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Rip Van Winkle and My New Job

“I can do all things through him who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13

Once again, I submitted my resume for a part-time position with a non-profit where I would be coordinating volunteers and connecting with the community. It was also for a cause I believed in: helping the unhoused in various ways. I knew it was a long shot, but I was hoping the part-time nature would limit the prospective applicant field, increasing my chances. To my surprise, I had a phone interview which led to an in-person interview. I grew excited and really hoped I would receive an offer. So, I waited, and on my way to Rhode Island I was offered and accepted the position. For the first time in 27 years, I was entering the work force on a professional level.

My husband and I made the decision for me to stay home with our children and later home educate them as well. My life was busy, creating lesson plans, writing some of my own curriculum, and researching the best methods to give my children a solid education. To make ends meet in our budget, I occasionally took on part-time jobs, including working as a direct seller for Pampered Chef, cleaning an office building, and working at Target. But most of my supplementary income came in the form of childcare, and in those 27 years, I have taken care of over sixty children, fifteen of which were long term stints. But lesson plans, church volunteering, and working retail 15 years ago don’t fill a resume with eye-catching work experience or marketable skills.

My first week of work, I packed my lunch, wore professional clothing, and left my house early in the morning. I was excited and nervous, but confident that I could do the job. But my confidence quickly dissipated when I started filling out forms and having conversations about drives, CRMs, mastering Outlook, and creating an email signature. For the first time, I felt exactly what I looked look like to the world: Rip Van Winkle (aka domestic servant and home educator) wakes up after having slept away the last twenty-seven years.

I don’t want to minimize the work I did at home. For many years, I successfully budgeted, meal planned, and prepared three meals a day for a family of four, including a few extras on a consistent basis. I was the master scheduler: organizing family events, managing activities, and doctor appointments, while making sure that all of us had clean underwear on a regular basis. Additionally, I taught my children how to read, write, and do arithmetic. I exposed them to art and music, explored nature and science, and made history come alive for them. I successfully prepared them for college, and both are still lifelong learners. I was busy leading a full life and still found time to be a Sunday School teacher, VBS coordinator, Bible Quizzing coach, and lead a girl’s group.

But all decisions have costs, and although my decision to stay home was best for our family, it led to a thin resume. When I last worked professionally, email was just starting to become a form of communication. I had a basic program I used for logging my activities, but it didn’t connect with the rest of my staff, and we only used one drive. My foray into the professional world made me feel unprepared and unqualified.

I have felt this way before: as I entered college, after I got married, bringing my first child home, picking a phonics program for my children, starting a blog, and writing my book. With each of these challenges, I felt inadequate and unsure. Those feelings are not bad, they position you to take the necessary steps in the right direction. I researched, asked a lot of questions, pivoted when I took a wrong step, and continued to work towards my goal. I wanted to be successful in college, marriage, parenting, home educating, and writing, and that meant taking risks. Just like in the past, I couldn’t let my Rip Van Winkle persona stop me from attempting to do my best in this new position.

It’s been a huge adjustment these last few weeks. I still feel like I am immersing myself in new skills: creating events for my Outlook calendar, formatting Excel databases to fit my needs, and creating procedures for me to do my work more effectively. My husband quietly smirks as I ask him about Excel spreadsheets, which I used to refer to as “my nemesis” (Terry is an Excel groupie and looks for coffee mugs or T-shirts to display his undying love). But at the same time, I feel like I am getting into a groove. I have had some insightful conversations with volunteers about what motivates them to sacrifice their time for our organization.

 What has surprised me the most is all the support I have been given by women who have been professionals all their adult lives. They offered technical support, a safe place to share my insecurities, and, most of all, encouragement. I have heard consistently from these women that they believe that I will succeed and that the position sounds perfect for me.

 For so many years, there seemed to be a divide between women who stayed at home and women who worked. Both sides felt like their side was being slighted, and competition ensued for whose job was the hardest. Today, it seems like we have turned a corner, and instead of working hard to validate our choices, more women are cheering each other on in their choices. And for someone who needed some extra reinforcement when insecurities flared, it was refreshing that so many successful, professional women were there to cheer me on!

By the way, for the first time in my life, I am going to get business cards…I am so excited!!!

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Grumpy Old Woman

“He shall be to you a restorer of life and nourisher of your old age.” Ruth 4:15 ESV

In our quest to be healthier, Terry and I made some sourdough morning glory muffins. Instead of refined sugar, we used honey and blackstrap molasses. Following the recipe, we filled the batter with fresh pineapple, grated carrots and zucchini, walnuts, and coconut. Next, we decided to add our own flair: orange zest. I love orange zest! It brightens pasta dishes and adds fresh notes to a salad dressing. It balances desserts and the pop of color is delightful. But in this muffin, after fermenting for the prescribed 24 hours, the zest gave the muffins a bitter aftertaste. I don’t know if the zest reacted badly to the fermentation or contrasted badly with the molasses. I do know I won’t be adding zest the next time.

I turned fifty-two a few weeks ago, and aging is happening before my eyes. My daughter showed me a picture of my husband and I from seven years ago. She remarked about how young we looked, and as much as I wanted to deny it, I could clearly see the difference. Our hair is a little grayer, and our fine lines a little more obvious. Along with the aches and pains of aging, I have read articles on aging that indicate that I should expect my olfactory senses to dull as my taste buds shrink. In the next few decades, food may taste less flavorful and require more salt. By the time I hit my late 70’s, I might like the zest in my morning muffin.

As a young child, the oldest people I knew were my great-grandmother and her sisters. I was forced to endure their presence at major holiday events and celebrations. Scrawny with permed hairdos, they wore polyester pants and patterned blouses. Their sour expressions were accentuated with bright red lipstick. Their penchant for cannibal sandwiches (ground beef tartar and raw onions) was as unpleasant as their complaints about relatives that were not in the room. They were judgmental, often remarking how misbehaved I and my siblings were. They prided themselves on being frank, sharing unwanted advice and opinions. It was one of these ladies who humiliated me by saying I was too fat to wear leg warmers. I clearly remember saying to myself I never want to be a grumpy, crotchety old lady.

The stereotype of being a grumpy old man and a crotchety old lady is illustrated in literature, movies, and TV shows. Archie Bunker embodied grumpiness with his wry remarks to his son-in-law. Ruth Zardo, the fictional poet in Louise Penny’s Three Pines series, frustrates her neighbors but shows unusual affection for her duck. Although these are stereotypes, I do see evidence of growing prickliness in people my age and older. Sometime, much to my dismay, I even see evidence of it creeping into my own life.

It starts with minor complaining: remarking that young moms should be stricter with their toddlers, passing judgment on someone’s Starbucks budget, or sarcastic comments made about the newest fashions. Soon, these comments morph into conclusions about a whole generation, assuming the motivations for their behavior and choices. They might see the younger generation as being disrespectful, distracted, and lazy. I have fallen down this slippery slope, and it’s just a matter of time before this judgmental attitude will potentially transform me into one of those dreadful old great-great aunts, sans the cannibal sandwiches!

Although I can do nothing about my aging taste buds, I can keep from becoming a grumpy old lady. It starts with being more open to new ideas and opinions. Yes, I have more life experiences and, hopefully, a little more wisdom than a twenty-year-old, but I have not arrived. If I remain in a posture of humility, I can maintain curiosity as I invest in my relationships with younger generations. This position has helped me change my assumptions. I’ve learned that my children’s generation believe in working hard, but also value a better work/life balance than previous generations. They don’t see working excessive amounts of overtime as the pinnacle of success. They also value mutual respect and will set healthy boundaries with people when their respect is violated. My generation struggled with boundaries, often partaking in events with cantankerous family members, then leaving frustrated and diminished. Finally, many of the younger generation value authentic relationships, and they see us as being just as attached to our devices as they are.

These are some of the ladies I have served with in MOMCo!

Recently, I saw a post on Jen Hatmaker’s Instagram page about the trend of wearing crocs or tennis shoes with dressier clothes. Her thread went on with comments about how comfortable the young women were in their fashion decisions at major events like proms. They purchase fancy dresses with sequins and tulle. They embrace getting their hair done and nails manicured. But they draw the line when it comes to wearing uncomfortable heels. They wear their fancy dresses and corsages with gym shoes or with crocs and socks, and they wear it proudly. It brought back a painful memory of being in New York City with my sister Cheryl. We dressed up and had dinner at the famous 21. We then went to see the musical Wicked with the original cast, ending the night with a carriage ride in Central Park. I wore heels that night, and they were fine for the first 5 hours. But by the end of the night, my feet pinched, and my toes were crunched. At one point, I took off my shoes and walked in my tights along Broadway for a few minutes, relieved of the pain. I wish I had had as much confidence as those young women have, choosing to wear more sensible shoes in New York City.

Along with being humble, I have chosen to actively connect with some younger women. I volunteer with a group of incredible older women as mentors for MOMCo (formally MOPS). As a mentor, we connect with younger moms who are parenting infants, toddlers, and preschoolers. Our role is to listen, encourage, validate, and occasionally offer a bit of wisdom. As much as I am volunteering my time, I find myself learning from these moms about how difficult parenting is in our current world. These new moms have the same desires I did: to raise their children to love God and to be healthy and whole. They have the added difficulty of sifting through information overload on what’s the best method for raising children. If I keep their same desires in perspective, it doesn’t matter if they co-sleep and or use baby-led weaning when feeding their babies. What matters is that they need a bit of encouragement and authenticity on my part, recognizing that motherhood is hard.

Finally, the last part is probably the hardest: I need to curb my criticism. My grandbabies love fruit/vegetable pouches for snacks. I love that they are getting kale, beets, and berries, even if it’s in a puree form. But I wasn’t as open-minded about it. Prior to being a grandparent, I voiced my criticism of what I perceived as overuse of pouches. My daughter defended the mothers who used the pouches for snacks, remarking that it was convenient, and was a way to get extra fruits and vegetables into their toddlers. After thinking about what she had said, I realized how critical I had been. Although I wasn’t saying this directly to the mothers, my criticism was just as ugly as a thought as the voiced opinion about my leg warmers.

As a Christian, I am called to speak truth. But too often, we forget the second part of Paul’s admonishment. He says in Ephesians 4:15, “speaking the truth in love.” Additionally, if you read the whole chapter, he has some other qualifiers about walking in unity with other believers. He encourages us to position ourselves with “all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.” (Ephesians 4:2-3 ESV). I don’t think this approach should be just with believers, but with everyone. If I speak the truth critically, without Paul’s guidelines, I am hurting those around me. But if I foster a relationship based on love, I may be able to speak truth that will help guide someone to make better decisions.

I look back on the Sander sisters, my old great-great-aunts, and wonder what brought them to that place of being crotchety. I know my great-grandmother lost her toddler son after he fell into a bucket of hot lye, later dying of pneumonia. I heard rumors that one of the great-great-aunts had a back-alley abortion that ruined her chances of ever having children. I have heard they warned others about staying away from some “touchy-feely” male family members, implying that there were potential pedophiles in their midst. Looking back, I have more compassion for them, wishing I knew their stories. But despite their stories, we all make choices regarding how we treat younger generations.

At fifty-two, I am choosing to listen to the stories of the older women in my life, for inspiration and for wisdom. I am also choosing to be actively interested in those women younger than me who inspire me. I hope others perceive me as a colorful, encouraging older woman who eats a lot of humus.