Black Lives Matter and the Gospel

I'm nearly 50 years old and for most of my life I've been trying to figure what I believe and why I believe it and recent events are helping me solidify my convictions.

I was raised by a single mom for the first nine years of my life. She gave her all to working and providing for me and my beloved felines. She went without a lot so that we would have what we needed. She never let on just how strapped things were, but I vividly remember being allowed to choose two pairs of shoes for the year: one was sneakers for gym and the other was the pair that had to go with everything else. I expended a lot of thought trying to determine which color and style would be the most versatile because that pair was it until next year's pick came up. In the same way that my mother modeled financial wisdom without ever explicitly saying, "we need to be wise with what we purchase" she modeled treating everyone-regardless of race, creed or culture--equitably by what she did and what she allowed me to do.

I grew up in a bastion of progressivism smack in the middle of America's dairyland. We had folk singers come to my elementary school who lamented the "Dioxin blues," I saw my teachers protest for fair contracts and when I left Madison, at age 15, the headline was about a lesbian couple was suing the YMCA for the right to have a family membership just like everyone else.

The majority of my peers were fairer than I was (Wisconsin in the 70's and early 80's was land of Scandinavians and there are more varieties of Lutherans than skin color, for the most part) they tended to come from two parent, well educated families, thanks the the presence of the University. Even though my mom and I were somewhat of anomaly, being just the two of us and living in an apartment on the edge of town, my school friends included me in their gatherings and from an early age I heard from and had modeled for me by adults in my life that education was important, that I could do anything I set my mind to and that the world is full of people different from you and that's a good thing. I don't know exactly how it all coalesced in my young mind, but I do know that those are the messages that were woven deep into my consciousness. So when my mom received a letter (no email, no cell phones then!) from a relative that her young son had reacted with shock upon seeing a black person for the first time, but warmed up quickly, I was indignant and swore that I would do a better job with my own kids. Mind you, this relative was simply sharing an anecdote about what was going on in her life-she wasn't expressing any sense of superiority or judgment, she just lived in a very homogenous area and so this was a new experience for her elementary aged child. Still, I had a strong, if not haughty, sense that I had definitely gotten that better deal living in an eclectic, open minded college town.

So you can imagine that I had a bit of culture shock, when, at age 15, I moved to suburban Southern California. Lots of racial and cultural diversity, for sure, but (in my experience) much less focus on intellectual musings and much more on the living a pleasant SoCal life...who can blame the sun-hypnotized for not craving a lesser lifestyle. Still, for all of its differences, Southern California was equally as open minded and my group of friends came from a wide variety of backgrounds, many of them first generation Americans. I'll always be grateful that I had the opportunities I did, like attending Buddhist ceremonies with my best friend and, of course, eating some of the best food on the planet.

When I arrived in New York City for college (I never succumbed to the allure of sun and surf!) not only did I think I was pretty openminded, but I assumed I was pretty well-versed in what we'd now call "cultural literacy." Little did I know...college was eye opening for me in many ways: first and foremost I was surrounded by people who seemed to have had infinitely more academic preparation for the rigors that lay before us, but who had much greater sense of their place in the global community. I spent my college years discussing a lot of seeming abstract concepts and trying to figure out how to apply them to my very concrete life. I bobbed along in the ebb and flow of the thought trends at my urban campus but it wasn't always clear to me that there was a right and wrong side of arguments. Life was getting more muddled as I was becoming something of an adult and seeing that just because people were passionate about causes didn't mean they were always right, or consistent in their actions. Adding more dimension and, sometimes confusion, to my thoughts was that I'd recently become a Christian. In the middle of New York City on one of the most renown and, arguably, anti-establishment campuses in the world, right there is where God met me.

I wasn't exactly a skeptic to start with. I'd been a fairly regular church attender and church was always something that felt like it was supposed to be part of the routine, but attending church and knowing Christ were not the same, as I found out. It's one thing to feel an allegiance to an establishment that you can keep at arm's length, it's quite another to know that the God of the universe wants to be in relationship with you and that He uses his church to draw you into His community. There's no better place to find your faith than the City because there are no cultural pretenses to wade through. All around you are messages that you alone are enough, that dependence on anything but yourself is weakness and that religion is the opposite of open-mindedness. That means that churches in New York either draw on people who attend out of an ingrained sense of obligation or are places where people are drawn in because there is something different than what they've previously experienced. For the first time I was at a church where I was hearing a message that the gospel, or good news of Christ, was not a facet of life to be pulled out and put away at convenience, but rather the paradigm by which life was to be lived.  The gospel is fundamentally relational. God desires relationship with humanity through Christ and therefore, as Christians, this must necessarily play out in our relationship with others and with our world. The model is one of selflessness, of sacrificial love. Religion has often been used as a weapon of division, but truly living out faith should embody reconciliation. And that brings me back to the topic at hand: Black Lives Matter and the state of our country.

I do not believe that faith and politics line up in a particular fashion. I do not believe Jesus would call himself either a Democrat or Republican. And I do not believe politics, or politicians can ever bring us the lasting peace so  many of us seek. But that does not mean we give up the process entirely. We put our faith in flawed, but hopefully ethical people seeking to serve their country and the nation's people selflessly.

So back to Black Lives Matter. I remember when the movement first came about and there were the predictable responses toward this grassroots mobilization of "what about this group and what about that group" as if, to quote an over quoted meme: "equality is not like pie. to give someone else equality doesn't mean you get less!" I was running a half marathon in Savannah that year. The course took us through all different neighborhoods, including historically black ones. I remember vividly a black woman holding up a sign as she cheered us on that said "All Lives Matter," It's a phrase that had been tossed around a lot by a lot of reactionists, but receiving it from her caused me to tear up. At a time when she could've, and arguably should've, been focusing on herself and her community, she instead looked outward. She was seeking to build a bridge across a chasm of hurt. That is the gospel applied to real life. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying there was one "right" and one "wrong" path to choose, but she definitely chose the road less traveled and she radiated supernatural strength and beauty as she did it.

So why do we, people of the dominant culture, those of us who don't get up and daily wonder how our skin color will affect our standing in life, so often resist graciously giving to our brothers and sisters of color who've endured so much? There can be only one answer: because we don't believe that what they say is true. We don't trust that they're not over exaggerating or over dramatizing the plight of people of color. We think they're lying because we trust in ourselves--the spectator reading muddled fourth and fifth hand accounts, and our own experience  more than the words of the victims themselves. That's institutional racism. It's also antithetical to the gospel. If you profess to be a Christian then your calling is to a life of reconciliation. It is to love your brothers and sisters as Christ first loved you. It is not about arguing about exceptions to the rule or justifying your behavior because  you've never personally (knowingly) inflicted pain on someone else. It is about humbling yourself and saying to the offended "I'm sorry and I ask for your forgiveness."  But more than that, it is about finding a way forward and committing to walking alongside of our brothers and sisters in the continuing fight for justice and dignity to be granted to all.

This is my conviction as a Christian. There are a lot of fabulous people who've come to the same conclusion but not from a place of Christianity. There are plenty of people who have and live out a very strong sense of justice and I applaud them for it. But I raise the issue of faith because I live in a traditionally "christian" culture and it is grievous to see people who profess a belief in Christ and then have such a disconnect from the obvious starting point for living out their faith. Again, in that sense being a Christian in New York City is a lot more desirable. Take, for example, Redeemer NYC's statement regarding the recent killing of innocent black men and women:


Statement on Grace and Race:

As of May 27, 2020

Once again our hearts are broken and our souls irate as the blood of yet another person of color cries out to God from the ground. The vile brutality of racism in America has been unmistakable in recent weeks as the murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd have each been brought to light.

As Christians and as the Grace and Race Ministry of Redeemer Churches & Ministries:

We lament the deaths of these beloved Image Bearers and weep with those who will forever miss their son, daughter, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, nephew, niece, cousin, or friend.

We remember that throughout Scripture, God shows particular care for those who are most vulnerable, he commands authorities to be characterized by righteousness and justice, and he holds nations accountable for how they treat the least powerful groups and persons in their societies.

We recognize the pervasiveness of sin, we acknowledge that the bloody history of racially motivated violence in the United States continues to this day, we denounce any doctrine of racial superiority, and we join the many calls for systemic change in a nation that has often failed to uphold God’s vision of justice and has persistently worked against people of color. We pray that local officials will exercise their authority to pursue justice for Mr. Arbery, Ms. Taylor, Mr. Floyd, and countless others whose stories have been neglected.

We repent of the ways that we as Christians have far too often failed to adequately stand against the evil of racism and violence: diminishing its severity, averting our gazes, and even perpetuating such injustice deliberately or complicitly.

We realize that for many of our brothers and sisters, the revelation of these deaths is but another reminder of an everyday reality, and that even now as we lament the loss of these lives, many others are overlooked while being subjected to cruelty and death due to the color of their skin. Even still, we remember that ​“nothing is covered up that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known.1”

We cry out to the God of peace and justice, asking together with the psalmist: How long, O Lord? How long must our black and brown brothers and sisters be killed without consequence? How long must fathers and mothers weep over their dead children? How long will racial violence persist in this nation? How long until your true justice reigns?

And yet we resolutely hope in Jesus, the Prince of Peace who suffered and died at the hands of both mob and state-sanctioned violence and who ultimately conquered evil and death itself. We long for the day when his perfect justice will roll down like waters,2 when his power will bring utter darkness into the light,3 and when his love will forever join together every race and tongue within the family of God.4 Until that day, we will continually commit ourselves to the furthering of Christ’s kingdom here on earth.

1 Luke 12:2
2 Amos 5:24
3 Job 12:22
4 Revelation 7:9

https://www.redeemer.com/r/grace_race_statement_may_2020

Now read an excerpt from the BLM statement of beliefs:

Every day, we recommit to healing ourselves and each other, and to co-creating alongside comrades, allies, and family a culture where each person feels seen, heard, and supported.

We acknowledge, respect, and celebrate differences and commonalities.

We work vigorously for freedom and justice for Black people and, by extension, all people.

We intentionally build and nurture a beloved community that is bonded together through a beautiful struggle that is restorative, not depleting.

You cannot read the two and not see the overlap in themes of personal dignity, justice and reconciliation.

I'm nearly 50, been married for almost 20 years and a parent for 16. Four years ago I became acutely aware that I had to look my daughters squarely in the eyes and explain my choices to them and, more importantly, I need to model my choices to them. That feeling has only intensified in the wake of the plethora of criminal killings against men and women of color. I want my kids to be social activists and feel a compulsion for equality but I want them to see that the driving force is that it is because these men and women are our fellow image-bearers, that their lives are inherently worthy, that the Constitution and ultimately the Scriptures teach us this truth and that no leader or backlash movement can alter that.

One of the basic premises I teach my students about the Civil War was that just because someone was "anti-slavery" did not mean they were abolitionists, or morally opposed to what was happening. Most were anti-slavery out of convenience, economic gain or spite. Then and now the only way our society is going to change is through transformative heart change. You can't weep empathetically if you don't hurt for the oppressed and underrepresented. You don't advocate for your neighbors if you don't see in their faces divine craftsmanship.  I'm not hear to tell you that actively endorsing the the official Black Lives Matter organization is the "right" thing to do. But I will go so far as to say that respecting it and championing the reasons for which it was formed-the fact that it needed to be created-is the right thing to do. Because black lives, all lives matter. It's just that simple. If we can't stop prioritizing ourselves and wincing at every conviction of truth, even if it's presented imperfectly, than we are hopeless hypocrites.

The next time we want someone to understand where we're coming from-because we all come from places of pain-consider how you expect to be heard, expect to be believed and expect to be validated and how incensed you would be if your expectations weren't met. Start with reflecting on the last time you got "really mad" about how you were treated. I'd wager it doesn't come close to what we are seeing in the news right now. Personal reflection and repentance is the starting point for any heart change and it may take awhile. But if that happen how do we expect to change as society?

So as I round the corner to 50 and I can say that I do know more about why I believe what I do than when I was 18 (good thing!). It's a nice place to be, there's a certain level of ease in knowing that I articulate my convictions and passions, but here's the thing: all that becomes rote if we think we've figured it all out and if our concern is more about defending our crafted position than in listening to what others have to say. Even more worrisome, though is that in drowning out others with our own clamor we merely reveal ourselves to be fools.

8.28.17

It was really nice to drive to work to day and enjoy the normalcy of the commute. One year ago I woke up completely uncertain as to what  8/28/17 would look and feel like. 

Less than two months earlier a routine doctor’s visit and mammogram had revealed something suspicious. I was sent to the hospital for more tests and, to be honest, I was more pre-occupied with the logistics of the procedure-childcare, insurance, the inevitable bureaucratic nuisances, than with what the procedure might reveal. I knew my odds were good that nothing was wrong and felt no reason to worry. So when I got a call 24 hours later from the radiologist telling me I had cancer, I was completely stunned. I mean, had I really beaten the odds of NOT having a normal outcome? Kind of impressive in a strange way. Yes, weird thoughts like that floated through my head. 

The next 6 weeks would be a crash course in how to navigate the breast cancer decision making process. Much of what I learned is that this journey is an incremental one which requires patience. A mammogram reveals that there is at least one spot of cancer. An MRI reveals several more areas of concern. With that, I can choose the less invasive route which requires more biopsies and more frequent follow up procedures and no guarantee that I might not be back in a similar position in the future. I can choose the most dramatic option-bilateral mastectomy-which preemptively eradicates any other dark surprises that may be lurking, but which sounds like something out of a horror movie. But whatever route I take, I won’t know if I’ll need to do radiation, chemo or both afterwards.

I choose the horror movie scenario given my family history and my young age (yes, there were bright spots to being diagnosed with cancer). Intellectually I know this is the best choice I can make but emotionally I’m completely clueless how it will affect me. In the weeks leading up to the surgery I’m terrified of falling asleep (later on I realize that anytime you are pumped with lovely narcotics and wrapped in a blanket surrounded by a cocoon of warm air you should just treat it as spa time, no matter where it may be taking place) and terrified of waking up and of what I’ll find.

Well, I did wake up, in quite a good mood actually. I remember telling the nurses all about how many AP classes I’d taken as they wheeled me to my room. I’m sure I was at least half as witty as I felt!I remember being ravenous and the nurse sneakily getting me a second tray of beige meat. I remember thinking “I made it. This really isn’t as bad as I feared. 

In the weeks leading up to and following my surgery I experienced an outpouring of love and generosity that stunned me even more than my diagnosis. That is something I will never forget.

Cancer is a crazy-making disease if you ask me. In many cases, such as mine, it is easily treatable-cause for pause and taking stock of things, but not for putting your affairs in order. And then there is the vicious, unrelenting kind that ravages body and soul, stealing personal friends and statesmen alike. On the cancer spectrum, I feel like I had the equivalent of a test drive. Just enough exposure to get a taste and feel for the disease without having to fully commit. Just enough to experience the exceptional medical care my city and country have to offer. Enough to be grateful that, for now at least, there is a definitive end point and that I can speak of it as a past event. Cancer doesn’t play favorites and yet I often find it hard not to feel like I got off easy, unlike the everyday warriors who keep fighting relentlessly.

I’ve said that the two hardest aspects of my journey (I never felt sick, so it feels odd to call it a sickness) were dealing with insurance and watching my kids process what was happening to their mom and I still feel that way. A year later, the healthcare system is no less tangled of a web, but my girls are thriving. They see the scars, they were there for the whole thing and know that but for the grace of God it wouldn’t have been this manageable.  I hope it was a good life lesson to see that when faced with something hard their mom chose to tackle it straight away rather than run away. I hope that this interlude will be a reminder that most of the time life is about hitting what is pitched to us and then running our hearts out.

Seven daze

What a difference a week makes.  Babies are born and life irrevocably changes; school starts and summer quickly fades to a bittersweet memory; biopsies come back and suddenly you (or at least certain body parts) are part of a new, unsolicited category of the population.

That's what happened to me and my family.  An annoying (yes, that's how I viewed it), costly medical  procedure that I thought was a formality revealed cancer.


I don't write nearly enough--hence the title of this blog.  I too often get trapped in my own brain and the rattling and bumping of thoughts produces more anxiety then is necessary.   So as I logged on to the blog today I was surprised to see an entry I'd started last fall.  Even then I had cancer on the brain--maybe only as a point of illustration, but it was part of my schema nonetheless.

I wrote those three paragraphs less than a month ago.  Wow, if I thought I'd lost a layer of naiveté in a a week, a month of being a student of this crazy disease makes me feel simultaneously like an energized rhetorical sage--I can now proficiently spout all the necessary terms and phrases needed to appear that I know what's gong on and it's kinda of fun to play that role, if I'm being honest--and a tired pup since playing the part of the medical intern gets really tiring really quickly and at the end of it all the blasted cancer is still there.

So what's changed?  Well, my hopes of having a simple little lumpectomy and radiation have morphed into a bilateral mastectomy.  I was and still am completely uninterested in taking such drastic measures, but it seems to be the wise choice.  Pardon the metaphor, but in a base sense my diagnosis has become like my fourth child.  We are in the newborn phase where the youngster drains me of all my energy, keeps me up at night and shows no awareness for how it's existence is changing everyone else's.  But the thing about the newborn phase, especially for first time parents, is that while we think it's the hardest part of parenting, as soon as our kids get beyond it and approach adolescence, we quickly realize that all the sleep in the world does not compare to the energy needed to parent an older child.  I am that first time parent with this new addition--I think I'm tired now an that my body has been compromised but I haven't got a clue as to what's in store for me.  Maybe I'll spring back quickly and make it look "easy" like I did with my own newborns, refusing to wear maternity clothes home from the hospital.  But maybe I won't.  Maybe I'll be the woman who never looks like she did pre-pregnancy.  Either way, fitting into my jeans-or my tops-is so trivial compared to the real transformation that's about to talk place, the internal one.  There were many moments in each of my children' newborn lives that I did not handle well.  Instead of grace and dignity, frustration and fzrazzledness prevailed.  I'd like the chance to have a redo.  That's my prayer (in addition to complete healing, of course!: that I could handle this newborn phase with a maturity and calmness that is not based on the ease of my circumstances.  Lets face it: compared to so many on this journey, my circumstance are a cake walk. As my husband reminded me, as difficult as my choice to have the double mastectomy was, I at least had a choice. May I walk with purpose, that which is not my own, but which has been a merciful gift to me.

That Which Points Me Heavenward

This year hasn't really turned out to be as fabulous or inspiring in the way that we all hope for every New Year's Eve.  I mean, it's not like I typically those midnight toasts to materialize into the health and prosperity  that we cheers to.  But if I'd most certainly gotten to the point that I felt pretty good about maintaining the status quo.  It was reasonable, I thought, to assume family members' health wouldn't deteriorate too quickly.  Business most likely wouldn't get too slow.  We'd manage to continue to lead our comfortable lives, my family and I.  We'd continue to live reasonably modestly (only an American would state such a fallacy!) and splurge from time to time.  There was nothing on the horizon that seemed that it would rock our world beyond the normal ebb and flow of the life we'd become accustomed to.  I was wrong.

I've been on the sidelines plenty of times to witness pain and grief.  My husband and I are privileged to have two dear friends who literally stared cancer in the face and told it to go to hell.  They fought hard and they are winning the daily battle against this bastard curse that we have come to call reality for too many.  We see daily that hate that infuses so many minds and drives them to acts of terror in our global community.   Shoot, we hurt when our kids experience the reality of feeling left out.

But as much as we all hate to admit it, without the struggle the victories wouldn't be so sweet.  Tragedy unites us--ALL politics aside--to me there is no more emblematic image of American pride as when George W. Bush reminded all of us from the rubble of the World Trade Center that our country would not be destroyed.  Every time I hear Tom Petty's "I Won't Back Down" I'm taken back to the whirlpool of emotions I had in the days following 9/11...shock, grief, patriotism.  It was a raw, horrific, beautiful time when people set aside their own agendas and looked outward to see who needed help next.  Its times like these that remind us that we are not alone.  That the artificial constraints that we allow to so frequently divide us don't stand up to Our collective hearts were broken and it was in the wounding that we vowed to press on, to not merely survive, but to go on living.  That's true redemptive beauty emerging from the ashes: to live when enduring seems like a long shot.  Our cancer ass-kicking friends typify this spirit.

So do the thousands of Paralympians who just wrapped up their games in Rio.   I spent a significant time watching events this past week and a half.  I'll just put it out there and say that I was completely ignorant about what all these games entailed.  All I knew was that they coincided with the Olympic games and that the participants had some sort of physical challenge.  Well, let me tell you that I feel like my eyes have been opened to a whole new realm of humanity.   These are incredible human beings.    I was completely enthralled at their level of athletic prowess and  I found myself fascinated by the individual stories of triumph and perseverance.  I've always been someone who wants to know "the story."  It's the journalist in me.


So it's September and in a few short months we'll be ringing in 2017.


soul searching-what makes me tick is " the story"

asking why-let go, look up.  the point is to let go

grown up struggling w/sadness

"I know we were meant for something better"

The Twelve Days of CHRIS(t)mas

Before I met my husband, when I was just oohing and ahhing from afar, I prayed that God would give him the insight to be able to know me even better than I was able to communicate to him.  I prayed a lot, in fact, about this potential relationship, since it was so clearly not up to me whether or not it was going to happen (there was a girl he'd previously dated, he was still mending a broken heart, the timing just wasn't right, yada, yada, yada).  So I prayed.  And prayed.  I cried (because that's what we girls do).  But most of all, I trusted.  I trusted and waited, not always patiently, for the Lord to show me clarity.  As much as I wanted to date this guy, I did not want to do it if it wasn't part of a greater plan--I'd already tried my hand at young love, not very successfully, and I had no interest in trying force something that wasn't meant to be.

And so after ten long (!) months, he asked me out on a non-date.  And then he asked me to non-date him.  So we were a non-couple and it was oh so cute:)  And then after about a day and a half we realized that maybe we should just go ahead and date.  My prayer had been answered.  It was an incredible time--not just the culmination, but the whole journey.  As stinky as some of the waiting was, it was incredible to be in such close communion with God and to see His hand actively penning a narrative in my life.   Our succinct courtship was abundant in laughter, hopes and decision making.  It was fun.  It was like a roller coaster ride...exciting, a little crazy, but ultimately really good.  Even our disagreements seemed to be opportunities to better learn each others' personal nuances and communication style.  One of the things we discussed fairly early on was the meaning of our names and how accurately they reflected who we were, or who we longed to be.  Mine means "beloved."  An irony on many a day since feeling truly worthy is something that had been and continues to be a struggle.  His: Christ bearer.  Fitting, not only since when I met him he was leading a bible study (of crazy characters!) but because he earnestly and passionately sought to reflect Christ to others.  I loved this about him.  I loved that he was fearless, or at least willing to put his fear behind him, in order to speak truth and grace into people's lives.  I still love that about him.  I also get really frazzled and frustrated by it at times.  That prayer that I uttered fourteen plus years ago, the one where I asked for Chris to know me more intimately that I could imagine.  That one is a real doozy.

As our swift dating/engagement phase propelled us into the week before our wedding, my intended saw a side of me that few others have.  He saw me project anger, no rage is really more the word, like a whirling dervish.  He saw me claw and rear like a wild animal caged for the first time and unwilling to be subdued.  He was stunned and it would've been understandable if he'd bowed out.  Because at that point he was marrying a stranger.   I still don't know what happened to trip the switch, raise the curtain, or whatever metaphor you prefer.  My hunch is that it has something to do with that whole "I can't hide from you" feeling.  For the first time in my life I was going to be fully known by another individual, and that was terrifying.

We got married on 06.08.02 as planned.  I know we both hoped that my "meltdown" was indicative of the stress of a fast-paced relationship and the numerous changes that accompanied it.  But it wasn't and it still isn't.  My dervish costume is still a part of the wardrobe, unfortunately.  Instead of reeling out of control (at least that's how it feels),  I'd like to be able to dance in concert with those around me and, ultimately, with God.

It's been a long time since I've felt such a connectedness to Him.  And therefore a long time since I've realized that He is still actively penning the narrative of my life.   But that doesn't change the fact that He is.  Throughout it all, the Christ Bearer has remained by my side.  He continues to hold up the mirror and bid me look at the glorious reflection of all that I've been created to be, rather than the shell of a person that I usually perceive myself to be.  He bids me to hear and live in the Truth rather than succumb to lies that slither sneakily in and out like snakes.  Much of the time I reject his invitations.  Much of the time I resent them.  And so I pen this to bid myself to respond, not to him, but to the One he points me to.  And I pen a prayerful "wish list" much in the way that I did when I so wanted to date this guy with the Wilson's leather jacket and the perpetual need for a haircut.

1. That I would know His presence, His goodness, His purpose in my life.
2. That I would not fear nor trust in the "future."
3. That I would honor my husband in my thoughts, words and deeds.
4. That I would be a Christ bearer myself.

Merry Christmas, Toph.


On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a sparkly engagement ring.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me...two houses in the first two months of marriage

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...3 lovely, loud, leggy ladies.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a love for beer, domestic and imported.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a lesson in f-stops and shutter speeds.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a lesson in how to drive a stick shift, at nine months pregnant, no less.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...the need to never again invest in an electric blanket.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...the role of "doggy mama" instead of "crazy cat lady."

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...an impartiality for bourbon, and the finer things that boys enjoy.

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a trip to the Homeland with the fam!

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a really amazing "dream house, meeting a litany of crazy requirements!

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...another anniversary, another promise to continue to be the Christ Bearer in my life.

Musings: David and Goliath

I have just read a tidbit of Malcolm Gladwell's David and Goliath. After finally parting ways with The Count of Monte Cristo, I found myself in a subtle state of mourning, not sure in what literary direction to head next…a bit reluctant to head back down the path of classical or contemporary fiction again, I started reading a preview of Gladwell's latest book.

My first (and only) introduction to his work was in reading The Tipping Point,

R-O-A-R

To say I'm not a Katy Perry fan is an understatement. I tend to find her lyrics cliché at best, offensive at worst. And the music isn't particularly inspiring. Anyone who knows me knows I don't speak the language of music. I have no rhythm and very little understanding of what goes into making music. But I do know when something is just downright bad! So when my girls asked me to listen to her single "Roar" my immediate relief had to do with the fact that I didn't have to censor anything. It's an upbeat girl power song…nothing new, but nothing bad.

 The video shows a timid Katy who relies on her macho companion for everything--to know what to say and what move to make. In short, she is the caricature of the helpless maiden. Once the Ken figure dies, however, Miss Katy finds herself alone in the jungle having to fend off fierce animals (I did mention this was a video and that it was a Katy Perry video--no further explanation needed for the dramatic flair). As you might guess from the title of the song, our protagonist experiences a transformation, and pretty soon she sings to let the world know that she and she alone is in charge of her world! Indeed she tames the lion with her voice (while wearing some nicely tailored animal skins, I might add). 

She is woman, hear her ROAR! And why shouldn't a girl be empowered to have her voice heard, right? It's a message I know very well intellectually, having grown up the daughter of a single mom for a good chunk of my youth, the alum of a progressive Ivy league school (we won't mention it was the last of its kind to go co-ed) and the mother of three future women. But I know lots of things intellectually (some days I doubt this!). That doesn't mean I "get" them. So after about the eighteenth time listening to the song, all four of us females singing, I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter/Dancing through the fire/'Cause I am a champion, and you're gonna hear me roar/Louder, louder than a lion/'Cause I am a champion, and you're gonna hear me roar! I realized that I really didn't get it.  To be blunt, the lyrics smacked me in the face like a wet rag.  What I routinely communicate to my girls is "shhhh!"  Literally, I spend a lot of time "shhhing" them.  They're loud.  They're talkative.  And they're a threesome  so it's rarely quiet in my airspace and sometimes "shhhing" is necessary.  But sometimes it's not.  Sometimes I need to enjoy the fact that they so intrinsically know they were created to ROAR and that nothing in this world has thus far squelched that in them…including me.  They push the limits, they challenge my husband and me when when they disagree with a decision, they get in trouble…they live life to the fullest and they are not afraid of what the future holds.  They are not me, the forty-some year old who has spent countless hours and countless dollars trying to find her voice.  But there's still plenty of time left and if I'm not deliberate, they will learn from me to whisper instead of roar.  So I am trying, trying, to pause and ask myself (in the midst of the chaos) if I really do need to "shhh" anyone at this particular moment.  

There's been a video circulating that shows girls responding to the request to "run like a girl" and, as might be expected they run in a half-serious manner, arms flailing.  How often do I reinforce the stereotype that I loathe: that girls are weaker or less legit in their very being (don't get me started on the lack of sensitivity displayed when people ask a pregnant woman the gender of her unborn child!)?  I think I do it quite a lot, whether by not respecting myself enough, my husband (I'm not sure where Katy stands, but ROAR to me does not equal man bashing), my kids?  Another blog I read recently dissected the comical scenario of a dad with the shotgun ready to defend his daughter from any unworthy suitor.  This mom challenged us to rethink that whole notion:

Instead of intimidating all your daughter’s potential suitors, raise a daughter who intimidates them just fine on her own. Because, you know what’s intimidating? Strength and dignity. Deep faith. Self-assuredness. Wisdom. Kindness. Humility. Industriousness. Those are the bricks that build the wall that withstands the advances of old Slouchy-Pants, whether you ever show up with your Winchester locked and loaded or not. The unsuitable suitor finds nothing more terrifying than a woman who knows her worth to God and to her family.


Wisdom taken from: http://jenwilkin.blogspot.com/2014/06/on-daughters-and-dating-how-to.html?spref=fb


What a crazy notion!  Raise our girls to intimidate their suitors!!!  Raise our daughters to know their worth and to flaunt it! Raise our daughters to ROAR!

As parents we are continually realizing that we learn as much, if not more, from our kids than we ever teach them.  I live with a proud bunch of lionesses and I could learn a thing or two from them.  I'm going to start by making sure all the car windows are rolled down when we sing that song.