Why I'd invite Shamima Begum to live in my house.

 I live with three teenagers.

That means I also live with the glorious ideals of three teenagers who are. always. right.

My teenagers have a relatively stable home (throw in the odd shouty-mum moment) and they enjoy the privilege of being white and middle class.  They don't face racism every day.  They don't have to work extra hard to be given their place in society.  They just exist and it's given to them on a plate.

But they still love their ideals.  And the debates in our house range from LGBTQ+ rights to FGM to the legalisation of cannabis.  Their opinions are strong.

But so was I at their age.  These days my views, like my hair, are far greyer.

It's normal for teenagers to throw themselves, passionately and wholeheartedly into an ideal and act on it.  Most of us have, and regretted it later.  It's how our brains develop.

Imagine then, a teenager with this developing brain, being systematically groomed by a group with very strong, very attractive ideals.  This teenager hasn't had the privileges my boys have had.  She's faced inequality, covert and overt racism and injustice whilst growing up as a British muslim.  The groomers point all this out to her, telling her she's justified in fighting back.  They understand how she feels when nobody else does.  They can use her to fight for the cause.  She'll have purpose.  She will have ideals.  She is needed.  Little by little, her developing brain is changed by these infiltrating messages.  Grooming changes the brain.  It's a known fact.

It's not even subtle.  They weedle their way into her brain, exploiting her background and her teenage development.  Until eventually, she's all in.

And, at just 15 years old, she boards a flight to Syria.

In law, human trafficking must have three elements:

• The Act (recruiting, selecting, transporting, harbouring of a person)
• The Means (through force, coercion, deception, fraud etc)
• The Purpose (for forced labour, sexual exploitation, forced marriage, domestic servitude, organ harvesting, criminal exploitation)

I'm no expert on Shamima Begum's case but it smells strongly of human trafficking to me.  

Shamima was selected, recruited, groomed and deceived into joining ISIS in order to be married off, sexually and criminally exploited.

The level of trauma she will have both witnessed and endured is beyond our white middle-class imaginings.  Her brain development will have taken a huge hit.  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is highly likely.  She might not even be able to remember all she has seen and done whilst an active member of ISIS.  Now separated from her family, living with this trauma, she finds herself stateless and living in a camp.  At only 21 years old, she has experienced the grief of losing three babies, losing friends and family and losing her citizenship.

I hear your murmurs about this being her choice...

But remember how the developing teenage brain works?  Which of us made choices in our teen years that we later realised were the wrong choices?  And remember how grooming changed her brain?  We can, perhaps, argue that she had no choice in this at all.  She was swept along in the excitement, endorphins and purpose of fighting for those she cared about - whatever the cost.

What would we offer to other young adults in her predicament right now?

Stability

Support

Therapy

Family and community

And this is why I, as a mum of teenagers and a host of survivors of human trafficking in the UK, would invite Shamima Begum into my home.  

I can't change all that she's been through.  I can't heal the wounds or her regrets.  I can't stop the nightmares and the flashbacks.  I can't take away any of the shame she may be feeling.  I can't bring back her precious babies.

But I could show her acceptance while she heals.  I could show her that there are people who love her, despite her mistakes - however huge they might be.  I could give her the stability of somewhere safe to sleep at night that isn't patrolled by gunmen, three meals a day and the odd dog walk in the sunshine.  I could play games with her, showing her that it's okay to laugh again.  

I know that Shamima Begum probably won't ever end up in my kitchen, but I'd like to think that if there were others like her; groomed, exploited, with a history of criminal behaviour, I would be able to welcome them to my tribe.  

Expelling people is never the answer.

Welcoming them, is.

An Introvert's Lockdown

I have to admit that I enjoy some aspects of lockdown.

Unlike my extrovert husband who is so desperate for conversation that the poor man fixing the shower was barely able to get on with his job because my husband kept interrupting him for a chat.

He is going slightly crazy without human interaction.

I, on the other hand, am enjoying wearing my 'day pyjamas' every day, pulling on old muddy jeans for dog walks and then changing again when I arrive home.  I can't remember the last time I wore proper clothes.  I only brush my hair once a week, if that, usually either wearing a hat indoors (yes, our house is that cold) or scraping my hair back into a messy ponytail.  

I love the relief of not having the make excuses about why I don't want to go out or the guilt of making plans and then cancelling them at the last minute because I'm just too peopled out.

I love the fact that I can only leave the house once a day, and that's for a dog walk.

And although zoom calls highlight my triple chins and can drain me like our leaky gutters, I love that I can be in my day pyjamas, wonderwoman beanie hat and slippers and I don't have to travel anywhere.  I love the authenticity of it all.

But, even I, am now finding lockdown tough.  There are so many things I miss.  And they might be different to the things my extrovert husband misses.

Children.  

I know this makes me sound a little bit weird.

But when you are only surrounded by teenagers who regularly roll their cynical all-knowing eyes at you and comment on how childish you are for laughing at a video of a hippo flicking his poo everywhere with his tail (if you know, you know) then you realise how much you miss the delight and innocence of littlies.  

In The Before, I would meet with my church family every week.  I could chat with the littlies about dinosaurs, building snowmen and the tooth fairy.  And they'd laugh with me about farts and bogeys.  These days I just have to giggle to myself and endure the withering-teenage-looks.

An Empty House

Oh my goodness, how I LONG for an empty house.

In The Before, my husband would enjoy travelling, my boys would be out at school or with friends and I sometimes had several hours of an empty house.  

No interruptions.

Nobody asking me 'Mum, have you seen my phone charger?' or 'Mum, what's wrong with the wifi?'

No loud, blaring music from different rooms in the house.

No tinny squeak of video-watching.

No x-box game shouting.

These days, The Noise invades EVERYTHING.  

A Clean Kitchen

Sometimes our dishwasher is loaded and unloaded THREE TIMES a day.  

It makes no difference how often we clear the kitchen of the locust-debris, half an hour later someone is cooking again. 

The pans, plates, bowls, cups, empty pizza boxes and pot noodle pots just never stop piling up.  And when we come downstairs in the mornings, it sometimes looks as though our fridge, freezer and cupboards have been pillaged.

At least these days the locusts mostly pile up their empties in the vague direction of the sink.  

In The Before, we could actually see the kitchen worktops.  We'd clear up after our evening meal and it generally stayed that way for several hours.  The dishwasher was only used once a day.  The recycling mountain didn't need to be flattened every day.

These days?  Not so much.

Hugs

I haven't ever gone this long without hugging my Mum and Dad.  And on the rare occasions when we do see them, it feels wrong not to hug them.

And there are other people too whose hugs just bring relief, healing, the chance to breath out and for a second feel like everything is going to be ok.

In The Before, I was a hugger.  I touched people a lot.  (Oh, I'm sounding weird again)  Hello hugs, Goodbye hugs, Celebration hugs, I'm Your Friend hugs, I Know You're Sad hugs, It's Going To Be Ok hugs, You Can Cry On Me hugs and I'm Going To Cry On You hugs.  

So. Many. Hugs.

And I miss them.  I have a husband who hugs me and one son who finds me wherever I am in the house wraps his arms around me when he wakes up in the mornings  afternoons, so I am grateful.  (The two other sons are currently ironing-board-huggers but even they don't escape my octopus hugging arms sometimes).

But still, there are so many people I miss hugging.

The Sea

Our family life over the last few years hasn't been easy.  

In The Before, I had just discovered the relief and need of time away.  And one of the places I love to find that respite and soul-healing is by the sea.

Not only do we probably live the furthest away from any possible coastal area, but not being able to travel has meant that I can't see the sea with it's fresh, salty air, hope-filled horizons, stretches of sand and the relief of the endless in-and-out-waves.

Staring at the sea changes my perspective on life.  My soul misses this.

I'm making sure to enjoy my simple pleasures of my comfy day pyjamas, mornings cups of tea in the quiet, sleeping house and dog walks in the fresh air and occasional sunshine.  

But when I can hug again, you'd better prepare yourselves.

Blame

 Maybe this is too similar to my last blog musings, several months ago.  

Maybe I still need to hear it.

Maybe you still need to hear it too.

There is a Christian tradition of blame.  There, I've said it.  We all know it isn't biblical, but we do it anyway.  Especially if your children 'go off the rails'.  It must be our fault, somehow.  We must have raised them wrong.  There is even a charity that holds workshops and writes books to help parents 'raise kids without them hating God'.  

So, by default, if your kids do hate / question / ignore / disbelieve God, you must have raised them wrong?

Maybe I should have read that book 15 years ago.  

Or maybe, just maybe, it's not my fault.

(And as an aside, if you have kids who are still on the God-path, don't let blame creep into your heart for the Mums like me.  Please.  We have enough disappointment and sorrow to deal with already.  Tell us we are good parents.  Pray with us and for us.  Pray for our kids.  Send us flowers.  But don't give us a book on 'how to raise your kids without them hating God'.  Because its not our fault.)

I was (and still am) a bloody good Mum.  I did the whole Christian-mum thing.  If you read my last blog, you can see for yourself.  I'm not going to start defending myself here.

I haven't 'turned them off God' or made life choices that have caused my boys to live the way they are living.  Poor mental health in my child is not my fault.  God isn't punishing me in some malevolent, revenge-filled way for the times I shouted at my boys or locked myself in the bathroom for some peace (and chocolate).  God hasn't doled out 'justice' to me for those dark, post-natal depression years when I couldn't even feel love for my child.  

God. Doesn't. Blame. Me.

So I shouldn't blame myself either.

And I shouldn't accept the default position of Christian tradition that whispers into my heart all my failings as a mum.

It's simply not true.

I can't change my boys' lifestyle choices.  At 19 and almost 17, they are young men with their faces set towards a whole world of adventure ahead of them.  I've done the groundwork.  I've helped to dig their foundations.  Exhausting and grueling it may have been, but that digging was good.  Their foundations are full of love, acceptance, grace and truth.  And now it's up to them to build the rest of their lives.  

Of course my mum-heart grieves.  Their rejection of all that I hold close to my heart is painful.  Debilitating sometimes.  Their blasting sweary music that celebrates violence and crime.  The smell of tobacco and cannabis.  The noisy nocturnal lives that they lead.  The debates we have with them over the nature of God (how can He really be good?).  The way they sleep all Sunday mornings instead of joining to gather with our church family.  I know that ultimately this path they have chosen will not bring them the fulfilling joy they are seeking.

Mums always want the best for their children.  And this isn't the best.

And do you know something?  I'm still proud of them.  I'm proud of the men they are becoming.  I'm proud of the way they think about their choices.  I love their humour.  I love how they are changing me, shoving me into a life of not judging but accepting.  I'm proud of the way they protect and cherish me.  I squeeze every last joy-drop of hanging out with them.  They make my heart smile too.

But I have to leave them with my Jesus, who promises to redeem.

My Jesus grieves with me too.

He weeps when I weep.

And he hears my prayers; my heart-murmurs, my shouts, my stomps around their bedrooms, my whispers, my groans and my tears full of unsaid words.  He hears it all.  And he's not ignoring me.

He sits in the shit with me.  His heart for my boys laments right along with mine.

And, let me just say it again for good measure.

God. Doesn't. Blame. Me.

So, I accept where we are now and I sit in the shit with Jesus.  I allow myself to feel instead of rushing past the emotions and declaring it's not real.  I don't pretend.  

I cling with every last bitten fingernail on to that faith-hope that tells me my Jesus will redeem this.

His love pursues them.

His goodness and mercy follow them all the days of their lives.  Even when I can't.  Even when they turn the tracker off their phones and disappear off on a bike.  

My boy who is 'stuck' and trapped by his poor mental health will not be a prisoner forever.  This heart-pain will not last.  

My Jesus is already on the case.  And I don't have to do anything to make this happen.

I wait for his rescue.

I wait for his redemption.

And I allow the whispers that tell my heart I'm a good mum to drown out the accusations of blame.  

It's not the end.

Train a child in the way they should go....

I don't know who else needs to hear this today, but this verse from Proverbs 22 isn't condemning you:

"Train a child in the way they should go and when they are old they will not depart from it."

Here's what it's not saying:

This proverb is not a magic formula.  

It's not a prosperity gospel - do this and all these amazing things will happen.

How do I know this?

Because I need to hear this too.

Here's what we did:

👉Daily family morning bible and prayer times

👉Teaching our boys to pray and listen to God

👉Seeing the sick healed

👉Telling others about Jesus

👉Memory verses

👉Instrument-learning for worship times

👉Encouraging them to engage during church meetings

👉Going to God first whenever there's a problem

👉Seeing God answer prayers - huge ones too

👉Experiencing the weight and heavy glory of the presence of God.

Here's what we also did:

👉Teaching them to question and find answers for themselves

👉Teaching them to take risks and succeed or fail well

👉Giving them choices and helping them to make wise ones

👉Accept and love them when they're not so wise

And this has led to them asking their own questions about faith and the world.  

It's led to them making their own choices, which aren't the ones we'd hoped for.  

They've made mistakes.

They are their own people, with their own thoughts and values.

Watching this can be crushingly disappointing.  

The fear can be paralysing.  

The internal accusations never-ending.

But isn't this how Father God parents us?

He didn't make us robotic, following sets of rules and loving him because we have to.

He gave us choices.  He made us free. Our lives are messy.  We make mistakes.  We do things in ways that grieve his heart.  We find the real meaning of grace when we discover that we are still accepted and loved by him, despite our choices.  And in the end, we love him because we choose to not because we have to.

So, if you're in this shitty gritty season of watching your babies who used to sing and pray in church now reject all those things you taught them....

Well done.

Because you've trained people who are thinking for themselves.

You have taught them how to make choices, how to mess up, how to be real.

You've succeeded in giving them the freedom to find out what they really believe about the world.

Every time you tell them you love them or find a way to encourage them, you are modelling grace and love and acceptance to them.

You are rocking it.  

When you can't force social distancing...

I am mum to one almost-teenager and two teenagers.

One of these teenagers is very complex.

As well as ADHD, he also has something called Oppositional Defiance Disorder.

I know what you’re thinking, because I used to think the same thing.

It’s just another term for ‘naughty, undisciplined, badly parented’.

Until I realised that my parenting seemed to be vaguely successful with my other two children.

Not this one though.

Tell him that something is off limits, and he’ll be there in a heartbeat.

Say no and he’ll go ahead anyway.

Give a consequence and he won’t care.

He’s not just naughty and undisciplined.  In fact, he more disciplined than any of the others.  It just doesn’t seem to make any difference.

So, having a teenager (think ‘no fear, risk-loving, rebellious, self-centred) combined with ODD (think off-the-charts-actually-you-probably-can’t-even-imagine-it) when the government give guidelines to stay at home and social distance from each other means that my life over the last few days has been pretty shit (excuse the language, but this is how we roll these days - #likersgonnalike #hatersgonnahate and all that).

If you see a teenager out and about right now, please don’t judge the parents.  If they are anything like us, they will have attempted Every. Single. Known. Way. of explaining the situation to their teen and it will have, quite literally, gone through their selfish ears and out again before you can even cough.

“What if you try to stop him at the door?” you might ask.

He would actually punch us. 

“What if you locked him in his bedroom, or locked the front door?”

He would jump out of the window.  He’s done it before.

So, we know we all have to ‘to do our bit’ and we really are doing our best here.

We know that we have to flatten the curve and protect the invaluable NHS.

We know that saving lives is vital.

But please don’t judge us because our teenager is out and about.

And please don’t give us any parenting advice.  We’ve had more advice than you can stockpile toilet roll.

We know he shouldn’t be out.

We don’t know how to stop him.

Please be kind.

Just be kind.

When courage doesn't feel courageous.

Last summer we had a sunshiney family holiday.  Incredibly we were able to go to Santorini in Greece and we loved the water, the heat and, of course, the food.

As a treat, we booked a day out on a boat to visit the local hot springs, tour the beautiful island and jump in and out of the sea.

The trouble is, I don't really like jumping into water.  The rest of my family seem to be able to fling themselves into water from any angle possible.  Not me.  It's too scary.

So I spent the few days leading up to the boat trip practicing.  I jumped into the swimming pool, first of all with my lovely Jonah there to pull me up in case anything went wrong.  Then, as I was more confident, I managed to jump without anyone there at all.

When we finally reached the big day, I was determined.  As expected, the boys spent the whole day backflipping, somersaulting, pushing and dive bombing into the sea.  

I mostly (ungracefully) climbed down the ladder on the side of the boat.  Until we reached the hot springs.  I wanted to be able to jump in.  I knew it would be safe (ish).  Jared was next to me.  But as I stared at the water, it felt like an enormous drop.  I was scared.  So, instead of jumping, I took a step off the boat and slid into the water.  It wasn't very ladylike and I resurfaced spluttering.

But I did it.  

And that's how courage feels.

I wasn't feeling full of energy.

I didn't have the 'ooomph' and 'pump' to do it.

I was still scared, even though I'd practiced.

The water looked too deep.

My brain was telling me not to do it.

I didn't know how it would end.

I wasn't feeling like Wonderwoman.

But the Disney and Pixar version of courage isn't real.  To have all you need before you make that scary jump just is fictional.

Courage is making the jump anyway.

Courage is waking up each morning, without knowing all the answers, but getting out of bed anyway.

Courage is loving that person who can't return your love at the moment.

Courage is crying and wobbling, but going ahead with the decision you've made.

Courage is knocking on a door and not knowing what's on the other side.

Courage is saying no when you can't do it all.

Courage is taking the scary feelings, piling them out in front of you and then stepping over the pile.

Courage sometimes means we resurface spluttering.

Courage doesn't ignore the 'you can't' words.  Sometimes courage takes those words along on the ride.

Courage is persevering when everything inside wants to give up.

Courage does not feel all the Hollywood feels.  

Its a tiny stubborn spark of determination that, despite the reality of the circumstances, propels you to make that jump.

Post-Christmas Musings

And so we come to the end of another Christmas. 
The decorations are down (sigh of relief) and the choccies are all gone (love/hate feelings...).

I decided to set my expectations low for Christmas this year, knowing that in the past I have seriously believed that my family could be the same as the perfect ones on the telly and then being bitterly disappointed when someone threw someone else's toothbrush out of the window or someone else used all of someone's lynx to light their own farts.

Some people may think this is a pessimistic way to approach the holidays.  I prefer to believe it is realistic.  I kept everything extremely simple. No baking, no home-made decorations, no bible-versed advent calendars at breakfast and even no turkey! And it worked. 

Rather than look back over the last couple of weeks and feel weary and discouraged because we didn't all play instruments together for our own family Carol Service (seriously, I made them do this more than once) or manage a 10 mile hike up the nearest hills on Boxing Day, I can actually point to several triumphs of our time together. 

So, for my own benefit mostly but also in case it encourages you, here are my 2019 Christmas triumphs:

1. We played a game all together without anyone falling out.  No board-throwing across the room.  No stomping out and slamming doors.  There was laughter, banter and even the occasional encouragement!  It was a Christmas miracle and one that this mum's heart will treasure.

2.  Christmas Dinner was enjoyed by all.  Instead of turkey, we had bought a few different smaller joints of meat and we created a carvery.  Everyone chose their own food and piled it on their plates. This meant that they ate the lot and if you've ever seen my face when food is wasted, you will know that this pleases my little soul immensely.

3.  We slept.  Thankfully long gone are the days of waking up in the middle of the night with little ones.  These days it's the other way round as we are awake late waiting for the big ones to come home. But having two weeks off work meant that we could sleep in late each morning.  And it was delightfully decadent.

4.  We had chance to re-connect.  Without the pressures of school and work, the reminders to do homework, the checking for letters in bags, making sure everyone is where they need to be at the right times, we could all relax and remember why we actually like each other.  Time spent chatting about the important life stuff meant that we could appreciate each others' hearts again.  Realising that, whilst they make choices I don't always agree with, my older two young men have minds and thoughts of their own gave me a fresh gratitude for them and the way they think.


I'm not the kind of person who makes New Year's Resolutions.  (Apart from one year when I resolved not to look for anyone's stuff anymore.  It worked, by the way.  I still don't look for their apparently lost stuff unless they are desperate.  It's usually right in front of them.)  So, I won't harp on about goals for the year.  But 2020 is going to be a year of change for our family with one boy completing GCSE's and leaving school and another boy completing 'A' Levels and heading off to University.  My plan is to be a mum who chats.  I want to make time to chat over after-school snacks three-course-meals.  I want to accept and not judge.  I want to be an ear to help them process the stuff of life. 

I'm bracing myself, yet again, for, well, I don't quite know what for. 
But life moves forwards, and so must we.