Category Archives: family

Childlessness Revisited

Childless by choice. That is what I am, who I am. I made that choice years ago, when I realized I had married a man who was unfit for fatherhood, frankly unfit to be called human, for reasons I won’t go into today. By God’s grace and providence, I didn’t have children with that selfish piece of human excrement. And when I later married a man who would have made an imperfect but decent dad, my mind had already been made up; I was not going to have children. Ever.

And so I didn’t.

Divorced again, for going on seven years now, I’m a few years (ahem) past the age when being a mom would be possible for me. Neither would it be something I would want now: waking in the night for feedings, changing diapers, chasing a toddler around, and dealing with all the changes a child would create in my settled life. Nevertheless…

Two of my dear friends back home recently gave birth. One of them is at precisely the age one expects to be starting a family, and the other is a little older. The older one is actually almost my age, only a handful of years younger, and she just had her second child! The first one was born a couple of years after I was full into menopause. A teacher like me, she quit her job and jumped head-first into full-time-mom, and her happiness has been palpable ever since. A few hours ago, her toddler became a big brother. I know she and her husband are over the moon, and I am as happy for her as I could possibly be. And just a tiny bit jealous.

I don’t want a baby. I never did; that’s why I didn’t get pregnant when I could. I still don’t want one. When I was twenty I didn’t want the upheaval, the mess, the work, the constant interruptions, the worries and the potential heartbreak, and by golly, I sure as heck don’t want those things now! But I do want something. There is something missing, and I would be dishonest to deny it. And so I must admit that I want something I will never have outside of the providence of God. I want a family.

It’s perfectly right that I find myself now, a woman of  un certain age, and I don’t have a family. I didn’t make good choices as a young person, and my life didn’t follow the path that most people’s do.While in college, I read several books about the sustainability of the planet and overpopulation and such. One book I read was even called “Childless by Choice,” (Marian Faux) and it definitely impacted me. So I made a conscious decision in my mid-twenties to be childless, and that choice stayed with me. I never wavered. Until recently.

Middle age has a way of making you rethink the decisions you were so sure of when your life stretched before you like a long country road. I have begun to see that this road has an end, an unthinkable idea when I was 20, 25, or even 35, and it appears that the end is even less inviting when it’s reached alone. It’s one thing to face your mortality with a house bulging and bouncing with children and grandchildren; it’s quite another when your house is quiet and calm. At this point in my journey, I wish I had had children.

Some would say I do have children. In way I do because there is no doubt my students, many of them anyway, love me. One of them is now in her thirties (told you I was middle aged) and is among my four or five closest friends. Another, a recent grad from NC, calls me his “mamá blanca” (he’s African American) and I count his mother as a very good friend. Two others, graduates in the past four years, are coming to Europe this year and contacted me so they could come see me. One of this year’s graduates says she’ll show me around her home island of Crete if I come, which I absolutely will. Two others hugged and kissed me after graduation as if I were family, and I have no doubt I will see them again one day.

So in spite of not ever having given birth, I suppose I do have children. They are the kinds of children who will become friends one day, and for that I’m grateful. Does it make up for never having children of my own? Does it fill the empty place where my own “family” should be? If I’m honest, I have to say no. Nevertheless, I am not unhappy, and my life feels generally quite full. Nevertheless, perhaps one day…

 

God sets the solitary in families;

He brings out those who are bound into prosperity;

But the rebellious dwell in a dry land. Ps. 68:6, NKJV

 

Home for Christmas

Being home for Christmas is a bittersweet mixed bag. On the one hand, it’s important to be with my dad. On the other, I think I really get on his nerves sometimes, and in spite of how similar we are in personality, we don’t have all that much in common. And then there are all the other memories, regrets, and unfinished business that being home dredges up, between me and my dad and my stepmom, too, but most having to do with my mom and her side of the family.

Having lost my mom three years ago just a few weeks prior to Christmas, I find the season to be very difficult anyway. Last year I stayed home in Belgium, and for Christmas Day, it was pretty lonely, but friends came from Sweden for New Years, and we had a lovely time in Bruges, Brussels, and Liege. Dad was disappointed that I didn’t come home though, and I knew I needed to try to go home this year. So I went. I ended up being terribly melancholy, and very nearly depressed. Heck, if I’m gonna be melancholy, I’d rather be thus with my dog and cats nearby.

Driving through Mom’s hometown on the way to Dad’s family’s old home place, he had Ray Price in the CD player, and I swear, could he have picked any music that would have reminded me more of her? She loved his music, and For the Good Times would’ve had me nearly in tears anyway, so driving by places so filled with memories of her with that music in the background was almost more than I could stand. So I looked out the window and pretended to be daydreaming and bit back the tears.

Dad has been remarried for over forty years. There is little connection between him and my mom now; there’s just me. I know I must remind him of her, and that’s not exactly easy for him, I suppose. He has his own regrets and painful memories. When his own mother lay dying, he tearfully apologized to me for all the bad blood between him and Mom; it was very difficult for him but to his credit, he did it. The only other time I ever saw, well, heard him cry was when I told him via telephone that she’d died; he simply burst into tears, incredulous, and cried, “What?!?” I know he loves me, but I don’t think he loves having me around all that much. He wants me home, but when I’m actually there, it’s not really pleasant for him. But not being there, when he hasn’t got all that many Christmases left, steals something from both of us that will leave me with even more regrets. I’ll never get over not being with Mom on her last Thanksgiving; I don’t want to miss Dad’s last Christmas. But is that how you’re supposed to live? Making decisions based on what will leave you with less guilt?

There is so much baggage in my past, probably as there is in just about everyone’s. I don’t know quite how to carry it. I feel as if I’m shifting it from one hand to the other all the time, as one of my favorite authors once said. It’s filled with things said and unsaid running continuously through my head, an endless reel of regrets and what-ifs.

 

Bitter and Sweet


How can one day contain this much emotion?

Yesterday, the Saturday before Father’s Day, I spent several hours with two people I haven’t seen in years, people who were two of my best friends throughout the 1990’s. One was my roommate and sharer of clothing, my shoulder to cry on, partner in prayer, and the melody to my harmony as we careened through the NC Mountains in my little white pickup truck or gripped microphones at church. The other was my concert-going, head-bangin’ buddy, my “little brother,” with whom I was honored to walk as he loved and supported his first wife through her valiant fight against cancer, and then while he grieved in agony for her when she left him, much too young, to be with the Lord. These two remarkable people helped make me the person I am today; few others have shared such influence on me. We enjoyed a wonderful time together at his home, talking and laughing and feeling the years fall away.

A few hours later, I was standing over my mother’s grave, stricken again by her name on the stone and feeling intensely the loss. You see, in the misty and secluded southern Appalachian Mountains that my parents’ families have called home for generations, we have a tradition called Decoration Day. It generally falls on Father’s Day, and consists of family reunions and some sort of memorial for those who’ve preceded us in death. So the early evening found me helping my father’s sister carry and place flowers on the earthly resting places of my paternal grandparents at the family cemetery. A half hour later, quite alone now, I was tending my mother’s grave, as well as her mother’s and father’s, carefully placing flowers and preparing them for tomorrow’s visitors to the cemetery. Performing this task by myself was difficult, highly emotional, and left me feeling very lonely and very alone. I drove away with a heavy heart, experiencing her absence afresh.

A few hours later still, finally back home, I signed into Facebook and learned what I had missed when I couldn’t answer my phone when it rang in the early afternoon. My lovely friend in Chicago had called me but she didn’t leave a message. I guess she figured that telling me she’d gotten engaged was too much for a voicemail! I would have to agree. My happiness for her overflowed; she has patiently waited for God’s perfect choice for her, and He has proven Himself faithful once again. 

Throughout the day I alternately laughed and cried, and I welcomed the tears: tears of happiness, of missed years regained and friendships renewed, of joyful milestones, and of continued grieving. God is sovereign and He is good. He gave me precious friends, people who love me as much as I love them, and he gave me a mom who for 50 years made me feel as if I were the most special person in her world and who treated me as both her daughter and her friend. I am grateful to Him for all of these incomparable people who have enriched my life.

A current song by Wes King is playing in my mind: “Life is precious, life is sweet.” Sometimes it is bittersweet. And sometimes it is just bitter. But it is always precious.
Youtube video of Life is Precious by Wes King