I forgot to post this in September.

The world is heavy today. It's heavy often. I'm beginning to suspect that it will never get lighter, not truly. It feels heavy to me because I have looked into the face of injustice, because I know how far reaching the curse on this world is, because I feel called to shoulder the burden of my neighbor. 

When I was little, after both of parents had remarried and started struggling in their second marriages, I used to mourn the fact that there would never be a complete family portrait. Such a small request, such a normal thing was impossible. To gather people together long enough to take a photo was not possible. It was almost possible at my wedding and at my sister's wedding, but neither of us succeeded. Now that I'm an adult, I feel that grief but on a larger scale. The impossibility of all of the people I care about coming together, holding anything in common for even a moment is, for some reason, a heavy weight for me. 

I want the miracle of life to be enough to bring us together. I want to hear us all laugh at the joke that is hidden in the human experience and marvel at the sacred trapped in us all. I want to stay up late with the rest of the planet wondering at how small we all are and how we manage to move our own mountains. Just because we are all here and none of us "chose to be" and all of us are trying so hard to "do life right". Even though I know intimately the thousand complications that divide us, the history that holds our stories, and the selfishness that isolates us, I want so badly for existing to be enough to bring us back together as siblings on a small rock in a big universe.

I feel overdue for a check in. I know I’ve had some real highs and lows in the past couple weeks but nothing feels worth reporting.

I realize that I have spent the last year or so trying to come to terms with parts of myself that I don’t like. Maybe it’s just this final stretch of my twenties taking its toll. Maybe this year has hit me harder than I’m fully cognizant of. Regardless, I feel a new awareness of faults and flaws paired with a knowledge that they are not going anywhere quickly. So I sit here listening to Tracy Chapman while I try to decide if I can sort my personality and consciousness into categories.

I have to admit that the self love movement has been tainted by those who have hurt me and loved themselves too much to change or apologize. But I’m finally beginning to understand how much harder this life is when you don’t try to love, understand, and accept yourself. I’ve always sought validation from outside sources like school, church, work, and family despite never feeling much like a people-pleaser. Instead of trying to please everyone, I typically would find a person who I respected immensely or who I shared common values with and I’d try to extricate the feedback that I need from them.

Whether the feedback was that I needed to change, try harder, or give myself grace...I didn’t care. As long as the person was on my list of personally selected authorities, I’d bend or rest as they directed. It’s only now that I have accumulated a pile of folks who have steered me wrong or directed their lives away from my core values... only now that I’ve been asked for impossible leaps enough times that I recognize what could have been avoided if I wasn’t doubting my own worth. My doubt was a crack in a cup that I kept asking everyone else to fill. For years, I resented the folks who took advantage of that crack. For years, I hoped I’d finally be full enough of other people’s opinions that the crack would close under the weight of my competency and spiritual growth.

I know my cup won’t ever be perfect, but closing the crack of self doubt is made easier if you love yourself. But loving yourself without knowing yourself is cheap and temporary. I’m at the part of the journey where I can see mistakes that I’ve repeated in more than one relationship, ways I continually hurt people. The patterns are there and I have a couple of choices. My younger self would have run to church to try to prove that I could change. Or I might have found a reason in my upbringing for why I am the way I am and made a plan to overcome the flaw. My slightly older self would ask a trusted friend if it’s really that bad and likely been crushed if they were honest and distrustful if they told me what I wanted to hear. 

 This year, I’ve been sitting with my flaws a lot. Trying to argue less with them. Trying to listen. Trying to accept that they’ve been part of me for a long time now. Trying to imagine how Jesus might talk to me by remembering Zacchaeus, the thief, Mary, Martha, Peter, Tomas, Judas, Lazarus, Nicodemus, the Samaritan woman, the man born blind, the adulteress, the centurion, the children, the bleeding woman, the demon possessed and so many others. Each of those stories is rich with a different kind of love than I typically extend to myself.

God who comes near. God who sees all. God who forgives all. God who touches, carries, explains, heals, weeps, praises, teaches, welcomes, helps,  frees, feeds, and sits with us. Make me like you. Teach me to know myself like you know me. Teach me to love myself like you love me.

I've been writing a lot. But none of it feels presentable. It's difficult these days to focus. I've been reading up on human rights violations in ICE detention centers, losing faith in humanity, and then trying to find my way back to somewhere safe and stable. 

I've been thinking about the Old Testament question: "Am I my brother's keeper?" I've been reminded of the Jesus who picked up a whip to cleanse the temple. Somehow I missed the whip on my last meditation. God with a weapon. I've been comparing Jesus with a whip and Jesus in Gethsemane, trying to instruct my heart on the complexity of God on earth, God surrounded on all sides by injustice. God who defended the poor, the sinner, the unclean...but who didn't defend himself. And I've been thinking about how badly I want to be understood, how dangerous it feels for those in authority to misunderstand me, how I really should be looking to God to understand me and worrying less about other folks. How I shouldn't pick up a sword to defend myself, but the precedent is definitely there to fight injustice by cleansing the temple, defending the poor and oppressed wherever we find them.

There's a surprisingly large amount of overlap between being misunderstood and fighting for justice. I've been struggling to remember what I'm fighting for. My ego gets hurt and I retreat. Someone I'm close to advocates for complacency and I feel anger simmering in my skin. Sometimes, injustice happens to us and things muddle even further. Which Jesus am I supposed to emulate when I am attacked? Can I choose both? Am I choosing the Jesus in the garden because I'm afraid of standing up for myself and suffering seems holier? Am I choosing Jesus with a whip to fill my desire for vengeance? 

Vengeance is always what people, especially church people, will accuse you of when you seek justice. When I see Jesus with a whip, I don't see vengeance. I see a glimmer of what John will prophesy about in Revelation. I know that it must be possible to pick up the whip and seek justice without getting mixed up in self-righteousness, self-protection and vengeance. But the path is narrow and it is easy to fall off. 

I am, however, comforted by a God who disagreed frequently with Synagogue leaders, taking up a whip to defend those who came to the temple to find God. I am comforted by a God who enters his own temple as a stranger and is angered by the greed that taints worship, by the way access to God is restricted, by those who profit off of those who would draw near to God. I am comforted by a God who would defend the poor and unworthy worshiper so thoroughly. For once, there are no parables or teachings or prayers. No miracles--except that of an angry God cleaning house. For once, you cannot mistake him as buddha-serene, detached and aloof and whatever we think holiness is. God with us. God who sees us. God who loves the unworthy. God who defends those whose oppression is normalized, commercialized.

And I know there is more to this. I know I'm supposed to bring this full circle. God with a whip and God in the garden of Gethsemane, teach me the meaning of, "Am I my brother's keeper?" Teach me what the answer to that question is as I continue to learn about Black Lives Matter, the abuses of ICE, and all of the other weights the world has. For now, I think the answer to that question is, "Don't look away." So I'm looking. I'm learning. I will not close my eyes to the suffering of others just because it hurts. I will see the stranger as my brother.

Meditate

I’m learning what it means to meditate on something day and night. This past year has felt like good meditation. Like chewing. Like climbing inside a chrysalis. Like the type of act of faith that will either transform you or prove you the fool and rob you of any remaining faith.

It wasn't a comfortable start, but the longer I meditate the better it feels. Holding a Scripture in mind for days. Turning it over and over. Examining it. Wondering "Why these words?", "Why this emphasis, order, or phrase?" Comparing expectations with what I find. Chewing and chewing. Thinking about what I know of cultures that are closer to the those of the writers represented in the Bible. "What did this mean to them? What were their expectations? What was their reality?"

It's been good to meditate. To return to familiar Scriptures and interrogate them, chew on them, let them change me. It's been one of the most grounding things to return to these days. To know that God cares about the things tearing my city apart. To see that as my reality gets more complicated, Scripture keeps pace.

Good Samaritan

There are days when the world seems so cracked and battered that I do not know what the point of getting out of bed is. There are days when injustice and pain seem so total and complete that I feel guilty for the ease of my life. There are days when the success of evil people pulls me down like a weighted net. And I wonder if there could possibly be a "how" or a "why" meaningful enough to heal the world's wounds. I wonder if there is a "when" imminent enough that it would save anyone.

How is it that grieving human suffering has become political? How is that nurturing human life has become political? I hear folks talking. They want people to "deserve" dignity and nurture and success. But if they don't, then I don't. And I cannot make more sense of it than that. I want people to share my grief so I share theirs. I want people to work towards a world where we all can succeed, so I work for and celebrate everyone's success. But mostly, and I cannot stress this enough, I believe people. I do not question their tears, their worth or their stories. The few times that I have needed people to believe me and they failed to, have stayed with me as deeply impactful moments that have illustrated how much we all need each other. 

 It's a popular thought in today's society to "move somewhere out in the woods and become self sufficient". The mindset behind that bothers me. And I wonder if it isn't more meaningful for us to take care of our neighbors, to allow ourselves to be taken care of by our neighbors. And for our neighbors to include everyone. People will let you down. You will also let people down. AND, you will let yourself down. There is no protection, no armor, no strength, no independence, and no self-sufficiency so total that you won't get hurt. Every time we remove ourselves from society to "live off the grid" we weaken the community that we could be a part of, and we remove ourselves both from being able to help others heal and for others to help us. So many healers, peacemakers, and bridge-builders are sitting on the bench hoarding their gifts and talents and impoverishing the world out of self-preservation or a distaste for the political. It makes me want to weep especially on the days that injustice feels particularly heavy.

Thinking about "going off grid" or more accurately people's desire to withdraw from human community, I always come back to the story of the good Samaritan. It's on the list of stories that keep me up at night. Jesus telling this man (this expert in the law) who has kept all of the commandments to love his neighbor as himself. This man (maybe earnestly or maybe not) asking who exactly is his neighbor. I suspect that he thinks he already loves his neighbors. Maybe he's expecting some guidelines like you might find in the Talmud about how many steps from your door someone has to be in order to be an official neighbor. I don't know. But I wish I did. I wish I could see inside this man's mind.

I also wish I knew why Jesus responds with a story that puts the audience in the position of identifying with the man who gets mugged and left for dead. It feels like the man asking, most churches, and myself would be much more likely to identify with the helper who comes to show kindness. But we aren't allowed that. We are the man left for dead. And our neighbor is not the local rabbi or the priest. Presumably they say a prayer and keep walking. (Like I do in so many situations.) They are also not the helpers, the neighbor. 

The Samaritan who will definitely not receive anything for helping. The Samaritan who definitely doesn't know the man from church, work, or anywhere else, decides to help. The Samaritan who could probably be blamed for this man's injuries if the wrong Jew finds them together. He is the neighbor. Jesus could be describing an undocumented Mexican immigrant helping an abused and half dead dude in a MAGA hat with a striking likeness to our President and this story would not be any less shocking or challenging for the man who asked "who is my neighbor". And the Samaritan man doesn't just help him out of the ditch. The Samaritan performs emergency first aid, brings him to a hotel, and pays for all of the medical and food bills. He never asks for anything. Actually putting himself at risk in the process. Maybe the Samaritan knew what it was like to be the kind of human people would prefer not to see on their commute. Maybe the Samaritan thought "if I don't help him, who will?" Maybe the Samaritan had been practicing compassion like the spiritual discipline that it is.

Jesus asks, "who was the beaten man's neighbor?" And the expert in the law doesn't have the guts to say "the Samaritan" (and I think that's intentional evasion) so he says "the one who had compassion on him." Jesus doesn't miss a beat, "go and do likewise." Jesus, telling this successful, presumably righteous, expert in the law to be like the Samaritan has got to be the biggest slap in the face that the man has ever experienced. I don't think there's a more impactful way to say that everyone, yes everyone, on this planet is your neighbor. Help them heal. Pay the bill. Don't complain about it. Don't seek compensation. Love your neighbor like you love yourself. Share the risk of being human. Be like the Samaritan. Be kind to Samaritans. Don't just be kind to your neighbors, be neighborly to everyone.

It's a difficult interpretation. When you begin looking at the whole world with each individual as your neighbor, the sheer number of folks bleeding in a proverbial ditch that you are responsible for can overwhelm you. This challenges American individualism head on. But the Bible wasn't written by Americans or for Americans. It's not meant to validate our country or our culture. It's meant to show all of humanity the Kingdom of Heaven. Where it challenges our cultural ideals, we should pause, have humility and meditate. Return to the words again and again. 

I know I do. The violence in my city, the way selfish people want to control the narrative, and the coldness of those who I thought were committed to loving their neighbor has driven me to a deeper meditation of Scripture than anything else ever has. And I'm not done yet.

Persist

I read about the Persistent Widow in the Bible and all I can think about is how I never want to be like her. To need justice from an unjust judge. To know that they have no interest in justice. To have no other recourse but to ask the judge again and again. It’s a story of persistence, yes, but also of powerlessness. Of water wearing down a stone. Of patience born not so much out of spirituality but out of necessity.

In the end the judge says to himself, “Even though I don’t fear God or care what people think, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will see that she gets justice, so that she won’t eventually come and attack me!” I see the promise here even though I don’t want it. She didn’t win by having the best moral argument or by having popular opinion on her side. Neither strength nor intelligence gave her power. She won because the judge was afraid he would never be rid of her and that she would eventually attack him. There are so many reasons why I feel dis-ease when I read this. First and foremost is the fact that I want to win the judge over with my words, my rightness, my cleverness. But I cannot argue him into fearing God and doing what is right. Such is the world. So many times I have asked for justice and what I wanted was the power to explain and defend myself. But that isn’t the promise. The promise is that if you show up with persistence, the unjust will relent. Not “they will know better” and not that they will be any less corrupt.

And I wonder how I'm supposed to apply that now, today. If you’re outside of Portland (and the other cities protesting vigorously), you might not know how active many churches have been in these protests. If you go to an all white church, you might be surprised that other churches view this fight as their own. If you are able to look at this issue from far away, you might not see that some churches seem to unanimously support BLM and others see it as a source of division while still others unanimously condemn the movement. When it’s your family, coworkers, pastor, or friends who might not come home after a traffic ticket, this fight feels different. It's not just the names of the dead that you want to remember and give justice to. It's also about the names of the living that you want to protect.

I know these issues are big and complicated and messy. You can get lost for days asking "how much violence is too much violence?", "would anyone listen and seek change if protesters asked in a nicer way?", and "what do people really expect to accomplish?" and so many more questions. But when I pray for my city, I ask that we be like the persistent widow who kept asking even though the judge was known to be corrupt and did not care what God or man thought of him. I ask that we show up for justice regularly in big ways and small ways. And I ask that no one has to attack the judge before he relents. I ask that part of the promise be that he will relent before violence is "necessary", but I also admit that I don't know how this is "supposed to go". What I do know is that the protests have been largely peaceful so far, but they don't have to stay that way.

I didn't expect to find that line in the Bible when this story started tickling my brain. I wanted the story to end with the judge understanding the value of justice but it ends with the judge just trying to save themselves from the threat of the persistent widow. None of the moralizing that I expected to find exists here. No extolling a good patient wait or extorting the virtues of gentleness, only a widow committed to her own need for justice and a judge who is moved by self-preservation. May it also be so here in my city with the judges, the legislators, the government officials, and the police. There certainly are enough widows in the streets these days. And may God grant peace in my heart as I continue to wrestle with this passage.

Mediator

My friend looks at me with compassionate concern. "I can see how you think that it's your role to mediate between these two people, but it might be better for you if you can think of someone else who would be willing."

And just like that my head is swimming. I have made a whole life on being the mediator and I never meant to. Do any of us ever mean to? Suddenly, I want to talk to other people who find themselves in mediator roles regularly. I want to know if the idea of finding someone else who is willing makes them want to cry/laugh too. I want to know if they were ever truthfully, perfectly willing...or if they were just less willing to let the alternative play out.

I am 29 years old. And I can honestly say that there has only ever been one time in which I volunteered to mediate out of a motivation not mixed with self-preservation despite mediating almost all of my life. That one time happened just this year, a couple of months ago. The success of it still feels new and fresh.

When I mediate, I enter a space inside of myself where I've made room to try to look at a situation from every angle. It's a space where my own needs don't mean very much, where logic only matters to the degree and in the way that the two people in disagreement are using it, and where I take a very hard look at where a step together in the same direction might be possible. It's a ruthless place that doesn't have room for considerations that are ideal but not immediately possible or for imagining what could have been. It's a cold room full of scalpels used to piece apart want from need, vengeance from justice, guilt from regret and so on. Until all of the weapons have been sorted from the armor. Until all of the the crooked paths are un-knotted. Until all that remains is misunderstanding and the next step to lessening the void.

This room inside of myself is helpful when trying to build bridges between two people. But when I myself am in conflict with someone, I find myself running back and forth between my experience and this room. Attempting objectivity. Naming the obstacles between myself and the Other. Returning to my memories to feel around again for clues to where it hurts and why that might be. Back to the room and the scalpels and empathizing with the Other. Scattering tools between one place and another. Locking myself in or out of wherever I think I need to be. Trying to build a bridge or find a path or craft a metaphor that contributes to understanding. It's exhausting. I get lost. I get it wrong. I get hurt. People get hurt.

My friend was being a good friend and she was right to ask if there was someone else. But all I could think was "Are any of us Mediators here by choice?" Were any of us gifted the tools for bridge building because we were the best communicators, the most objective, the most skilled negotiator, or the best qualified by any metric? Weren't we just in the right place at the wrong time? Aren't we all just people who are broken by our love for things and people who can't occupy the same space, people too stubborn to give up? Don't we become mediators by trying to knit ourselves, our homes, our realities back together? Until this year, every bridge I've ever tried to build was also an effort to bring a distant piece of myself safely across the river, safely home. I didn't choose the tools or the trade. I only stretched my hands out for anything I could hold onto in the opposite direction of complacency and oblivion. I chose "not destruction" and found myself here making bridges, fighting for reconciliation.

And I guess that's the difference between an adult and a child. As an adult, I can find other ways of protecting myself. I don't need to mediate to survive. I can leave any situation. In that way, my skills are a gift I can give or withhold like any other gift. It is good to remember that. It is good to remember that I am not obligated to try to heal every wound. It gives more meaning to the times when I choose to do so. It's also good to thank the child who chose mediation over complacency when none of the choices seemed very good. I'm proud of the person I was trying to be back then and of the choices my younger self made.

Portland Jesus

"Unrest" is how we characterize these days. A pandemic. An ongoing protest against police brutality. And the thousand myriad interpretations of what is really going on. It's amazing how the 2-3 city blocks which house the protests and destruction by both protesters and law enforcement have been made to look like the whole city is under siege and in flames. But we are Portlanders. We are used to rearranging our commutes around parades, naked bicycle rides, and protests. Living here has taught me just how many good causes there are to champion and how gathering to protest is in itself a healing form of self-expression and community expression.

These last two months have been the most heated protests I remember. More so than Occupy Portland or the anti-Trump gatherings. More so than previous BLM gatherings. And for good reason. My city loves a good protest. And, contrary to the expectations I brought when I moved here, protesters are organized beyond measure. There are folks who show up just to interrupt violence before it happens and folks who come strictly as legal advisors or medics. Other folks take on education or play music. It's not a mob. Mainstream media will show you the fires and the anger, but they'll never show you the care and consideration. The people who create cash accounts for the small businesses damaged. The small businesses who show up to the protest even after their windows are broken. The folks who show up the day after to clean up trash, glass, and tear gas canisters (hint, it's not the police). The folks in vehicles on call to take injured protesters to emergency rooms. The folks who provide instruction and advice on "how much protest" you want to participate in and what to do if things escalate quickly. The folks who stay home and pray and those who show up just to hand out water and snacks. And I wish people who don't live here saw that side of Portland, that side of the protest. It's why I'm not afraid of what is happening "down town".  It's why calling it a "riot" never seems accurate.

I haven't found my role yet. This is something I feel guilty about. But in these last two months I keep trying to imagine Jesus in different places around Portland... in the churches, in the streets, on the police force, in the crowd getting gassed, healing the broken, comforting the family of those killed by police officers. And I know he supported racial outcasts like Samaritans and social outcasts like tax collectors, thieves, and divorcees. I know that his few times on record as angry had him withering fig trees and throwing tables in the temple (presumably because profit had interfered with the value of people and their access to God). So maybe Jesus would like a good protest too. I know that he never had political ambitions but that that didn't stop the pharisees from seeing him and his followers as a political threat. I know that the way he listened to and treated women, Samaritans, Roman Gentiles, the disabled, orphans, thieves, and the unclean upended the social order of his day, but that he valued those people over keeping that status quo and a false peace. I know that Jesus warned us about trusting those who speak about peace when there is no peace.

And I know that the Jesus I was told to be like has conveniently been wiped clean of all of those difficult facts and more difficult emotions. I'm supposed to resemble the oil paintings of Jesus in the garden, suffering for the world but doing nothing more than kneeling in prayer as I prioritize spirituality over our present circumstances, a beatific smile on my face. But I also know the words to the book of James like the back of my hand. From beginning to end it is a challenge to do something. To put faith to deeds. To not show favoritism. To be wary of teaching because you will judged. To pay those who labor for you fairly so that the wages don't cry out against you and consume you. It's a book that makes me want to flip tables. I like to think that James was the half-brother who understood Jesus best as a whole, divine person.

Truthfully, I don't know where Jesus would be in Portland. But I also don't know where he wouldn't be.

I can’t be sure where we’d find Jesus were he in my city today. But I do know that he always affirmed the value of those who had no power, whether they were born blind or caught in the act of adultery. When he was criticized for eating with tax collectors and sinners, Jesus’s only defense was that "the healthy don’t need a doctor". And I know that statement wasn’t meant to endorse the righteousness of the pharisees and claim they weren't sick. I’m beginning to suspect it was meant to criticize them for their own reluctance to eat with tax collectors and sinners.

So when I look for Jesus, I look for him among the sick who know they are sick. I look for him among those seeking medicine, seeking change, seeking justice. I don’t know what he would be doing for sure. Maybe he’d be chanting, “no justice, no peace” with my city. Maybe not. But he certainly would eat with the least of us. He would heal the most broken. And he would affirm the image of God in everyone, but especially in those who political and church leaders have forgotten or excluded.

Today I feel strong. I haven't felt strength in a long time--not in body, mind or spirit--so I know that I should give thanks.

I thank my body or not quitting on me when my will exceeded my physical limits.
I thank my mind for looking into the darkness without losing the light of the twin lamps of reason and compassion.
I thank my spirit for drawing me forward when my body and mind were unbalanced and unwell.

And I thank my Creator God for making us in so many parts so that each may look after the others. I give thanks for work that wears out the body and brings sleep when the mind would worry and worry. And I give thanks that weakness does not always persist and that suffering is not an end to itself. I am thankful to be strong when strength is not promised to any of us. And I ask for wisdom for how to use this strength. May it not bless only myself.

When my father came to visit for a month but gave me less than 5 hours and lunch on his way between my sisters and his girlfriend, I didn't argue. And when he asked if I was disappointed, I didn't answer his question. All I said was that I understood. Because I knew that he wasn't asking for advice, he was asking for permission or forgiveness. And I did understand. And I did both permit and forgive.

I wondered later if I was supposed to feel something more than disappointment hedged in with resignation. I have been alive for 29 years and 138 days. Not once in all of those days has my father ever learned to enjoy doing something he doesn't want to. At least not for me. I am the oldest daughter, the confidante. The oldest, boldest one that he knows never lies and never leaves anything important unsaid no matter how many times he wished I would. So he doesn't lie to me either even though sometimes I've wished he would. He doesn't think the truth ever hurts me. In his case, it seldom does anymore. And so, He has never been surprised by how much he enjoyed something despite having reservations about it and I do not ask for what my father does not want to give. If he wants to leave, there is no point in being hurt that he does not want to stay.

When I was younger, I sifted through my memories trying to figure out how it seemed that my father could both love me and not love me at the same time. My father does not have the sacrificial love often attributed to parents. I wish there was a different word for his type of love because then it would make sense when I say, "my father loves me but he doesn't love me like that." Now that I am nearly 30, I do not ask for sacrificial love. I only ask for what my father wants to give. The only sacrifice he's ever made was agreeing to stay a father when he did not want or expect to be one.

In the end, it is most accurate to say, "my father loves me, but he will never love me more than himself." He will never give something that hurts him. I can trust this. So I feel disappointment when spending time with me is a sacrifice he's not able to give. And I feel frustration that things couldn't be different. But I feel neither anger nor a will to ask for something more. I have had 3 decades to learn how to read the weather of this man and it never goes well to ask for more than he is willing to give. His ability to self sabotage and make everyone miserable testifies to the strength of his subconscious and his selfishness. And no matter how little or how much he loves me, he will never love me more than himself. And on the days that he does not love me well, I accept that this is because he does not love himself enough to also love me.

I don't know if this is the way a daughter is supposed to feel about her father. But I don't think that's the point. Can you change the moon? Can you postpone the weather? No. You dress accordingly and do not ask for what is not freely given.

My heart is heavy and my body is tired. Federal forces refuse to leave Portland. I'm not normally given to political conspiracies, but this unnerves me. The blatant lies by mainstream media (Fox News, I'm looking at you), the excessive force, the military flex by the President all make me feel like only bad things can follow. I think Portland could be occupied by federal forces and there is a surprisingly large number of family members who would believe the news channels saying that it is necessary to protect us from the anarchists over my own experience of living here.

I love my city. I choose to live here. I have learned so much from the people struggling to build a better Portland over the history of white supremacy, hate, and mistrust that have for so long been the underpinnings. This is the city where I met and image of God that I could relate to. Where my conservative family sees a godless and lawless place, I see a stream in the desert. Prosperity doesn't puff up and insulate churches here. Pastors have to preach knowing that the eyes of the oppressed, the poor, the widow, and the orphan are on them at all times.

I don't know what I'm trying to say this morning. I guess, just that I love this city and I fear for this city. I'm praying about my role in the coming days because I have a deep sense of dread and a need to do something to support the flame of justice. I want to be a peacemaker, a bridge builder. But false prophets come claiming peace where there is no peace, and act as though peace is a fabric you can drape over conflict instead of a structure you build from the ground up.

At some point I realized that I did not want the relationship with my body that my mother had with hers. Nor did I want the relationship with bodies in general that my dad had. This fear of fat. This shame. This disgust. This drive to dominate your own body. To think a body without the evidence of discipline was unworthy, unlovable.

I don't know exactly when, but I started speaking to my body. It was somewhere between finding that certain foods made me sick and beginning to do capoeira with very nearly no experience with organized exercise. When food makes you sick and brings pain instead of energy and health, you lose a support that so many people take for granted. It was like not being able to trust the atmosphere of this planet. My food problems intensify if I don't deal with my stress and just pack it away. My body was telling me that I was not being thoughtful or kind to myself. So. At 19 I needed to confront my trauma and my stress if I was going to be able to eat.

I asked everyone I knew what they do with their stress. No one in my life had anything helpful to say. No one. Many people wished me luck. And nearly everyone asked me to let them know when I find the answer. I was a brand new adult born into a world with no functioning role-models for the only thing I needed to know at that time in my life. And somehow that led me to talking to my body. I remember lying in bed one morning and asking my body if today was going to be a good day. There was a lot to do and I wanted to know if we were going to be able to do it together. It probably sounds silly. But that was a turning point.

Since then, I have apologized on the days when I know I have taken on more than I should and for the grief that weighs both body and spirit down but has to be experienced. I have asked my body to forgive me when it hurts because I ignored my limits. I have thanked it for being a good home and thanked it for keeping my mind and spirit safe. And I have come to realize that all of this is important. Not because talking to your body changes very much. But it does is make space for gratitude, regret and forgiveness. For a relationship with yourself based on wholeness and respect.

I'm a person who tends to live in my head. I don't feel particularly good or bad about how I look, what I weigh, or what beauty standards are out there. I tend to be aware of my body only as it relates to how I communicate and am received. Like how being tall can make it difficult to talk to men who are sensitive about being short. Or how being thin means people will assume that you are healthy even in a doctor's office for a visit about how you get horrible, burning pain whenever you eat anything. I have had weeks upon weeks in which I have only given enough thought to my body to make sure I am wearing clothes and showered which is to say, entirely on autopilot with almost no thought at all.

But when I talk to my body, I think about what I need differently. It helps me respect and accept my limitations instead of pushing to burnout. It helps me be on my own team instead of always waiting for positive feedback from the people around me to determine my course.

This is a funny week to wrote this. I work a very physical job and have gone immediately from work to our new house to sand floors every day until 10pm or later. “Burning the candle at both ends” has never felt more apt and I am the candle. But I found myself asking my body, “do we have one more day in us?” and waiting for the answer. That’s a kind of success that doesn’t get celebrated often enough.

What I want to say is "you're not helping", "you're doing the thing that I'm trying to say shouldn't happen", and "are you even listening?"

Are you listening?

Or are you just filtering, filtering, filtering? Looking for bricks to build your house, your wall, your monument. Searching for what fits with what you already have. Refusing to take the opportunity to grow.

Today's world is frustrating beyond measure. It's mainstream now to talk about my favorite topics and to talk about them badly, loudly, belligerently. How many times do I have to say it?

I love my city.
I love my neighbor.
I love justice.

And because I love those things, I ache when my city aches. I ache when my neighbor aches. I ache when justice is denied.

And to everyone talking about anything else, "you're missing the point". It's political to love all of your neighbors. It's political to love your city no matter what it chooses. It's political to exist in a world built on injustice. But being political and being a question for the politicians is not the same thing. We have to be better than them.

When you try to wave me off as "too political", I hear "I only love when there is no risk or complication."

I am not well.

And that means that I have lied to a lot of people this week. Or maybe just few. Truthfully, I'm not keeping track. Truthfully, I can't go into the specifics with everyone who asks. And it isn't fair to ask without investment. But I digress.

It's not like I know what kind of unwell I am anyway. I just don't feel like myself, don't know if I can access all of the parts of my brain, and don't know when it got so difficult to be in my skin. But it is hard to be in my skin. My thoughts and my bones running up against limitations.

All of my internal resources seem much more finite than I remember. Creativity, emotions, energy, focus, problem solving, resiliency. And I know that I haven't suffered much so I don't know where these limitations have come from.

I am not a very strong person. But I am good at rebuilding.

And sometimes people mistake that for strength.

But I tear so easily.

I am not a very strong person. But I am really quick to remake what has been destroyed.

A week. A day. An hour. I don't need much.

But I crumble frequently.

I am not a very strong person. Believe me when I say this.

And this week has been one for the books. My insides are just dust blowing through the doors and windows of my heart and mind. And then I pull myself together long enough to communicate. Just long enough to try to make sense.

But I am not a very strong person so it doesn't last long.

And I don't know how there are humans whose whole lives are marked by an injustice that I barely understand, who still love and fight for the good in this world.

I am not a very strong person. But I know some very strong people.

I'm in a bad mood today. More accurately this week.

When things get tough at work, I always feel trapped. I spend so much time working and yet it's the main source of my stress and self-doubt. Does my self-doubt come from or feed the doubt I receive from others? Which is the chicken and which is the egg?

Lately, when I look for a way out or a way through, I don't like what I see. And I wonder, Is this all there is? All there ever will be? Always trying to prove that I can do the job, solve the problem, and disagree without being less.

And that's I guess all I want to say today.

I am not less.

I am not less logical for my emotions.

I am not less committed for choosing another path.

I am not less intelligent for finding a different solution.

I am not less strong for preferring to spend my energy in other ways. 

I am not less. I am not less.

I am not less.

And neither are you.

You are not less for my capabilities, the times when I am right.

Neither of us are less for our disagreements.

We don't have to compete.

We are more for the conflicts that we work through.

We are more for the humility that community requires.

We are more when we admit our mistakes.

We are more.

We are enough.

the hard season
will
split you through.
do not worry.
you will bleed water.
do not worry.
this is grief.
your face will fall out and down your skin
and there will be scorching. 
but do not worry. 
keep speaking the years from their hiding places. 
keep coughing up smoke from all of the deaths you 
have died. 
keep the rage tender.
because the soft season will come.
it will come.
loud.
ready.
gulping.
both hands in your chest.
up all night.
up all of the nights.
to drink all damage into love.

--therapy by Nayyirah Waheed

What do I want to say but this? This and only this. This a thousand times until I stop hanging on every single word. Until my heart lets me move on. Until the burning quiets. Will it ever quiet? My anger applauds and my grief relaxes when I read this poem. I am not alone. And it's then that I know for sure that all that my anger wants is to be understood. But this is not a world that understands anger. This is a world that fears anger and shames the angry.

As I do this trauma work, I am learning that my anger is here to protect me, to guard that part of your mind that is so adaptable that it accepts trauma and abuse as normal as a means of survival. Anger is the tether that can bring you back to yourself after you've given everything valuable away just to stay alive or stay loved. When it is functioning properly, anger is healthy and necessary.

But I cannot expect anyone to understand because they have to reconcile with their trauma, grief, and anger in their own way. Most people will wait until their lives are falling apart to even start the work. Most people will blame you for being angry instead of seeing your hurt. Which means it is up to me to understand my anger. There will be precious little help from the outside. If my anger wants to keep me safe, but I haven't done the work with my trauma to understand what it is trying to keep me safe from, my anger will live and boil just beneath the surface no matter how much I forgive or try to ignore it. I've been sitting with it for at least a year, but I still struggle to accept my anger for what it is and to let it live inside of me. But the more I ignore or reject it, the harder it is to tell when a real emergency is happening and when it's just the past clouding my vision.

To reach my goal, I have to be friends with my anger. I need to be able to know when it is new anger and when it is old anger. Otherwise, I'll never know when I am safe and when I need to fight. And believe me, there are still plenty of fights worth starting or joining in this world under a curse. But I cannot fight all of the injustice in this world with the rage of a hurricane. There are days when I want to. But that will only burn me out. And all of these worthy causes need compassionate people in it for the long haul. People who are soft even though the world rewards hardness.

Lastly, as I've done this work with my trauma and my anger, I have begun to see the marks of anger on other people. How a coworker's difficult attitude is just a mask for the rage that they don't know what to do with from pain they haven't finished listening to. It makes it easier to not take these things personally and to find a way to encourage them without being engulfed in their flames. But I wouldn't have known what I was looking at if I hadn't spent time with my own anger, listening and listening, waiting and waiting. Understanding blooms slowly. Even after you find the words for what you think is growing inside of you, the roots and the flowers take their time. But with each new lesson from my anger, I look forward to a soft season coming nearer. Keep the rage tender, don't harden against it.

This week, I have been doing more work on abuse and the effects that I find in myself. It's helping with my anger by showing me what it guards.

I am the oldest daughter of an abusive family. Not the kind of abuse that is brutal or forceful but the kind professionals call "narcissistic" in which the needs of individual family members are minimized or neglected to protect family members or habits or a status quo that is not healthy. Not the lightning strike or earthquake but the steady erosion of ground beneath your feet. 

I became the first line of defense, offense, whatever was needed. Our parents had already partially failed by the time I took on the mantel of being the stop-gap, plan B, the soldier who never gave up because all I had to lose was loss itself.

I am the oldest daughter and I learned to volunteer to go without or go to war as a means of controlling my environment. If you volunteer, you feel like you have more agency or identity or will than if they rip it from you. 

And I am nothing without my will to survive. 

Oldest daughter. Older sister. The first to gain her voice is not necessarily the first to be attacked. And nothing will make you yell like love. 

And I am nothing without my love for my sisters.

I volunteered. To need less, to fight, to heal those who cannot heal themselves. But no one told me that no one can control the trajectory of their gifts. People will do what they like with your iron-willed effort, your carefully given love, your dutifully surrendered gifts. There are no rules that dictate the use and administration of such sacrifices even if it leaves you gasping

I am nothing...
I am nothing...
What was it all for?

If it wasn't for healing, then it was for love. If it wasn't for love, then it was for hope. If it wasn't for hope, then it was for the next best thing. 

And what is that?

I am still looking for the answer. But I'll give it to you when I find it. Because the world is full of takers and I am trying my very best not to be one of them. 

Oldest daughter. Older sister. The biggest of the small warriors. I did what I could. I gave what I had. Now they want me to bury me weapons and wipe away my scars. 

"Drink from the cup of forgiveness." They say.

But I need a drenching not a cup. A long soak in the pool of Siloam. There are so many to forgive. I think of them when the sun rises. And, when the sun sets, I think of myself and how it still hurts to try to name the ways I gave too much to mouths that chose hunger and too much to wounds that chose blood. And yet I also never had enough. I think of how I didn't know any better and in so many ways, I still don't. Who will forgive me?

I am nothing without my will, my love, and my mistakes. 

Today is hard. My friends are tired and worn out. I wish I had more to give them. I wish the world was a kinder place. I wish there were more people radically committed to loving all of the people.

I have grown up in religious circles and I know that folks inside and outside of the church like to talk about loving people, accepting people, and a 1000 variations of that. The idea gets rebranded every few years with a different emphasis. But for those of us doing the work, it looks the same year after year. It looks like exhaustion, humility, a little anger, and a dim hope.

It looks like listening to everyone. At least, everyone who is a person. That does not include the media, corporations, and politicians. Sometimes a politician is a person and sometimes they aren't. It's complicated. But when something happens in this crazy world, the first place I go is to the individual. There are people telling their story for profit and I don't have time for them. There are also people telling someone else's story for them. They don't always mean to do it. They often mean well, but they aren't helping. Then there are people who are telling their story because they are trying to make sense of the world, trying to connect, and trying to survive. Those are my people. They will always be my people. In every crisis and change. In the mundane days. Loving people means listening to them.

And with that comes believing people about their experiences. None of us get it all right. But it is a true spiritual discipline to remind ourselves that the skepticism that we feel about social media, the news, and our governments should not drive us to doubt our neighbor and the people around us in the same way as FOX or CNN. We need to lean in to the people around us instead of away. Even though they are different. Even though they disagree or think about things in a completely different way. Even though none of us are always good or right. Even though it is SO MUCH WORK to understand and to be understood. 

In recent years, the people around me have noticed that I don't let certain things slide as easily as I used to. That I have strong opinions about race, gender, mental health and so on. I'm a white, straight, Christian, mostly healthy, definitely able, woman. It's hard to feel like I have a right to talk about the difficulties that others face. It's hard to feel like I have the right to stay silent too. And there's the rub. My friends are tired. My people are tired. They are tired of teaching and advocating and trying to explain that these tiny instances of racism, classism, sexism, ableism etc. all add up, weigh them down, isolate them, and communicate that they are less than. Less worthy, less welcome, less human.

Loving them means sharing the load. Loving them means shedding the comfort of my silence. Loving them means saying "putting down any people group lowers all of us". Loving them means letting them rest while I do my best to explain what I've learned from living life with them, from the stories they've shared, and from believing them about their experiences.

I've been accused of caring more about these ideas of equality than people. What I think that person meant was that I care about strangers as much as my own family. And I won't apologize for that.

I have been listening to people's stories for long enough to know that we all have more in common than we have been lead to believe. Strangers and the vulnerable occupy a sacred role in Scripture, along with our enemies. It's easy to take care of our family. You know what's hard? Telling your family that the way they talk about someone is hurtful, that the way they look at a people group is misinformed and damaging, that they haven't been listening to the person but to the noise from the media about people like that. Risking the respect of your close network for those who don't have a community is scary.

But I am convinced that this is the radical love displayed in the Gospel and that it is my task to keep trying to to build a bigger table until everyone that Christ loves can sit together. But we must be people who will come to a table set for diversity that is both foreign and familiar. That seats me and the other side by side. We are only as welcome as the least of us. We are only as strong as the least of us. We are only as loving as we are to the least of us.

Matthew 5:46-47; James 1:26-2:26; Hebrews 13:1-3

I've joined a biblically based community group on trauma. This should be easier to talk about with friends and family but it isn't. I've written a lot recently on the topic of anger and I mostly joined so that I could find trustworthy people to talk about anger with. People who understand that it has a purpose, isn't inherently sinful, and who aren't afraid of it. Having passed this test, I want these people to tell me how to get rid of it.

We have twelve weeks to get to that and wherever else the curriculum leads us. My suspicion is that the answers I want will make the fires burn hotter before they cool which is why I need people committed to healing and truth who can handle my rage. I cannot do this on my own. This cannot be a "just me and God" thing. I need other people who have sleeping dragons inside of them which sometimes wake and raze the town. And I know that abuse and trauma reliably produce anger so maybe my people are there. We are only on chapter two but I already thing that they are.

I wanted to write about how interesting the biblical and theological approach to abuse was in the book Mending the Soul, how I'm both encouraged and surprised at how thoroughly the author dresses down King David's family for the rape of Tamar. I wanted to complain about how slowly the work book moves. But after my reading this morning, I am humbled. I am finding the words that I have lacked. I am learning what it is my anger guards. See, the funny thing about anger is that it burns you too. But sometimes burning is better than shattering. When you burn, you are still whole, still know your name, still haven't surrendered to oblivion, still haven't given up.

So here it is. I am angry and I am confused. The way I grew up has made it difficult for me to understand and trust the voice and leading of God. And that is different than not having faith. It's faith without direction or clear purpose. We were often rendered powerless against abuse because it was "Satan at work" and we needed to wait for God to move and work and save us. Now, as I make choices I don't ever feel confident that I can discern God's will. I make choices using the best of my own wisdom and I hope that God is pleased. But I don't know God as the provider. I know God as the watcher, the tester of endurance, the one who lets terrible things happen and gives meaning to it later. Since moving out, I've had some additional traumas that have only obscured this more.

It's caused a rift in my spiritual practice. And it hurts so badly. I feel cutoff from the Body of Christ, isolated by my own powerlessness. When I make plans for the future, I feel paralyzed and unable to decide what is good and where God might be leading. And I am angry because I don't know what I did wrong or how to make this right, but still I ache and ache.

Here's to hoping that the glimmer of healing ahead doesn't fade.

A Few Guidelines

I think there must be something about my face that makes strangers want to give me unsolicited advice. Advice about the housing market, stocks, careers, marriage, children, how close to live to your parents, whether sun screen is killing us or saving us, and so on. Maybe it's the age I am. Maybe I remind these people of themselves when they were making these choices. Maybe they just go around telling everyone what to do with their lives.

Maybe it's my face.

Maybe I look like I am looking for something and straining to put the pieces together. Maybe I look like I need help. All of those things are probably true in different degrees.

To filter through all of this advice, I'm developing some guidelines or rules or clarifiers. The first is this: I do not take advice from people who have walked the path that they suggest and are still unhappy. If the path leads only to money or ambition or some kind of success that does not include the health of their person and their family, it's not where I want to go. There are a lot of unhappy people giving out advice trying to prove that they've succeeded despite how they feel. And maybe they have. But it's not where I want to be.

The second guideline is to avoid the advice of those who do not ask questions. If they were concerned about my well-being, they would ask. And I have learned not to trust the advice of those who are giving it for their own well-being only.

I think there will be more, but this is what I've decided so far.

These past few years I have burned and burned but have not been consumed. I have asked God for release but He tells me to listen, to sit with my anger for as long as it will sit with me.

I have been afraid to listen to anger, have hesitated to accept it, and struggled to love the parts of myself that burn and burn. But I slowly I am seeing why the metaphor of fire is never far from anger. No two things in my life have shown me how closely life and death are knit together, destruction and renewal.

So I choose anger. Everyday. I choose it again and again. But not as a thing which I love and hold tightly to. Instead, I choose not to ignore or banish it. I choose to lock eyes with its lynx like face, to sit in silence hoping it passes but doing nothing to chase it away, to observe as much as I can about its presence.

In this way, I have learned that the first two purposes of anger are to say “you have been well and truly wronged. This should not have happened but has.” And again to repeat “you are hurt more than you know. Your mind and spirit have been torn apart. You must stop, rest, protect what is left of yourself.” 

 

Of all the things that have soothed the pain that my anger guards, I did not expect poetry to top the list. But there is nothing so calming as finding that someone else can name the flames in your fire, someone else has fallen off of the mountain top of their innocence with only questions to break their fall, someone else is guarding a pain that is healing at glacial speed. And that someone is still out there fighting. When I find a poem that resonates, I can hear the coals of my heart hiss with the relief of water. See, I don’t want to be angry. But even more than that, I don’t want to hurt anymore. And I know my anger is protecting me until I’m ready to fight again.

 

Some kinds of pain can’t be healed in isolation because isolation was the tool they used to hurt you in the first place. But a poem can build a bridge and send just a little rain. Even though the poet is describing their personal hell, it’s also a rebellious love letter to all the warriors out there still fighting. We exist. We fight today and we’ll heal soon. Because we haven’t given up yet. And it is our anger that guards against despair. With psalms and poems we will heal. Some days, I don't know if I will ever wake up truly without my anger, but I'm learning not to be afraid. And as I learn, I worry less about getting rid of my anger and more about listening to it until it has nothing more to say.