A few days ago, my brother wrote about the infamous car rides we endured as kids. I did not like riding in the car with my family very much. First, as the brother mentions, I got car sick a lot (a lot). Second, more than likely, I was going to a place I had not personally chosen to go to. Third, it was the place where all bets were off. We were either late going somewhere, or we were just tired and cranky returning from somewhere. And we fought. Sometimes, things would get so intense inside that car, that the parental unit would pull over, and make the biggest troublemaker of the moment get out of the car and walk a few blocks.
While it was somewhat amusing to remember those times and think about how ridiculous all of that must have looked, there was something in the story that really bugged me. In the middle of one of those not-so-happy moments, my brother was asked to change seats and complained, "this isn't fair!" I replied to his complaint with a snark "Life is not fair." Reading my reply to his frustration made me feel very uncomfortable, because I know exactly where that reply came from.
I had a very special place within my family. I was the first born daughter. My parents lost three pregnancies after I was born, so for five solid years, I was it. Then, after three high-risk and very awaited pregnancies, three baby boys were born. By the time the third brother was born, I had a secured spot in firstborn-and-only-daughter hierarchy. Yup, I was a daddy's girl.
On top of that was the fact that I had also been born to a very intelligent evangelical feminist. My mother was a preacher who did not conform to social or cultural stereotypes, and nobody-will-ever-put-you-my-baby-girl-in-the-corner was pretty much how she went about me.
And that was the place where the 'life is not fair' reply came from. At some point, I became so convinced that whatever special treatment I had within my family, I had earned it. In fact, technically, I had been born with it. In many different circumstances, I had it easier than the brothers. A lot of times it was out of the aforementioned dynamics. Other times, it was just because I was in a different season of life. However, as I look back at that scene in the car, I have been mulling over the same question in the past few days, 'Why didn't I offer up my seat?' Because I was entitled to my comfortable spot.
Let the brothers fight, cry, and complain about their unlucky current state. Not my problem. Let them continue being uncomfortable. Let them continue to fight each other. Let them continue having the smaller bedroom. Let them continue being bullied. Because, yes, life isn't fair, and it is currently tilted in my favor, and I don't want to risk losing.
My parents carved a special place for me in the family. They did it out of love and a deep conviction of what Kingdom life looks like. I imagine them as the young couple they were, fresh out of seminary, working full-time at a church. I imagine them holding their new baby girl. I imagine my mom, knowing about all the stories she hears, thinking of how her jaw clenches and her own skin gets tight when she sees women being treated as less worthy because of their gender. I imagine my dad thinking of his own mom, the only daughter in a family of seven boys, and all the pain she's suffered, because she was the girl. And I imagine them thinking not for her, we mustn't let it happen... we need to do something different. And they do, they create this safe and nurturing place for the woman that I will become.
What a sweet spot to be in. Yet, how afraid I was so many times of losing it. At times, I was convinced that this was my divine right. Most times, I was so wrapped up in how good it felt that I became ambivalent to the needs of those around me. Isn't that what we do, though? Day after day we hear our brothers and sisters saying "this is not fair!" Another momma buried her child after a shooting. A friend's sister lost her house to a fire. A boss just took off to another country and left his employees without any pay. A husband left and never returned to care of his wife and two girls. How do we respond, out of our pimped seat? Are we willing to say, "hey, why don't I ride in the back for the rest of the trip. Come on up, the breeze is pretty nice right now."
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