Good Grief

"This isn't happening," was all my mind was capable of with my phone pressed to my ear, trying to make sense of the words. Ryan held my hand as we drove home as fast as we could, both of us crying intermittently. 

We moved in slow motion across the dark road into the circle of lights from the police cars and the cars of the kind strangers who had stopped and stayed until we arrived. They shone on him as he lay beside the road, my beautiful Alex. 

"Dear God, don't let his head be smashed," had been the only thought in my stuck brain as we drove. Mercifully, his body was perfect. Even his slender, iron-muscled legs were only bent in the familiar position of him asleep. He was still warm and his fur so luxurious and soft. 

I tried to pick him up, but he was too heavy. Ryan gathered him, so oddly limp, into his arms and laid him in the back seat of the car. We took our boy home. 

We lay him on a sheet on the living room floor and sat on either side, crying until our noses ran. We stroked and stroked him, trying to memorize him with our hands, occasionally laughing with tears dripping when we remembered his conquests and idiosyncrasies. We were shameless in our grief over "just a dog", because there was no way around it. He was a big part of our little family. 

He was the dependable one, the one who let us know if there was something outside that needed our attention. While we lived on the prairie, I felt perfectly safe in our yard after dark because he'd calmly, fearlessly moved the cougar off while we watched, a bit disbelieving because we would have never known it was sitting in the dark at the edge of the yard had it not been for Alex's sharp nose and protective instincts. He got me running again, while recovering from a CFS low. He just knew what was needed, pulling steadily and gently on the leash so I could coast when I wasn't sure I could keep on. And he held his head so nobly and utterly glowed with pride when I thanked and praised him. He was the dog I'd dreamed of having, a dignified, loyal, intelligent partner who was almost an extension of myself. He'd been a rock for all of us, and we all depended on him. Ryan, Aliyah, and me.

And now he is gone. 

We buried him the next day under the trees at the edge of the yard. His rope toy we'd spent hours fetching, trying to outwit each other in tug-of-war, and leaping on command to pull from our hands while carefully missing our fingers with his impressive canines was tucked between his front paws. The bone he had been working on gnawing lay beside him. Those had been His Things; Aliyah had very little interest in either. And he'd been so proud of them, quietly storing them in a safe spot if other dogs came to play. 

He'd been the dog we imagined having until he was too old to move, the dog we imagined being the loyal companion and protector of our child. He was so much, and in a second he was gone. "Death is just messed UP," Ryan said. 

Friends who loved him cried with us and patted him for the last time before we closed the box. Ryan and I lowered it into the hole Ryan had dug, and Ryan told me I should be the first to shovel dirt onto the board he'd cut to fit over the box. Elaine carefully spread a handful over evergreens over the first layer of dirt. "Life is everlasting," she said. Zac and Miriam took turns helping us fill the dirt to a mound. Aliyah whimpered and cried, too. 

And you know what? It never occurred to me that we were being too sentimental. I never felt ashamed for being too emotional. We only acted out of the loss we felt, and treated his body with the dignity his noble self demanded. 

When Ryan hugged me and whispered that I was the best owner Alex could have had, and that I'd invested and helped him develop into all he could have been, it's when I started to feel that honest grief is good. 

It's cleansing. It forms in me a new resolve to love unabashedly. I have no regrets about how I raised Alex. The only thing that haunts us is that we thought the newly-rebuilt fence around our yard was impervious to Alex's intelligence and underestimated his adventurous bent. We simply underestimated him, as often happened in other areas. 

We're so glad we'd taken the time to visit the dog park to let the dogs run in a big space off-leash the day before, trying to help ease the adjustment from freely-adventuring country dogs to play-in-the-yard and walk-on-leash town dogs. It hadn't been the most convenient evening to take them, but we made it work because Alex was restless. The evening the four of us spent tearing around happily is good to remember. Alex's eyes were bright with the freedom of exploring every corner of a new place, and he and Aliyah ran and ran, reading each other's maneuvers perfectly. We're so glad we gave them that evening, not knowing it was the last evening we'd spend together. 

This is why grief is good for me: I tend to hold myself back from engaging with all my heart. A bit of emotional distance makes me feel loftier and more superior than the me that goes all in without apology. You know what? Grief teaches me that I don't care about being above caring too much. It reminds me that what I have today is all I have, and I cheat myself if I don't engage it completely. 

Grief, even over a dog, is good. Because of it, I'm making today matter. Doing the inconvenient to love those I have. Making memorable things happen. Taking pictures of happy moments. And engaging without reservation or embarrassment over big emotions. Now is precious. Now is all we have. 

On Community and Parenting

"We are better together," as Gungor sings. It's beyond true.

In the past week, I've been tucked even more securely into my wildly beautiful community. The flu knocked me down, and friends brought food to our house. It didn't even bother me that they saw me languishing on the couch in significantly oversized PJ's (who wants to wear clothes that fit when Baby is bouncing about on a roiling stomach?) with a days-old bed head. I'm rather obsessive about at least appearing moderately put-together, and the fact that it didn't even bother me made me realize. These Kansas people have become My People. 

I had prayed that I could find more friends who are new moms. The joys and pains of pregnancy have had me keenly missing my Old Friends, the ones who have known me in other eras. I feel very well-connected here, but there's something about your very body changing that makes you ache for familiar people. Plus, most of those old friends are already parents. They've been making me laugh and sharing their pregnant (in every application of the word) advice via other modes of communication and cheering me on from a distance, but I knew I needed mom friends here. And, as if in answer, women who aren't necessarily in my usual social paths have just made themselves at home in my life. They're so uncannily similar to me in life experiences, personality, and parenting philosophy that conversation requires zero explaining. You know, the sort of friendships that usually develop over years and years. They love being moms, know their giftings, and pursue health for themselves in order to parent well. I really need to be present with these sort of women in order to visualize what my ideals look like in practice for myself. And here they are, going out of their way to share life with me. It's astounding and wonderful.

The most terrifying prospect of parenting is my own brokenness. My own inherent flaws are many and formidable, and topped off with the ways I've been hurt and abused. Knowing I will be one of the two most formative people in this already-energetic little one's life makes me question whether I am truly healed of the things I can tend to forget even happened, and how they will affect our precious baby. So, it's really beautiful to me, such a tangible reminder that redemption always overflows into a wealth we could have never imagined, that a new friend whom I already greatly admire connected with me precisely because we've experienced similar adversities. As she said, "The devil meant to ruin us for community." But you know what? Redeemed people, people who have found their way through darkness toward light and health... They make the most incredible village. This is the story of my best friends, old and new. They're honest, unpretentious, and live out of a self-acceptance that liberates those around them. So, like everything else intended for evil, it backfires into even better than good. 

I'm grateful for my community, near and far. Baby is already surrounded with people who love and give and pray for good things. It keeps becoming more true: I know the best people. And knowing I will parent with the support of many great people gives me confidence that I won't be a horrible mum. 

About Plexus, and Why I Don't

The times I've received messages on Facebook that begin "I've noticed you post sometimes about struggling with CFS" and go on to tell me the sender is an advocate for Plexus are plentiful. So much so, that Ryan had a brilliant idea when I was agonizing over yet another reply: I made a form response and saved it to my computer so I have only to copy and paste when another one arrives, not agonize yet again over how to be honest without hurting people's feelings... How to lay aside what can feel like anger at having to defend and explain my life choices and not come across as defensive or ungrateful that people care.

I am absolutely sure, my dear Plexus friends, that you care about me and my health. But please remember, your enthusiastic recommendations can feel an awful lot like product-pushing with a side of guilt at declining because you ARE my friends. Please keep in mind that people like me who live with chronic illness are constantly accosted by people and ads who claim they can fix us, all the while figuring out how to manage our symptoms and what works for us is an intensely personal battle we're already fighting. I know you're not meaning to be insensitive, truly. But market models that turn one's friends into ad men are exhausting. They can turn even the safety of one's friendships into places of even more intensity than an internet full of ads. I know you're not trying to guilt-trip me into trying Plexus every time you ask about my health, but it feels that way sometimes. 

I just need space to keep figuring out my own journey to health in the ways that are best for my body.

I confess, because of a year of navigating the supplement world and realizing it doesn't have much to offer me, when I heard about Plexus, I didn't give it serious consideration. Because rebuilding my body after an initial CFS crash as severe as I had is a long, slow progress. Anything that claims to be a cure-all doesn't land in my Serious Thought file because it's simply not how health works for me. Yes, sometimes this way is daunting because it's slow progress. But I absolutely am making progress. My body is stronger and I enjoy life more. As the last-weekend-in-January anniversary of my initial crash passes every year, I'm amazed at how much more fun life is than the previous year. 

But here's why I still miss social functions sometimes, can be energetic one day and absent the next, or cancel plans unexpectedly: CFS is a lifelong thing. I'll never again be able to do as much as I want to do. And it's not just the energy levels (or maybe "exhaustion levels" would be more accurate) I have to manage. CFS is a similar condition to Fibromyalgia, and sometimes whole weeks consist of operating under the blur of constant pain. You know how it feels when you stub your toe? That tingling pain? Sometimes, for days on end, it feels like I stubbed my entire body. And pain wears my body out, so the cycle starts again. During those long, dark weeks, it's hard to enjoy anything at all because everything takes massive effort. Even fun stuff. Which makes me mad because I liiiiiike to do fun stuff. (And Ryan says, "I know, but you need to know when to stop." He's the perfect guy for me. Amen.)

And nothing helps except rest and good nutrition. Which, after my nutritionist confirmed my hunch, is why I'm not signing up for Plexus or much of anything else. 

Things like Plexus can mask symptoms and keep my body from telling me what it needs. Pain? I need to rest more, even if that's not what I feel like doing or what our achieving culture expects from me. Weakness? I need more fat, protein, and probiotics in my diet. If my symptoms are suppressed by things containing the sorts of stimulants Plexus offers, I could be wearing out my body at an incredible rate and not know it. And spend a solid month in bed, helpless, as a result. I've been there once. It was unspeakable. I rely on my body to tell me what it needs, and (try to) listen to it vigilantly so I don't have a repeat crash. And so far, so good. I haven't had a true crash since my initial one, two years ago. Not nearly everyone is that lucky. 

The other thing that made me suspicious Plexus wouldn't be a good fit for me is the it comes in a drink powder form. Anything processed spells bad news for me. I can feel it as soon as I eat it, and today I'm in pjs on the couch because I caved and ate cookies containing white flour yesterday. I justify things sometimes, but I pay for them. 

As my nutritionist said, nutrients in simple (processed, powdered, or pill) forms don't build a strong body. Nutrients from food have to go through a complex set of pathways to be usable to your body. If nutrients are presented in simple forms, your body uses them instead because it's easier, bypassing the nutrient pathways. If they're unused, the pathways deteriorate, and your body is even less able to effectively use food beneficially. I got CFS because I wore my body almost completely out. I'm trying to rebuild it, so that means training it to use food well, and trying to eat whole foods that nourish me. Basically, food as medicine. My body feels restful and whole when I've eaten well, and I'd rather put money into good nutrition and organic food than into something that only makes it possible for me to wear my body out again. 

I do take a few supplements. My nutritionist said there are three nutrients that are hard for anyone to get a sufficient amount of via diet: Vitamin B-12, Vitamin D, and magnesium. For someone like me, those deficiencies show up a lot faster because my body has fewer reserves. Taking B-12 in the morning makes a massive difference in how much I'm capable of, after a night of not eating or drinking my trusty ionized Kangen water. With good food, good water, and those few supplements, I'm learning how to live so that I can enjoy the things I care most about. 

A side caution on Plexus or any other supplement: companies can label their products as "natural" if the substance is one that occurs naturally. This does not mean that the nutrients in the product are naturally sourced. Unless the sources are listed or the product is labeled "naturally-sourced" (which a shocking amount of "natural" products are not), the things you're eating or drinking can be as synthetic as they please. 

If Plexus is working well for you, please don't hear this as judgment of any sort. But here's why my nutritionist recommended I not try it: 

"I would definitely not recommend Plexus. It seems to primarily be promoted as a weight loss product with many people taking it for energy. It does not supply the basic nutrients that most people are deficient in. This product should not be used in place of a multi-vitamin/mineral supplement. I am concerned about the high levels of chromium, which may be fine till someone's levels are restored but then after that could create a toxic burden. I am also concerned about the Garcinia and the Hoodia which are metabolic stimulants. stimulants are okay for some people but when your are depleted and you whip your body with stimulants there is potential for harm. Weight loss / metabolic stimulant products are responsible for almost all significant harm caused by nutritional supplements. Unfortunately, even Red Bull is classed as a nutritional supplement."


And as far as anything the promises a cure goes, I'm made peace with not shooting for a cure. CFS and other chronic illnesses aren't cure-able. I have by no means given up on life or health, but making peace with the fact that it's here to stay gives me my own permission to make life changes I need to in order to live with it. I can't watch or do things that makes me tense for too long. I cut another day of work because having to be places at particular times and perform whether or not I feel well is grueling. In other words, I'm learning self care for the first time in my life. 

From me and others who deal with chronic illness and navigate the "cure" craze, thank you for respecting our decisions and respecting that we do know what's best for our bodies.

About That Race Thing

We went to a museum on our honeymoon. If that earns us serious geek status, so be it. Another guest at our bed & breakfast told us we absolutely must visit the Carnegie Museum of Natural History and marvel at the massive dinosaur skeletons. And marvel we did. Few things remind a person that our species is a tiny part of Creation like peering up at an ancient creature whose femur is nearly your height. 

Nearly every exhibit had that effect on us.  

Not the least of such, an exhibit on race. We consider ourselves fairly aware of racial realities and decently adept at navigating discussions on their complexities, but seeing stacks of actual money marking the drastic disparity between white and black earnings and hearing videos of young people talk about how they're perceived and treated as minorities was deeply humbling. Particularly powerful was a wall of portraits, a section from the '60's and a current section, with quotes from that person, describing how they felt they were treated as a person of color. 

Perhaps the most formative, humbling aspect was this: 

For once, we were the ones who didn't know. The ones who needed to listen and to be taught. 

For a Caucasian, even one like me with a culturally diverse family, a diverse friend group, and experience living in a neighborhood with a vast majority of African-American and Latino ethnicities and being a minority myself, that not-knowing smallness is terrifying. Like it or not, aware of or blind to it, we're home in a culture that has given us countless preferences since its very birth. That shapes us. Makes us blind to ourselves and to those whose experience in our shared culture is unlike our own. 

Humility, for us, is being aware that we're shaped into blindness and lack of empathy. It's being aware that even our motivations for correcting the existing and historic injustices can be rooted in supremacy. We still need to be the right ones. The ones who know. The saviors. Unless we make peace with the realization that we see ourselves as supremacists, exemptions, favorites, and inherently privileged in ways we are completely blind to, we're going to keep acting out of that paradigm. We're going to keep treating other humans with a lack of respect. We're going to keep extolling Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks, now that they're safely in their graves and not challenging our assumption that our perceptions are The Way Things Are and that people that challenge our normalcies are overreacting to trivial things and should just "keep peace" by not insisting that we listen to what it's like to be them. I see our reactions to the protests and the mounting evidence that the protesters are indeed telling the truth about what it's like to be them and wonder why we are so afraid. I wonder if admitting that they may be right about something like their very own stories is so frightening to us because it means we Don't Know. And we're so used to being at the top of everything that we don't even realize it.

We need to be intentional about reshaping our assumptions, developing our awareness, and dismantling our paradigms. No person can reshape themselves, and unless we humble ourselves into the posture of learning from those whose stories are different from ours, we will continue being defensive... And staying in the patterns that put us on the oppressor side of oppression. 

Be aware, there is no neutral position to be had. Our reactions to the ongoing protests in our nation will go down in history as the reactions to the Freedom Riders and the march on Washington. There were plenty of good Christian whites who, some violently and some passively, opposed in the name of "keeping the peace". But peace that is merely a preservation of a deeply broken cultural equilibrium is not a peace at all. Is our chapter of the Church's legacy going to read like too many of the ones before it, a frustrating and frankly embarrassing lack of empathy and basic belief that God loves us all equally and cares about how we treat each other? 

How are we to become, individually, and as communities, the sorts of people who can enact change and embody justice by how we treat each other on a very daily basis? We put ourselves in the position of learning. Read the books of African-American authors. There are many, but they're not the ones most easily accessible. Because, remember? We live in a culture that tells us without words that we're the most intelligent. Start with Frederick Douglass and keep discovering. Take a class from an African-American professor. Support and learn from organizations like Blood:Water that, instead of, through pictures and rhetoric, portray the people of Africa as simpletons in need of your white money and white savior complex, say, "The people of Africa are creative, intelligent, and tenacious. They aren't lacking in intelligence; they're lacking in tools. You can help us provide them with the tools to help them rebuild their communities' health and resources." (-Dan Haseltine) Wander outside the boundaries of the social circles handed to you, become friends with people who do not share your ethnicity and version of reality. And in everything you hear, above all, do them the dignity of believing them. You'll start to change, to see yourself as equal, as friends, as co-workers in bringing the Kingdom of Jesus, with its kindness and justice, to our neighborhoods and cities.

Oh, and listen to this interview Relevant did with Christian hiphop artist, Propaganda. Prop is incredibly deep, wise, and honest in an unreactive manner I have much to learn from. He talks from experience about what it feels like to be told that your version of the reality of something as personal as your own life isn't valid. Isn't true. 

This lack of empathy and humility, I believe, isn't who we want to be. It's certainly not who we were created to be. Let's be brave and humble enough to listen to those who are brave enough to talk about what it's like to be them. Let's start walking in the path of a peace that doesn't rely on the preservation of our sense of superiority. And then see what canyons and rifts God has been preparing you to bridge. 

"Peace is a path that comes into being as we walk in it."

About prayer

[these Kansas evenings]

The soul needs ritual and practice in order to grow and deepen. I'm learning this. Slowly, as common prayer becomes habit, the reflexes of my being are turning toward God like the muscles of my hands can now tamp espresso without conscious thought.

A few mornings ago was one that I thought might be a bad dream. Nothing horrific, just everything Not Working, one on top of the other. Frustration rising, suddenly part of the usual morning prayer (which I hadn't prayed that morning because oversleeping and hurrying) came to me:

O Lord, let my soul rise up to meet you
as the day rises to meet the sun.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,
As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever.
Amen. 

And suddenly I was patient and restful. And could be present with customers. I hadn't consciously thought, "I should pray." It was just there. Part of the fabric, woven into other days before this one. And I don't know about you, but my prayers (if I think of praying) when I'm frustrated consist mostly of my talking about how frustrated I am, rather than bringing myself to God in praise. I need the well-worn prayer paths of saints before me sometimes. A lot of the time, actually.

I've always yearned for a more constant abiding in God, and we've discovered the strength of the practices, ancient creeds, daily rhythms, and prayers of the early church. I know, it sounds goofy to those of us, most of the American church, who grew up thinking those are just Catholic things. But did you know the church calendar was formed, prayers written, and creeds recited hundreds of years before Scripture was canonized? I didn't. And now, discovering that my soul is indeed formed by orienting, in actual practice, my day around the reality of the presence of God, I wonder how we've lost this rich heritage.

And hey, "Common Prayer" (compiled in part by Shane Claiborne), even has an app.

And now I'll go to bed with these beautiful words in my mind:

Now as we come to the setting of the sun,
and our eyes behold the evening light,
we sing your praises, O God:
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
You are worthy at all times to be praised by happy voices,
O Son of God, O Giver of life,
your glory fills the whole world.

Newlywed DIY

A succinct post about two projects I finished this week is an awful follow-up to an everlasting silence in which Ryan and I married each other and all sorts of wonderful things and a shocking thing happened. But here we are, on a Saturday, lazing luxuriously about our new home (after this husband of mine woke me to a breakfast worthy of chef status... you think I exaggerate, you stop on by and ask him for proof). We've been home for six days, and I'm not feeling particularly ambitious in the writing department. More so than the past while, but progress grows in increments.

So, in the name of rebuilding writing muscles, here is a synopsis of the shocking end to our honeymoon:

Let's just say a deer went all kamikaze on our car on our trek back to Kansas. Neither car nor deer survived, but we and all our other possessions are entirely unhurt. We could have easily foregone this part of our honeymoon, but at this point we're too grateful to leave room for much else.

And now to the projects. Making our house a home is the most fun I've ever had in decor. Ryan has great aesthetic sensibilities, which adds to the fun. 

This trunk was a $10 thrift store find years ago, and I've always meant to redo the poor thing.

So I spray-painted the top and the hardware gold leaf, let them dry, taped them, and spray-painted the rest of it white. The top had a good deal of sticky residue left from the hideous laminate I peeled off (and if you listened closely, you could hear the trunk sigh with relief), and because I was too lazy to scrub it off, I painted over it with gold, spread it with Mod Podge, cut pieces of lace vinyl tablecloth ($2 at walmart) to fit, and pressed it on. I like the subtle patterned top.

Instead of buying a matched bedroom suite, repurposing is much more our style. So the trunk became a nightstand with lots of storage.

Our puppies and I went exploring in the pasture and lugged back this fallen tree branch. They tried to help by leaping up and testing it with their teeth. In the yard, I took a dry rag and scrubbed off the loose bark while Alex chased the rag and Aliyah sat on my legs and begged to have her stomach scratched. It was far more hilarious than working alone. 

I attached the branch to the ceiling with hooks and twine and hung a gauzy certain a friend gave to me on one end to give it the feel of a canopy. I'd known I wanted to hang some of the glass terrariums and air plants we used as reception decor in our room, and they seemed like they belonged in the scheme of things. And this picture is the result of not waiting for optimal light. I like it better in person. Also, I love feeling like we're falling asleep under a tree. And I feel satisfied that I used found and already owned objects for the entire thing. 

This blogging thing. I might have to start it again. 

Poverty, Privilege, and Such

(Editor's note: Please bear with the parts where I'm a bit reactionary in this post. I'm really passionate about this, so I may seem judgmental and soapbox-standing. I don't intend that, so I apologize in advance for the places where I suffer in translation. I don't apologize for the content, though. This topic disturbs me.)

"My dad always told me, 'Don't waste your money on people who are poor. They're poor because they chose to be.'"

I shot a covert glance at the speaker, horrified at her blatant lack of empathy. She sipped her coffee, young and designer, the brands of her clothes and the logo of one of the most expensive schools in the country on her bag all screaming "I didn't earn this myself", and I wanted to ask her if she understands what privilege is. 

Poverty. Those who don't know it do not understand it. And we do ourselves a huge favor if we just admit that aloud. More than needing to not appear offensive, we truly need redemption and softening... to be humble and loving. 

The kind of money that enables a person to live without any concern toward it is extremely rarely built up in one generation. And if a person doesn't have a role model to follow, making and saving money is a complex and constant problem. Or, if a person has health or emotional difficulties, they may appear able-bodied and still not be able to deal with the daily demands of a job. And that's just the beginning of the problems caused by a lack of the social and family structures so many of us take completely for granted. 

Let me quote an excellent Times article: 

"Successful people tend to see in themselves a simple narrative: You study hard, work long hours, obey the law and create your own good fortune. Well, yes. That often works fine in middle-class families.

But if you’re conceived by a teenage mom who drinks during pregnancy so that you’re born with fetal alcohol effects, the odds are overwhelmingly stacked against you from before birth. You’ll perhaps never get traction.

Likewise, if you’re born in a high-poverty neighborhood to a stressed-out single mom who doesn’t read to you and slaps you more than hugs you, you’ll face a huge handicap. One University of Minnesota study found that the kind of parenting a child receives in the first 3.5 years is a better predictor of high school graduation than I.Q.

All this helps explain why one of the strongest determinants of ending up poor is being born poor. As Warren Buffett puts it, our life outcomes often depend on the “ovarian lottery.” Sure, some people transcend their circumstances, but it’s callous for those born on second or third base to denounce the poor for failing to hit home runs."

It's poor taste, at the very best,  for those of us with a roof over our heads to lack empathy for those sleeping on concrete in the cold tonight, but it makes me cringe especially small when I hear such things from the church. I often think of people with names and faces whose stories are much harder than mine and haven't received all the help I have and wonder if the church would still be saying disparaging things if we knew faces and stories and names instead of statistics and dollar signs. We need to remember that we haven't earned much of what places us where we are on the socioeconomic hierarchy, and that our lack of desperate need does not mean we automatically have the answers for those we deem beneath us.

While I agree with some of the criticism often aimed at social welfare programs, saying they're sometimes mismanaged and in some cases ineffective in breaking the cycle of poverty, I wholeheartedly disagree with the often-selfish sentiment behind much of that criticism. Ending the cycle of poverty is as complex as the issues of its causation. Handing a large sum of money to someone whose drug abuse has rendered them homeless might not help them at all, and offering healing and community to that person is a long and sacrificial journey, but surely we can do better than (either to their faces or safely online) saying they should just get a job.

You may have ideas, good ones, about how to make good life changes. But may I ask you a favor? Unless you know what it's like to be completely alone in the world and trying to stay warm and fed, please respond with kindness instead of distaste and judgment. Surely we can do better than that.

Surely, especially because the Jesus we're celebrating this month was born, in today's lingo, on the street. As an adult, he was homeless. He depended on other people for meals. He knew need. By his life and words, He teaches us that God comes to us in the form of the needy, and how we treat them is how we treat Him.

Another excerpt from the Times piece:

"Low-income Americans, who actually encounter the needy in daily life, understand this complexity and respond with empathy. Researchers say that’s why the poorest 20 percent of Americans donate more to charity, as a fraction of their incomes, than the richest 20 percent. Meet those who need help, especially children, and you become less judgmental and more compassionate.

And compassion isn’t a sign of weakness, but a mark of civilization."

As we receive grace from God for our sins, we know what need is. We understand that we are totally dependent upon what we don't deserve, and we know that compassion should not be merely a mark of civilization. Compassion is a mark of following Jesus.

Hope is for the Foolish Ones

I lit the Advent candle by the lights of Joshua Tree. (I always name my tree Joshua. For Yeshua, our undying hope, and because of a certain favorite music album by a certain favorite band.) I read the day's prayer of longing and hope, and sat in the half dark, bringing to God the dark things waiting for His light to dawn. 

Waiting is hard and hope a reckless necessity when a bride is dying of cancer. I begged God to shine on my friends Josh and Jean, and still the updates of her battle were filled with anguish and little hope. 

That was last year.

Hope isn't for the blithe. Darkness and longing must be faced in order to know how to watch at the window for the first streaks of dawn. Only those whose eyes are trained to peer through the night will catch the moment it begins to pale.

Hope isn't for the times we feel we can control the ending of the page or the chapter, or even know the end of the book. We're allowed to seal our hearts against it, if we want. God lets us choose numbness and despair, in cowardice and pride refusing to open ourselves to the possibility that we do not know and do not rule. 

Because hope is an admission that we are not in control.

It's foolishness to sit in darkness, asking God to rise like the sun, when you have said the same words over and over for endless weeks while the waiting grinds on and you have no proof God hears. Only a fool will stand in defiance against suffocating despair and proclaim, "Even if God isn't listening and these are only words, I WILL SAY THEM." 

And this is how hope redeems us of our pride.

Because hope is only for the foolish who gamble everything on God... The reckless ones who are brave enough to admit we can't see the end. And can't begin to control it. 

Hope is for the foolish ones who trust the One who knows what it is to be blood and bones and walk in dirt and cry over dying ones He loves... and wait long and hard until He shows up... whether in this age or in the next. 

(Thank you, God. Thank you that Josh still has Jean this year.)

Processings

The good thing, the terrifying thing, about grief... It reduces me to "I don't know". 

How are you? What is going to happen? Are you okay? What do you need? 

I don't know. 

I guess I was a bit addicted to answers. To figuring things out. To working out the redemption and seeing the good and the end. It's an empty feeling, being devoid of any knowing of the way to walk through uncertainty and pain of this magnitude. 

I think maybe my answer-seeking cripples me sometimes. 

Yesterday, I sat cross-legged in the center of my favorite giant tree stump and tried to feel where God is in this whole thing. I followed the light filtering through the trees and all the shifting hues of color and all the other ways God usually finds me and my crashing dissonance starts to harmonize and I start to work out a sense of good in the world and balance it with the reasons my head aches from crying. I couldn't get anywhere.

I know the theology. I firmly believe that God is complete Love and Beauty and Life Abundant. I can see that all this suffering and chaos is not of His causing. It's clear to me that the enemy is stealing, killing, and destroying, using people and events to mar whatever good he can reach. I know and have seen that God has always been working overtime to restore and redeem, but none of this patched anything for me this time. I couldn't arrive at any conclusion I could rest in, knowing that THIS time, again, God can make something good. How can He do that when the last bits of good in an already-broken story are the bits being ground to dust? 

I don't know. 

And it scares me. 

I was looking at the light again, absently wondering why I felt so estranged from it and unable to reach it with my being, when I remembered telling Ryan all the things that had me tense and worried. How he repeated over and over until I relaxed and let it be my greater reality: I love you. 

And the color-tinted trees, the lines of the branches reaching their fingers to the bottomless blue, the evening light-beams reaching down to the green underneath, alive with whole communities of chipmunks, birds, and bugs... In ALL of it, I felt God say the same thing in a voice too deep for the ears.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

And that is my greatest reality. 

something wonderful

Sometimes, 

in the face of all that is twisted, broken, painful, and wrong,

the bravest act of worship is

celebration

of all that is right and good and wonderful and whole.

Something wonderful will happen today.

Look for it.

Smile in recognition.

Celebrate it with abandon.

Thank God

A year ago, I marched right past this guy.

Stiffly ignored him, when he was standing inside the door of the otherwise-empty-except-for-my-cousin-and-I auditorium. Obviously wanting to meet me. Also obviously, I could go outside in the dark alone to investigate when a human prowler is spotted, but when hit with a tsunami realization that THIS GUY could very possibly topple my self-protective, self-sufficient little life... I was capable of no other response than clipping past him in my grey heels. Pretending I didn't see him at all.

Yeah. That happened. The first time we met in person.

Thank God he had the courage to chase me down, otherwise I know I would have barred any further interaction.

Disclaimer: I'm not a huge fan of the dramatic approach to guy/girl interactions. For instance, a girl purposely acts opposite of how she feels to gauge a guy's interest by his response. It may suit some people, but it's not really the way I operate. And I wasn't intending to. When I saw him waiting, I fully intended to meet him calmly and normally. But, when the shoes met the carpet, I was terrified. Apparently I'm rude when I'm terrified.

My dear Bekah was standing on the other side of the door. Safety! Until he addressed my turned back with a "Becca", silencing my frantic non-talk with Bekah.

I turned, shook his hand, and couldn't think of a word to say.

So horribly frozen and strange, with this person I had connected with so well for the previous months! First by discovering and commenting on his blog because who would have guessed that another person would think and feel so many things I do? Then messaging about art, music, theology, books, and all the endless conversations I easily have with people I know well. Because I felt I did. Which was a bit strange, seeing as I didn't. But we have a lot of mutual friends and circulated in a few of the same Mennonite circles (or squares, as they've also been called). So, it didn't feel strange until I was faced with actually meeting him. And the niggling realization that I really could like this guy, which I'd conveniently discounted because I was still standing on my soapbox entitled "It's Impossible to Really Know Someone You Don't Know in Person", had mushroomed upon sight. Which, silly, doesn't actually happen to real people.

We made the smallest edition of small talk I've ever experienced. It didn't even occur to me to introduce Bekah, who was still standing in the very immediate vicinity. He left. I escaped to fresh air, maddened almost to tears with myself. And how is a person supposed to process happenings and emotions for which you simply don't have categories in which to put them? Categories are helpful for processing. And I just didn't have any.

After a week, sufficient equilibrium had returned for me to end the atypical silence with an apology for my awkwardness. And a thanks for taking the trouble to meet me.

Thank God I did, because (I discovered when we made fill-in-the-gap confessions after we started dating) he was prepared to let our friendship, which had felt so effortless and enjoyable, quietly fade. Because, obviously, it was more than a little strange to interact so easily with typed words... and then be so nearly incapable of conversation in person.

Thank God that was a year ago.
And we laugh at the memory.

Things I'm Learning

Truth isn't always found in the corners of logic, although truth contains logic. 



No matter the issue... political or non-... SOMEONE'S life, 

in very personal, 

very vulnerable ways, 

is labeled for other people to discuss with no regard for 

their experience or emotions. 



We learn best from people when we know we're equal to them 

and cared about by them. 


Even controversial conversations are important, 

but no one was ever argued into the Kingdom... or much else. 


Relationships are where the best, 

most important, 

and most life-giving conversations happen.

What Became of Me

No, I didn't fall off the edge of the world. But, then, the world doesn't have edges. So you knew that. But, in case you wondered what became of me, that's what this post is about.

Ever wonder what would happen if you stopped... completely stopped? And how it would feel if the rest of the world went on turning while you stayed absolutely still? I'm not sure I wondered, but I discovered.

After three months of symptoms I partially ignored because I thought I was invincible (and also because I'm stubborn), I arrived home from work in late January and stood on my porch in a thick stupor. My brain seemed stuck. I couldn't figure out whether to first find the the house key or insert it into the lock. That inability to think sequentially was happening with regularity when I was tired, but never had so seriously impeded daily functioning. When I finally figured out how to get into my house, I collapsed into bed. Slept a few hours, then woke. A strange helplessness gripped me even before I tried to stand... and realized I couldn't.

The next few days are strange and blurry, even to memory. My friend Julie and her husband Laverne "happened" to be in the area for the weekend. Julie helped me navigate decisions. How do you orchestrate a radical life change when you're so weak you can't think? And have no idea what to expect of the future, as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome seems to impose different limitations on everyone? I'll tell you how. You rely on your people because you have no other choice. Carla brought food, which had suddenly become a matter of survival. I'd crawl to the kitchen, slowly make food, eat it, then feel more depleted than before. The expenditure of energy to make meals just seemed infinitely greater than the energy replaced by having ingested it. Julie sat with me in the doctor's office and let me lay my head on her shoulder because I didn't have the energy to hold my head up. Just having her there gave me strength. I hate doctors and avoid them at all costs. And I knew I had CFS and didn't want blood tests and scans for everything from brain tumors to ingrown toenails. I had to convince him to give me a physician's order for medical leave from work. So I wobbled back to the exam room, tense and determined.

He sat down across from me and asked in the kindest way, "What's wrong?" No clinical jargon, no "let me diagnose you because you have no idea what your body is doing". Everything came out in a rush. The insomnia, inability to focus, the body aches, then the sudden energy crash. "What are you, twenty-five? Yeah, that's when I crashed, too. I worked in mental health. It's a tough gig, and because you care so much, you wore yourself out. You need to stop."

I argued. Once I had physical energy again, I would be fine. I can deal with the emotional intensity. I love my job. It's rewarding. And I'm good at it. And could he please just give me three weeks off? Then I'd be fine again. I just need sleep.

He sighed and looked at me sidelong. "You crying?" And he wiped my eye with his thumb, and it wasn't even strange.

"I'm sorry! I'm not a public crier!"

"Oh, don't worry about it. I was crying everywhere. At the grocery store. Everywhere. And I'm not going to give your three weeks off work, because you'll feel a little better, and you'll go right back to it. I'm not going to let you get as low as I did. You have other interests, right? Get better, then go do them."

How did this doctor know me? And know what I needed to hear?

"You gave everything you had," he kept repeating. "Now stop."

And so I did. Quit my job. Just like that, quit what had been nearly my entire world for almost three years. I hung up from telling my boss and sobbed. Julie hugged me until I stopped.

Art and Lisa took care of my next month's rent so, suddenly without income, I didn't have to make the moving decision for another month. Geryll and Carla offered their home to me if I needed it. Julie's parents told her and Laverne to not leave without bringing me back to recover at their place.

I felt like Frodo, going to stay with the Elves.

In a matter of days, what could have been cataclysmic was just... taken care of. And I didn't have to do anything but rest. I couldn't do anything but rest. Before, being needy and not tending my own affairs was nearly impossible for me to handle. When I didn't have another choice but accepting help, I learned something: it's a precious thing, being part of the Body of Christ. What else would make friends treat you like family? What do people do without it? Become homeless, maybe. We're all just fragile. That is all. So little stands between us and utter vulnerability. And those of us who know people who act like Jesus have a network of support that catches us and holds us up. And by this all people know we are disciples...

Let me tell you, being in bed nearly 24/7 for almost a month isn't a picnic, even though there appear to be a few similarities. You know, quilts and things. Few things are more demoralizing than a constant bedhead. But realizing how much of your self-worth is entangled in being happy, active, useful, and moderately intelligent is definitely one of those things. In one fell swoop, I was left without all the things that defined me. I couldn't focus enough to read. Creeping to the bathroom a few times a day was my daily feat. I felt so utterly useless.

But here's the thing about loss. And suffering. It not only refines us... It redefines us. That's the redemption. Not even having anything interesting to say anymore laid bare my constant earning. From God. From people. I loved the things I did because I loved them, but if I was honest with myself, I would have admitted I thought my worth was earned.

After three weeks, and I was only capable of two hours of activity... and dear Mimi and Julie were still serving me meals in bed, I was reduced to absolute honesty. I had to let go of the old definition of myself and what made me feel valuable. I had to trust that my worth is intrinsic... that being made by God and being loved by Him gives me worth I can't earn or diminish. So simple, in mere print. So absolutely massive to believe. Thus began a seismic shift that continues... continues to liberate me.

I'm learning a new way to live. To rest when I'm tired. To accept that some days I simply don't have the energy to do everything I want to do. To trust that reading to kids and listening to friends is important and valuable work that God is using to bring His Kingdom. Some days, when walking across town leaves me tired and I just desperately want to run again, I'm impatient and petulant. And then I remember how it feels to be pushed in a wheelchair because my legs wobbled too much to walk, and I am grateful. So grateful to be recovering as quickly as I am...

And...

There is no end to redemption.

Or the way God gives in return far more than we lose.

Here's some proof.

The guy who had been such a good friend for the previous year and a half asked me to be his best friend. And I have time to enjoy him. But that's a whole other story...

Until I tell a synopsis, you really should read Ryan's blog. I think you'll agree that I'm completely objective in stating that he's pretty amazing.

art giveaway

I know. I promised not to do any art hawking on this site, but for those of you who aren't on facebook or twitter, or checking my art site regularly... I thought you might want to know that I'm doing an art giveaway. Want a chance to win this original?

Yes? Head over to my art blog to find out how. 

beautiful

"For beautiful eyes,

look for the good in others;

for beautiful lips,

speak only words of kindness;

and for poise,

walk with the knowledge that 

you are never alone."

-Audrey Hepburn 

Life is Art

"I think everything in life is art.

What you do.

How you dress.

The way you love someone,

and how you talk.

Your smile and your personality.

What you believe in,

and all your dreams.

The way you drink your tea.

How you decorate your home or party.

Your grocery list.

The food you make.

How your writing looks.

And the way you feel.

Life is art."

-author unknown

[Also, broiled grapefruit is nice for brunch.]

about coffee...

“Coffee is far more than a beverage. It is an invitation to life, disguised as a cup of warm liquid. It’s a trumpet wake-up call or a gentle rousing hand on your shoulder…Coffee is an experience, an offer, a rite of passage, a good excuse to get together.”

-Nicole Johnson, Fresh Brewed Life

Brent + Emily

This is the day Brent lost a bet. 

A bet made with his co-workers that he would still be single at age 25. 

This is the day he told about his loss and grinned without apology.

"I met Emily and I fell hard."

This is also the day he won a bride

Because he had already won Emily's love.

See a few more shots of Brent and Emily's celebration here...

Strength of Character

“It requires great strength of character for a woman to be gentle in an age that screams for her to do otherwise.” -unknown

(Thanks to my friend Shaunda and her little Christopher for being the subjects of this snapshot.)

Equal or Alike? On Interacting and Respect

Thanks in part to a book I keep re-reading and in other part to some experiences I've had lately, another blog post on femininity has been rolling around in my head, gathering mass. Like a snowball. But I don't have anything earth-shatteringly new to say... and I feel like I've already said more than I possibly SHOULD, being a bit on the youngish side and not having even a few grey hairs with which to validate my words of wisdom. Besides, talking is helpful, but mostly living is what changes things.

But the snowball hasn't melted, and a blog post Donald Miller posted this morning served as catalyst. So I'm writing this. Obvious, I know. 

Don asked in the blog post, 

"Do women want to be treated like men or do women want to be treated equally? (And make no mistake, the question is important.)"

The question is important. And it's one that should engender (yes, lame pun... sorry...) frank, respectful discussion. This is my only intent, I hope you know.

From my perspective, the answer is nuanced: it depends. Mostly equal. But it depends.



1) It depends upon who you are. What sort of relationship you have with me.

My friend Bekah observed, after traveling with my dad and I, "You're different when you're with your dad." She said I'm more traditionally "girlie". Instead of immediately jumping out to pump gas and check oil, I let him. Other things, too. She said she'd never seen that side of me. I was intrigued. What makes that change? I think it's because of my dad's and my relationship. He's my DAD. So I belong to him. Not in a chattel, women-are-possessions sort of way, but an eye-to-eye belonging that goes both ways. A belonging in relationship. Whether because he's a man or because he's Enos, the impulse to provide and do and care is embedded into every aspect of his personality and life. I know that he loves to "take care of me" when he has the chance. Consequently, I love when he does. Why would I deny him something that gives him inherent satisfaction? Also, and this is absolutely key: I trust my dad. Deeply. My dad is not the sort of dad a friend of a friend of mine has: her dad tells his (single) 30-year-old daughter what job she should work and what church she should attend because of some sort of belief that she can't make her own decisions because she is female. If my dad was like that, I think his insistence on doing unnecessary, very nice things for me would feel overbearing and suffocating. My dad is not like that. He rarely offers unsolicited advice, and, when solicited, he gives me his perspective and then tells me that I'm capable of making good decisions for myself and that he trusts me to make them. Because of the closeness of our relationship and the trust he's earned from me, I will feel loved and valued by some of the exact actions that make me feel like driving a semi in heels just to prove a point to another man.

For instance, I had a colleague who treated me like someone who needed special consideration because I'm a woman. His attitude and actions didn't make me feel valued at all. They made me angry. It felt like he couldn't imagine I would have anything to offer because of my gender. It felt condescending. It felt as though he was assuming possession of me somehow, assuming an intimacy we did not have, and assuming power and control over me simply because he is male. It felt awful. It felt so awful and made me so mad that (after two weeks, because confrontation isn't exactly my forte) I told him I didn't feel respected by him. That conversation, combined with a work situation he handled in my absence, brought about another conversation. One in which he told me that he needs my help and told me I'm just as effective in my field as he is, despite (and because of) my doing things a bit differently. We became a team. And I loved working with him.

So. For those of you guys who are reading this and want to know how much chivalry to show, good luck. I'm not being flippant. Because what makes a woman feel respected might fall anywhere on the wide spectrum of social and cultural factors and situations. So much of respect is person- and situation-specific. But here's the best guide I can give you: it seems to be a sort of equation in which the level of  relationship/loyalty/trust you share with her is directly proportional to the amount of gender-specific doting she'll appreciate from you. If she starts doing anything that resembles driving semis in heels, re-evaluate your approach.

And, while most of us women genuinely want to have mutually respectful, beneficial relationships with you guys, some of us, whether due to some sort of hurt or some sort of (ugly) power surge we might feel at stomping all over your well-intentioned offerings of friendship, will do just that. I'm sorry.



2) It depends upon your practical application of "equal".

As Dorothy Sayers emphasizes, this whole gender thing has seen far too much over-generalization. Sure... in general... men tend to think more logically and women tend to be more emotionally intuitive, but I can think of five married couples right now that are comprised of  a "heart" man and a "brain" woman. It's true that... in general... men tend to be better mechanics than women, but I have a good friend who is in all respects a "traditional" woman... killer cook, cuddles kids, very sensitive to other's feelings... only she fixes cars, too. I'm rather in awe. I'm serious. She takes things apart and installs cool things like brake pads and stuff. A guy friend of mine lifts weights and is a talented carpenter... and cook. Better than I am. True story.

So, if your personal application of "equal" means that you are nice enough to me to not make fun of the things I do that can't be completely squeezed into the generalized womanly role... but you act as though I am not capable of anything outside that generalization, then please. Treat me like a man. Don't hold doors for me, don't buy me coffee. Personally, I really enjoy both gestures. But if you can't hold both a door and a discussion about politics (or anything outside whatever women are expected to talk about)... I'll get the door myself.

Mad apologies to anyone who feels yelled at by what I'm about to say next. I really and truly hope you don't take this personally, but I do want us to take this to heart. To respect each other and remedy the ways we hurt each other. Not only as males and females, but as human beings who misunderstand and injure each other a lot more often than we'd like. I've seen a lot of people... both men and women... devastated and confused by advice given by well-meaning people concerning who they should be and what they should do as a man or a woman.

To be perfectly candid, some of the most hurtful experiences I've had of this sort have come from other women. Women who thought that my participating in discussing theology, politics, restorative justice, and the like were strange ploys to gain male attention. When confronted, I was devastated. Is that how it looked? Um, yuck! Because nothing was further from my mind.  I was genuinely interested in the discussion itself. When I stammered out my lack of intention, I was told that I couldn't really know my own mind or intentions because women are inherently unpredictable, almost exclusively emotional creatures and could not be trusted to know their own intentions. It took me a few years to recover from that. It undermined the very basis of what it is to be me. And sometimes I still feel a small sort of panic after I've been asked to speak to an audience including men. That's how deep it cut, despite my being told by the people who know me best that I should disregard the advice. Whose fault is it, then, that girls often tell me that they wanted to participate in those very discussions... but didn't... because they didn't feel their input was wanted or even valid? Is it men's condescending or women's failure to celebrate each other's individuality?

I don't know. Like everything else seems to be, I'm guessing the ways we've been misunderstood are unique to our person. I'm also guessing that, until we are completely redeemed, we will unintentionally misunderstand and hurt each other... gender to gender and person to person. But if conversation equips us to better follow the example of a Man who did scandalous things like sit on wells and talk alone to women about such grand and weighty things as the Kingdom of God... then let's brave conversation.

If we navigate the minefields of this conversation with this focus, maybe there will be redemption between the minefields for us all:

“In everything, therefore, treat people the same way you want them to treat you, for this is the Law and the Prophets." -Jesus (Matthew 7:12 NASB)