Thursday, October 25, 2018
Monday, October 15, 2018
You Are a Liar/I Hope You're Eaten Alive
This is a reflection on two episodes of Conversations With People Who Hate Me that deal with the topic of rape and sexual assault. As Dylan says, if that's not something you should be reading about right now, that's totally fine. Go out and do something good for you. But if you've got the energy, this might help you see something new in the world you haven't seen before.
I want to be strong. I want to be kind. I want to help. Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ on my left, Christ on my right, Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me. I want to be good.
Mostly, though, I want to be strong and I kinda want people to know that I'm strong. I want to be capable and I kinda want to hear people tell me that I'm capable. St. Patrick's Breastplate fails me in the face of my stubborn adherence to this picture of who I am, who I want to be. I want to be useful. I want to do something. Not only do I want these things, but I think that my value, my worth depends on my ability to be useful.
And because I'm usually strong and because I'm usually capable and because my value system depends on it, I find myself particularly torn down when I find that I'm not strong enough or not capable enough. It's supremely frightening when I don't really understand why my strength has abandoned me or where my ability has gone.
That's what happened after I listened to episode 17 of Dylan Marron's Conversations With People Who Hate Me, You Are a Liar. Typically in my past, when difficult topics had come up for discussion, like rape and sexual assault, or any of the other million ways that hurt people hurt people, or careless people hurt people, the walls go up and the analytical mind comes on and I sit with the facts of the matter. No need to get emotional with it. No need to play on someone's heartstrings. Just give me the information I need to understand the situation. Thanks.
But that conversation was so... raw for me. I began listening with such hope that the person who had called a rape survivor a liar would, through hearing her story from her in her own words, come to understand the complexity of the matter and retract not only his comment but repent of the damaging ideas that had led to it. But as the episode went on, it became clear that he was entrenched in his way of thinking and that nothing was going to change his mind and I once again remembered why so many survivors of sexual violence and abuse don't report. People don't believe us anyway, don't hear us. And that's not going to change.
Inside me, my strength was telling me, "Oh, get over it. These are three people on the internet having a conversation that is in no way connected to you. The guy didn't mean anything by it. He didn't harbor any ill will. He just had a difference of opinion. Move on. Get over it. Get over it. Get over it. Shut it down. We have other shit to do."
I couldn't.
I laid there for God knows how long, then got up and found something to distract me. I didn't do any of the things that needed doing. I wasn't capable. I wasn't strong. I couldn't get over even this small thing. For the rest of my life, these small things will knock me off my feet and I will take days to recover and everything good about me, everything helpful will be gone. It's hopeless. I am useless. I am worthless.
This, my friends, is not what good is.
It's easier now, with some distance and some life-changes, to be gentle with my past self and with my mind. I had thought that strength was being able to play through the pain and I understand why I thought that. Sometimes strength is that. But strength is also seeing your hurt and allowing yourself time to heal. Strength is seeing that you are worthy of healing, that you are important enough, valuable enough just because you're here, to receive care for your wounds. Strength is allowing other people close enough to help. They probably want to help too. And usefulness and capability are all well and good, but they are not the pillars upon which your value stands. You, just as you are, are loved and capable of loving, and that is more than enough to build upon.
Once upon a time, during a moment of caring for me while I was deep in the throes of intense self-doubt, a friend asked me, "Well, you believe that Jesus loves you, right?" And I could not for the life of me fathom why he would bring up such a trite idea at such an important time. Sure. Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so. I have accepted this and graduated from Sunday School. Can we move on to something more substantial now?
But I think he was actually aiming at something deeply important. My faith tradition gives me an anchor, a storehouse of hope and love that is never closed to me, though I may not think that I deserve to run to it. The truth that I do believe, phrased in a way that I will hear it, is that the Love that made the Cosmos also cares for me, regardless of what I've done or left undone, regardless of what I can do or will do, regardless of the state of my heart. Christ died for us while we were yet sinners and that proves God's love for us. My brain, my mind, my lived experience might cause me to doubt my worth, but keeping the faith, for me, as hard as it is, means remembering that I am loved by an everlasting, inexhaustible Love, and that I am able to give love because part of that Love lives in me. That, for me, is as substantial as it gets. This is the touchstone. This is home.
Now, this is my journey and not yours. I will be the first to admit that the faith tradition that anchors me is also the one that deeply scarred me, making me think that I was worth less because of my abuse. I have had to wrestle with Christianity and the Church and who I understand Christ to be in order to land in a place of sureness in my faith, and that is not the journey for everyone. Another belief system or another way of seeing the world might speak to you. You might anchor your hope in the good that we can do for each other, and find that goodness and hope and love in your friendships and other relationships, and that might provide the renewal you need to face the world. But let me leave you with two little sparks of hope anyway:
After years of thinking that I wasn't taken seriously or wasn't cared for when I reported, I found out that the truth of the matter is that I wasn't understood. Finding this out didn't heal every wound, but it did open the door for more love and more understanding in my life than I'd had before. Sometimes life surprises you.
And that guy, who wouldn't believe a rape survivor without empirical evidence? Well, Dylan had another conversation with him and I think you'll find encouragement from listening to this one. If you've got the energy, give episode 25, I Hope You're Eaten Alive, a listen. Sometimes people surprise you, if you're able to give them the chance.
I want to be strong. I want to be kind. I want to help. Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ on my left, Christ on my right, Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me. I want to be good.
Mostly, though, I want to be strong and I kinda want people to know that I'm strong. I want to be capable and I kinda want to hear people tell me that I'm capable. St. Patrick's Breastplate fails me in the face of my stubborn adherence to this picture of who I am, who I want to be. I want to be useful. I want to do something. Not only do I want these things, but I think that my value, my worth depends on my ability to be useful.
And because I'm usually strong and because I'm usually capable and because my value system depends on it, I find myself particularly torn down when I find that I'm not strong enough or not capable enough. It's supremely frightening when I don't really understand why my strength has abandoned me or where my ability has gone.
That's what happened after I listened to episode 17 of Dylan Marron's Conversations With People Who Hate Me, You Are a Liar. Typically in my past, when difficult topics had come up for discussion, like rape and sexual assault, or any of the other million ways that hurt people hurt people, or careless people hurt people, the walls go up and the analytical mind comes on and I sit with the facts of the matter. No need to get emotional with it. No need to play on someone's heartstrings. Just give me the information I need to understand the situation. Thanks.
But that conversation was so... raw for me. I began listening with such hope that the person who had called a rape survivor a liar would, through hearing her story from her in her own words, come to understand the complexity of the matter and retract not only his comment but repent of the damaging ideas that had led to it. But as the episode went on, it became clear that he was entrenched in his way of thinking and that nothing was going to change his mind and I once again remembered why so many survivors of sexual violence and abuse don't report. People don't believe us anyway, don't hear us. And that's not going to change.
Inside me, my strength was telling me, "Oh, get over it. These are three people on the internet having a conversation that is in no way connected to you. The guy didn't mean anything by it. He didn't harbor any ill will. He just had a difference of opinion. Move on. Get over it. Get over it. Get over it. Shut it down. We have other shit to do."
I couldn't.
I laid there for God knows how long, then got up and found something to distract me. I didn't do any of the things that needed doing. I wasn't capable. I wasn't strong. I couldn't get over even this small thing. For the rest of my life, these small things will knock me off my feet and I will take days to recover and everything good about me, everything helpful will be gone. It's hopeless. I am useless. I am worthless.
This, my friends, is not what good is.
It's easier now, with some distance and some life-changes, to be gentle with my past self and with my mind. I had thought that strength was being able to play through the pain and I understand why I thought that. Sometimes strength is that. But strength is also seeing your hurt and allowing yourself time to heal. Strength is seeing that you are worthy of healing, that you are important enough, valuable enough just because you're here, to receive care for your wounds. Strength is allowing other people close enough to help. They probably want to help too. And usefulness and capability are all well and good, but they are not the pillars upon which your value stands. You, just as you are, are loved and capable of loving, and that is more than enough to build upon.
Once upon a time, during a moment of caring for me while I was deep in the throes of intense self-doubt, a friend asked me, "Well, you believe that Jesus loves you, right?" And I could not for the life of me fathom why he would bring up such a trite idea at such an important time. Sure. Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so. I have accepted this and graduated from Sunday School. Can we move on to something more substantial now?
But I think he was actually aiming at something deeply important. My faith tradition gives me an anchor, a storehouse of hope and love that is never closed to me, though I may not think that I deserve to run to it. The truth that I do believe, phrased in a way that I will hear it, is that the Love that made the Cosmos also cares for me, regardless of what I've done or left undone, regardless of what I can do or will do, regardless of the state of my heart. Christ died for us while we were yet sinners and that proves God's love for us. My brain, my mind, my lived experience might cause me to doubt my worth, but keeping the faith, for me, as hard as it is, means remembering that I am loved by an everlasting, inexhaustible Love, and that I am able to give love because part of that Love lives in me. That, for me, is as substantial as it gets. This is the touchstone. This is home.
Now, this is my journey and not yours. I will be the first to admit that the faith tradition that anchors me is also the one that deeply scarred me, making me think that I was worth less because of my abuse. I have had to wrestle with Christianity and the Church and who I understand Christ to be in order to land in a place of sureness in my faith, and that is not the journey for everyone. Another belief system or another way of seeing the world might speak to you. You might anchor your hope in the good that we can do for each other, and find that goodness and hope and love in your friendships and other relationships, and that might provide the renewal you need to face the world. But let me leave you with two little sparks of hope anyway:
After years of thinking that I wasn't taken seriously or wasn't cared for when I reported, I found out that the truth of the matter is that I wasn't understood. Finding this out didn't heal every wound, but it did open the door for more love and more understanding in my life than I'd had before. Sometimes life surprises you.
And that guy, who wouldn't believe a rape survivor without empirical evidence? Well, Dylan had another conversation with him and I think you'll find encouragement from listening to this one. If you've got the energy, give episode 25, I Hope You're Eaten Alive, a listen. Sometimes people surprise you, if you're able to give them the chance.
Sunday, October 7, 2018
Brought Together
The texts for this sermon were Genesis 2:18-24, Mark 10:2-16, and Hebrews 1:1-4 and 2:5-12. They are not easy texts. For good and gracious contextualizing thoughts on the gospel, which talks about divorce, I would direct you to this reflection on the gospel text, which directed much of my thinking for this sermon. The sermon as preached was framed differently in the beginning, with an emphasis on communion, which comes back around at the end, but by and large, this is the sermon text.
I want to tell the
people that we were made with an unquenchable desire for something other than
ourselves lodged deep down in our guts. I want to tell the people that the
longing that they feel is real and powerful and motivating. I want to tell them
that it is right, and a good and joyful thing always and everywhere to reach
out to another. In times of sorrow and in times of celebration, in times of
loneliness and in times of togetherness, in times of comfortable stasis and in
times of life-altering fracture, we find our way to one another, and this is as
it should be.
The ancient
Israelites understood this truth and believed in it so much that they wrote it
into their story of creation. The Lord God sees that it was not good for the
first human to be alone, the scriptures tell us, and so God seek to create a
companion, an aide, for the human. God creates and creates. God makes every
living creature and the human names each (what a powerful thing, naming!) and
still, at the end, no aide was found for the human.
And then,
After hiding the
human in the depth of sleep,
The Lord God gently
takes a piece of the human and shapes it into another.
The entirety of
creation has passed by at this point. The sky, the seas, the ground, the depths
of the earth, the stars, the plants, everything that lives on the earth or in
the ocean or soars through the sky, all of the majesty and the marvel, and it
is this other, this singular other and none other, that brings the human to
song upon waking. This, finally, is the creation, the help, that meets the
depth of the human’s longing. This is bone of bone and flesh of flesh. And the
human names her Woman and names himself Man and knows that to this one he will
cling.
Our lives bear out of
the enduring truth of this story. We have all met others in our lives that we
have clung to. Good friends. Good family members. Mentors. Partners. The
expansiveness of the human’s hymn is so often forgotten. This, at last, is bone
of my bones and flesh of my flesh. This, finally, God, finally, is one who
feels so close to me that they must have a piece of me hidden inside of them,
in their very being, deep down in their bones. My eyes can see the great
goodness of Creation inside this one and it makes me sing. To this one I will
hold. With this one I will stay.
We all long for
these others in our lives, throughout our lives.
But.
We do not live in
an idyllic garden, surrounded by every good thing to eat, at peace with each
other and Creation around us. We live here. We live here, in this world, with
people who will disappoint us and hurt us and leave us. We live in this world
where it is so easy to miss the humanity of someone else, to, in our blindness,
miss a piece of ourselves inside of another. We see glimmers of the good world
we were made for, the good relationships we were shaped to hope for, but we are
all the same surrounded by pain, and in our pain, we hurt others. We may not
want to. We may not understand why or how we do it. But to be human in this
world is to struggle with the pain given to us and the pain we give away.
Jesus understood
this. Jesus, the Word Made Flesh who lived among us, the Word present at
creation who knows us better than we know ourselves and loves us still, Jesus
understood that humans struggle with pain. So when someone asked him, “Is it
legal for a man to leave a woman destitute, without any way to live, shamed,
ostracized, unable to find a home? Is it lawful for a man to divorce his
wife?”, Jesus told them, “No.” Jesus said, “I understand how you have permitted
yourselves to live, why you have given yourselves permission to cause lifelong
pain to another, but you must understand: From the beginning, God called you to
one another. God entrusted you to each other’s care. God joined you together,
flesh of each other’s flesh and bone of each other’s bone, and you must not
separate yourselves in this way. You must understand this. When you are joined,
you have a burden of care for each other, and you must abide by this, and be
worthy of it. To do otherwise is betrayal. To do otherwise is pain.” When I
read this story from Mark, which contains such harsh words and such harsh
teaching, I hear Jesus pleading with us, feeling our pain, understanding our
desire for freedom from it, and begging us, “Be careful with one another. Care
for one another. Please understand that you belong to one another.”
And as if he knew
that we would miss this, that we would get distracted by all the complexity
that marriage entails and misunderstand our burden of care for each other, the
writer of Mark’s gospel tells us another story of togetherness. You see, people
had been bringing little children to Jesus, but the disciples wanted to keep
them away. They spoke sternly to them.
Jesus, upon seeing
this, is indignant. Not only have they misunderstood that they must care for
one another, but they have misunderstood again that there are some that we must
extend particular care for. It was not only the women of this time who were
vulnerable to this painful world, it was also the children. (And I think, in
our heart of hearts, we understand that not much has changed in the millennia
since Christ walked this Earth.) Jesus, heartbroken and full of love for these
little ones who had come to see him and had been turned away, speaks to his
disciples and he says, “Do not do this thing. Do not stop them. Let the little
children come to me. Don’t you see? The World to Come, in all its goodness and
togetherness, belongs to them. You have so much to learn from these ones, from
their love and tenderness, their curiosity and their wonder.”
And Jesus lifts the
children up in his arms, as he will lift up all of us in his outstretched arms
on Golgotha, and Jesus blesses them. These ones who had been told that they had
no place beside Jesus are the ones who are particularly blessed by him. When
the God of the Universe came to this world in flesh and bone, he reached out to
the ones who could give him nothing but love and answered their love with
blessing. And even as he held them, he spoke to those who would have stood in
the way of that blessing. “These belong to me, just as you belong to each
other. Do not stop this.”
The writer of
Hebrews gives us an argument for understanding Jesus’ actions here in the
Gospel of Mark. In beautiful language, the writer reminds us that God has
always been speaking to us, speaking to the ancestors in the past in many
various ways, but that God has spoken anew in Jesus. God has spoken anew not by
a prophet or by an angel, but by a Son, who is truly God as the Father and the
Spirit are. He cares for us (and what are we that God cares for us, is mindful
of us?), and he carries us along throughout our lives. Though he has returned
to glory, for a while he lived here on this earth, moving through the world in
flesh and bone just like us, and died, just as we will all die, and in this
death brought us all to glory.
It is in the final
verses of our reading from Hebrews that the author ties all of this together,
our whole story from the man and the woman in the garden, to Jesus and the
women and the children, to today. The author writes, “It was fitting that God,
for whom and through whom all things exist, in bringing many children to glory,
should make the pioneer of their salvation perfect through sufferings. For the
one who sanctifies and those who are sanctified all have one Father. For this
reason Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers and sisters, saying,
‘I will proclaim your name to my brothers
and sisters,
in the midst of the congregation I will praise you.’”
in the midst of the congregation I will praise you.’”
Jesus has been here
on this Earth. He knows our pain as deeply as we know it, and how we struggle
with it, and how we suffer, because he suffered it too. And still, despite all
that pain, God calls us God’s children, ones to be brought to glory. Despite
everything, Jesus, who has brought us along with him, is not ashamed to call us
his sisters and brothers. Before the world, he claims us as his.
And in calling us
brothers and sisters, he gives us back to each other. He calls us again to care
for each other.
For we are our
brothers’ keepers. We are our sisters’ keepers. We are each others’ keepers. Flesh
of flesh and bone of bone, we belong to each other and we are called to care
for one another.
And so, we gather
around this table for this meal, siblings together claimed by the Most High
God, to remember what God in Christ has done for us. God has called us to each
other from the very beginning, all humans everywhere together, and God has
called us back to God, coming down from Majesty to suffer and die for us, that
we might return back to majesty in love and thanksgiving. We gather this
morning with Christians around the world, other daughters and sons of God,
brothers and sisters together with Christ, to bring the pain that the world has
given us and leave it on the cross, to be reconciled to each other, and to be
given strength to care for each other as brothers and sisters ought. Best of
all, God meets us here. Christ joins us when we share this meal that remembers
him and in his presence we find love and joy, peace and comfort, strength for
today and hope for tomorrow. In communion, Jesus gathers all of us once again
up into his arms, blesses us, and gives us back to each other.
And what God has
joined, let no one tear asunder.
Amen.
Tuesday, September 25, 2018
Opening the Box
Content warning: This post is a reflection on my experience being triggered by the nation-wide conversation around sexual abuse and assault, which took off with the #MeToo movement and has come back into attention as Dr. Christine Blasey Ford prepares to testify against Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh. While I don't directly reference anything that would trigger me as a survivor, if you know that this is not content you should be reading right now, close this window and go take care of yourself.
In some ways, this is a reflection inspired by this article on Slate. It does offer a little bit more hope than I'm able to right now. Still, at the end of the day, I long to live in a world where sexual misconduct is universally condemned and where survivors don't have to relive some of the most difficult times in their lives in order to make a change. If you have the energy to read it, that's what the post below is trying to express.
Listen, I had put my demons in a box. Sure, they had carried with them safety and intimacy and a whole host of emotions, but at least they were gone. I had locked all of this away as a matter of survival and on the whole, I wasn't all that upset with my life. I had good friends, I had aspirations, I had opportunities for travel. My world was sufficient.
And then I went to a training on preventing child abuse, both physical and sexual, and I couldn't understand why all I could do was stare at the table as the statistics were read and the presenter tried hard to get the people in the room to understand how widespread the problem was and how urgent the need to address it. My hands clenched into fists under the table, grasping tight to the lid of my demons' box, but by the end of the training, I had resources and I had plans for action and I grasped those as tight as I could. By the end of the year, I would be pushing for an update on my church's Safe Sanctuary policy and running a short training on the policy and on recognizing abuse. The demons might have rattled the box, but I took courage from it. I chose to confront as much of my past as I was able to at the time and it galvanized me. I made a difference.
From time to time over the next few years, the box would shake, but never burst. There would be tremors, but the world would always right itself again after. Sometimes, I'd walk over to the box, because I knew that I had locked away good, important things in there too, things that I needed, but anytime the chance came to open it, I ran away. I'm very good at running away.
Up until the day that I wasn't. That day, I felt secure in myself and buoyed by the possibility of new and good and exciting things, and I walked up to the box and opened it up, standing still and strong in the face of what might come. My demons, hungry for fresh air, rushed out and away and I could gather the good things from my box and close it back up, empty. For a time, I waited for my demons to come home, but days and weeks passed and it seemed like maybe I was free.
And then #MeToo happened. Then everything was story after story after story of abuse and assault, affirmation upon affirmation that women should be believed, that all survivors regardless of gender should be believed, article after article of the horrors of surviving, reporting, being disbelieved, being retraumatized, putting yourself back together and getting torn apart again and again. The conversation around sexual abuse and assault was everywhere and it was important and I felt that I had to participate, so I did. And as I did, my demons came home to roost.
Now, I'm strong. I know this. I know that I am loved and that I am valuable and that I did not cause my demons. I know that I am worthy of feeling powerful emotions, of safety, of intimacy. I know that I can't box all this back up again. But the demons go after these strengths. The demons use old lies and speak them again in new ways. The demons take the breath out of my lungs and the thoughts out of my head and leave me trapped in this vacuum chamber with no light, no sound, no life. They're only in my head but somehow they paralyze me. They are ancient and have worked against stronger people than me. To fight them seems impossible. Better to let them do what they're going to do and hope there's something of me left when the air comes back. So far, there has been.
But I don't have time to be fighting demons. I have so much else that I need to do. I want to hear the stories of survivors who explain #WhyIDidntReport, want to sit with them in their grief and pain, the pain that I know so well, but I can't. I want to pay attention to Dr. Ford's testimony on Thursday, but I can't. I want to share posts that say that I stand with survivors, but I can't. Every time I turn my attention to this conversation, my demons pound at my door, at the barriers I've put up, and they tear at me until I can't stand being in my own head anymore. Demons are fed by this world we're living in right now. They are strong and they do not keep to the shadows. And I do not have much hope that that will change anytime soon.
God, how long will we have to do this? How long will people take another's body and use it the way they want, whenever they want, without consequence? How long will this fight continue? How long will I have to stand against the guilt and shame and fear that should never have been mine? God, why do you let us live like this? God, why do you let this hurt me?
Jesus, Lord, we need a change.
In some ways, this is a reflection inspired by this article on Slate. It does offer a little bit more hope than I'm able to right now. Still, at the end of the day, I long to live in a world where sexual misconduct is universally condemned and where survivors don't have to relive some of the most difficult times in their lives in order to make a change. If you have the energy to read it, that's what the post below is trying to express.
Listen, I had put my demons in a box. Sure, they had carried with them safety and intimacy and a whole host of emotions, but at least they were gone. I had locked all of this away as a matter of survival and on the whole, I wasn't all that upset with my life. I had good friends, I had aspirations, I had opportunities for travel. My world was sufficient.
And then I went to a training on preventing child abuse, both physical and sexual, and I couldn't understand why all I could do was stare at the table as the statistics were read and the presenter tried hard to get the people in the room to understand how widespread the problem was and how urgent the need to address it. My hands clenched into fists under the table, grasping tight to the lid of my demons' box, but by the end of the training, I had resources and I had plans for action and I grasped those as tight as I could. By the end of the year, I would be pushing for an update on my church's Safe Sanctuary policy and running a short training on the policy and on recognizing abuse. The demons might have rattled the box, but I took courage from it. I chose to confront as much of my past as I was able to at the time and it galvanized me. I made a difference.
From time to time over the next few years, the box would shake, but never burst. There would be tremors, but the world would always right itself again after. Sometimes, I'd walk over to the box, because I knew that I had locked away good, important things in there too, things that I needed, but anytime the chance came to open it, I ran away. I'm very good at running away.
Up until the day that I wasn't. That day, I felt secure in myself and buoyed by the possibility of new and good and exciting things, and I walked up to the box and opened it up, standing still and strong in the face of what might come. My demons, hungry for fresh air, rushed out and away and I could gather the good things from my box and close it back up, empty. For a time, I waited for my demons to come home, but days and weeks passed and it seemed like maybe I was free.
And then #MeToo happened. Then everything was story after story after story of abuse and assault, affirmation upon affirmation that women should be believed, that all survivors regardless of gender should be believed, article after article of the horrors of surviving, reporting, being disbelieved, being retraumatized, putting yourself back together and getting torn apart again and again. The conversation around sexual abuse and assault was everywhere and it was important and I felt that I had to participate, so I did. And as I did, my demons came home to roost.
Now, I'm strong. I know this. I know that I am loved and that I am valuable and that I did not cause my demons. I know that I am worthy of feeling powerful emotions, of safety, of intimacy. I know that I can't box all this back up again. But the demons go after these strengths. The demons use old lies and speak them again in new ways. The demons take the breath out of my lungs and the thoughts out of my head and leave me trapped in this vacuum chamber with no light, no sound, no life. They're only in my head but somehow they paralyze me. They are ancient and have worked against stronger people than me. To fight them seems impossible. Better to let them do what they're going to do and hope there's something of me left when the air comes back. So far, there has been.
But I don't have time to be fighting demons. I have so much else that I need to do. I want to hear the stories of survivors who explain #WhyIDidntReport, want to sit with them in their grief and pain, the pain that I know so well, but I can't. I want to pay attention to Dr. Ford's testimony on Thursday, but I can't. I want to share posts that say that I stand with survivors, but I can't. Every time I turn my attention to this conversation, my demons pound at my door, at the barriers I've put up, and they tear at me until I can't stand being in my own head anymore. Demons are fed by this world we're living in right now. They are strong and they do not keep to the shadows. And I do not have much hope that that will change anytime soon.
God, how long will we have to do this? How long will people take another's body and use it the way they want, whenever they want, without consequence? How long will this fight continue? How long will I have to stand against the guilt and shame and fear that should never have been mine? God, why do you let us live like this? God, why do you let this hurt me?
Jesus, Lord, we need a change.
Thursday, September 20, 2018
Glass
It is difficult for me to resist the temptation of fragmentation, for me to acknowledge the value of wholeness when wholeness is such a struggle in these times of ours. It is much easier to accept the fragmentation pushed upon me rather than to seek the wholeness I know I should want, easier to set my emotions in a box for later, when I can actually deal with them, or ignore that pain in my back until I finish the assignment, or sit and stare at my newsfeed until the tidal wave of ignored feelings and pains dulls and I can use my mind again. Mine is a functional fragmentation, a resignation to the idea that I cannot carry the entirety of me throughout my day, that I do not have the currency, the value, or the energy needed to be whole.
I heard a sermon recently where the preacher shared a story with a distinct image. The preacher had had a dream while writing the sermon, and in it, he had a mouth full of shards of glass. He asked us to imagine that, imagine what a mouthful of broken glass would feel like, and that was a powerful moment for me. You cannot help but be aware that your mouth is filled with glass. Every breath cuts. You can't speak, you can't smile, can't laugh, can't scream. You feel like you will suffocate taking these short, shallow breaths through your nose, like your jaw will freeze in the slightly open position you have adopted to accommodate the glass. You keep your teeth together and your lips closed because if these shards of glass fall out, they will shatter even more, spattering blood from your mouth onto the floor, and no one will be able to approach you to tend your wounds for fear of being harmed themselves. You know that what is inside of you is dangerous, and as the panic sets in, you wonder how long you can keep the danger from escaping.
Now, the preacher himself was not as captivated by the image as I was, instead moving on to connect the image of a mouth full of broken glass to the one found in Ezekiel 3, where the prophet gets a mouthful of scroll and it tastes like honey, and to make an important point about the necessity of good preaching. But if Ezekiel's scroll, Ezekiel's words from God, taste like honey, then this image that we're working with, this broken glass, surely means that there are words from God that are sharp, and cutting, and difficult to speak. They are words that were never meant to stay inside of us, but will require some pain and some loss to speak. We will need to be careful with them. We will need help. But we cannot keep these words inside of ourselves. They will kill us.
I would give anything in the world for this glass to pour out of my mouth, to fall on the ground in a million colors and settle into a pattern of stained glass beauty, all sensible and lovely and prophetic. I would love to let go of these little fragments of pain that absorb my attention, that stop me from caring for myself, that stop me from caring for others. We all have mouths full of glass sometimes, I think, times when we ourselves have shattered and fragmented and the things that cause us pain must be spoken, and when we speak them, if we speak them carefully, and purposefully, these things become holy words. They become words of prophecy, words from God, summoning the four winds and bringing life into places that had been dead. These shards that we carry, afraid to let them fall, can, in time, scatter goodness into the world.
But it is not easy. It is not without cost. It is not without struggle.
It is difficult for me to resist the temptation of fragmentation, difficult to stand against the lie that I cannot be whole, should not try to be whole, and so I stand with my teeth together and my lips closed and breathe these short shallow breaths through my nose that will in time suffocate me and I forget that I was not made to be this way. But let me now speak that truth into existence. Let me breathe life into the things I have forgotten. I was not made to be shattered. None of us were.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Open up.
It would be irresponsible of me to place an invitation like that at the end of a piece and not have any resources available to those who might be struggling with what's going on inside of them. If you are not in a place to be reading or thinking about suicide or self-harm, it's okay to stop reading now. There are resources below for those who want to scroll on.
First and foremost, for those who are wrestling with suicidal thoughts, you are loved and there is help. If you don't feel that you can reach out to a friend or family member, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is available 24/7 at 1-800-273-8255.
If that's not your situation, you can still get help from a counselor, therapist, or other mental health professional. I think everyone can benefit from therapy. You can start by looking for a therapist here and if you need any help at all on that journey (which isn't always an easy one), please reach out to me. Some mental health professionals have sliding scales and flexible meeting options if that's something that you need. I can recommend the Calm Harm app that might help those who struggle with self-harm or thoughts of self-harm as an aid to mental health treatment, but not a replacement.
We all carry difficult things around inside of us, but the beauty of the gospel is that we are loved by the deep Love that made the cosmos and we do not have to stay as we are when we are broken and hurting. That Love lives in each of us, and brings us to care for each other. If you need help, reach out. If you don't need help but you know someone who does, reach out to them with gentleness and without judgement. I'm on firmer ground than I've been in a while and it's because of the love and support that has been shown to me by so many people in my life as I've started therapy and have, in fits and starts, begun to take better care of this body I live in. If anyone reading this needs any kind of help, let me know.
I heard a sermon recently where the preacher shared a story with a distinct image. The preacher had had a dream while writing the sermon, and in it, he had a mouth full of shards of glass. He asked us to imagine that, imagine what a mouthful of broken glass would feel like, and that was a powerful moment for me. You cannot help but be aware that your mouth is filled with glass. Every breath cuts. You can't speak, you can't smile, can't laugh, can't scream. You feel like you will suffocate taking these short, shallow breaths through your nose, like your jaw will freeze in the slightly open position you have adopted to accommodate the glass. You keep your teeth together and your lips closed because if these shards of glass fall out, they will shatter even more, spattering blood from your mouth onto the floor, and no one will be able to approach you to tend your wounds for fear of being harmed themselves. You know that what is inside of you is dangerous, and as the panic sets in, you wonder how long you can keep the danger from escaping.
Now, the preacher himself was not as captivated by the image as I was, instead moving on to connect the image of a mouth full of broken glass to the one found in Ezekiel 3, where the prophet gets a mouthful of scroll and it tastes like honey, and to make an important point about the necessity of good preaching. But if Ezekiel's scroll, Ezekiel's words from God, taste like honey, then this image that we're working with, this broken glass, surely means that there are words from God that are sharp, and cutting, and difficult to speak. They are words that were never meant to stay inside of us, but will require some pain and some loss to speak. We will need to be careful with them. We will need help. But we cannot keep these words inside of ourselves. They will kill us.
I would give anything in the world for this glass to pour out of my mouth, to fall on the ground in a million colors and settle into a pattern of stained glass beauty, all sensible and lovely and prophetic. I would love to let go of these little fragments of pain that absorb my attention, that stop me from caring for myself, that stop me from caring for others. We all have mouths full of glass sometimes, I think, times when we ourselves have shattered and fragmented and the things that cause us pain must be spoken, and when we speak them, if we speak them carefully, and purposefully, these things become holy words. They become words of prophecy, words from God, summoning the four winds and bringing life into places that had been dead. These shards that we carry, afraid to let them fall, can, in time, scatter goodness into the world.
But it is not easy. It is not without cost. It is not without struggle.
It is difficult for me to resist the temptation of fragmentation, difficult to stand against the lie that I cannot be whole, should not try to be whole, and so I stand with my teeth together and my lips closed and breathe these short shallow breaths through my nose that will in time suffocate me and I forget that I was not made to be this way. But let me now speak that truth into existence. Let me breathe life into the things I have forgotten. I was not made to be shattered. None of us were.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Open up.
It would be irresponsible of me to place an invitation like that at the end of a piece and not have any resources available to those who might be struggling with what's going on inside of them. If you are not in a place to be reading or thinking about suicide or self-harm, it's okay to stop reading now. There are resources below for those who want to scroll on.
First and foremost, for those who are wrestling with suicidal thoughts, you are loved and there is help. If you don't feel that you can reach out to a friend or family member, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is available 24/7 at 1-800-273-8255.
If that's not your situation, you can still get help from a counselor, therapist, or other mental health professional. I think everyone can benefit from therapy. You can start by looking for a therapist here and if you need any help at all on that journey (which isn't always an easy one), please reach out to me. Some mental health professionals have sliding scales and flexible meeting options if that's something that you need. I can recommend the Calm Harm app that might help those who struggle with self-harm or thoughts of self-harm as an aid to mental health treatment, but not a replacement.
We all carry difficult things around inside of us, but the beauty of the gospel is that we are loved by the deep Love that made the cosmos and we do not have to stay as we are when we are broken and hurting. That Love lives in each of us, and brings us to care for each other. If you need help, reach out. If you don't need help but you know someone who does, reach out to them with gentleness and without judgement. I'm on firmer ground than I've been in a while and it's because of the love and support that has been shown to me by so many people in my life as I've started therapy and have, in fits and starts, begun to take better care of this body I live in. If anyone reading this needs any kind of help, let me know.
Friday, September 7, 2018
Pictures
One of my best friends is getting married today.
I have so many feelings.
It's not exactly like when my best friend from growing up got married and my other best friend from middle school and I got to the wedding a little bit late, having to sit on the groom's side of the packed church as she walked down the aisle to a hymn that made me think to myself, "This is why we're friends," and also, "I'm glad I'm not getting married anytime soon because I'm 100% copying all of the music for this ceremony." That day was full of joy and laughter and reunions with high school friends and the absolute ideal reception. I was so happy for Sarah and Robs and in love with their story and I involuntarily smile now seeing pictures of their kids and their life.
And it's nothing at all like when my older brother got married. I was and continue to be so happy for Stephen and Lindsey, but I was involved in that wedding (and its many pictures) and being so close to what is, best case scenario, a pivotal moment in two people's lives made me reflective. I made this video about how marriage is, in a way, our shout into the void, and I, remarkably, stand by most of that more than a year later. I did a lot of my formative thinking about what a life-long partnership could and should look like in the past couple of years, and I still think of it as this beautiful thing, this lovely attempt to go forward into this world that will disappoint us, holding someone else's hand, struggling against the current that pulls all of us back. Thoughtful, caring, dedicated marriages have legs. If you do this right, you can walk for miles and miles.
Today, as Pamela and Brock celebrate the ceremony that solemnizes their promises to each other in front of those who are important to them, I find myself trying and failing to work on schoolwork at Pamela's house, this little home of hers that I adore that will, in short order, belong to someone else as she makes a new home with Brock. I'm so excited for her, so excited that she found someone who smiles at her the way everyone wants to be smiled at, who jokes and laughs with her, who holds her when she needs it and who is willing to be held, who brings his family and his world together with hers in a delightful bouquet of people and stories and love. Pamela was there with me when I first decided that opening up to people was a good thing to do, and she has been there with me since, going on adventure after adventure, climbing mountain after valley after mountain. She has been there with me as both of us have figured out what love between two people could look like. I could not be more happy that she has found someone who can be the love of her life.
See, Pamela values people. This is her fridge:
It is covered with photos of friends and family. It holds memories of travels and adventures and important life moments. In her kitchen, in this central place where many of us just move through our days mindlessly feeding what needs to be fed, she wallpapers her space with the people who are important to her. She actually prints out physical photos of people and moments near and far. In this world of distance and remove, Pamela re-embodies us.
It's not just her fridge. She's a fan of collages as well, one of which features this delightful picture of me in Iceland:
I love that Pam chose this to go in the collage. I believe we were hunting waterfalls on this day, trusting the GPS in our car to navigate us from one place to another. In this picture, I am a few days past having left Edinburgh, a week away from moving to my new place in DC, and my hair is a fluffy nightmare. But we had been singing and that whole day had been this glorious exploration of beauty and wonder and dampness. I love that jacket, love the way we're smiling. Even though I cringed the first time I saw it on the wall, there are so many gorgeous aspects of this moment. I'm glad it's immortalized here.
So, to the woman who tends to find beauty in the times where even I fail to see it, and to the man who has made her so happy over the past two years, I wish you the very best. I pray that the days ahead, be they easy or hard, will be filled with joy, patience, hope, faithfulness, and love. I pray that you will always be able to see in each other the wonderful, worthy, glorious, valuable person that you see in each other today, and that as the years stretch out in front of you and redefine what family means to you, you will find the strength within yourselves and each other to persevere in this world that is so temporary, so finite. Make an infinity, my friends. I'm forever thankful that I'll be here to see you do it.
I have so many feelings.
It's not exactly like when my best friend from growing up got married and my other best friend from middle school and I got to the wedding a little bit late, having to sit on the groom's side of the packed church as she walked down the aisle to a hymn that made me think to myself, "This is why we're friends," and also, "I'm glad I'm not getting married anytime soon because I'm 100% copying all of the music for this ceremony." That day was full of joy and laughter and reunions with high school friends and the absolute ideal reception. I was so happy for Sarah and Robs and in love with their story and I involuntarily smile now seeing pictures of their kids and their life.
And it's nothing at all like when my older brother got married. I was and continue to be so happy for Stephen and Lindsey, but I was involved in that wedding (and its many pictures) and being so close to what is, best case scenario, a pivotal moment in two people's lives made me reflective. I made this video about how marriage is, in a way, our shout into the void, and I, remarkably, stand by most of that more than a year later. I did a lot of my formative thinking about what a life-long partnership could and should look like in the past couple of years, and I still think of it as this beautiful thing, this lovely attempt to go forward into this world that will disappoint us, holding someone else's hand, struggling against the current that pulls all of us back. Thoughtful, caring, dedicated marriages have legs. If you do this right, you can walk for miles and miles.
Today, as Pamela and Brock celebrate the ceremony that solemnizes their promises to each other in front of those who are important to them, I find myself trying and failing to work on schoolwork at Pamela's house, this little home of hers that I adore that will, in short order, belong to someone else as she makes a new home with Brock. I'm so excited for her, so excited that she found someone who smiles at her the way everyone wants to be smiled at, who jokes and laughs with her, who holds her when she needs it and who is willing to be held, who brings his family and his world together with hers in a delightful bouquet of people and stories and love. Pamela was there with me when I first decided that opening up to people was a good thing to do, and she has been there with me since, going on adventure after adventure, climbing mountain after valley after mountain. She has been there with me as both of us have figured out what love between two people could look like. I could not be more happy that she has found someone who can be the love of her life.
See, Pamela values people. This is her fridge:
It's not just her fridge. She's a fan of collages as well, one of which features this delightful picture of me in Iceland:
I love that Pam chose this to go in the collage. I believe we were hunting waterfalls on this day, trusting the GPS in our car to navigate us from one place to another. In this picture, I am a few days past having left Edinburgh, a week away from moving to my new place in DC, and my hair is a fluffy nightmare. But we had been singing and that whole day had been this glorious exploration of beauty and wonder and dampness. I love that jacket, love the way we're smiling. Even though I cringed the first time I saw it on the wall, there are so many gorgeous aspects of this moment. I'm glad it's immortalized here.
So, to the woman who tends to find beauty in the times where even I fail to see it, and to the man who has made her so happy over the past two years, I wish you the very best. I pray that the days ahead, be they easy or hard, will be filled with joy, patience, hope, faithfulness, and love. I pray that you will always be able to see in each other the wonderful, worthy, glorious, valuable person that you see in each other today, and that as the years stretch out in front of you and redefine what family means to you, you will find the strength within yourselves and each other to persevere in this world that is so temporary, so finite. Make an infinity, my friends. I'm forever thankful that I'll be here to see you do it.
Wednesday, September 5, 2018
Weather
"How's the weather?"
"Rain."
"Oh."
"Light rain, which is not too bad. Coupla showers."
I'm listening to this conversation as I'm supposed to be studying or reading or something in the library and it exhausts me. Not that I wasn't already exhausted. Not that I haven't been exhausted. But it exhausts me anew. My exhaustion is perennial and it isn't helped by light rain.
God, what I wouldn't give for a thunderstorm.
Not one of these pathetic thunderstorms that we've been having, which are mostly heat lighting and booms and drizzle, but a real deluge, one that lasts all night and rattles the windows. Or better yet, give me rain for days. Soak me in it. Leech all that humidity out of the air and condense it into droplets and let it fall fall fall fall fall until the sky is cried out. It has been so hot lately. So stagnant. You feel like you're swimming when you walk outside. The air is needy and clingy. It's hard to breathe, hard to walk, hard to exist. A coupla showers are not going to fix this. I need the heavens to open up.
But how can I ask for a deluge? At worst, it would cause flooding and at best, traffic delays. Not that I think this is a prayer that would be answered, either, because I don't think the weather or God work like that, but I feel selfish anyway, wanting, needing something that would cause problems for someone else. Best to just deal with the humidity. Shave my legs, wear dresses, make my body presentable for the heat. Carry extra water to replace the gallons that must be escaping through my skin. Make smiley faces in the condensation on windows because if you can't joke about your discomfort, you're not mourning properly.
But all of that requires energy. Energy that I don't have. Energy that I can't find through all this water in the air that refuses to fall. God, if you would just give me one good storm, to clear the air, to electrify me, I promise that I'd be better. I wouldn't just spend the day staring at the drops as they feed into the puddles, I swear. I'd go out and dance in it, splash around, be delighted. Pinky-swear, I would. Just give me the chance. Give me a thunderstorm and I promise I'll be better. God, don't you want me to be better?
In one version of the story, I bet Jonah prayed for the whale.
"Rain."
"Oh."
"Light rain, which is not too bad. Coupla showers."
I'm listening to this conversation as I'm supposed to be studying or reading or something in the library and it exhausts me. Not that I wasn't already exhausted. Not that I haven't been exhausted. But it exhausts me anew. My exhaustion is perennial and it isn't helped by light rain.
God, what I wouldn't give for a thunderstorm.
Not one of these pathetic thunderstorms that we've been having, which are mostly heat lighting and booms and drizzle, but a real deluge, one that lasts all night and rattles the windows. Or better yet, give me rain for days. Soak me in it. Leech all that humidity out of the air and condense it into droplets and let it fall fall fall fall fall until the sky is cried out. It has been so hot lately. So stagnant. You feel like you're swimming when you walk outside. The air is needy and clingy. It's hard to breathe, hard to walk, hard to exist. A coupla showers are not going to fix this. I need the heavens to open up.
But how can I ask for a deluge? At worst, it would cause flooding and at best, traffic delays. Not that I think this is a prayer that would be answered, either, because I don't think the weather or God work like that, but I feel selfish anyway, wanting, needing something that would cause problems for someone else. Best to just deal with the humidity. Shave my legs, wear dresses, make my body presentable for the heat. Carry extra water to replace the gallons that must be escaping through my skin. Make smiley faces in the condensation on windows because if you can't joke about your discomfort, you're not mourning properly.
But all of that requires energy. Energy that I don't have. Energy that I can't find through all this water in the air that refuses to fall. God, if you would just give me one good storm, to clear the air, to electrify me, I promise that I'd be better. I wouldn't just spend the day staring at the drops as they feed into the puddles, I swear. I'd go out and dance in it, splash around, be delighted. Pinky-swear, I would. Just give me the chance. Give me a thunderstorm and I promise I'll be better. God, don't you want me to be better?
In one version of the story, I bet Jonah prayed for the whale.
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