Dear Michael

As I drove down the Cedar Creek Road yesterday, I spotted a new billboard. It has a black background with just a few lines of white letters. I thought, "It's another one of those cheesy Christian billboards." There are a few of them around this area. Some of them cheesier than others. They read things like, "Let's meet at my house Sunday, before the game. -God." or "When I said love one another, I meant that. -God" I don't like them. Maybe they were meant to spur people to worship God and love one another, but, to me, they feel like a shaming tactic. "You're not doing the right thing. Better start. -God" 

But as I got closer, I read this text: 

Dear Michael, 

I love you. Please forgive me and come home. 

-Dad 

My eyes flooded with tears. I don't know who Michael and his dad are, or what the truth of their story really is, but this dad's effort to get through to his son shook me to the core. 

As I continued to drive down the road, I thought, "Why did I dismiss this billboard when I thought it was a cheesy Christian message, but then was so moved by it when I realized it was a real story about a real father and son?" 

Shame has been my constant companion for many years. Only in recent years have I learned to identify it. I'm still working out what to do with it once I've recognized it. So, when I thought the billboard was a cheesy (maybe well-intentioned?) Christian message that made me feel shame, I wanted to dismiss it. I'm not exaggerating when I say that the majority of my experience as a Christian has felt like I was constantly being given this message- "You're sinful. Repent and try harder." My bucket is full up when it comes to shame. No need to add on more. 

But when I realized the message was a cry for reconciliation, my heart ached. I can imagine Michael and his dad arguing, both of them letting out pent-up anger, launching words at one another meant to inflict the most damage possible. Maybe things got physical. Or maybe, it wasn't a blow-out like that. Maybe it was a long pattern of quieter conversations in which Michael felt not listened to or respected. Maybe his desires were ignored, his heart overlooked. Maybe his dad always had to be right. 

Whatever their circumstance is, Michael's dad seems to be feeling the full effect of their falling out. To go to the length of paying for a billboard that announces to everyone driving down that road that 1) their relationship has ended and 2) he needs to be forgiven in order for it to mend demonstrates how crushed and desperate he must be. 

I love Michael's dad for that. I can't stop praying for him. I don't know what kind of dad he has been. He could be a narcissist or an alcoholic for all I really know. Maybe Michael had to get out of there for his own sanity and safety. But, I have to say, that if this demonstration of paternal remorse and love are what they seem, then Michael is pretty lucky. 

Seems like his dad isn't gaslighting him. Isn't trying to find a scapegoat. Isn't over-spiritualizing. Isn't denying. Isn't clueless as to his own role. 

Michael, wherever you are, I pray you are safe. I pray you are able to heal. And I pray that you will go home. 

Michael's dad, wherever you are. Thanks for showing me that fathers can break, even in public, to get back to their children. I hope you heal. I hope you get to hug your son. 

I told my pastor about this and said he needed to use it in a sermon one day. He said it reminded him of the prodigal son's story. A story that might be better named, "The running father."  It reminds me that the God Jesus talked about doesn't shame, scapegoat, gaslight. Doesn't launch words or hit with fists. Doesn't manipulate words or people so he can come out looking good or get his own way. He is the type of father who would do like Michael's dad- he would remind us of his love. He would ask us to come home. 

After all this time?

This Lenten season, I've decided to put on, rather than take away. I guess, like most working parents, the pandemic has weakened my resolve and frazzled my nerves to the point that I barely entertained the idea of the chocolate and alcohol fast that has been my Lenten go-to for the past few years. Pandemic or no pandemic, though, I've discovered in the past week that "putting on" isn't exactly a cake walk- mmm...chocolate cake... told you fasting wasn't in the cards this year. 

Last week, I tried putting on patience. I chose this virtue first because my school had to pivot, once again, to our virtual platform because of a COVID exposure, and I knew that I needed patience to make it through. I meditated on this virtue each morning and explored places that I saw patience at work (or not at work) in my life. The "results" were grimmer than I had anticipated. Virtual school is a struggle for me. I spend a lot of time trying to convert lessons to virtual format, but then still worry about my students' engagement and comprehension. All that time in front of a computer sitting in basically the same hunched-over position makes me physically ill. Grades were due yesterday and the day ended with the question that scorched the earth of all marriages in 2020-"who is supposed to be watching the kids during this Zoom meeting?" So is it any wonder that my week of meditation on patience ended in a roar when I  accidentally smacked my hand against the wall while telling my kids that yes, they do, in fact,  have to wash their hands after playing at a public park. I had to go into the other room and let out the yell. Story thought I was screaming because of her and was on the verge of tears. I apologized while unpacking her Happy Meal. When I began my week of meditation on patience, this wasn't how I envisioned it ending. 

So, I'm a bit scared of putting on what I feel needs to come next. This week I will try to put on love. 

I'm up in the middle of the night because of love. Because love for my son means I wake up when he calls out in the night, and because love for God drives me to use these wee hours to think and read about Him, once I'm wide awake. 

I think about God a lot. Both in the day and night. I have since my early 20's. But my thoughts have shifted with age. My mind has never been an easy place, and my heart, now that I'm getting to know its terrain in my 30's is less easy still. The pitches of faith that once felt easy to climb, have grown steeper as I've stepped away from certainty and embraced a less evangelical theology. To some, this might look like a loss of love for the Almighty. But does a loss of certainty mean a loss of affection for the Holy One? 

I used to think that it might. It's a scary thing to shift one's faith. It makes people angry, concerned and uncomfortable- let alone what it does to one's own psyche. That's another blog (er..book? for another day... let's stay focused on love) And in that shift, maybe the most frightening thought of all is this- will I lose the Person that I have grown to love? Will questioning, shifting, probing around in my beliefs terminate my affection for the Almighty? This question has kept me up in nights past. Happily, though- I'm here with an answer to that question. An answer borne of many sleepless nights, flowing tears, countless conversations, podcasts and prayers, poems and books- an imperfect and developing answer that reflects my untidy and unfinished love. 

 Pastor Howard has us reading John Meacham's The Hope of Glory for Lent. He puts the answer beautifully 

"Fundamentalist believers and fundamentalist atheists would both do well, I think, to acknowledge that literalism may be comforting but is ultimately dangerous, for an uncritical acceptance of one worldview or another (whether in religion or politics) ends more conversations than it begins. Light can neither emanate from nor enter into a closed mind...without reason we cannot appreciate complexity; we cannot rightly appreciate the majesty and mystery of God and without rightly appreciating the majesty and mystery of God, we foreclose the possibility of the miraculous and the redemptive."

Love is deep, complex, and beyond where I currently am. My love for God, deep and untidy as it may be, is but a speck compared to God's love for me, for humanity, for this created world. Because God is love. And God is deep and complex and beyond. But love, because of "the miraculous and the redemptive" is also here. And it is in deep contemplation of that truth, that I've found fertile soil for love to grow. Those pitches of faith have become steep and sometimes uncomfortable, but the view from here is phenomenal. I've never been able to see so much love as from these wobbly heights. 

I read Harry Potter in the past year. To some Christians, this is heresy. To those who've read, though, you'll understand what I'm about to say. Maybe it's all that needs to be said as I begin this week of reflection on love-  

Jesus. 

After all this time? 

Always.  

The One that Took Me Four Years to Write

 

A little over four years ago, I sat on the bed in the middle of a November night watching numbers climb while my heart fell. It was happening. He was going to win.

In the days after, I wasn’t filled with outrage, but my spirit sank. It was a lot to take in. I had already seen enough of him- enough egocentrism and bullying to know what lie ahead, or at least,  the pale foreshadows of it.

I remember reading Garrison Keillor’s piece in the Washington Post on November 9, 2016. His prediction for himself and people like him.

We liberal elitists are now completely in the clear. The government is in Republican hands. Let them deal with him. Democrats can spend four years raising heirloom tomatoes, meditating, reading Jane Austen, traveling around the country, tasting artisan beers, and let the Republicans build the wall and carry on the trade war with China and deport the undocumented and deal with opioids, and we Democrats can go for a long , brisk walk and smell the roses.

He had my number, for sure. I might not self-identify as a “liberal elitist”, but I actually did all of those things over the past four years- except that I read Harry Potter instead of Jane Austen. But our tomatoes were quite lovely. He wasn’t being glib. He goes on to predict the damage that would come, but he knew that people like me wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Can any amount of gardening, meditating or travel help us recover from the soul-wounds we’ve suffered the past four years?

Let me check my privilege. I am a white heterosexual, Christian female. The limits on my life are mostly self-imposed. The fears I face are from within and the suffering I endure is mostly spiritual and emotional. There are billions of people in this world who have a much harder row to hoe. But, because I am human, I suffer. Because I am a person with a soul, I grieve.

Some people say this isn’t a Democrat vs. Republican thing. To be honest, I don’t really know. I’m a high school science teacher. I know little about politics. I’ve forgotten a lot of what I learned in civics class, and I rely heavily on my trusted loved ones to help me understand what’s happening in the government. My parents are Democrats. And my husband was a Republican when I married him. After years of thinking I was righter than him, I started to listen. I didn’t always agree, but I started to understand. So I know a little bit about both sides. I love people on both sides. 

Putting the D and the R in front of what I’m trying to say here, though- it seems too small. Though, maybe, for some, it does boil down to that, because once I said “liberal elitist”, ya’ll were out, if you even made it that far.  

That quick exit is one of the reasons I haven’t written about this. In four years- I, who like to write, who sometimes need to write, haven’t written about this man and the division he’s helped create. There are a lot of reasons why. Remember those fears within me? I’m terrified of other people’s words. I’ve been so scared of other people’s opinions about what I might write that I’ve kept my words hidden. But it hasn’t only been fear. Good sense has also kept me quiet. There’s a lot more that I don’t know than I do know. I try not to write about things that I don’t know. I’ve learned to sit with it and try to figure it out before putting words to it. I’ve sat with it for four years. I haven’t figured it out, but I’ve figured out how I feel about it.  So here you go, whether you like it or not. And you can have at the Facebook comments. I’m not going to respond.

Some of my friends told me that they felt hopeful on Wednesday, January 20, 2021. I admit that I cried when I saw those masked faces walking through the guarded doors. The Bushes, the Obamas, Mike Pence and then, the winners of the 2020 election. Their arrival brought on a departure of the tension I’ve held in for four years. But it’s a little too early for hope for me.

“My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness,” wrote Edward Mote in 1834. Those words are so deeply etched into my soul, that, as much as I love America, I don’t put my hope in it. As many good things that can come from liberty and justice for all, it isn’t enough. Easy for me to say as a middle class white lady. Liberty and justice haven’t ever really been taken away from me, but I’ll take my cues from history, and from the saints throughout the ages who did suffer but believed that real hope is only found in one place- one Person. I like Joe Biden and Kamala Harris, and I love Barack and Michelle Obama. But I don’t hope in them. I never did. And, to be honest, I’m not sure that they would really want me to.

My hope has been, and still is, in Jesus. And that’s where my greatest grief has come from for four years. Because Jesus has been, and still is, dragged into the selfish, egotistical, careless, and I’ll just go ahead and say it- crazy musings of an out-of-control narcissist.

This isn’t my first rodeo with this, though. There are a lot of narcissists out there abusing Jesus and his people. They’re in charge of churches, families, non-profits and missions organizations. But they’ve never been president before. And that’s where, in my opinion, Donald Trump has truly damaged the soul of America.

For many people, Trump represents something morally reprehensible, something foul that has brought reckless damage to the soul of our nation. Some of those people believe, like me, that their hope is built on nothing less than Jesus. Some of them do not believe in Jesus. How we define the soul of America is different for different Americans. I love those Americans, and I’m certain that nothing could be more important from me in this hour than to agree that our soul does, indeed, need time to heal, however we define it. Now is not the time for me to talk about my beliefs about the eternal soul. That’s another conversation for another day.

Now is the time for me to say, if only to myself, that though God’s mercy falls on Donald Trump like sweetest rain this morning, just like it falls on me- that he is not a representation of the Jesus on whom I’ve built my hope. But after four years of his boasts and his lies, some people still believe that he is. I have to write down, out of love, and out of the hope that's etched so deeply into my soul- that he is not.

Donald Trump loves himself. In four years, that’s all I’ve seen him do. He doesn’t love God or America. He doesn’t love Republicans, and he hates liberal elitists and their tomatoes. But Jesus does not. Jesus loves me. He loves me, exactly as I am, exactly where I am, for exactly who I am. This doesn’t mean I’m perfect. It doesn’t mean that I’m not aware of my sinfulness. But it does mean that  I’m awake to the reality that I live in a country, in a time and in a Church in which I need to preach that Gospel to myself and the people I love. Because we live in a country, in a time and in a Church, when many followers of Jesus have forgotten. Instead, they've replaced that truth with a belief that says you have to share a conservative value system, hate liberals, vote against certain policies and follow this (now former) President to be counted a "true" follower of Jesus. 

I reject that. And, though it's taken me four years- I’m writing it down. I won’t listen to you, Christian Trump-supporters. I can't. Because your message is damaging my soul and the soul of this country.  But I’m not going to hate you. I’m not going to view you as my enemy or “the problem" with everything in our society. I’m not going to pray pitying prayers so filled with condescension that they would turn our God’s stomach, rather than his ear. I’m just going to remind myself, each and every day, that my hope is built on someone who loves me, and because of that love, he has never asked and never will ask that I allow myself and my brothers and sisters to be abused by a narcissist bully. And I'll put my hope in this- that God is true and that God is love and that his name will come through this in the end, pure and holy and still eager to have mercy on even you and even me.

God bless me. God bless you. And God bless America.

photo credit The Kansas City Star 

Why it's so important for me to say Black Lives Matter

A Facebook friend posted an article about the Black Lives Matter Organization. The article is pretty strongly opinionated about Christians using the hashtag #blacklivesmatter. Reading it made me think, research, grieve and pray.

I've been grieving and praying since the beginning of June, since I first learned about George Floyd's death. I can't remember how I heard about it, actually. Maybe it was the news. Maybe Facebook. All I know is that I began to hear his name, that there was a video (which I haven't been able to bring myself to watch), followed by protests and outrage, riots and looting, and a maelstrom of public opinion. I've read some amazing pieces- facebook posts, poetry, cries to action, calls to repentance. I've listened to podcasts and music. I've had conversations- with my husband, my pastor, my "quaranteam" friends, and probably most importantly, my black Christian friends.

As I considered my own culpability in the system- as a sinner, and a white female, but also a redeemed and beloved child of God, I wrote a few things down here in the blog to help me process those thoughts.  I haven't written anything profound or that hundreds of people aren't saying with better words than mine. I've even thought- "Why write about it at all? So much is already being said." I guess that part of the answer to that question is that writing forces me to be just a little bit brave. It's not that my words are going to convince someone of a different mindset to change their convictions. I think we're all witnessing the reality that people become more and more entrenched in their own ideas, no matter what is said. But maybe my words will make my own convictions sink deeper into my heart- that jagged mess that keeps crying out for attention and healing. And maybe someone else whose heart aches the way that mine does will hear the same hopeful message that I've received, and will be comforted.

Why has George Floyd's death caused me to grieve? Clearly he is not the first black man whose life was brutally taken by a white person manifesting their power in violence (just writing that sentence makes me feel sick). So why his death particularly? I'm sure there are a lot of factors that come into play for those of us who are grief-stricken and motivated to speak and act in the wake of his death- but for me, a lot of it has to do with timing. Some of George's last words were "I can't breathe." I've spent the past two and a half years struggling with chronic anxiety. One of my symptoms has been chest pain. Pain so bad that it has kept me up at night, pain that I thought would never end, that couldn't be alleviated by anything (except the occasional beautiful afternoon in the garden). I spent months feeling like I couldn't breath, each chest expansion a hopeful but terrified guess at whether or not I'd be able to fill my lungs. (If you've never experienced anxiety, it's hard to imagine this, but anyone out there who has had a good old fashioned panic attack, you know exactly what I'm talking about). It could be that my struggle for breath has made me connect with George's cry. All I know is that anything I read or hear someone mention these last words of his, I fall to pieces.

My struggle with anxiety can't be boiled down to any one reason- that's one thing that I've learned since starting to recover from it! It's been a mixture of postpartum physiology, emotional and physical exhaustion and spiritual bemusement- but a MAJOR factor has been that I have been spiritually abused. If you don't know what spiritual abuse is (I didn't), then I have two tips for you- read Educated by Tara Westover and listen to these podcasts on spiritual abuse from the Allender Center. Spiritual abuse distorts the victim's view of God. And for someone like me, whose life is wrapped around the idea of God and what it means to be in relationship with God- it is devastating.

The overpowering grace of God has led me to a movement of Christians who see and understand spiritual abuse (and many other forms of abuse) and are moving out into the world with a swift, beautiful message that is pure Rescue. The message is this- Your story is real. Your story is being listened to. Your brokenness matters. You do not need to fix it. You are not to blame. And you are NOT alone.  

Spiritual abuse happens when someone who claims to hear from God projects a message that ignores the cries of the downcast, blames them for their brokenness and treats them as "other" often because of the very suffering that they have, in fact, caused. Spiritual abuse has broken my heart, frayed my faith and ultimately lead to physical suffering that has made me feel like I can't breathe. Maybe the worst thing about spiritual abuse is that it alienates the victim from the Healer. They're made to feel like they are outside the circle of acceptance- a dangerous and dark place, where literally anything can happen to a mind or a body.

My emotional response to the death of George Floyd is shrouded in this experience. My heart aches because, when I read articles like that one posted on Facebook about using the Black Lives Matter hashtag, I see the shaming of people in the name of God, the calling out of "unrighteous" ideology and the classification of suffering people as the "other." There is no consideration of the myriad sin-crushed, grace-starved systemic causes of the suffering that lead to the cry in the first place... at least, not that I can see. There is no pneuma here, no life-giving grace. No hope, no healing. Just a projection of what a righteous person should be, and the shaming of those who cannot live up to the standard. (News flash- that's all of us, by the way) This article is an echo of my own experiences of shame and spiritual abuse.

As I heal, one of the things that I'm learning to do is to sit with pain. I'm reading a book about how and why Christians need to learn when and how to sit with pain. The author, K.J. Ramsey, summarizes why I need to say Black Lives Matter this way-

Sin is calling a failure what is actually the fall. It's forgetting our origin story, the sin of self-sufficiency, and the outcome of living beyond the boundaries of what God has given. It's forgetting that every part of creation cries out because of the curse. It's forgetting that broken bodies, broken stories and broken relationships are the result of ancient sin. It's personalizing what are often bigger consequences of a massive story. Disease, disorders, weakness, poverty and grief are the losing legacy of humanity, the shards of sin shattering us, from the smallest cell to the largest cultural system. The Savior came and is coming again, but our healing is in his hands, not our own. If our Savior chose to enter the human story in a human body, then we should enter one another's places of suffering remembering we carry and extend the presence of Christ. Sin is any Christian's response to pain, poverty and weakness (and Meredith Wermel wants to include suffering from systemic racism in this list) that assumes they are problems to solve rather than places to patiently embody the solidarity of Jesus. 

This is the reason that I, as a person who claims the name of Jesus Christ as an integral part of my identity, need to say that Black Lives Matter. I say it in solidarity, not just with my brothers and sisters who are telling me that they are suffering, but in solidarity with Jesus who came and suffered for and with us. This suffering Savior is the central figure of my faith, and I'm convinced that to represent Him rightly means that I must sit, listen and hurt together with those who are telling their stories. Love requires this, and suffering hearts need this. This is the Rescue. Comparing, belittling, blame-shifting, denying, ignoring and judging the crushed in spirit is not. That is spiritual abuse. And I know well how that abuse keeps us from being able to breathe.

To my black brothers and sisters- Your story is real. Your story is being listened to. Your brokenness matters. You do not need to fix it. You are not to blame. You are NOT alone. Black Lives Matter. And the Gospel is for everyone.

After getting some feedback on the blog, I want to include this comment I wrote on my Facebook page: 

One thing I wish I had written in the blog: Black Lives Matter is both an organization and a movement. When I read the article I referred to in this blog that questions Christians who use #blacklivesmatter I took my time reading and considering the statements from the Black Lives Matter organization. I cannot say that I agree with all of them. I also cannot say that I agree with each and every statement put forth by churches that I’ve been a member of. But I’ve agreed with their central tenet and that’s been enough for me (after a lot of prayerful consideration- I don’t want to minimize that process or oversimplify it) The central tenet of the Black Lives Matter organization and the movement is to demand an end to racial inequality and violence against black people. This issue is obviously HUGE and cannot be dealt with in a single article written by anyone. What concerned me about that article and made me want to write a response is that I perceived the article as something that would discourage Christians from using the hashtag or affiliating with the movement by claiming that doing so means automatic agreement with all of the tenets of the organization. Again, I’m not sure I can think of any man-made system that I agree with 100% of their tenets. But I certainly do support movements and organizations with which I agree with their central tenets. (After a lot of consideration) And, for me, the Black Lives Matter movement is something that I want to stand with and support, not in spite of being a Christian, but because I AM a Christian.

To be clear: the organization helped start the movement, but the movement is not limited to the organization. Saying "Black Lives Matter" is loaded with meaning, and in this blog, I'm telling the story of what it means to me to say this and the reasons that I choose to say it. I realize that, for some people, there are other connotations. Here, I'm making a case for why I am saying it. The fear that other people might connect me with ideologies that I do not support is not as important to me as the desire to stand with those who are suffering and need support in this hour. If you have any questions, send me a DM! 

Of Barbie dolls and deep regret

It was December 2019 and I was looking at Amazon for the 2019 Holiday Barbie. Story saw her at Wal-Mart and had practically begged for her for Christmas. The 25th wasn't too many days away, and I was trying to wrap up my shopping. But the only Barbie that I could find for sale looked like this...

I debated for a few minutes- telling myself that Story would want a Barbie that looked more like her. (This isn't true, by the way. Ever since Story was old enough to hold any sort of baby doll, she's always gravitated toward babies and Barbies with darker skin than hers. )

And then, I clicked on through the loops and swirls of the online shopping world until I found a different doll. A whiter doll. And I gave that doll to her for Christmas.

I walked with my neighbors, church family and fellow citizens in the Dunn Unity Walk yesterday evening. My children carried signs and we chanted- "No Justice, No Peace!" When we neared City Hall, I passed a woman with a megaphone. She shouted "Say his name! Say his name! I can't breathe! I can't breath!" and I wept.

I still feel like weeping. Because, deep down, I think the evil that made that man keep his knee on George Floyd's neck is the same evil that made me keep clicking that December day.

I could argue that my upbringing was filled with lessons about equality (it was) or that I've always done my best to not judge someone because of the color of their skin. Or, I could just be silent, as I usually have been, afraid to speak up because I might offend my family or my neighbors or people I want to please. I could talk about the destruction of the riots and how God wouldn't desire that much violence. All of that might even be true. But it isn't the deepest truth. The deepest truth is that I clicked on that day because there is something inside of me, something old and evil- something absorbed from the centuries of inequitable life in this Southern land that whispered to me- "the dark one isn't good enough." 

God, forgive me. I am so, so, so sorry. Maybe my skin has always been white, but my heart hasn't been. And one thing that I am sure of- George Floyd's death has convinced me that I need to pray this prayer.

Wash me clean of my iniquity and cleanse me. Psalm 51:2

p.s. I bought Story that Barbie today. Let the reparation begin.

Will it hurt us to listen?

Will it hurt us to listen? 

Yes, it will. Our ego will bleed as our narrative is shushed while the voices of the angry, exhausted, desperate and heart-broken become louder than our story that insists that our upbringing, our people, our intentions did not contribute to this problem.

Will it hurt us to listen? 

Yes, it will. Listening inflicts pain- but it is a good pain. A pain that can carve out the place where pride has rested, firm and unwavering for God knows how long, leaving room for what is Holy to dwell in its place.

Will it hurt us to listen? 

Yes, it will. But not nearly as much as the pain of not being heard. Is there a worse pain than that?

Let us be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry. 

God's Dream

Yesterday, I held my son on my lap. I looked at his beautiful eyes- blue, with yellow around the pupils- and stroked his yellow hair. I kissed his pink cheeks. And never once did I worry about his falling victim to a crime like the murder of George Floyd. Such is the privilege of having a blue-eyed, pink-skinned son.

Last night, I saw a friend's post on Facebook. It said "I am the mother of an African American male. My son matters." My heart is breaking for the mothers in our country who hold their sons on their laps, look at their beautiful eyes, stroke their dark hair and kiss their soft cheeks and do worry that their boy will become a victim of the injustice that wickedly lies in wait- even after so many generations of hard-working, self-sacrificing civil rights warriors. My chest literally aches that she needs to write that on Facebook- and she does need to write it on Facebook. Her son matters.

So, last night, I read my yellow-haired boy a book called God's Dream. Because, I don't have to fear him becoming a victim. But I do have to try to make sure he doesn't become a villain. So, into his little boy mind, I am painting pictures with all the beautiful colors God intended for humankind. And I will, with God's help, do everything in my power to erase this curse called racism.

Black lives matter. Brown lives matter. And the Gospel is for everyone.

Reading Rachel

In 2019, I read two books by two different Rachels. In the fall, I read Girl, Wash Your Face by Rachel Hollis with our women's group at church. I was the one who suggested the book. I hadn't read it but it was all over social media that fall and I was curious to see if the book lived up to its hype.

For me, that book hyped me up, but not in the way that was intended. As a person who seriously struggles with finding my identity in productivity, that book was not much other than a burden. The main message, in my opinion, is to tell women to "dream big dreams, and then keep hustling until you get them." Rachel Hollis offers many examples of her big dreams and big achievements, just in case you're too dull or afraid to have your own. She does share, openly, from some of her own difficult life experiences that have helped shape who she's become, and I respect her for that, but, in the end, I threw that book in the trash.

Weeks after realizing that washing my face wasn't going to address any of my deep and unidentified spiritual needs, I was standing in the church hallway with a friend, while we waited for our children to go out into the sanctuary for some sort of children's choir event. All of us mommas leaned against the walls of the hallway, shushing and pulling on skirts and smoothing hair. It was early May. I turned to my friend, who I didn't know very well at the time, and mentioned something I'd read in the news. "I saw that Rachel Held Evans died this week," I said, with as much compassion as I could gather. I hadn't read this Rachel. But I knew my friend had, and I knew she liked her books. I had been "meaning to" read this other Rachel, but, to be honest, I was scared.

Rachel Hollis had felt safe. People I knew in my Christian community had read her book and liked it. It didn't feel risky to suggest that book for our women's group, although, in hindsight, I wish I hadn't. There are so many better books out there that actually say something about the Gospel. Rachel Held Evans did not feel safe. I'd only read articles about her books. They're the kind of books that make very conservative Christian people uneasy. Even though I haven't ever really identified as a "very conservative Christian" person, I certainly like being liked by them. And I didn't want to risk disapproval. More than that, I didn't want to read something that would put a burden of doubt on a faith that was already practically thread-bare. What if the strands connecting me to my Christianity snapped if I read this Rachel? What if she asked the questions I was too scared to ask, and the answers disconnected me from all that I had left?

In the hallway, my friend's face changed. Her eyes filled with tears, and she began to cry. And, in that moment, I knew- it was time for me to read this Rachel. And if my faith unraveled? Well, then, she and I would have something in common.

I started by reading Inspired, which I liked and helped me get the gist of who Rachel was as a writer, but what really connected me to Rachel was Faith Unraveled. This book is her personal story about her own evolving faith in Jesus.

Rachel died unexpectedly on May 4, 2019. This May her husband, and many of her friends and followers have written beautiful tributes to Rachel. Last May I could understand the common compassion you ought to feel for a young family torn unexpectedly apart, but when my friend started to cry in the hallway, she cried alone.

Then I read Rachel. And I was introduced to a new kind of freedom. Freedom to question, and listen and join with others. So I joined my friend from the hallway- in her honesty, her doubt, her journey. My life and faith blossomed in a new way after reading Rachel, a way I can't describe in this post.

A lot of beautiful things have been written about Rachel Held Evans, true woman of valor. And a lot of not beautiful things have been written about her too. But, for me, reading Rachel changed my life.

I don't have much time for writing these days. And when I do have time, I don't quite know what to say. I've processed a lot over the past two years, and I'm changing. Maybe one day I'll get to the point where I can talk about that journey. But not yet.

I still love God, and I love Jesus. I love Rachel Held Evans, and my friend from the church hallway.  I love them all more now... better this May than last May. And because I read Rachel, now my friend isn't crying alone.

Team Forgiveness

I've written about a ton of things on this blog, but I've never talked about forgiveness. There's a reason for that. For a really long time, I've been well convinced that I am really bad at it. So me writing about forgiveness would be like a person who cannot carry a tune writing about how to score a solo in the choir. Or a person who eats donuts every day blogging about the keto diet.

Forgiveness is sketchy territory for me. It carries with it a ton of emotional baggage. But, in my journey with God, I find myself once again at the crossroads of anger, doubt and freedom, and, this time, things look different for me than they have before.

Forgiveness has been sketchy territory for me because it's not only been hard to practice, it's been hard to figure out. There are different schools of thought out there about forgiveness. For some people, forgiveness means not ever talking about what happened- just, "letting love cover over a multitude of sins."  Others think that forgiveness means choosing to forget what happened. "Yes, it happened, but, love doesn't record wrongs, so, never ever mention it again." And others think that forgiveness equals reconciliation. You forgive me, therefore we are now totally okay. Still others will tell you that you can't forgive anyone until you forgive yourself. And then there's also the notion that forgiveness cuts my chains to the wrongs that have been done to me, thereby releasing me and giving me freedom.

My counselor in Austin taught me the difference between forgiveness, reunion and reconciliation. Forgiveness, he said, is a command. If we want to be obedient to Christ, it's something we're obligated to do. Reunion, on the other hand, is a choice. It's what a lot of us do when things are weird with someone we used to share fellowship with, but we still get together with them every now and again anyway. We can be with them, for the sake of keeping the peace, or for the kids or for any number of pure or impure reasons. Reconciliation, on the other hand, is the sweet stuff. It's what happens when all of the cards are laid out on the table, and everyone involved in the hurtful situation picks theirs up and says, "This one is mine. I am so sorry. Forgive me, and I will ask God to help me change."

I've been in on reunion and reconciliation before. Reconciliation feels fantastic. And, ironically, some of my sweetest relationships have developed with people that I've been reconciled to. I could write a blog about reconciliation. I can tell you about a hug I had in a school hallway that melted away months of mounting misunderstanding, or a conversation that I had in an office that brought unity and power, or the phone conversation I had when I finally felt seen and loved. Those are good stories. And each occasion involved forgiveness. But it was the kind of forgiveness where you could kind of sniff the mercy as it was on its way. Where there was a "humility tell" in the other person that let me know that they were starting to see all the cards, and their hands were twitching to pick up some of them. That's JV forgiveness. It's still sweet and great, and I wish it for you and yours. But sometimes it's not that easy.

I can make the JV forgiveness team, but Varsity? I sometimes feel like I got cut from that roster. Part of the reason I feel that way is because I've been told that. I have been told that I am unforgiving. And, like so many things in life, there have been times that I have lived into the identity that was given to me.

This past Sunday, my pastor talked about Stephen being stoned. He mentioned the many parallels between Stephen's death and Jesus's death, which I had never paid attention to before. Both men were killed by angry mobs of religious men who were enraged at the prospect that Jesus Christ could ever be considered the Son of God. And both men used their dying breaths to ask for forgiveness for the very people whose hatred robbed them of their lives. That's Varsity level forgiveness. When the person or people whom you are forgiving are so convinced that they are right and you are wrong that they actually feel super holy about the thing they're doing that is killing you.

One of the reasons I'm able to write about this today is that over the past year, my view of myself has  shifted. One of the outcomes of that shift is I now realize that, no matter what has been said about me, I've never been cut from that Varsity forgiveness roster. My counselor was right. Forgiveness is a command. And because I am 100%, by grace through faith, Team Son of God- I am called to be like Jesus and Stephen and forgive, even if humility and mercy are nowhere to be seen.

Maybe one of the reasons I've been so bad at this is because I have a history of being a pretty terrible team player. I remember well when I was a kid playing sports that if my team lost, but I played a good game, I didn't feel bummed out. Likewise, when my team won, if I didn't play well, or I felt like I got slighted on playing time, I was secretly and selfishly disappointed. As I watched the US Women's soccer team win the World Cup this summer, I thought about the old me. The one who would secretly sulk on the bench instead of cheering for my teammates from my heart. From what I could tell, none of the players on the US Women's team have that problem. When they won, every player rushed the field in what appeared to be genuine, selfless joy.

I think that's what has been missing from my forgiveness. The identity that I am on this team. And grace is what we do.  For me, that's what it means to forgive as Jesus forgives. It means to be so excited with being picked for his team, that I rush the field with self-denying grace because he has demonstrated it perfectly time and time and time again. I can see my own situation as just an opportunity to display who's team I'm on, rather than sulking about all that is messed up in my situation.  It's interesting to think about the final match of the World Cup. It was a good game against a skilled opponent, which made the victory sweeter. When I feel sorry for myself because Jesus has asked me to forgive in uncertain and difficult circumstances, I am not remembering that the tougher the opponent, the sweeter the victory.

There are a lot of things that I have doubted over the past few years- basically everything. And, probably, doubt will come again. And along with it (God willing), the strength to endure. But, one thing seems to have finally crystallized out of all of that doubt and pain and spiritual suffering. Grace wins. Not behavior modification. Not morality. Not religion. Not secularism. Not conservatism. Not Democracy. Not anger. Not judgement. Not pride. Grace. The same grace that has come to find me in my darkest hours, in the places so shameful I barely want to remember them. That same grace is what will win. And Jesus Christ is calling me to be on his team. To play again and again and again at grace. Sometimes, I'll do well. Other times, I'll fail. But what matters most is that I always remember that I'm on this team of Forgiven People who are moving grace forward into this world- a world that hates it and rejects it or tries to earn it or treats you like garbage or like your simple and stupid for offering it. It's certainly not easy. And there are still things that I am not certain about, but I'm excited  to no longer feel like I don't belong on this team. Not because I've suddenly gotten good at it, but because the Person I belong to is, and he's calling me to come and play.

Green Means Go

This past Sunday, during the time for children at our worship service, our pastor explained the change of the color of the stole that covers the pulpit. Having not grown up in a Presbyterian church, the whole liturgical calendar thing is new to me, so I'm always appreciative of an explanation for these changes, too.

"What color do you see?" Pastor Howard Dudley asked.
"Green!!" replied the little girls with bows in their hair.

Green, he explained, marks what the Presbyterian Church calls "ordinary time." And for our church, it accompanies a shift from hearing about the life of Christ from the pulpit to the life of the church, as we begin a series of sermons based on the book of Acts. As he talked, one little girl shouted, "GREEN MEANS GO!"

"Yes! Exactly. Green means go. Because we should go with the love of God." His enthusiastic  response was more gracious than anything I could have come up with in that moment. Even as he spoke, I could feel little flutters of anxiety in my chest.

Sometimes I imagine being on-scene in John 16, when Jesus is telling his disciples that it's good for him to go away. I'm 100% certain that if I were there, I would have my arms crossed over my chest and a fully disgruntled look on my face. In my mind, I'd be thinking, "So you just leave us here and it gets better? I don't think so."

Because how does it get better than Jesus? How does it get better than a man who walks on water and calms seas? How does it get better than a Person so unafraid of public opinion that he speaks his mind with total, unadulterated freedom? How does it get better than a human being whose spit heals blindness and whose touch heals lepers? How can it ever get better than someone who intentionally obliterates social and religious walls of separation with a wrecking ball of grace?

When I read about Jesus, no matter what's going on with me or in the world, I am always pierced by an arrow of hope. But I cannot say that the same thing is true when I read about the work of his people.

I want to lean into Jesus in John 16 and whisper from the wisdom of my 2019 vantage point, "You know they're going to mess this up, right?"

Instead of loving one another, they're going to promote themselves. Instead of setting captives free, they're going to enslave. Instead of healing, they're going to wound. Instead of spreading a message of hope, they're going to promote fear. Instead of purity, there will be abuse. Instead of listening, they're going to shout, and email, and, God help us all... tweet. And the world isn't going to know them for their love, they're going to fear them as closed people who are obsessed with their own opinions, policies and moral standards. And the Earth isn't going to be renewed, it's going to be ravaged.

We in the church like to think that sin, and people who do not believe in Jesus are responsible for such atrocities. But, reality and history tell a different story. The people of God are culpable for much of the world's hurt and shame and anxiety today. Thus, my heart's fluttery response at that green color on the pulpit on an otherwise beautiful, sunlit Sunday morning. "Why, Jesus? Why can't you just stay here and show how it's actually done? Make sure it's done right? People just seem to find more and more reasons to argue with one another about who you are and what you would do. Why not just stay here and get things done yourself?"

But how can I argue with a God who stoops from his position above all of the universe and clothes himself in human flesh? Can I even understand the depth of his obsession with mankind?  Isaiah 55: 9 says, "as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts higher than your thoughts." Indeed they are. I would never think of looking to people to continue to express God's perfect love. People are far too inconsistent. Too weak, fickle, selfish and mean. Why in the universe would you entrust a message of grace and love to them?

The only answer I can think of is that we are the objects of that grace and love. We look at the Bible and think of it as God's Word, and indeed it is, but its also so very human. Written by humans and for humans and filled with human stories, about our failures and our victories and our pain and lamentation and rejoicing. The only God we know of is a God intertwines himself with human life, and expresses himself through our flesh and bones and blood. First as One of us, then as One with us.

This makes me think of my work as a teacher. It's no secret that teachers can sometimes get caught up in the act of teaching. We can obsess over mastery over content, presentation style, and meeting certain professional goals. But, um... our entire existence is only justified by the students. And, especially as a science teacher, there needs to come a time when I step away from the lab table and say, "Read the lab manual, and do it yourselves." Because that's what teaching really is about. It isn't selfish, even though I sometimes make it that way. It's not about my performance and how well I can do the experiment. It's about giving the students something that they don't yet have. It's a complete transfer, and that transfer is only legitimized by my stepping completely away and entrusting them to use what I have tried to give them.

I think that's what Jesus did. And, even though my inner cynic doesn't like it, I can't argue that it is best practice. Without people, who would he have saved? We identify Christ as our Savior, but you can't be a Savior if there's nothing there to save. His saving work was meant for people, mean, fickle, disobedient, rebellious people. That grace was fully transferred to us, and then, he left us with the Spirit to help us continue the work that he started. So even though there's a part of me that wants to say, "Don't go,we're not going to handle this well." I can understand why he did go. It's an act of love. An act of trust. And a chance for us to see if we've actually received what's been freely given.

I wonder if only people who have been wounded by other Christian people or who are wary of the animosity they see between different factions of the church would respond the way I did to the green? I tried for a long time to just pin my woundedness and wariness on sin, not sinners. Christians say that all the time. But for me, it doesn't work. I've been told that I should take comfort in the reality that my struggle is not against flesh and blood but against the powers of the dark world and the evil in the heavens above. But just as Love poured out in flesh and blood for my life, so evil corrupts flesh and blood which leads to death. The struggle might be ongoing in the heavens, but it's definitely breaking hearts and bodies and minds down here. I'm not sure that the two can or should be separated. No, woundedness comes from people. Sometimes it comes from Christian people. The same people he was talking about when he said, "It's good for me to go away, because I will send them the Advocate."

I'm beginning to see that if I could go back to John 16, and stand there cross-armed and give Jesus my two cents, that he would look back and me and say, "I know they brought you pain, Meredith. But do you not see? They are also bringing your healing. "

And so, this very idea that caused my anxiety to spring forth- this reality that the church is now the representation of Christ on Earth- how can I deny that this is also the way that he is healing me? Over the past few weeks, I've been more intentional than ever before about sharing what burdens me. As I have emailed or texted people I love and trust, the weight of my thoughts becomes lighter as I type the words. Every day, I am reminded through phone calls, emails, post cards, texts- that I am not alone. I am being prayed for. I am understood. Last night, I went to yoga class. The lady who teaches it goes to my church. When she ends class, she comes around to each person and touches oil to their temples and forehead. That physical touch is another reminder that I am not alone. Even in the care of my physical body, something that seems so private and personal, there is someone there to help. Today, after making slime with kids at VBS all morning, I was momentarily buried under a pile of preschoolers during the closing assembly. Those soft, sticky, sweaty, small arms and legs remind me that I have purpose. There's another generation coming along after me, and surely the people of God will wound them. But maybe, by his grace and power, we will heal them, too.

I can see the beauty in this. And the necessity of it. How can we really be Jesus' people, if we don't have the chance to take all that he has given to us, and put it into action. Are we going to fail? Of course. And sometimes the consequences of that failure are heavier and deeper than I can express in words. Our failure is serious. But, so is our victory. And it's through our victory that we shoot arrows of hope into the world. Hope for ears that listen and hands that serve. Hope for hearts that will break with the wounds of the world, rather than contributing to them. Hope for justice and mercy. Hope for freedom and God's glory, not our own. I need this chance to go. Because I probably carry more personal failures to live up to who Christ really is, than victories. For today, anyway. But green means go.

So, tomorrow, I'll get up and I'll go. I'll go on sharing what is too heavy for me to carry alone. I'll go on receiving help from others who are willing to give it. And I'll go on serving those who are willing to receive what I have to give. I'll go with compassion, the way my Lord did. And, as much as I am able, I'll go without fear. (That's the hardest one for me) And I wonder... Maybe, in the end, "ordinary time" will end up bringing extraordinary change to my life.

Baby Shark

Like other stay-at-home Moms, my world revolves around play-dates. On these hot summer days, I live for trips to the pool, splash pad or (shady) playground with other moms of preschoolers and toddlers. This week, we met up with my friend Gaia and her daughter Mary at Bravery Kids Gym in Fayetteville.

Bravery is one of these indoor play gyms, where you pay to let your littles run around and jump and swing about while you try to have a conversation with another mom. Your conversation inevitably fails because your child falls down on the padded floor, or needs a strong reminder that we share and take turns or has go to the potty. But, you're still happy to have an hour of conversation in the sweet air conditioning that is not centered around Nick Jr. characters.

Gaia and I were sitting on one side of the room, watching the girls interact with a little guy who looked to be about three. We noticed that he was a little bit rough. We witnessed him throwing some plastic cones about, and we commented that the women with him didn't seem to be his mother. She seemed a little too timid when correcting him. Most mommas would grab their child and make a quick correction at the cone-throwing, but this woman seemed a bit like a fish out of water. We said she looked like a grandmother or a babysitter, but she was definitely trying.

This boy and our two girls were up on a wooden platform. Below the platform is a pit filled with super soft, foam blocks. I'm not sure what exactly happened, but I saw Story fall from the platform into the blocks and the little guy jumped in right on top of her. I had just risen from my chair when I heard her screaming. I ran to her, and the boy's grandmother ran over too. It was a blur for a moment, and then I realized what my red-faced child was screaming about. Her arm was red and blue and white from the worst bite mark I've ever seen. The boy's grandmother picked him up, and Gaia told me later that he was trying to bite and kick at his grandmother while I stared at my screaming little girl and tried to think.

Something kind of primal takes over for a second when you realize that someone has hurt your child. That boy might have just been three years old, but I was ready to drop-kick him into the parking lot for a moment. But peace rushed in and calmed that instinct too quickly for more damage to be done. There was no need for more screaming. Everyone was already plenty upset.

But, I did look at the woman, holding the boy, who was now crying. And said, "Is he your grandson?" She said, "Yes." And I said, "He's a little out of control." And then I walked back to the seating area with a still crying and shaking Story.

As the staff responded to the situation with an ice pack and some gummy snacks, the boy's story unfolded. His grandmother was mortified and devastated by what happened. Through tears (real tears, not histrionics) she told us that he was a drug baby, and his mother is in rehab. Though his grandmother was falling apart, the boy seemed to not care whatsoever about anything that was happening. Once Story calmed down, I asked his grandmother if I could talk to him, and she said yes. I said, "I want you to know that you hurt my little girl. She is crying because of what you did to her." He just stared at me blankly. Shortly after that, Gaia and I took our kids to the reading room, so they could completely calm down.

After a while, the grandmother appeared at the door of the reading room to let us know that she had filled out the incident report with the staff and left her number. She said to call if we needed anything. She was still crying and apologizing. She hugged Story and, with tears still streaming down her cheeks said to me, "I don't want her to be traumatized." I told her, "We will be fine. It sounds like you have a really difficult situation. We want you to go in peace." During these interactions, her grandson continued to try to kick and hit her. Gaia offered tender admonishment to the boy, "Don't hit your grandmother," she said in her Italian accent, "she loves you so much." But I could see from my seat on the reading room sofa that the broken parts of that boy's life had so filled him up that he had nothing else to pour out at that moment but slaps and kicks. As they turned to go their own way, my heart broke for them because I knew that Story's wound would be so much easier to heal.

After about fifteen minutes, my baby girl was back out to play. I sat cross-legged on the floor building blocks with Grey and looked across the room at her. "Baby Shark" came on through the speakers and I watched her move her little body to the music and I thought, "Wow, that girl is fierce." Later, in the car, she wanted to call her daddy and tell him about the bite. She said, "That boy had a sad heart. He didn't know how to act." And, then, I cried.

God of grace, thank you for giving us peace in our moment of pain. Thank you for giving us the power to speak truth to those who hurt us. Thank you for giving us the resilience to dance, even after we've been knocked off our feet. Jesus, thank you for weeping with the wounded. We ask you for peace for this boy who wounded Story and great healing for him and his family. 

That's Southern

Thursdays are our at-home days. We spend the rest of the week driving back and forth to preschool and Bible Study and playdates, but Thursdays, we have no agenda. We can just stay home. This past Thursday, I bundled the kids up and placed them in the double jogging stroller, a blanket on top of their little legs, and we walked to the library.

I love my neighborhood. Is it as rare as I think it is to walk through your neighborhood, on the way to the library, no less, and rattle off your neighbor's names as you pass their houses? As we walked by gardens just waking up from winter and homes with gigantic white columns and wrap-around porches, I decided to strike up a conversation with Story.

"Do you know what 'Southern' means?" I asked.

"No," she replies.

It has only just occurred to me, as we pass by a tremendous magnolia, that she is, in fact, a child of the South. Born in Austin, and with a daddy who will always seem more Colorado than Carolina, she seems, somehow, not quite of this place.

"What's 'Southern' means?" she asks.

Well, I think to myself, that's going to take some time to try to answer.

My Mom gave me Reese Witherspoon's book, Whiskey in a Teacup for Christmas. As I sat reading it one afternoon on the sofa in my living room, it dawned on me that I don't need to be ashamed of being Southern. I was raised on sweet tea and Jesus like any other Southern girl, but along the way, I met a lot of people from a lot of places. Such is life in Fayetteville, North Carolina, home to Ft. Bragg.

A lot of people who come to Ft. Bragg can't help but talk about how they can't stand the South. It used to really bother me, and I felt defensive, but then somewhere in time, I think I went vanilla about the whole thing. It's hard to keep on caring. Especially because most of those people who complain so much will leave in a few years anyway. People come to Ft. Bragg from everywhere in the world, and most of them have their own well-developed sense of what home ought to look and feel like. I've learned not to begrudge them that, even if in reality, home is likely to be more a state of mind than a state of the nation.  Even so, there are some memories that I cannot shake. A former boyfriend who incessantly insulted my mother's wallpaper, and who got viscerally angry over the fact that my mother had an African American housekeeper named Katie. And the girl at my bridal shower who poked fun at me for wearing black swiss dot panty-hose with my forest green dress, and who could not get over the fact that I'd had bridal portraits taken (she had never heard of such a thing!) I reckon that, over the years, I developed a feeling that, at the very least, I ought to be sort of ashamed of being Southern. I felt like other people were utterly convinced that the South was filled with nothing but ignorance, humidity and mosquitoes, and though I've honestly never felt this way myself, I couldn't muster the strength or desire to go on defending it.

I know there are some people who are on the complete opposite end of the spectrum of thought. Who would ever feel embarrassed of being Southern? Pour them some sweet tea in a monogramed glass and sing them Dixie- this is the South and they're proud of it. I don't begrudge them either. I suppose everyone is entitled to their home state of mind.

I guess that I'm not so worried about what those people said about my panty-hose or my mother's wallpaper anymore, nor am I going to monogram everything that doesn't move (sorry Reese), but I am beginning to see that it's important for me to start to tell my little ones about the South- and here's one reason why...

On my run today, I ran back through my sweet neighborhood to the museum that stands just on the other side of the train track from the library. I stopped and took a couple of pictures of the statue out front. It's a statue of the General William C. Lee, a renowned General from Dunn who served bravely in the 101st Airborne during World Wars I and II, and it was set ablaze a few nights ago. The museum curator was on the news earlier this week explaining that he supposes some "jerks" (his word, not mine) set it on fire, thinking it was a statute of the other General Lee.

On Thursday, I walked and pointed out things to Story- "See that camellia, that's Southern. So many beautiful colors! Let's see how many colors we can collect. And that magnolia tree? That's Southern too. It has the sweetest smell in high summer. Those letters on your jacket? That's your monogram. That's very Southern."

We returned from the library with The Story of Ruby Bridges, and I explained, to the best of my ability, how people in the South used to be really mean to black people. (Well, first I had to explain what "black" and "white" meant because it was impossible to understand the plot without that backstory) Story was incredulous and asked, appropriately, time and again, "Why? Why?"And I had to tell her the truth- that it was sin, and a sin that surely grew riper in this Southern soil than in other places in our country.

I told Story on our walk that as she learns about the South there will be things she likes, and things she doesn't. There are things that are silly, and some that are so pretty they'll take your breath away. Others are ugly and unfair and some unspeakably sad. It seems more clear than ever that I should tell her the truth about this place, even as I continue to discover it. Confusion and ignorance fuels the fire of bitterness. But there is still time for truth, and with it, I hope, empathy, humility and peace.

When some people think of this place, they might think it ignorant and unpleasant, but, to me, this place will always be home. And it's up to people just like me to ensure that nothing is forgotten or swept under the rug. Because if people from the South don't invest in our own story, then what will be told about it from the outside? There's a lot to learn and a lot of ways to keep on growing. There's a lot of soil that needs kindness planted where hatred once was. So I'll keep planting empathy and truth. Because, to me, that's Southern.

Stuck

Yesterday was a really tough day. After feeling a throbbing pain in the same spot in my abdomen since Wednesday, I called my doctor's office and spoke with his nurse. After describing my symptoms (aching right side of abdomen, sweaty, clammy) she told me to go to the ER. I did NOT want to have to go. I've been to that ER three times in the past year (once for a stomach ulcer, once for panic attacks and now this). Just thinking about the cost of it made me weak in the knees. With me not working, we cannot afford more medical bills.

But, when a medical professional tells you to go to the ER, you go to the ER. The VERY LAST thing I wanted was to wake in the middle of the night with a ruptured appendix or something like that. So, about 2 in the afternoon, my Mom took off with my kids and I went to the ER. Four hours later, my bloodwork came back normal and an ultrasound of my gallbladder proved that it was not blocked (though has likely been spasming for still undetermined reasons)

I drove to my mom's house to pick up the kids feeling like a total failure. What kind of loser has to go to the ER three times in a year for these kinds of things? Maybe if I had managed my diet and health better, I wouldn't have gotten an ulcer. Maybe if I had more grit and less OCD, I wouldn't have started having panic attacks. Now this? What even was this? Couldn't I just suffer through a little more abdominal pain like a normal person? Couldn't it be absolutely nothing? Why did I cost us so much money and inconvenience by having to get this checked out?

When I got to my mom's I picked up the kids and was just ready to go home and get in the bed, pull the covers over my head and forget about the day. But, in an effort to try to whip up some small amount of whimsy on behalf of my three year old, I paused as we drove down my parents' long driveway to shine my headlights on some deer that were crossing from the wooded area on one side to the pasture on the other. I kept asking Story, "Do you see them?" And she would chime back, "I don't see them." So I inched closer and closer and closer to the fence of the pasture, until I was completely off the driveway. Eventually, the deer walked off and I was ready to get back to Plan A: hide under covers. But, when I tried to move my car forward, the wheels just spun. Put it in reverse. The same. Horrified, I put the car in neutral and got out to push. If there ever was a moment of me overestimating my own strength, it was that one. The car didn't even budge. I called Andy.

The gas light was already on in my car, so I knew that I needed to turn it off. We sat there, in the cold and the darkness for thirty minutes waiting for Andy to arrive. I gave Story my phone and Grey a baggie of Fruit Loops and let the shame sit with me for a while.

Have you ever felt this way? Like you just want to dig yourself a hole and crawl in? Like you just cause trouble and cost money? Like you can't get it together?

As I sat there, a song came to mind. It was Psalm 139: 13-14. I had listened to it that morning when taking Story to preschool on a Seeds Family Worship Lullaby album. (if you're unfamiliar with Seeds Family Worship, they are verses set to music. Great stuff. The best for helping memorize scripture) I began to sing it in my mind. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. 

While waiting at the ER, I perused Facebook and saw a lot of things about the right to life stuff that's been going on lately. I read a couple of articles. And liked a couple of posts. Psalm 139: 13-14 is used frequently when defending the right to life.

But as I sat there in the dark, with shame throbbing alongside the fist-sized pain under my ribs, that verse took on a new shape for me. For me, it's easy to look at small children and have mercy. It can be harder to look at grown people and do so. But it's hardest of all to consider my failings and act in kind.

But, when David authored this Psalm, he was a grown man. He had some great victories, and some epic failures. He was both a fearful warrior, and a deceptive defender.  This tends to be lost when we consider him a "man after God's own heart." He cost a lot of people their lives. But he believed in God. He revered Him, and he saw himself as something fearful and wonderful.

Could I do the same? Could I not only see a child in a womb as fearful and wonderful? Could I see myself that way? There. In the mud? With an epic medical bill on the way? It didn't come naturally, but I chose to. I chose to show compassion. And love. Because that's what God commands.

This type of thing is really new to me. I have scoffed for the longest time at anything that implies or promotes self-love, self-care, self-compassion. I feared that such things could only lead to vanity. But, I'm beginning to think that I've been wrong. I read Story the Berenstain Bears book about the Golden Rule this week. Printed on the first page is Matthew 7:12 So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you. It might be subtle, but there's an implication here that what you would do to yourself would be the kind thing, the compassionate thing, the loving thing. Therefore, you should do that to someone else.

Last night, I sat in the dark, waiting for Andy's headlights, and I chose kindness. I chose to praise God for making something good, instead of telling myself over and over again that I am not good. It kept me from sinking into an abyss of self-loathing. It kept me buoyant enough to tend to my children and their needs, to consider their anxieties and to extend that kindness to the backseat.

As I waited for Andy's headlights to pull into the driveway, I thought of a parallel. Life can be dark, and I sometimes feel as if I am waiting for the Light to show up and rescue me. But, in the waiting, I need to choose kindness. Compassion. Mercy. Love. Because life is fearful, wonderful and vulnerable- whether that is the life of an unborn child, a teenager, an adult or... myself.

Bare trees, bare souls and the love that made them both

I like January. I like how stripped down it is. Plants, schedules, closets (thanks Marie Kondo) even the sky seem to have settled into a simple beauty. The base layer of life. Some people might think it's bleak, but I am sort of reveling in the simplicity.

In my spirit, there's a similar paring down going on. A simple revelation. A base layer of faith that I've been getting in touch with. 

I walked from room to room this morning, opening blinds (I'm trying to learn something from the natural rhythms of the Earth these days. Light and dark. Rest and wake. Sow and reap.) I looked at the lovely pink tone of the January morning sky. And simple truth lit across my heart. 

I did not come into the world innately good. I came into the world innately loved. 

There's a lot of good that I've tried to cover myself up with. For fear that I would not be accepted. I wanted to prove that I should be accepted. Wanted to do something worthy. Be someone worthy. Sometimes it seems like each and every day is just a trial waiting to be stepped into. Who will see me? Judge me? Like me? Reject me? Certainly I need something to arm myself against this. A career or my children, a higher degree or a cute outfit. A glass of wine or a cup of coffee or my iPhone. My dad is a lawyer, maybe it's in my nature to come up with a defense. 

But something about January and pink skies and bare trees has me breathing deeply, bravely. My defenses are tired. Or maybe that's just me that's tired. Too tired to pick them up. It's a good tired. Bare trees can be really beautiful when you take a moment to look at them. Bare souls can be, as well. 

Maybe all I need is this love? This love that brought me into existence and will see me through every day. This love that will never demand that I prove myself worthy. Only asks that I would love back. 

We love Him because He first loved us. 1 John 4: 19 

Can I be an anxious Christian? Part 2: Can a mature Christian be anxious?

There were some things that I wanted to say in the last post that I didn't get around to. So I'm having another go at this question- Can I be an anxious Christian? But, in this post I'm going to look at anxiety and Christian maturity.

When I think about a mature Christian, I think of someone who has been following Christ and obeying God's Word long enough for the fruits of the Spirit to be evident in his/her life.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Galatians 5:22-23

Mature Christians are people you can count on to respond to life's triggers according to God's Word and with consistent reflection of his character. This is not to say that they are perfect people. But, they are growing people. And they are people who know God and His Word well enough to look more like him than like the rest of the world.

So, can a mature Christian be an anxious Christian? 

One of the marks of a mature Christian is that they ought to be able to recognize sin, and want to turn from it. Many people qualify anxiety as a sin, because it implies a lack of trust in God. This is one of the more confusing things about anxiety- people think it is synonymous with worry. If you're anxious, then you must be worrying about something, right? And worry is a sin. So, if you're anxious, you must be sinning.

Not necessarily.

As I said in the first post, the symptoms of General Anxiety Disorder (GAD) can be caused by a variety of triggers. Yes, chronic or acute worry might be one of them. In my case, this did play a role, and I'll touch on that later. But, if you want to know how to love someone with GAD well, don't assume that their symptoms are a consequence of the sin of worry. Their anxiety may or may not have anything to do with worry.

Remember that GAD is basically a prolonged and/or exaggerated expression of the fight or flight response. GAD can be the result of a variety of physiological and/or psychological triggers- exhaustion, stress, poor eating and drinking habits, or a traumatic event. Likely, it's a combination of these factors. Mature Christians are not exempt from any of these triggers, and therefore can easily find themselves trapped in a pattern of GAD.

The last thing that a mature Christian should do is get discouraged by assuming that their experience with anxiety is an expression of their lack of faith. We might think, If I really trusted, loved and belonged to God, I wouldn't feel this way. Or, If I just pray more or get down to the root sin, all of this will go away. I once thought this way but, as time goes on, I've learned to see this experience as a testing of my faith, rather than an expression of not enough faith.

Having said that, I must admit that one of the things that I have recognized and dealt with during this time of testing is unbelief. One of the Bible's key verses on anxiety is 1 Peter 5:7. My mom gave me a print of this verse for Christmas and I love it, but, one of the things I was challenged with early on was the verse that precedes it.

Humble yourselves, therefore, under God's might hand, that he may lift you up in due time. 1 Peter 5:6

In my case, one of the factors involved in triggering my GAD was chronic worry over a circumstance in my life that I've struggled with for years. God used what was happening to me physically to spur me to deeply, and I mean really, really deeply examine my heart toward God and every other person involved in this circumstance. Through counsel and confession, I learned that I did not really trust God when he says that he is bringing all things together for my good and his glory. (Romans 8:28) Not only that, but, in my pride, I have been thinking that I could, would and should fix this thing that he has allowed to remain broken. It was really important for me to "humble myself under his mighty hand" and truly, deeply accept his will in this matter.

God is good. Even when a situation doesn't feel good. God is love. Even when I might not particularly feel loved. God is wise. Even when I think my way is better, his is always best. God is just. Even when something feels unfair, only God can see and rightly judge circumstances and people. GOD CAN BE TRUSTED.

After humility, we get to the sweet stuff... Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7

It's not exactly easy to feel cared for when you are face-down every day begging for something to be taken away, and it isn't taken away. I have many friends who find themselves in this place, and on their behalf and mine- I must say, the struggle is so. very. real. This is the testing that produces endurance, character, and eventually deepest hope and joy. But it hurts while it is happening. It feels desperate and terrible. Far from feeling beloved, it feels like being forgotten. Far from feeling cared for, it feels like affliction.

But somehow, through the pain, real hope emerges. My anxiety is not gone, but I feel more together with God than I have in a long time. I don't know what's happening in my life, and my circumstances haven't really changed, but I know His kindness in a deeper way. I trust His goodness with a little more certainty. I am excited about His future and less dependent on the experience of here and now.

All of this depends on accepting the latter part of this verse as the core belief in my life. Because he cares for me. I've started to rebuild the way that I think of myself. At the foundation level is this belief- God cares for me. He takes delight in me. He really, really likes me. And enjoys me. At every stage, every step. Currently, I believe that God has told me that my willingness during this time of testing delights him. It isn't the end product- not the final fruit of a perfectly at peace mind and soul- that delights him (probably because I don't have that yet), but he delights in my willingness to continue on this journey, step by anxious step, looking for him, trying to find out more about him, testing, tasting and seeing him each day.

Does this make me a mature Christian? Well, yes. I believe it does. I believe that mature Christianity can only result from true testing. We can study God's Word (and we should), we can serve in our churches (and we should), we can build beautiful relationships with strong believers, but for our own maturity to really come through- we have to be tested. We have to be tried by fire. We have to let the dross be consumed, the gold refined. That's what anxiety can be for the mature Christian- the blazing furnace of refinement.

Let me be clear. I am not a mature Christian because I am anxious. Neither am I an immature Christian because I am anxious. Anxiety can come about because of many things, but when it does come, there is always the opportunity to respond with an attitude reflective of 1 Peter 5:6-7. Humility. Trust in God's mighty hand. Belief in his love. And a throwing off of any worry that might keep us trapped in GAD. We can step forward, hearts still beating, breaths still coming short, panic attacks still just around the corner, trusting that he will care for us. He loves us. He delights in us. And he is working all of this together for our good.

Friend, if you are reading this and suffering from anxiety, please know that I do not assume that you have a problem with pride or lack of trust. God allows this suffering for reasons that he alone knows. It does not mean that your problems have been the same as mine. It also doesn't mean that anxiety will go away as soon as sin is dealt with. This has not been the case for me. But, what has been the case, is that I'm learning to count the whole thing as joy- even though I would LOVE for my pounding chest to never ache inside me again. I know, that for fruit to come to maturity it takes time. And for trust to be real, it must be tested. So I humble myself, because, in due time, he will lift me up. May he do the same for you.

Can I be an anxious Christian?

My friend Angela sent me this Relevant magazine article this morning, and it resonated with me. It feels similar to the experience I've been having with anxiety disorder. It also sounds similar to some of the encouraging stories that have been shared with me by others who are suffering from anxiety and depression.

I think the central question here is- can you be an anxious Christian? I want to talk a little bit about that question.

I think that any adjective could be inserted in front of the word Christian, and a similar question could be asked. Can I be a depressed Christian? A gay Christian? An angry Christian? A selfish Christian? A prideful Christian? An insecure Christian? An ungrateful Christian?

First, I have to think about the word Christian before I can address any of these other words. What is a Christian? For me, a Christian is anyone who fits this description in Romans 10:9 "If you declare with your mouth "Jesus is Lord" and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved." I think a Christian is a "saved" person- a person who believes that God's grace alone has saved them from the wrath of God. And the Bible is clear that absolutely anyone can qualify for that grace. It has nothing to do with our actions- Romans 4: 5 "To the one who does not work but trusts God who justifies the ungodly, their faith is credited as righteousness."

So, anyone, and I do mean anyone, can be a Christian. That is not to say that I think that everyone is a Christian. Some people think that everyone is saved. That's an interesting theology, but not one that I personally agree with. If I believe the Bible, and the Bible says that the qualifying acts for salvation are belief in my heart and confession of my lips, then I'm not going to believe that everyone is saved. Not everyone believes in Jesus in their heart. So I don't think everyone is saved. Some people choose to reject Him. Even people who were raised in "Christian" cultures.

But what about all these other words? I can't answer all of those questions, but I can share what I'm learning about being an anxious Christian?

Can I be an anxious Christian? Absolutely. Yes. Being anxious does not make me less of a Christian. It isn't something that I need to be ashamed of. Because it is a part of my Gospel story, and, like Paul, "I am not ashamed of the gospel, because it is the power of God that brings salvation." (Romans 1: 16)

What is anxiety, anyway? There's a complicated question, and one that I can only answer by sharing from my experience because I am not a doctor, nor have I studied this disorder in great depth. But, for me, anxiety is a collection of nervous symptoms that I have learned are all associated with excess adrenaline and cortisol stress hormones. I've felt a lot of different things in this time that I've had anxiety, but the main ones that I suffer from are- chest pain (yes, I've been fully checked out and my heart is 100% fine), dizziness, invasive thoughts and the sensation of unreality.

When I first began to experience anxiety, people would ask me, "What are you worried about?" Well-meaning friends often ask this question and encourage anxiety sufferers to pray more or seek help from a Christian counselor, which is really good advice, but may or may not be what that person needs. Some people have been praying on their "hands and knees" as the Relevant magazine article clarifies, and some have been in counseling for years. Both of those truths applied to me when I first began to experience anxiety. To me, counseling and prayer are always a good idea, but they might not eliminate nervous suffering.

"What am I worried about?" At first, I had no idea. Because on the surface, I thought things were fine in my life. I wasn't consciously worried about anything. But over these months of nervous suffering, God has let me explore the deepest parts of myself- places where unbelief and unforgiveness and ungratefulness have been flourishing. This has been a hard and humbling journey. And, along the way, as I've uncovered places that needed to be transformed by God's grace, I have been sort of shocked and ashamed. But, I'm choosing to reject the shame. I don't need to be ashamed of something that God says is common of all humanity- I am a sinner. I need God's grace. I need His help. That's part of my belief and confession. It's also a part of my healing. I also don't need to be ashamed of something that glorifies my Savior. And, let me be clear- I do need saving. I do need healing. Every hour, I need Thee.

But anxiety disorder can't just be boiled down to mental stress or unconfessed sin. For some, anxious suffering might not have anything to do with the heart or mind (though, we're integrated beings, so it's hard to separate those things out, but emotional or spiritual issues might not be the primary problems) Most of the time, I see anxiety classified as a mental illness, but the book my doctor recommended to me- Dare, by Barry McDonough- says that's not really the case. The symptoms of anxiety (panic attacks, troubled breathing, insomnia, muscle pain and fatigue, invasive thoughts, unreality, etc.) are actually caused by adrenaline. Essentially, chronic anxiety is a prolonged and habitual fight or flight response. Not many people talk about these physical aspects of anxiety. Usually, people go straight for the mental, emotional or spiritual issues at hand. But, even when those are being dealt with, the physical sensations (which can be frightening and horrifically painful) can remain. In fact, anxiety is often triggered by physical suffering, and I believe this was the case for me. The first panic attack I had was in the hospital after delivering Grey. My body had struggled so much with that delivery, and I was exhausted and in pain. This isn't uncommon. Apparently, many people first experience anxiety and panic attacks after operations or accidents, or when they are chronically exhausted or not eating or drinking well. My anxiety returned at a time when I wasn't sleeping because of Grey's troubled sleep. (In truth, I hadn't slept more than a few consecutive hours in more than a year) When we think about anxious suffering in this light, it seems almost silly to ask the question, "Can I be an anxious Christian?" It would be like asking, "Can I be a Christian with cancer? Or migraines? Or arthritis?"

Of course, anxiety is more nuanced than migraines or arthritis because the mind does play a significant role in the progression of the disorder. What I think about anxiety, and what I think about myself and about God and about other people, will absolutely affect whether or not I heal from this disorder, which is not necessarily the case with those other sicknesses. But, anxiety is definitely a physical problem, and should be treated as such, both by anxious sufferers and those who are close to them.

So, can I be an anxious Christian? Does having anxiety disqualify me in any way from bearing witness to Christ? Or becoming like Him? My take- No. Absolutely not. I'm beginning to see anxiety as one of the cracks in my life through which the Light shines in. Anxiety helped me get at some of the sins beneath my conscious thoughts. Anxiety drives me to God, who heals all my diseases (Psalm 103: 3) And, best of all, anxiety is helping me throw off the need for you (or anyone) to see me in any particular light. I want other people to see me in a good light. I want a good reputation, and to be seen and thought of well. I have held out the cup of approval so many times like little Oliver Twist, "Please, God, can I have some more?" And, I could not get over it when He said, "No." Rather than fill that cup with the elixir of other people's approval, which doesn't actually satisfy my soul, He's allowed it to stay empty. I'm finally learning to put that cup down. And I'm looking for a new one to pick up and bring to Him. There's tremendous freedom in that. Freedom from the anxiety of what other people think about me. Wow. I'm not "there" yet, but I'm journeying on... step by anxious step.