Category Archives: thoughts

On Women, Truth-Telling, and Hope

I feel like I’m being told that women don’t matter. We can be believable in our statements but at the end of the day men can set that belief aside and totally disregard fact in order to protect and honor themselves.

Our bodies must be regulated.

By men.

Men’s bodies are not similarly regulated and in fact are enhanced by performance equipping drugs.

Our pain is not believed. Our statements are not trusted. If a man causes a woman pain and suffering the burden is placed on her to deal with it. The man often has no repercussions.

Judge Kavanaugh’s job interview for the Supreme Court should be terminated and his nomination rescinded. There are plenty of other jurists out there who don’t have these types of allegations against them. Pick any of them. I’d prefer a female Justice, but at the very least I want a truth-teller.

This election season, I just want to watch the whole thing burn.

But I can’t.

Because part of me still hopes for a better United States. Especially because of my two young sons. I want them to be kind and know limitations when someone says stop or no. But they’re figuring it out at an early age, so I’m hopeful.

White men, you better have outstanding credentials when running for elected office because I’m just not sure I can vote for you. I’m ready for women to run the world, for our ideas and policies to create change. We can do it. I’m voting for you. I’m ready for people of color, people who are LGBTQI+, refugees, and all people who feel like second-class citizens in this great nation to rise up and be honored. I support you and your ability to lead when hope seems dark. I’m rooting for and voting for you.

I’ve read through the Beatitudes several times today looking for clarity. I’ll continue meditating and working through them many more times in search of some kind of answer. I don’t know why I feel like an answer exists, and it can be found in part by reading Matthew 5, but I feel an urge to keep searching. I feel the need to be blessed and at peace. I’m seeking…

Speaking Without Thinking, My Christian Freedom of Speech Fail

Earlier this week I spoke unkindly about someone close to me, and they directly heard me say the words (I didn’t know they were on speakerphone). I spoke the truth, but I would never have made the statement if I knew they were listening.

Clearly, the lesson of Ephesians 4 that Keith preached on a few weeks ago did NOT sink in. He stated that although the First Amendment grants us the freedom of speech by law, as Christians, we live by a superseding set of principles. These tenets are explained by Verses 25-32, and require us to ask ourselves three questions before speaking:

  1. Is it true?

  2. Is it necessary?

  3. Is it kind?

If the statement I’m about to make fails one of these prongs, then I shouldn’t respond. My statement failed parts two and three – it was unhelpful and unkind. Yet still I spoke. Why?

To make a joke.

To mutually complain.

To be mean.

So it probably serves me right to have the person I spoke about actually hear what I said. But I love this person, too. And I feel terrible about hurting them. And I hate having people I love angry with me.

The words I spoke have consequences. The person I spoke about tends to hold grudges – I’m talking about decades-long grudges. That’s their prerogative. But I plan to call today and apologize for my hurtful words, and ask for forgiveness.*

And moving forward, I can work towards thinking about the three questions before speaking. When I’m angry and ask myself, ‘Is it true?,’ I can attend to my anger. Not with silence or violence, but with truth through looking at the root of my anger.

Next, I can ask, ‘Is it necessary?’ Am I helping the other person? Just like the thief being given a new purpose in verses 28-29, how can I use my power through my words to build up?

Finally, I can ask, ‘Is it kind?’ This will be the hardest because I find myself drawn to negative thoughts and harsh statements. It is incredibly easy for them to slip out of my mouth and judge. I judge others so much and find myself full of rage these days with our governmental leaders, people who support them, and people who fundamentally disagree with the way I believe people should be treated.

But there’s hope because I’m a work in progress. I’ve been marked by God through grace. Not by anything I have done, not because I’m a good person, but because He/She has identified me as His/Hers. And I strive to live up to that call of holy unity by being kind and forgiving others, including forgiving myself when I harshly speak without thinking. That’s my Christian freedom.

*Please pray for me today as I call my loved one to ask for their forgiveness. I desperately need courage because (1) I hate making phone calls and (2) This person intimidates me even when they aren’t mad at me. Thank you.

Why I Go To Church, Even When Haters Gonna Hate

Today I had my first overtly negative, specifically addressed to me, response to my kids being in worship at church.

Congregations say they want kids in worship. That we need more families in the pews because they are the future of the church. Right? That’s the line I continually hear, especially from older parishioners. But when kids are actually present in a Sunday morning worship service are they actually welcomed? Are the parents?

As the pastor’s family, my kids feel like the church – the building and the people who come together as Christ’s Family – belongs to them. They are quintessential pastor’s kids (PKs) who have tons of energy and love for the church.

They’ve been known to run laps around the altar and play hide-and-seek in the pews (usually after worship, but not always).

My almost 5-year-old has been especially inquisitive lately about Jesus – specifically how he lived (“tell me more about the cave and the big stone”) and why he gets to live forever when everyone else just dies.

My almost 2-year-old invaded the Palm Sunday processional because he heard his jam begin on the piano (“All Glory Laud and Honor”) and he needed to get closer to where the music is happening so he can get down. A loving choir member took his hand to help.

They love the teens (and have already attended more youth group meetings than I can count) and get so excited to see their friends both in worship and at Faithworks (our version of Sunday School).

They hug and high five their honorary grandparents each week during the passing of the peace (when we make it to that point in the service without fleeing to the nursery for a break).

They dip their fingers in the baptismal font and then do crosses on their foreheads (mine, too) on their way up to communion, which they aren’t quite old enough to take.

They are usually the last ones out of the building on a Sunday afternoon, and are there multiple times during the week to see their Daddy. And his office’s toys – because he always has some scattered throughout his office.

We three are there together, practically every week, to hear the Good News and worship with our chosen faith community. The majority of my time is spent wrangling the littles – trying to keep them in a pew, or sitting quietly on the ground near the pew, eating all the snacks and coloring all the pictures. But they are little. And like to run. And play with their friends. So it can be rowdy. When it gets to be too much, we head down to the nursery (the area, as Henry calls it), and play there until Communion or for the remainder of the service. It’s a nice break for all of us.

Even on the Sundays where I am frustrated or overwhelmed, generous people in our congregation come up to me and thank me for bringing the boys to church. They tell me tales of how they raised boys and totally understand my life, and that it will get easier. They tell me I’m doing it right.And I take comfort in their kind words.

Until today.

After service, a woman decided it was important to tell me that my children were rude and distracting from the reverent atmosphere that is church on a Sunday morning. She told me that she had kids, so she knows all about that, but that I needed to do something about my kids’ behavior in worship. She mentioned that she was a visitor, and that she couldn’t hear my soft-spoken husband over my kids. I said some kind of apology I didn’t really feel about how I was sorry they bothered her worship today, and she cut me off to say that it happens every week. It seemed like she was going to continue indefinitely, so I turned around and walked away.

What. The. Shit.

Never mind her emotional baggage that made her feel it was her duty to inform me about my kids’ behavior, which I already knew about. In fact, I thought they were mostly fine at church this morning (there was some airplane throwing and palm frond sword fighting that got quickly shut down). Better than a lot of Sundays, that’s for sure. Keith only noticed when Elliot grabbed a maraca and shook it like a salt shaker, so I’ll take it.

I cried in the Sacristy. I cried outside Keith’s office while talking to one of my favorite people. I cried inside Keith’s office. My tears came from a place of embarrassment, exhaustion, and anger because each week I already internally feel all those words she said to me. I’m doing my best, but it’s just so damn hard. But I don’t give up. I continue to bring my boys to worship because it matters to me that they are worshiping with their community. Not separate from it.

As I calmed down, I read the comforting words Pope Francis spoke as his Palm Sunday sermon. Children should shout out loud and be like those who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem instead of those who yelled to crucify him.

I find my sons’ joy in the Lord and for their family and friends to be an all-encompassing love, and I refuse to silence it. Their presence at church matters. So does mine.

A couple of readings for today seem especially on point (even though I’m only reading and reflecting on them now, since I was a bit preoccupied when they were first read); here they are, in part:

  • Isaiah 50: 7-9a. The Lord GOD helps me; therefore I have not been disgraced; therefore I have set my face like flint, and I know that I shall not be put to shame; he who vindicates me is near. Who will contend with me? Let us stand up together. Who are my adversaries? Let them confront me. It is the Lord GOD who helps me; who will declare me guilty?
  • Psalm 31: 14 and 16. But as for me, I have trusted in you, O LORD. I have said, “You are my God.” Let your face shine upon your servant; save me in your steadfast love.

The Word comforts, but I remain incensed. My kids will not be invisible at church. They continue to be a vital part of the community. I love them, and trust in God as I seek peace over the whole thing.

Coping with the Low Valleys of Being a Mama

Right now, I am one weary mama. My Fitbit tells me exactly how much sleep I’m not getting at night. And then it tells me I should sleep more. I want to sleep more than 6-7 hours, but my body will not let me. And I love sleep, especially naps, so this hurts me.

My allergies and asthma work together in concert to exhaust my lungs and body systems. This year’s pollen crop keeps up its attack without ceasing. My usually black car now has a yellowish-green tint to it. Going outside to play with my kids for an hour sets me back at least a day in terms of system recovery. And my boys live to play outside and run around. So we coop ourselves up in our house or indoor play areas, but they just aren’t the same as playing at a park.

My asthma got so bad this week, I breached proper theatre etiquette and walked out, mid-song, of The Color Purple, a musical I’ve been waiting all year to see. All because I couldn’t stop coughing and I knew it would be worse for those around me if I stayed. So I interrupted 16 people to escape the theatre, and didn’t go back inside due to fear of the same thing happening again.

I can’t exercise the way I want; I have to take breathing breaks because I’m sucking wind. Or I can’t even muster up the energy to take my regular classes because moving my body seems impossible.

These are all my coping mechanisms to deal with anxiety and life that make me a better mama to my boys. And I can’t do them right now. So we are all suffering.

I get angry over little things (and big ones, too). The house is more of a disaster than usual because we are in it more and I can’t stop coughing enough to fully clean it. I cry easily, and feel like I’m letting everyone down. I am not at peace with myself, and am struggling.

I tell myself it’s all right; it’s going to be all right. I pray and ask God to help me feel better. But it’s so hard when I can’t even breathe. I’m being carried away and cannot ground myself.

So I ask for help. I hate it; I want to do it myself, be strong and persevere. But I can’t. My husband is pretty fantastic at supporting me when I get like this. He’s positive, and affirming, and full of hugs. It’s difficult to float away when you are receiving a hug. My boys give full-body snuggles, too. Their empathy is outstanding and a great comfort to me. I feel like I don’t deserve it, but I’m working at accepting it. I am loved, and enough.

Love Is What It’s All About

My word for 2018 is LOVE. I want to love myself, love my neighbor, love my friends, and love my enemies.

I don’t know how I’m going to accomplish this. But here’s what I know so far:

I’m working on self-care. I’m discovering my favorite new things, and relearning old favorites. Reading a great book. Sweating so hard at the gym I can’t think about anything else. Catching up with a friend. Drinking all the coffee. Learning to be more like Jesus through his biblical teachings. Stepping outside my comfort zone into new challenges. Practicing loving myself, because I often don’t think I’m worthy (although it’s been much better lately, I have work to do.)

I’m searching for ways to be kind to my neighbors, not just the people in my neighborhood, you know the people that you meet when you’re walking down the street (shout out to Sesame Street). I’m talking about all humans being my neighbor. I know I have biases and prejudices, but I’m learning to see and understand the world from others’ points of view. And it’s hard. And sometimes I don’t want to do it. But like Glendon Doyle Wambach says, “We can do hard things.” And I’m stepping up.

I’m telling family and close friends, everyone in my world whom I love, that I love them. I don’t care if they find it awkward or weird, I want them to know they are loved. And I love them. We don’t tell the people who are most significantly in our lives how much they mean to us, and I’m stopping this failure to communicate now. If I say these words to you, I mean it. No need to say it back (although it feels wonderful to be told I am loved).

Finally, I’m trying to figure out how to love my enemies. The people who simply don’t care about me and my clan. The ones whose thought processes are entirely foreign to my own. How did Jesus love those who persecuted and hated him? Clearly, it’s because he’s of God, as his son. But humans are made in God’s image so we can love our enemies, too. Right? Someone tell me the secret of how to do this. I can’t figure it out. But I’m going to try.

There’s too much hate and nastiness in the world right now, so I’m going to focus on my love. I cannot control other people, I can only control myself. And I hope that’s enough.