Cookie Cawthon

April

Dads, What We Hope You Teach Your Sons…

skating father son

“We did role plays in Health today, and they were hilarious, ” Carson shared at dinner.

“Aren’t you studying Sex Ed in Health?”

“Yeah.”

“WHAT!?!?! WHAT KIND OF ROLE PLAY DO YOU DO IN SEX ED?!?!?!”

She nonchalantly recounted the content while my eyes bugged out of my very head. These conversational role plays that still freaked me out.

“Well, we may homeschool Sex Ed.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Of course I can.”

“Mom, I know you’re not a fan but think about Thomas, whose parents will never teach him anything about sex.”

“Well, I have a teaching degree; I’ll volunteer to teach it.”

“Yeah, and I have a lot of experience having sex, so I’ll volunteer too! ” Chris pipes in.

Both girls scream, throw their hands over their ears, and run from the table.

_______________

I am a girl out of season.

Chris is a girl daddy.

I mama women-children.

We know girls.

Dads, one day your sons may be part of our family. We think of you often and hope things are going swimmingly on your end.

We want you to know we are giving it our concerted effort to teach our girls compassion and adventure and purity and boldness. Courage and love, responsibility and grace.

We teach them about the College Football Playoff Selection Committee (highlighting Condoleezza Rice’s participation, of course) and watch as a family as the top teams are announced each week during the season. Our girls can drive a boat, mow the grass, protect the seasoning on a cast iron frying pan, and bake a chocolate chip cookie just shy of done.

We teach them about sex and finances and injustice and hard work. We encourage their voice and questions, and we don’t airbrush our marriage to make reality more palatable. They know we squeaked through our hardest season, that we went to counseling, that I took “stable pills” (an anti-depressant) for a while (and they were glad for it, mind you!).

Most of all we’re pretty crazy about a well-known carpenter, and we hope they notice him building a messy masterpiece of our lives. And they allow him to do the same in theirs.

We’re trying, man. We know she may sit at your table for Thanksgiving dinner, and – if so – we want her to be a permanent fixture there, to be a rich blessing to your family.

If we were allowed to whisper into your ear during this formative time, we’d champion these ideals…

dad and son

Talk real talk about hard stuff. About failure. Your failures. Your struggles. The pressures of being the provider. The weight of being the leader. The ubiquitous measuring-stick that always asks, “Do I have what it takes?” Talk to him about man things. And share how you navigate those difficulties. He needs you to be a guide in his life, not a superhero in his mind.
Overtly teach him that sex is for marriage and worth the wait. Not because it’s a conservative mainstay or because it’s the responsible thing to say. But because you believe it. This is no hollow assertion based on a fairytale ideal. My past sexual indiscretions have borne lasting consequences in my marriage – emotional, mental, relational. That’s just how the thing works. Casual sex is not a rite of passage; it’s an expensive withdrawal from the marriage bed, and when we accept (or worse, promote) the “Boys will be boys” platitude, we act as enemies of their future marriages. It’s not unmanly to wait; it’s the most noble gift a man can give his bride. We want that for our daughters.
Be a man who values women. All women. Without ever articulating one word, you will teach your son 1) what you love, 2) what you think about women, 3) what you feel about marriage. If I could beg one thing of all men, it would be for you to take up the fight against the sexual abuse and exploitation of women. However, for the purposes of this conversation, I would just ask that you live the belief that EVERY woman and EVERY girl is valuable and to be respected. Sometimes the danger here is that your words and choices don’t match. Words that take the high road are proven fraudulent by choices that exploit and denigrate. And – as a bonus – if you want to insist he open doors and pull out chairs and give up his seat to a woman on a crowded subway, I won’t be mad about it. I’ll worry about making him an activist later… 🙂
Make him a lifelong adventurer. Do dangerous dude things that are exhilarating and challenging. We believe the desire to burn stuff and blow things up and climb stuff and shoot stuff is innate to man-ness. As much a cord of his makeup as the network of vessels that keep him alive. Responsibility can gradually tug on slack in that strand and over time completely unravel his sense of adventure. We don’t want that for him. Boredom in marriage is dangerous, so let’s instill in our people a wonder and a courage and an appreciation for adventuring together.
Demonstrate leadership as a posture not a position. A leader who believes his authority comes from his position as the leader is quite susceptible to tyranny. A leader who recognizes his position as an opportunity to serve and help and nurture and foster has influence over many glad followers.
Be certain he knows what you love most. This is the easiest of them all. Without a doubt he will know the answer. If a third party were to ask, “What does your dad love most?” he will have a response. We hope his reply is about that well-known carpenter who’s so important to us…

surfing

Thank you for doing the good work of dadding. What a weight to steward……parenting today affects marriages tomorrow! We feel ya, man. Rock the next decade of your father business, and we look forward to fighting over grandchildren and family holidays one day down the road.

Just kidding…

Or not so much.

[ Images: Filter Collective, Gil, and Steve Simmonds]

March

When Your Personality Is a Liability to Your Kids…

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It was Monday, April 14, 2014. The first official day of Spring Break, and I did what any ambitious, sanity-valuing mama would have done. I made peace with reality (aka, if-we-tarry-in-this-place-we-will-be-homicidal-by-2:00), stuck one eyeball through a slat in the blinds and saw sunshine. “We’re going to the beach!” I chirped.

I welcomed a smile into my soul and grabbed the beach bag from the closet, shaking last year’s sunscreen to assess our supply. I confirmed that our baby powder – in its cloudy Ziploc – was still in place and haphazardly grabbed snacks and juice boxes and beach towels and made haste for our departure.

// Time Out: Baby powder is the supreme sand removal agent at the end of a beach day. Carry on with your lives, people. //

The girls’ lukewarm response could not diminish my internal horn-tootin’. Their shortsightedness could not see the harrowing pitfalls of staying at home. My seasoned sensibilities knew the danger. “This is brilliant!” I self-congratulated.

Not wanting to lose momentum, I enlisted Chris’ help clothing the people, loading and gassing the Jeep.

“You want me to put the top up?”

“What kind of question is that? Absolutely not. We want the top down for the beach…” I replied with one eyebrow raised in indignation. I pursed my lips and shook my head at the thought as I entered the closet for a cover-up.

In record time for a morning-averse family, we were in reverse down the driveway. We stopped for an absurd length of time to capture this special moment (and seventeen other very similar special moments just before this one)…

family Jeep pic

Cookie, you are the real MVP of parenting, I gushed as I released the clutch and sped away.

As we crested the overpass just outside our neighborhood, Campbell belted over the gale, “Mama, I’m cold.” As the roofline of our house grew faint in the distance, I cranked the heater and assured her it was all part of the fun.

I repeatedly punched the radio button, insistent on dialing up some vintage country for the occasion. “Mom, do we have to listen to this?” Carson groused.

Unfazed I was.

If I lead with positivity, they will eventually succumb to the merriment of the day, I rallied with a mental fist bump.

About the time we passed the bank, I noticed a down comforter of complete cloud cover. I dared not state the unfortunate and obvious but felt certain the sun was working its magic on the coast. Regardless of how it treats us inland folks, it’s obligated to play nice at the beach….especially during Spring Break.

As we headed east, I nailed the accelerator to the floor as the wind buffeted us for our hour and a half drive. Campbell, with no protection from the battering, regularly registered her displeasure.

“We’ll be there soon, and you can ride in the front on the way home, ” I leveraged.

Once I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw her flapping behind us from the roll bar. She appeared to have a tight grasp, so I kept driving. Press on, sister. Perseverance is a virtue.

When we arrived I cruised the strip in search of a public access with parking, rejecting a dozen or so for one deficiency or another. Too crowded. No available parking. Sketchy surroundings. I finally chose one.

No restroom. 4231347208_c0f2e98461_o

No shower.

No restaurants or stores in sight.

Obviously, I was winning the day.

A dense meringue concealed the sun, but there was still the sand and the surf. There was still fun to be had.

And what fun we had!

For seven and a half minutes.

“We’re bored. We want to go home.”

I had no hearing for such nonsense. “We just got here. Go make some friends; build a sand castle and moat. Jump the waves with your sister. Collect cool shells in one of our buckets.” I was full of ideas.

“Mom, this is ridiculous. The sun’s not even shining, and we’re cold.”

“We’re not leaving,” I resolutely announced as I tilted my chin skyward, leaning my head against the chair. Eyes closed behind my shades, basking in the dingy cloudiness. You can still get a tan on an overcast day, you know.

I was committed to the mission. Fun was no longer a consideration; it was all about completion.

An hour and a half later, the heavy grey rolled in, and fat raindrops peppered the sand. “Grab everything quickly and run to the Jeep; if we hurry we can probably get ahead of the rain,” I yelled.

Have I failed to mention that I had NO IDEA how to put the top up on the Jeep? My plan was to outrun the afternoon storm. We layered any source of dry warmth, rolled the windows up, blared the heat, and tore westward. Racing the rain. We were golden.

For seven and a half miles.

Traffic stopped. We were gridlocked in the center lane. People to our right stared. People to our left stared. I smiled at them as though we were not stranded inside a mobile aquarium. The girls……..they did not smile at them. Carson looked over at a disturbed passerby and mouthed, “Adopt me.”

Ride or die, ladies.

YOLO.

No pain, no gain.

Life is like a box of chocolates.

All about that Jeep life.

You’re never fully dressed without a smile.

I mean, how many clichés could we live in one day?

I didn’t pull off to find shelter. I didn’t stop at a gas station to find someone to pull the top up. I didn’t take us to a mall or a movie until the rain passed. I gave no moment’s thought to formulating Plan B. That’s not what I do. I get a thing in my head and all else becomes background noise.

Hyper-focus gone crooked.

I did allow the girls to persuade me to stop at my parents’ – about halfway through our disastrous return – for dry clothes and Papa’s Jeep expertise.

Once we were home, a dry though sour Campbell commented on my Instagram post of the picture above:

“Werst trip ever.”

Carson was probably in her room trying to call DHEC or the Department of Social Security (as she frequently threatens) for my dogged inflexibility.

I have a problem.

And the worst part………I have replicated myself.

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Reproduce responsibly, people.

silly girl edit

[Images: Brittni Gee Photography, Vanessa Myers, and Ame Rainey]

March

The Plot Twist of Chapter 42…

Kristen on the Mountain

I’m pretty sure there comes a time we have to make peace with our mortality. Not in a morbid, fearful way. But in a richness that seasons how we spend our breath.

I am there.

———-

The morning was early. The sky was black with sleep and quiet. We sped down the ramp onto an I-385 awash in fluorescent lamplight. The windows down; the music deafening. Our smiles as wide as the road was long.

“WE ARE INVINCIBLE!” we bellowed to the irritated night.

Two university girls inoculated with independence and youth. Because death lived a million miles away.

My claims at invincibility have long been disproven. The prosecutor of time has won his case. After enduring the evidence debunking my assertion, I was sentenced to adulthood. It’s been a pretty civil gig; some of the guards (aka, Metabolism, Wrinkles, Gray, and Mammograms) can have a prickle about their way but they keep me in line. They smirk wryly and whisper, “Time is short.”

The years may have altered what they can see, but I’ve kept a rebel’s fire lit in my soul. Their grim declaration is but an invitation to live. To really live. To drive-the-car-30-miles-past-empty live.

———-

At best, I’m probably half way done. And, you know what? I like it here. During the era of invincibility, I thought little of wasting time and opportunity. They were abundant commodities; you remember the law of supply and demand from economics class.

As the supply of time decreases, its value increases.

So I made a list of things I’d like to do before I cash in my chips:

Milk a cow
Live downtown in a major city
Spend at least one night at a cool place in each state
Ride in a hot air balloon
Have long hair again
Attend the Kentucky Derby
Visit a synagogue
Speak in the auditorium at North Greenville University (the room where I gave my life to Jesus)
Publish a book
Pay off a house
Get my CWP
Open a transition home for formerly incarcerated women
Have a piece published in Southern Living
Lead a ministry that lasts longer than I do
Run 5 half marathons before I am 50
Leave someone a $100 tip
Take a silent retreat at a convent
Vacation on a dude ranch
Get a Bible degree

And I remembered that one of my favorite things in all of the Bible happens in a Chapter 42. Check it out.

I’m 42, and I want that.

I started training for a half marathon even though I had packed on 20 pounds during a bout with depression.

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It wasn’t pretty, friends. No, siree.

The new year rolled around about a month or so into my training, and I committed to a theme for the year.

#TakingItAllBack. You see, I believe there is an enemy of my soul. And all of my life, he’s worked to sideline me for good. Being molested as a five year-old was part of that plan. For a good chunk of time, I put up no fight as his tactics looked a lot like fun. His most aggressive assault was three years ago. He’s taken a lot from me, and to be quite frank, I’ve willingly given him a lot too. But this year, I’m reclaiming ground the Lord has already won. Taking it all back. Chapter 42.

Race training was brutal. My mind game was usually off. I abhor winter. And….let’s just say, I’m not very aerodynamic. I couldn’t complete my 7 or 8 mile runs on the first attempts. And the longest distance I ever ran was 9.2 (my training schedule called for at least 10).

The race was this past Saturday. It wasn’t pretty friends. No, sirree.

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I trained at a 10 min/mile pace but clocked an 11 min/mile race pace. I’m not jazzed about the time (2:23:40), and the last two miles were miserable. The leg muscles weren’t keen on having continuously repeated the same movement for two solid hours.

Ugly.

But, you know what? I finished. I didn’t walk one step of it. I ran my race.

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———-

And I had my own cheering section.

I am a blubbering mess right here in my swivel desk chair.

Weeping.

Y’all. My people will never know how they put fight in me. What a depiction of how life should be – doing the hard thing while people who love you cheer you on.

Still weeping.

I don’t care if you’re 13 or 31 or 73; today is a beautiful gift. Breath is a treasure. Time is in short supply.

LIVE.

#TakeItAllBack

Run your race. It doesn’t have to be pretty. Or perfect. Or even close to that.

Because. Chapter 42.

Roll down your windows, blare the music, smile crazy big, and bellow to the irritated night, “THIS IS LIVING!”

PS – My CWP class is next weekend.

[Feature Image: Jake Bellucci]

March

Leading Lady: Can A Woman Be A Leader?

woman in leadership

You better believe it.

This isn’t a statement about the presidential candidates, so no worries. Though I just want to offer that I would have no business being in charge of the mythical red phone or red button that could launch complete annihilation. My hormonal imbalance could not handle such responsibility. Just keeping it candid right here.

I mean to dig into the messaging – particularly in church culture – that tacitly suggests women aren’t designed to lead. That we aren’t wired to be leaders.

I take issue with that.

I remember all too well one of my early leadership gaffes. I was hosting my first event as the Discipleship Director at my church, and I did not have the database code I needed to check people into the class as they arrived. I had rehearsed every detail, thought about pens and drinks and ice and napkins and chairs and volunteers and trash cans and sound and decor and tablecloths. But I couldn’t admit people. The line began to back up at the four computers, and I officially freaked. Wholly spazzed out right there. The attendees were getting fidgety as the line spilled out the door onto the sidewalk. I am currently sweating and shaking my hands, recounting the debacle. I was running to and fro between computers, calling and messaging people three hours away all at once.

A colleague was assisting me, and I was quite peeved by his apparent nonchalance about the FREAKING MAYHEM OF THE MOMENT! He eventually solved the issue and the class rolled on, starting a bit later than scheduled.

I was devastated.

female leaders

I later apologized to my co-worker for my oversight, and in his response he taught me one of the most valuable leadership lessons. He said, “Everybody picked up on your panic and they responded accordingly. Your volunteers panicked with you. Your guests registered restlessness and concern in response to you. As the leader you have a lot of influence over how others around you react to the environment and the circumstances.”

I’ve never forgotten his wisdom from that mistake.

While I had a lot to learn about leading well, I fell in love with building a team and making magic happen. We all hunger to be part of something larger than ourselves and leading allows that. When we can assemble gifted people, rally them around a vision, and empower them to do what they do best, MAGIC HAPPENS. It’s exhilarating.

The last fifteen years as an educator, a mom, and a ministry leader have awarded their own education in leadership, and many of those lessons have been specific to leading as a woman. I recently had the opportunity to share many of those lessons in an article entitled, “The Challenges of Leading as a Woman.”

Click here to check it out.

[Images: Military Health, Kompentenzzentrum Frau und Beruf]

February

If I Were Homeless…

homeless

I do this thing where I search for places to sleep if I were homeless. My children are less disturbed than when I initially began sharing “If I were homeless…” plots. Last week I ran under an overpass and caught myself inspecting its potential for shelter from the rain and cold.

This preoccupation with my own imagined homelessness began when I was driving a minor road in a shopping area of town. The road was bordered by a dense swath of trees, thick with foliage and brush. I peered in, hoping to be treated to some trinket of nature. A woodpecker. A lone wildflower. A cautious rabbit.

Instead I saw a tent.

My mind clothes-pinned the image to my consciousness. Who lives there? Where did he get the tent? Why is he homeless? But, more than anything, I was moved by his choice of location. These were woods in the heart of our commercial district, hemmed in by the interstate. Maybe he thought the site insured people nearby and was too urban for animals of a ferocious bent. That would have been my line of thought too. Something about that fabrication left me feeling connected to the unseen inhabitant of that khaki canvas.

Now I sometimes imagine what I would look like a month unshowered. I see dirt caked under my nails and my long, thick hair heavy with oil. I run my tongue across my teeth, hairy with a warm film of bacteria, coated by the thick saliva of dehydration. I take the rancid stench of a hard run and multiply it by thirty and apply it to me and my brownish clothes baggy with constant wear.

And I imagine what that would do to me.

Interestingly, I am always homeless alone. My imagination cannot allow homeless children…

homeless mom

—————

I sit across from a female inmate, and her story is heavy with us. Even though I don’t know it. I don’t ask. We are both aware of its effect, even if the specifics remain unnamed.

To be honest, I don’t ask because I am afraid that knowing will break me.

So we live in that hour. That present. Where all I know to do is smile and hug and love and encourage and share Truth and hope and most of all Jesus. And many of them smile and hug and love and encourage back which makes it amazing grace.

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to be born to a young mama addicted to heroin.

Or to have her boyfriend amuse himself by holding lit cigarettes to my tender skin.

To have no memory of ever being pure.

To awaken to gunshots.

To grow up with a hollowed out soul.

And I imagine what that would do to me.

meth addict

—————

“Why NOT me?”

I did nothing to deserve the advantage of my birth. Of my circumstances.

Nothing.

Sometimes I think we congratulate ourselves on living a wholesome middle-class life. But, really, to what credit is that to us?

Bless us, we’ll call having basic cable a deprivation and consignment shopping a brush with humility.

I’m not trying to bang the guilt drum; I’m really not. And if I were, I’d be the greatest offender.

But there is something I’m after.

Can we all acknowledge that a high school diploma in one child’s life, given his circumstances, may be a greater achievement than three college degrees earned by a child of affluence?
Can we grasp that the child whose only meals happen at school may not legitimately care about the order of operations in math class?
Can we understand that children who grow up with addict parents may not exhibit the same behavior we deem acceptable?

We are not all born into equal circumstances.

We don’t all have the same chance for success.

But the playing field of grace should be level, Church. Disparity has no place here.

We know little of fighting for a future.

But the pathway of judgment and complacency is well-worn.

We want our homeless people clean and happy, educated and with nice manners. We want children without functioning parents to know appropriate behavior and how to make responsible choices. We want people who live in abject poverty to see the value of working a minimum wage job instead of turning a quick trick or sale. Honesty doesn’t always feed a growling stomach or put shoes on a little boy’s feet.

If we can’t give anything, we can give grace.

I am not making excuses. I think crimes should be punished. I don’t have the answers. But I believe God is clear about His heart here, and it involves a lot of love and a lot of compassion and a lot of help. And it begins when we unzip the insulation of privilege around our own hearts…

For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.’

“Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing? When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’

“And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’ – Matthew 25:35-40

…and dispense a lot of grace.

A dogged, tenacious grace.

[Images: Karim Corban, Wayne S. Grazio, Thomas Hawk]