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.