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As we stepped out of our liminal space, a season where we had a new home, a new city, a new life – and for more than a few months, no income – we were not sure when or if we would ever feel settled again. Our first year in Indiana felt like life was moving in some sort of altered time-continuum where we vacillated swiftly between dwelling in, seething over, and grieving the loss of our past and simultaneously dreaming, questioning, and hoping our future into existence…there wasn’t a lot of space for the present. That year where we felt like we weren’t moving forward, we were stuck, sad, lonely, and confused…maybe we weren’t propelling ourselves, but something was carrying us – because here we are downstream. This year felt like life. It is as if we stepped back into the river and picked right up rowing even stronger and with so much more joy than before. We lightened the load a bit along the way –  casting-off old fears that kept us living according to what we thought would please others, tossing out habits and choices that were no longer serving us, and confronting the stories we were telling ourselves with the truth of who we know ourselves to be.

At the same time that all of this new life has sprung forth, we have watched friends and loved ones suffer unimaginable loss, and have learned that these types of things aren’t the exception…the things that happen to “those people”…but rather the types of things that befall us all at some time in our lives. We have struggled with feelings of powerlessness and despair over current events, and struggled to manage our own emotions, actions, and responses to a newfound sense of responsibility. There is this responsibility to, as Brené Brown says, “speak truth to bullshit”…with civility… This is especially difficult when civility seems so hard to come by (even in ourselves). I have had many vulnerable and hard conversations, many new confrontations with my own biases and assumptions, many painful realizations about the way my life has contributed to systems of oppression. There have been tears and sleep lost over the struggle to hold the tension between being a prophet and being a jackass (thanks to Rachel Held Evans for that phrase).

I take comfort in knowing I am not alone – that there are many of us who struggle…because we know deep down that the “you’re either with us or against us” rhetoric that is so pervasive  and powerful these days is also false…We know that the lines aren’t so clearly drawn, and that we can profoundly disagree with people we still love, break bread with, and respect. We know there is a way to disagree wholeheartedly, and fight for our convictions, without dehumanizing each other. We know this, yes, but living it is still so very hard. We are slogging along, learning from our mistakes and humbly acknowledging that though we are not perfect, we never will be, and there is transformative power in showing up anyway.

As we enter 2018, I am setting this public intention. I will be more gracious, patient, and scarce with my red pen and spend more of my creative energy painting a picture of what life could be. I will work diligently to uncover more of my own biases and assumptions, and to become a builder of bridges rather than an abrasive presence that needs everyone to clearly see my “otherness” and distance myself from that which causes me shame. I will continue to speak my truth, and I will work hard to cultivate love and humility in it’s telling. I will continue to rumble with the tensions…all of them…and give them the honor and respect they are due rather than doing the easier work of choosing a side, armoring up, or slowly receding back into silence.

I wish you love, peace, understanding and courage in this new year. May we find new ways to see each other. May we listen to the stories of those in pain and truly seek to find compassion and understanding. May we join hands and break bread with people who are new and different and (maybe even) scary as we learn how to care for that which we all share – the world we are making together.

six hundred seventy-one million miles per hour.

Teeny tiny particles, smaller than a drop of water, rushing around – bouncing off objects in every possible direction. So tiny. Yet in the right circumstances, impossible to ignore. Light. Light doesn’t judge – it just illuminates. Light illuminates what is and what has always been before us – never adding or subtracting or applying meaning. Light can be a sign of hope for the wanderer, a measure of protection for one stumbling through the darkness, and allows those previously unseen to come out of the woodwork once again.

Light can also be exposing. To systems that rely on darkness to continue to propagate their day to day, light can wreak havoc. To shame, that thrives in the darkness even within one’s own internal dialogue, light can be the greatest enemy.

Light leads us into truth – into a more true realization of what is. We cannot examine ourselves in a mirror without light, or see the beauty of our neighbor, or even the ones we love. Without light, we are left to stub toes and fall off the rough edges of the world.

And this light, even the smallest flickering flame of a candle, is most profoundly visible and noticeable in the darkness. The darker the night, the brighter the light will seem.

On Christmas, a few days after the Winter Solstice (the darkest day of the year), our Light comes to us. Illuminating the darkness of the world, making it possible for the world to become generative and full of new life once again, and exposing us for the complicated, beautiful, good, and profoundly flawed beings we are. This Light feels like healing and direction for some, but like an unbearable vulnerability and exposure for those who rely on the darkness for their power.

This Light. It shows us what has always been. It shows us that we are never alone. That we are surrounded by beauty and growth and newness. That we are surrounded by need and suffering and injustice. And it often comes in our darkest days. Let it warm you. Let it illuminate you. Let it lead you home.

Merry Christmas, loves. Thank you for joining me this season. The best is yet to come.

Oh, Light. A music video by Gungor…

Photo by Yasemin K. on Unsplash

Bittersweet.

I sat in the pew with my family and enjoyed a beautiful, child-oriented Christmas eve service tonight. It was everything I’ve hoped for in a family worship experience – and it was so well done. The family ministry team had the forethought to forego handing a sanctuary full of toddlers lit candles, and instead provided everyone with finger-lights. So, we still got to sing silent night in a darkened room filled with little sparks…but without the fear of anyone’s hair catching on fire…or a curious toddler grabbing at the flame.

Grief goes in circles. It can lay mostly dormant for seasons and then resurface, for known or unknown reasons, with a vengeance. It can add a little (or a lot of…) bitter to the sweet parts of life – like holidays. In the midst of sitting and feeling so grateful for the ministry staff and volunteers that made today’s experience happen, I couldn’t help but think about our church family back in Tennessee.

Most days are good…Most days the grieving of our old life, our old town, our old community, our old identity…most of the time we are able to be present in the now and just overwhelmingly grateful for where we are…but sometimes the loss still hurts. Sure, there were wounds there (as there would be at any organization over the course of 10 years) but there was also so much joy…so much love…so much connection.

I will miss the flickering candles of Christmas eve in Nashville as long as I can imagine. I will miss the volunteers and staff who selflessly gave their time and energy on a day when many get to be at home enjoying their families. I REALLY miss getting to pass out candles and greet people on their way in…Christmas was always the time to see faces we hadn’t seen in a long time, and to see so many faces of people we cared about all joined into one room.

Ever since I shared about some of my feelings of hurt from my ministry experience, I have felt a little stuck…I have felt like, by sharing it, I have pigeon-holed my experience into this one lens…that everyone (at least everyone who reads my blog) will see it through that one lens…That lens was certainly part of it for me, but my experience was complex and multifaceted and so integrated with my life and identity. It was a beautiful mix of bittersweet. I don’t want the fact that I shared about some of the ways that I felt wounded to keep me from feeling free to share all of the things I was and am SO proud of from those days… I want to be able to share the ways in which I respected and learned so much from my leaders and co-workers, and even in the hard experiences, I grew so much. I want to share the ways that I felt loved and encouraged and challenged too.

And I want to encourage you to do the same with wherever your grief sends you this year…It’s ok for it to be both bitter and sweet – it doesn’t have to be either / or. You can acknowledge and enjoy and cherish the wonderful memories of what you have lost or who you are missing, and still feel the sting of the loss, or anger over past circumstances. It is not a betrayal of the person, place, or thing you are grieving to feel joy…even if it might feel like it sometimes. It is not a betrayal to feel anger or sadness, either… Both of these are very natural expressions of the grieving process. You don’t have to categorize it or put it into a box. So much love from my cozy little rocking chair flying all the way down to Nashville, all the way over to Kansas City, across the ocean to Portugal, north to Michigan, west to California, and in giant, circles around Indiana.

Merry Christmas Eve, friends…

Photo by Echo Grid on Unsplash

One of my clearest memories of Christmastime as a child was of setting up our nativity scene.  Side note…when I was a kid, I had a tendency to be – well – difficult. “You need an attitude adjustment” was one of the most common disciplinary phrases I heard, and it was absolutely right. I did. And this sweet Christmas tradition was no exception.

My parents would notice that the wisemen were missing…sometimes replaced by an empty space…and other times replaced by a sticky note detailing the fact that the wisemen weren’t there yet. The wisemen themselves…they would be found in another room (east), in the microwave, or otherwise far off from the little plastic baby. For a while, I thought I was privy to the “secret” of the wisemen…that it probably was around Jesus’ second birthday before the wisemen arrived with their gifts. I was the smart one. The thoughtful one. Ha!

I was recalling this memory fondly today, and I had a realization. There were SO many questions I hadn’t asked about the wisemen – the Magi. Here is the short version of the story from the text:

“On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to go back to Herod, they returned to their country by another route.” (Matthew 2:11-12)

So…the wisemen found Jesus because of a star…so God communicated to the Magi through stars…astrology…the system that they were already accustomed to faithfully following? So I wondered…what was the magi’s religious background. A VERY cursory study shows that they were most likely Zoroastrians. What? Why did the biblical author of Matthew chose to include this image of zoroastrians coming to worship Jesus? Why was this so important that they needed to write it down as part of the story to pass on?

Certainly…the story could go something like this. “The wisemen came and worshipped baby Jesus…and then they stayed and joined the temple and followed Jesus throughout his ministry. They accepted Jesus as their personal savior.” But that’s not what the story says. The story says that the wisemen (the zoroastrians) worshipped Jesus…and then they went home. They went back to their tribe. They (I assume) continued in their search for the Divine through the lens of Zoroastrianism… They were people who the Bible claims worshipped Jesus, but they stayed embedded in a different system of faith than the Jews…or the Christians… So…does this mean that we have Magi in our nativity scenes all over the world…fancy figures carrying ornate little boxes…all to memorialize people who are burning in Hell for eternity?… (this is certainly not what I believe…)

I am not making statements here…I am asking questions. How many times have you (or I) heard the story of the Magi and not asked these types of questions? Why don’t we ask these type of questions about the text? Isn’t there more that we could learn, more to be curious about, and more nuance to the story of our own faith that we might be missing by not asking?

I hope this got your wheels spinning this morning, friends. Don’t take my word for it. Lean into the mystery. Ask the questions. Live into the tension.

Photo by Inbal Malca on Unsplash

During one of my most personally stressful, emotional weekends, I also had to muster up the energy to take an online final exam. I was exhausted and spent, and vacillating between emotions faster than a Katy Perry song…

And then this song came on…It brought me peace and perspective…It helped me feel close to the Divine in a way I haven’t in a while. I hope it does the same for you. (You’ll also notice, it was the inspiration behind a lot of my recent Advent posts) I thought it was appropriate to share with you all on the darkest night of the year.

“Oh Light” – Gungor
(Listen Here)

Oh light Come to reconcile
Come in like a child
Holy night

Oh light
Our hopes and all our fears
Met within your sight
Holy night

Hallelujah
God is with us
Hallelujah
A light has come

Oh light
God and man entwine
Of earth and of divine
Holy night

Oh light
Mending fractured earth
The soul now felt its worth
Holy night

Hallelujah
God is with us
Hallelujah
A light has come

Hallelujah Holy God is with us
Love is always born within
Hallelujah Light will chase and find us
Love is facing us again
Hallelujah Holy God is with us
Love is always born within
Hallelujah Light will chase and find us
Love is facing us again

Hallelujah
God is with us
Hallelujah
A light has come
A light has come
Oh a light has come

Photo by Riccardo Annandale on Unsplash

There is a time to shine your Light into the dark and dusty corners. It is hard and costly work in every way, but it things can’t be healed if they aren’t brought into the light.

However, there are times when you feel like your light is so small in the face of the darkness that you are overwhelmed and overcome.

It is in these moments that (as my wise, spiritual director noted) we need to look for the light. Sometimes we need to take a beat from looking for the dark corners and, instead, start acknowledging all the little sparks around us.

The small acts of kindness and courage.
The innocence and joy of children.
The hope that comes with new life.
Acts of generosity and sacrifice.

It’s not all up to us. Yours is not the only light shining into this big darkness.

Take a deep breath. Remember your corner…and the ways in which your light can shine uniquely in the world. And most of all, remember that the world doesn’t rest solely on your shoulders…

Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash

some days it all just feels like too much…
like there is so much going wrong in the world, and so little we can do about it…

there is fear, there is shame, there is an overwhelming feeling of powerlessness, and an almost paralyzing sense of polarization and disconnection. we don’t know how to be with each other anymore. we can’t see one another’s humanity.

it seems like a fitting time for a Light to come. it seems like a fitting time for us to remember that the Light still shines from within us…and it seems like a fitting time to remember that Light comes to us with the innocence, joy, and hope of a newborn. new life. new light.

namaste, friends…”the Light in me sees and honors the Light in you”

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

Something happens when you start to use your voice…especially if you have tended to watch quietly in the past. People don’t know what to make of it. They are shocked, saddened, disappointed, proud, impressed…all of the things. I think there is a level, when you finally treat longstanding social anxiety, that people feel that maybe they didn’t really know you before, and that is painful. That is not really the case…it’s not that they didn’t know you, it’s just that there are parts of you that even you didn’t know existed. There is a courage and a voice…a willingness to speak…that just wasn’t accessible to you before.

And at first, it is vulnerable and hard and scary for everyone. It’s like learning to speak for the first time. There are moments of teary frustration when you don’t feel like people have understood the purpose behind using your voice – moments of pride when you finally communicate something successfully, and so many little nuanced lessons in how to -and how not to – form your words.

But after a while, it gets easier. People grow accustomed to hearing your voice and it’s not so jarring. People realize that, even though you may sound different, you are still the same person that they loved before…People grow accustomed to the fact that even though you may now have made your differences clear, you still share a fundamental love and respect for one another.

It is hard fought. It is fraught with tears and sleepless nights and knots that take up seemingly permanent residence within your stomach. But it is worth it.

You have a voice. There is a cost to sharing it…but there is also a cost to silencing it. At some point, one will outweigh the other.

“True belonging is the spiritual practice of believing in and belonging to yourself so deeply that you can share your most authentic self with the world and find sacredness in both being a part of something and standing alone in the wilderness.” – Brené Brown

Photo by Jason Rosewell on Unsplash

I’m not going to church today. I really want to want to go. I do. **

So much of my religious life up till now has unintentionally and unconsciously been shame-driven. Do this or you are disappointing God. Don’t do that – it will disappoint God. Showing up to church every week was definitely one in the “do this” category.

But here’s the deal… I am (trying) not to do things driven by shame anymore. I want to go to church when I’m ready to make a conscious choice about it. I want to want to go. I want my kids to know that we don’t go to church because we “have to” or because we are “bad if we don’t.” I want them to want to go to.

I want for us to find community there…for us to feel like we are part of a larger family. I want to feel like we are serving people and making life better for them. I want to feel like we are learning how to love each other in more honest and authentic ways. I want to feel like I can be myself…Like I can have differing opinions without being ostracized or kept away from the table. I want to be intellectually honest. I don’t want to worry about where the money is going or where it is coming from.

But this is where I am today. I am not ready yet. I want to be…I really want to be. But I am just not.

(I know I sound like a millennial here..But let’s start taking that for what it is. It is descriptive – it’s not a judgement. Due to the rapid change of technology, we are developing and have developed in a different world than that of our parents. This certainly brings its own set of challenges but also great opportunities…but we can talk more about that another time.)

I will expand more on this sometime after advent…About my hopes and dreams for what Church can be, about the beauty I’ve glimpsed in different expressions of Church over the years, and maybe how we can be part of something new…

But today…Today I wanted you to know, that if you are home this morning…not sure where to be on Sundays –  You are not alone. You are not bad. You are not disappointing God. Keep listening to that quiet voice in your heart. Find ways to connect in genuine community with others. Find ways to give to those in need…But also know that you have permission to be right where you are today.

 

**(Note…this isn’t about any particular church…just to clarify…This is about the current system and structure at large)

Photo by John Price on Unsplash

There is no template for loss. Sure, you have the five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression acceptance) – but those were never meant to be a linear map charting the course for those in grief. The stages give us a common language about which to speak our pain. They give us affirmation that our experiences, while incredibly unique, are also normal – and that we are not alone in feeling “this” way.

For those of you who struggle to answer the question, “How are you?”…I hear you and I see you. I know that there is no good or right or accurate answer to that question. I hear that if you say you are “fine” you are worried that it will be perceived as either uncaring or untrue – and if you answer with tears and pain, you may be perceived as weak or in danger…or reduced to the identity of victim.

I hear that you want desperately to talk about your loved one, but that you also don’t. That sometimes you need to share those things within the silence and safety of your home, within the sacredness of your own time and space…and that you are exhausted from taking care of yourself. I see that you love your friends and family so deeply, but that you just don’t have the energy to manage their emotions and feelings right now. It’s ok…It really is. There will come a day when we will be on the other end of a loss, and you will be there for us in a way that others can’t. Because you know. Because you see. Because you hear.

And, above all else, I see your grace and vulnerability. That each time you walk out the door you feel raw. That you don’t know what you might encounter or feel in the grocery store, or the coffee shop, or at work. I see that you are brave and beautiful in living your everyday life in the midst of what feels like excruciating vulnerability.

You keep showing up. You keep doing the next thing ahead of you. I see courage, and moxie and heart. You are warriors. I saw you fight for your loved ones with hope and presence, and I see you fighting for them still today – by continuing to show up.

If you have friends who are grief warriors this Christmas, know that no one knows what to say…There is no good thing to say…There is no template for this. Ask. Ask your friend specific questions about boundaries. Give them grace if they don’t know how to answer. Try again another time. Give them grace if they respond in anger…it’s just part of the process and not a reflection of your friendship. Your friend lost a unique person…and their loss won’t look like anyone else’s.

Your friends, the grief warriors, they will give you grace too. They know you don’t know what to say. They know you won’t respond perfectly every time. They know you love them and are doing your best. They are doing their best too.

Above all, if you have a story about the way their loved one impacted you…the way their life, no matter how short, mattered and continues to make a difference in yours…find a way to share it with them.

{If you are looking for a way to honor some of those lost this year…consider making a donation to a foundation that was close to their heart…My husband and I – we are choosing to donate here in honor of a precious baby boy}.

Photo by Pascal Müller on Unsplash