twins because of the concept of the Incarnation, the idea that God became a human in order to better love, serve, save, and communicate with us. Let me explain.

 

One of the benefits of a religion in which God is portrayed as a baby is that it makes it easier to imagine the divine in any babies that might cross your path. This practice can help you find additional reserves of patience and love when you are so tired that every fiber in your being aches to fall asleep but someone is demanding that you feed them. Or change their diaper. Or hold them. Or not hold them but just be there watching them cry for reasons you can’t comprehend. It’s useful because the story of God becoming a human elevates humanity immeasurably. That someone is not only your child – they’re a manifestation of the divine.

 

[By the way, before I start sounding a bit too saintly here, there are three important caveats about this practice of seeing Jesus in your baby. The first is that I am certainly not doing this all the time. Not even close. The second is that to the extent that I am able to imagine I’m tending to Jesus as I care for the girls, it’s because so many people have given me the mental, emotional, and spiritual support to allow me to do so. The third is that I am fully expecting that this practice will become immensely harder as the twinfants grow into their more autonomous toddlerhood and the challenges that stage brings. Right now, they are not responsible for any activities that irritate me. I know that will change…]

 

So, okay. Great: in my best moments, I can imagine the babies as Jesus, which brings me a bit more patience, a bit more wonder, a bit more willingness to sacrifice than I might otherwise have. (In other words, a bit more love.)

 

But what happens when you have twins? What happens when there is more than one Jesus who each need you at the same time? Parents of multiple children might come to this question as well, but it is perhaps intensified with twins. Sometimes Sophie and Hazel take turns crying to express their different needs, but sometimes they don’t. Because we need them to be on the same schedule, they are often needing to eat at the same time or are starting to get tired at the same time. And as Mike went back to work full time after two months of leave, our parent-baby ratio went down to 1:2 during work hours. Not surprisingly, I find myself disappointing at least one of my imagined Jesuses many times a day.

 

This frustration is simply the most recent way I find myself feeling torn between multiple competing goods that claim my attention. Perhaps you have experienced something similar: What do you do when the demands of parenthood conflict with your work requirements? What do you do with your limited free time—volunteer at a local charity or spend time with your friends? Will you go for a contemplative hike in the woods or curl up and read that book you’ve been dying to get to? All of these are good things. With only a little effort, I could find divinity in each of them. So how do I say yes to one possible encounter with God knowing that I’m saying no to another, at least in that moment?

 

Over the next few weeks during the Advent season, I am going to reflect on a few of the lessons I’ve learned as I’ve tried to balance the needs of Jesus-in-Hazel and Jesus-in-Sophie in the hopes that they will be useful as we all think about how to tend carefully to the various, sometimes competing goods in our lives.

 

Right now, though, I’m thinking back to the service yesterday. Neither baby cried at all during what I’m sure was a rather surprising experience for them, but as Sophie was being baptized, she did cling to the sleeve of the priest. “Let go!” he encouraged her and then joked that she had already developed good taste in vestments, the clothing priests wear. I’m with Sophie, though. Too often, I’m highly aware that I am saying no to some good thing. But gradually, I’m learning that when I can say yes, I want to be all in; I want to hold on to that sacred moment in whatever way I can.

 

A peaceful Advent season to those who are observing it, and to everyone, have a wonderful week!

 

Sarah/Mouse

Co-authoring New Lives

I’m the daughter of a journalist and I know the rule about not burying the lede. So, I’ll present the big news clearly at the beginning before going into some thoughts about it: 

Mike and I are happy to announce that we’re expecting identical twins in late (northern hemisphere) summer! 

There are so many thoughts and feelings that I’ve experienced since finding out first, that I was pregnant, and then, that we were expecting twins (TWINS?! From what I have heard, that means TWO babies!), but here, I’ll share just a few by way of—surprise, surprise—an academic metaphor. 

When I do research, I often like to work with other friends/colleagues (I like to call them “frolleagues” because that is a ridiculous word). When we publish, we are considered co-authors, and the official order the authors on the publication is seen as significant; if you are the first author, you get the most credit because it is supposed to mean that you have done the most work, though sometimes it can indicate that you have more status/name recognition than the other authors. 

I have two frolleagues with whom I work regularly, and we like to have as equitable a distribution of work as possible, so we simply take turns with authorship. I was second author on our first piece, I’m first author on our second, and I’ll be third author on our third piece, which we’ve already begun. For us, the title of “first author” is mostly logistical; someone has to take the role, and it simply indicates who the editors should contact.

However, I’m also working on a project with my advisor from OSU and a few other frolleagues, and with that one, my advisor is taking the lead in conceiving of and organizing the research. It is appropriate that she will be first author; she is doing the heaviest lifting and should get the most credit. 

I’ve been thinking of these two experiences with authorship a lot since finding out that I am pregnant. I have long been guided by the beautiful Frederick Buechner quote, which I’m sure I’ve shared here before: "Words are power, essentially the power of creation.  By my words, I both discover and create who I am.  By my words, I elicit a word from you.  Through our converse, we create each other." My graduate work on language at Ohio State only furthered my belief that we co-author each other into being. 

My religious belief system also involves ideas of authorship, namely that God is the Author of Life. And yet, paradoxically, many Christians believe that God allows people to participate in the authorship of their own lives. In other words, God is our co-author! How astonishing! How unfathomable!

I believe this to be true with any aspect of my life, but as I contemplate my new role as a parent, it seems especially relevant. My training and experience in early childhood makes it plain how profoundly significant parents and/or other caregivers are; clearly Mike and I will be important co-authors of our children’s lives. But we won’t be first authors. So, the question becomes, how do we both contribute to their unfolding narratives and surrender those narratives to themselves, to others, and to God, who we believe already loves them most and best?

This is, of course, a broader question about control, and as usual, I find I’m being asked to surrender control in so many ways. Those of you who have known me for longer than five minutes will have discovered that I am quite opinionated about how things should be. As I co-author my life with God, I am tempted to provide suggestions (which sometimes border on directives) on how things should be. At times, things do work out as I ask and hope. 

However, it seems to me that God has frequently heard my suggestions and gone in another direction, a better direction. Does that mean God is a perverse, authoritarian co-author, ignoring or even actively refusing my ideas? No, it means God knows the possibilities better than I do. It’s a bit like writing with my advisor: we are following her lead because she knows the field better than we do. One of my favorite things about getting older is that my list of times when God has surprised me for the better keeps getting longer, which makes it easier to trust when things don’t go as planned. The news of twins—albeit probably the biggest change of plans yet—is just another instance of my first draft of my life being revised. I can already see how I am being changed for the better by this experience.

Another, less academic metaphor that I’ve discovered recently is Alison Gopnik’s comparison of parents as carpenters vs. gardeners. There are parents who see their role as meticulously crafting a particular type of person and parents who want to cultivate an environment for their children to grow into whomever they will become. I want to be a gardener parent, but I know I have strong carpenter impulses. 

When we were expecting just one baby, I could feel myself getting into first author, carpenter mode. I felt my control muscles flexing in response to almost any aspect of our future child’s life. But then we learned that there was a revision (quite literally: I discovered the news only when the ultrasound tech changed the number of fetuses on the information screen from 1 to 2…). Once I could formulate some kind of thought, it was, “Well, it’s all hands on deck now!” I’m being asked to depend even more on my community, meaning that I will need to ask for and accept even deeper co-authoring relationships. I will need more help tending the garden in which our children will grow. And I’m finding that there is a surprising and delightful joy in my humble first attempts—first of many!—to release my desire to be the primary constructor of my children’s lives. 

I hope you have a wonderful week, and that any surprises you face rewrite your story for the better.

Sarah/Mouse