Dissonance: a stream of consciousness

Or, Long sentences and a few swears (that is my disclaimer)

My Google drive is starting to feel the tiniest bit out of sorts and dear friends, you need to know that my Google drive—along with my email, my text messages, or any other notifications in general—are never out of sorts. Those red notification numbers are kept at zero or I start to feel itchy. (I’m not saying I respond to everything—although I do try, but sometimes I make the obnoxiously repetitive mistake I never seem to learn from by picking up my phone at a stoplight and immediately forgetting what I read as soon as I start moving my van again. But you can be 99% sure I read it, because I had to, because of the red number and the itchiness and all).

But about the Google drive. The thing is, I said yes to a few really great projects this year: a collaborative co-authoring, my own manuscript for a book of essays due in six months, another children’s book idea I’m getting into a proposal form as we speak, and I’d really love to finish this personal piece—that absolutely no one asked me to write—which is equal parts exploration of the paralyzing sadness I feel about what is happening to migrants in the Darien Gap [1], juxtaposed with some BIG QUESTIONS and a few vignettes from my own life I’m trying to connect to all of it (which is not currently working, if you were wondering).

In the midst of all of this, I feel, daily, a visceral, anxious uncertainty about my own critical thinking skills and objectivity—something I was once confident in—due in large part to the sheer quantity (to say nothing of the quality) of information we are all trying to process on a day to day basis, along with my inability to figure out where to do unbiased research and listen to people who are completely non-partisan and actually give a s&$t about loving their neighbor as themselves.

And by the way, I managed an IEP meeting, four dentist appointments, a personal record on a Robin Arzon Peloton ride (I PR when I feel things), shoveling four inches of snow off the driveway two mornings in a row because snow blowers are for quitters (or people who are just smarter than me), back-to-back two hour school delays and subsequent last second plan pivots on the aforementioned mornings, a haircut, and the first of a series of four PRP injections deep into my knee joint to see if we can save this poor left leg from a replacement for, Lord willing, another few years. And not-a-one out of six kids was late for school, volleyball practice, or therapy this week. (Papa took Cannon to therapy and we carpool to volleyball though, so I have a village to thank for the on time arrivals.)

(Oh wait, Braylen missed preschool altogether on Wednesday for no other reason than I couldn’t get him there with the other kids’ school delay. But still batting like .800)

You know, it’s a lot. For me and for you and for everyone.

And there’s also this: I am a writer, not an influencer or a marketer or someone who knows how to make reels. But I am trying to be a good steward of the marketing campaign for The Very Best Baseball Game—which is the project of my heart in a hundred ways, and I want everyone (really, EVERYONE) to read this little book with your families. But I vacillate heavily between two sides of the mental Newton’s Cradle in my head. (You remember those right? Yeah. That’s my brain these days.)

One side wants to quietly whisper without making eye contact, hands folded politely down in front of my stomach [giving big Sadness from “Inside Out” vibes], “Hi. Hello. Nice to see you. Hope you’re well. Here’s this thing I made, if you’re interested, you know, and no pressure whatsoever if you aren’t. It’s just a little thing. No big deal. Won’t bother you again, I promise.”

The other side is fully confident—like, just joined an MLM and “reconnecting with all my high school friends about a great opportunity” confident [2]—with the microphone in her hand preaching, “Listen y’all. We are going to change the world for people in the disability community because they deserve dignity and quite frankly, they are awesome. But most of you don’t know that because you don’t have many opportunities to engage this community. Well, imma need you to step up, and you can start by buying this book and talking about it!” [3]

Back and forth, those marbles bumping into one another again and again and again.

And at least once or maybe 105 times a day, I think about the state of things everywhere. And all those image bearers in the Darien Gap, whose best option in life is to strap their baby to their chest, grab their four-year-old by the hand, and traverse a jungle controlled by dangerous cartels, with only the faintest flicker of a hope for a better life. Where they are even going, they only know in the blurriest sense. The future exists in mirages and yet the life behind them is too unthinkable to return to so the mirage is better. Who am I to stress about the privilege of trying to sell a book, or complain about dentist appointments and IEPs? Child’s play compared to much of the world’s problems.

I guess I’m feeling, in equal measure if it’s possible (and I’m telling you, I think it is), the meaninglessness of the kind of work that I do (come up with words) and the vital importance of the kind of work I do (again, come up with words). I believe in writing, both as a matter of protest to the hopeless that will drown me if I let it, and also as the most effective therapy I’ve ever had. I keep starting new Google documents because if I’m not writing something, what am I doing? This is how God wired me to think. But that’s the thing: is writing actually doing anything, or am I just…thinking? Because at the end of my life, I don’t want to be known for decent commentary and introspective pontifications. I want to be known for what I did, for who I mattered to.

So why is it that I’m conflicted about sharing a children’s book, in the middle of all of this? I don’t know. It’s probably a normal thing to feel conflicted about. But perhaps all those strangers in the Darien Gap, and around the world, and right here in my own city who are struggling profoundly matter to me because I’m begging the world to see my son—who doesn’t say much and has many challenges and is going to need someone to help him for the rest of his life—as someone who matters to you? (Maybe that’s the connection missing from the essay nobody asked me to write? Going to work on that.)

So I hope it’s okay to confess I’m a little stuck. Overwhelmed? Maybe you are, too. Because someone just outside the room I am working in right now is screaming “mom, mom, mom, MOM! I’m staaaarving!” and I have no plans for dinner yet and what is actually happening on Capitol Hill and why did I get so lucky to be born here and not there? And truthfully, if I promised my eight-year-old son that if we could just get through the jungle, we’d be safe, and he followed because he believed me, but then his little feet slipped off a rock and into a flash flood raging below him and he was swept away out of my sight in the literal blink of an eye and I could do nothing, absolutely nothing, but scream his name into the air begging that rushing water to let go of him—I would want someone to care, and to cry over his innocent life, too.

(Yes, I think I am for sure overwhelmed.)

And hey, I wrote this book and I hope you like it but it’s totally okay if you don’t.

The dissonance, man. I guess I just want you to know I feel it in my bones. And I’m going to keep writing, because I must, and certainly, because I have six children to feed even though I haven’t thought about dinner yet. I’m going to keep doing what I can, off the pages and most certainly away from the cell phone cameras, to make it clear how much my family means to me and how much I really do give a s&$t about my neighbors.

And that’s all for now, friends [4]. I hope you’ll buy the book, and I hope hundreds, thousands of you find ways to intersect your lives with kids and adults with disabilities. You’ll love it, I promise. I hope we get serious about ways we can serve “the least of these” among us. I hope God gets bigger to me, every single day, so that I never, ever stop taking seriously the plank in my own eyes. I hope I use my voice well. I hope the PRP injections help my knee. I hope the Lord is heavy-handed—like real, real heavy-handed—with justice toward those who would exploit a mother and child who need help. I hope for a lot of things.

And right now, I’m going to go figure out what to make for dinner.

And, because I know God won’t let me, I won’t lose that hope.

//

Footnotes:

[1] This article is six months old, but still a must read. I offer no answers for immigration problems I cannot even fully wrap my head around. Only prayers. If the wind and waves obey Him, well… I think every miracle is worth praying for.

[2] I WOULD NEVER.

[3] You can read more about TVBBG on this site, and also download a Parent Connection guide to offer talking points when you read the book to your kiddos.

[4] Thanks for being here and putting up with me. There are so many things I want to write, and so many things I care about, and it doesn’t all fit neatly into a “writer’s brand” but I’m chasing obedience, not branding. Your willingness to stay and read anyway means everything.