Election and Redemption

I watched election night unfold that November 8, stress eating gummy bears and slowly sinking into despair as swing state after swing state went red.  I watched with one eye on the t.v. and one eye on twitter where the many people of color that I follow lamented the results.  I lamented with them.  

I know not all were lamenting.  I know that for many this was a victory, a win for the Republican party.  For me this was not about Republican and Democrats.  While I’ve voted for Democratic Presidential candidates, I’ve voted for both Republicans and Democrats in other positions.  My dad was an elected Republican official in our town.  Until this election I would have said I was an Independent who leaned left, or, a fiscally conservative, socially liberal Independent.  This election felt different.  Donald Trump felt different.

I won’t go into all the ways he made my stomach turn during the election.  The examples are well documented.  I will say that as a person who has cared an awful lot about social justice through out my adult life, Trump’s rhetoric and complete lack of self-awareness has felt dangerous and just down right wrong.

In the weeks immediately following the election I wandered around in a state of anxiety and fear.  The news reports of hate crimes committed in Trump’s name and Neo Nazi groups celebrations of his victory did nothing to assuage this.  

And then, through it all, there were Christian leaders joyously celebrating his victory, saying it was ordained by God.

This, of course, caused me to simultaneously throw things and deeply question my understanding of God.  The God I have known, the one that has made my heart worship, was on the side of justice for the oppressed, was against bigotry and prejudice, promoted goodness and kindness and humility.  That God was not found in Trump.  At least to me.

When swastikas were showing up across the country bearing the words “Trump’s America” alongside them, it felt hard to believe that God would ordain this.  When people of color were shoved and intimidated and told it was time to “go home!  This is Trump’s America now!” it was hard to believe that God would ordain that.  And when hundreds were detained at the airport, and refugees, the most vulnerable among us, were turned away, it was hard to believe that the God who very specifically says to welcome the refugee stranger would ordain that. 

But then something else started to happen.  There was a march, attended by millions all across the world.  People stepped up, who wanted to say, no, this is not ok and I’m standing on the side of justice.  There were reports of people stepping in, standing up when people of color were being targeted for hate crimes.

  

Signs started popping up all around my neighborhood.  Signs that said, “We are not afraid” in regard to refugees and signs in three different languages, Hispanic, Arabic and English that said, “No matter what language you speak, we’re glad to call you neighbor.”  Signs that gave me hope.

In our suburban town a refugee relief organization held an introductory meeting to people who wanted to get involved by helping refugee families transition to America.  I heard one report that over a thousand people showed up for the meeting.

And then there was this report.  On a subway in Manhattan someone had graffitied Swastikas and other hateful messages on every advertisement and window.  People on the subway were uncomfortably aware of this and unsure of how to act.  Someone knew that alcohol erased permanent marker and soon an entire subway car full of New Yorkers were taking out their hand sanitizer and tissues and erasing the crap out of those hateful messages. 

Trump, it seems, has made activists of us all.  More and more people are asking themselves tough questions, paying attention to injustice and bigotry and standing up for the vulnerable, oppressed and marginalized.  

And it’s working.  I saw this on twitter and I hope very much that it is true.

Over the weekend, as I reflected on all the ways good people are standing up for truth and justice I wondered if maybe God was behind Trump’s win after all.  Not because Trump and his ideals embody what God wants for our broken world but because Trump and his ideals gave the rest of us something to fight against for our broken world.  It moved us to action in a way that his win would not have.  On the day of his inauguration in a text conversation with some friends I said, “If he hadn’t won we wouldn’t be marching tomorrow, but the things, the beliefs, the injustice that gave him so much popularity and put people in the position to overlook it all for a political party would still be there tomorrow.  Now we know where we stand and which side we want to stand on.  It was hard to fight the things we collectively, as a society, tried to pretend weren’t there at all.  You can’t fight the things you’re keeping hidden.  Now it’s out there and in some weird way I’m actually thankful for that.” 

And maybe that was what was ordained by God.  The stripping of the false security we all gave ourselves that we were a post racial society.  Or the sense that there wasn’t any work left to be done.  The calling of arms of people who may never considered themselves activists.  People all over the world are saying, not on my watch.

I don’t know if God ordained Trump’s victory.  I don’t know that I can go that far, or speak in that way by God.  But I do know that it is just like God to take brokenness and pain and use it for redemption.  I do know that what broke in our society on November 8, 2016, is being redeemed in a hundred thousand ways since then.  And I, for one, am excited to take part with God in this redeeming work.

March

On  a Saturday in January I, along with 250,000 new friends, took to the streets of Chicago to march.  We joined 600 other marches here in the U.S. and around the world.  The response was overwhelming.  In Chicago and a few other places, there were so many more people in attendance than anticipated that the actual march portion of the morning had to be cancelled; there were too many people to safely take to the streets.

It was an unbelievably beautiful day for a January in Chicago.  The sun shone for the first time in what felt like an eternity and there was a warmth in the air we hadn’t felt in a while.  As we waited in our suburban train station I was surprised at just how many people were also waiting.  I’d sort of assumed there would just be a few of us, mostly young women or hipster guys.  Instead there was a pretty large group of people already gathered, carrying signs, wearing pink, sharing stories about why they were standing there on a Saturday morning, ready to March.  And it wasn’t just young people.  I was surprised to see how many people my mom’s age were there too.

After our stop the train was deemed full and went express, another train coming behind us to pick up the rest.  As we blew through stop after stop I saw so many people patiently waiting, signs in hand, pink hats on.  This was going to be bigger than I thought.

My friend Charity and I met up with our friends in the city, watching as train after train arrived and people flooded into the station.  There was an energy and excitement in the air as the sheer number of people buoyed energy to one another.  We started making our way with the masses towards the place where the march was to gather.

On of our friends had brought her parents.  Her sweet father was so excited to be marching.  He kept saying, “We are all activists now.”  Indeed.

The signs ranged from hilarious (one of my favorites: “I can’t believe I still have to protest this shit”) to poignant (“‘My humanity is bound up in yours, for only together can we be truly human’ Hope Wanted”) and it each one reminded me why it mattered that I was there.

For me, and I think many others, this wasn’t sour grapes about an election that went to the other guy.  And I certainly wasn’t protesting the GOP or republicans (my beloved father was an elected republican and many people I love most dearly claim that party’s allegiance.  I cannot or will not hate republicans).  But after a year and a half of watching the very worst in humanity play out I needed to be with others who felt angry and inspired to action.  

If I’m being honest my heart has always been drawn towards the fight for justice; my very favorite books growing up were the ones that centered on this theme. Maybe it started in third grade with my teacher Mrs. Gibson, who captivated me with her stories of marching with Martin Luther King, Jr.  Or maybe that was just how I was created: to care deeply for the marginalized and oppressed.  Years ago, in college, I took women’s studies and African American studies courses where my eyes were opened wide to the depth racism, sexism, prejudice, oppression and injustice that still existed in the world. I have been drawn to understanding and fighting this ever since.

There was something I learned during those African American courses in college that I was reminded of again and again during the course of 2016.  When you start to pay attention to racism, sexism, prejudice, and oppression, you start to see it everywhere, sometimes in the most unlikely places.  It’s scary and ugly and quite frankly can make a person a little overwhelmed and despondent.  As a person who comes from a place of privilege (and we need to be honest here when we say that all white people in the United States hold some level of privilege that is not afforded to everyone) there will come a point during this period of discovery that you will want to stop looking.  It will be so hard, you will feel so terrible and guilty and bad about yourself as a person whose race had and continues to perpetuate so much injustice, that you will just want to stick your head in the sand and return to what is comfortable.  

It is at this point, as a person of privilege that you will be afforded a choice.  You can ignore what you’ve seen and quite easily return to life as status quo or you can stand up and choose a side on which to fight.  (It is here where I would argue that by choosing to ignore and return to a comfortable life pretending the injustice doesn’t exist you are actually choosing a side on which to fight; your passivity contributes to and supports injustice, but that is another conversation for another day.)

And so on that Saturday in January I marched because I wanted to physically stand against oppression and prejudice.  Because I wanted to speak truth to power.  And also because I’ve come to believe, deep in my bones the truth of that protest sign: “my humanity is tied up in yours, for only together can we truly be human.”

But I also marched for hope and love and redemption because I’ve found that when you go looking for those things, you can find them everywhere too, often in the most unlikely places.

Now of course, the work has just begun.  I marched on that Saturday morning but I continue to march each day.  I’m paying attention.  I’m calling people in power.  I’m looking for ways to lend my resources and time to fight injustice.  The march was the call to action.  Now it’s time to move.  

On November and Being Filled

On the morning of the first of November I woke up early and began to prepare brunch for fourteen adults and three and a half kids.   The bacon sizzled filling the whole house with its glorious smell.    I made blueberry crisp with Greek yogurt, goat cheese scrambled eggs and three pots of coffee.  Sarah J brought pumpkin bread and Sarah R a crust less quiche.  There were mimosas and bloody marys, coffee cake and oranges.  We used every one in my eclectic collection of mugs, which gave me a profound sense of happiness. 

Most of the morning was spent in my kitchen, around my island and then my kitchen table.  We laughed and sipped coffee and I realized that brunch may just be my favorite type of gathering to host.  As our friends began gathering their things and saying their good-byes Marty commented that this whole morning was “good for his soul.”  All I ever want is for my home to be good for the soul.

*******

We sang happy birthday and Tommy blew out candles on an icing-less birthday cake a few days later.  A simple birthday dinner with his parents and sisters was one of his nicest.  My mom and sister joined us for dessert and I watched from the doorway between the dining room and kitchen as all the different conversations happened before me.   I watched my husband in his element, surrounded by the people who know him best, thankful for this place for everyone to land.  

*******

A few days after that a different, larger group gathered for my brother’s thirtieth birthday.  His birthday was still a few weeks away, but he, along with many other relatives, were in town for my dad’s memorial service and it seemed as good a time as any to celebrate him and this milestone birthday.   With everyone around I wanted to gather us as much as possible.  I’d planned to keep it simple that night.  I knew it would be a hard weekend as we approached the anniversary of the worst day of our lives.  I ordered beef sandwiches and chopped salads from Portillo’s and let everyone else bring appetizers and booze.    That night I was in our bedroom nursing Red when everyone seemed to arrive at once.  I came into my kitchen to a whirlwind of plates, food, greetings and fullness.  Full kitchen, full home, full heart. 

We sat in my living/dining room in a large circle for hours that night laughing full belly laughs.  Long running inside jokes wove in and out of the conversations.  Some of our oldest and closest family friends, the Dunns, stayed last telling story after story of our shared past, reliving them new as adults. 

Something special happened that night.  Something got put back together a little bit in my living room and for the first time in a long time I had hope for my family.  Maybe we weren’t broken completely.

*******

The next weekend my living room turned into a filming set as my house church/small group/supper club contributed to a promotional video for a book we’d been reading.  Once the interviews had been conducted and the “B-Roll film” shot the cameraman left and I found myself eating chili-mac around my table with the people who have in many ways carried me through this past year.  After dinner we continued our conversations utilizing the open layout of my living/dining room combo while some sat on the couch and others stayed at the table, everyone fully engaged in one long conversation.

And again I marveled at how important it is for me to fill my home with my people.  When we first looked at this house with our real estate agent I stood in my dining room and looked across the expanse of this great room and imagined my people in it.  I could see it.  Could see the very scene that now lay before me in real life.  This home was meant for my people.

*******

Our single greatest endeavor in the art of opening our home came at the end of the month when we welcomed 25 people in for Thanksgiving dinner.  There were a million reasons this last party should have been a disaster.  I’d never actually cooked a turkey or any of the traditional thanksgiving foods for that matter.  Tommy and I decided to invite whoever was around from each of our extended families, which meant that our large gathering consisted of quite a few people who don’t really know each other.   And on top of all of it I wasn’t quite sure how my immediate family would be feeling that day; the holidays, Thanksgiving being the first of a long six weeks or so of merriment, have a way of heightening grief I’ve learned. 

On the morning of Thanksgiving I found myself in a state of panic, worried I’d mess up the turkey, worried no one would interact naturally with one another and it would be 25 people crammed into my house in varying states of awkwardness with only my over-done turkey to keep them occupied.  In this moment I needed my dad.  I needed my buffer of a father who could connect anyone and make everyone feel comfortable.  I needed my dad.  And so I threw up the same desperate prayer I’ve been praying for weeks.  Redeem this Lord.  Redeem even this.  Please.

We pulled out the leaf again on my dining room table and set our large card table next to it.   I put on the new table clothes and used my most colorful cloth napkins trying to create a lovely space that would make people feel comfortable without going too crazy because table settings aren’t really my forte.  I set my timer every thirty minutes to baste the turkey and prepared everything I could ahead of time, all while pleading with Jesus to do his redemption thing.

And miraculously he did.  People arrived, strangers forged connections, laughter reigned.  For weeks afterwards people let us know what a nice time it was at our house on Thanksgiving.

*******

I don’t share this to regale you with tales of my hostess-ing prowess.  I’m actually not naturally a very good hostess.  I constantly forget to offer people drinks or take their coats and I can never seem to remember people’s dietary need and preferences.  I’ve made meat for vegetarians and pizza for gluten-frees.   I tell you this because November was supposed to be the worst.  November was supposed to be a dark month filled with dark days and dark memories of what had happened a year before. 

Instead November was a whirlwind of opening my home to pretty much every cross section of my people.  It was a steady cycle of laying out glasses and table settings, piling coats on the coat rack, serving meals, loading the dishwasher, lather, rinse, repeat. And something happens to me when I do this simple act of welcoming my people into my home.  It fills me up in the simplest way.  It floods the darkest parts with light.  I can’t explain why, or how, but having a home filled with people is good for the deepest parts of me.  November was supposed to suck.  But it didn’t.  I didn’t plan on filling my November with all these gatherings; it wasn’t until mid month that I really looked at the calendar and saw what had happened.  But I don’t think it was coincidental at all.  It wasn’t an accident that during the month I needed it most I was already set up to do the thing that makes me whole.

I want to encourage you to do whatever it is that puts you back together.  For me it’s filling my home with my people.  Maybe for you it’s painting furniture or creating jewelry, writing, or going to movies alone.  Maybe it’s dancing or dinner with your most favorite person or holing away and reading alone for hours.  Whatever it is, do it with reckless abandon.  Let these acts put you back together when you’re finding yourself at the end of yourself.  Do the thing that fills your inner darkness with light and don’t apologize for it.  We need to do the things that make us whole, even when, especially when, we don’t think we have time for it.

November was supposed to suck.  And it didn’t.

Red: Seven Months

Sweet Red is seven (almost eight!) months old!  I know there are lots of people who will wax on nostalgically at how magical infancy is and how fast it goes, particularly with a third.  People who will bemoan this speeding of time, wishing fervently for it to slow down. 

I am not one of those people.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a baby person.  The older my kids get the more I realize that babies are not my jam.  And I’m ok with that, because really this stage doesn’t last too long.  And by the time you’re on your third- it flies.

What can I say about Red at seven months?  The first thing people notice about her is her hair.  All of my kids were blessed with full heads of hair from birth, all different shades.  Red is my only ginger and it’s a lovely shade at that.  Obviously I treasure it doubly as it reminds me of my dad.

She’s going to be an extrovert I think.  Her whole face lights up when someone looks her way and she does a full body shake.  She loves people.  I’ve never been greeted by such a happy kid first thing in the morning when I release her from her crib.  She loves us, her family.  Big smiles for everyone.

Perhaps because she’s got two older siblings, but all she wants in the world is to be in the mix.  And don’t you dare try to leave her alone in a room.  This used to make her holler and scream.  Now that she can army crawl she just determinedly follows us around wherever we go.  (Of course army crawling is a slow and laborious task and as soon as Red catches up to us we’re off to another room.  I have a feeling this kid will be one happy camper once she learns to walk.)

I'm not sure if I can blame the red hair, but she definitely has more of a temper at this age than my other two.  Until Red I’ve never really seen a baby get mad.  Sad, upset, discontent yes.  But full on angry, temper tantrum style.  Not so much.  I kind of love this feisty fire, though.  That, combined with her determined spirit will serve her well.

The thing I’m learning, perhaps my favorite truth of parenting, is that it just keeps getting better.  I keep loving my kids deeper and harder and madder each year.  Their personalities develop and emerge more and more each passing day.  The stuff they are into, the things they are able to do, it just gets better with time.  And so now that I know this truth I can’t wait.  I can’t wait to see Red grow, to understand who she’s been created to be, to watch her live into that self.  It’s so much fun isn’t it?

I have different prayers for each of my kids, prayers that started when they were growing in my belly, prayers that I’ve echoed in the days since.  My prayer for Red has centered on redemption.  I pray that Red will be sensitive to the work of God’s redemption, in her own life and the lives of others.  I pray she will be a warrior of this work, partnering with God to pull people out of the wells they’ve imprisoned themselves in and helping them redeem their stories.  It’s good work if you can get it.

 Sweet Red.  She fits so beautifully into our family.  Monster made us parents, Toots made us a family and Red- Red committed us to the work of being family.  There's no way around it now.  With three kids we're in the thick of it.  And I wouldn't have it any other way.

These beautiful photos are courtesy of my good friend Mary, who offered to take photos of Red, both as a newborn and again at six months.  And really, how could I possibly say no to such beautiful shots!  This kid is going to be my most and best photographed one!  Thanks Mary!

On Redemption

I had an interesting discussion with my co-workers recently that I haven’t quite been able to get out of my head.  We were discussion that theological dilemma about whether or not God intervenes (or chooses not to intervene) in order to teach us a lesson.  More specifically, did God cause my co-worker to get an intense thyroid virus that rendered him incapable of doing pretty much anything as a way to “slow him down?”  This conversation sprung from an incredibly insensitive comment that I made- pretty much to that effect. 

For the record I felt awful when I realized what I’d said.  I mean if he were battling cancer, I would never in a million years have told him that God caused his cancer in order to slow him down.  That would be awful.  And if someone had told me that God allowed my dad to die so that I could learn something I would have punched that person in the face.  It’s a problematic theology, this “God’s hand in stressful/difficult/tragic situations in order for us to learn something” theology.

And I’ve wrestled with it much this year following my dad’s death.  I don’t believe that God would put our family through the hell of this year to teach us something.  It’s pretty twisted.  I don’t think God causes cancer in order to wake us up or makes us hit that tree with our car to teach us a lesson.  I just don’t think God is that manipulative or cruel. 

But if I don’t believe that, can I believe that God does intervene in some cases?  Was it his hand that caused me to be late, narrowly missing that car crash by mere seconds?  If he saved me, why didn’t he also do it for the others?  It’s a tricky rabbit hole to go down. 

And it’s hard because I don’t want to pick and choose, acknowledging God’s intervention when the outcome is good but not when the outcome is bad.  But then is the solution to acknowledge God’s intervention in ALL things or in NO things?

Like most things regarding God I’m finding myself more and more comfortable with a simple “I don’t really know.”  And that’s how I left it in the conversation with my co-workers.  I’m just not really sure.

But then later, as I drove home, I realized there is something that I’m beginning to know for sure.  I’m beginning to know that in all things God redeems.  This is the story told over and over again throughout the Bible.  God redeems.   He takes what is broken, what is lost, what is ruined and he makes it new, better, beautiful.  He turns a horrific death on a cross into salvation for all.  He redeems.  God is in the business of redemption.

For a long time I believed that God’s work of redemption was a begrudging work.  We stupid humans kept messing up what God had created and he kept swooping in to “fix it.”  And each time he did, it came with an eye roll, a heavy sigh and a hint of annoyance that there was yet another thing in need of redemption. 

But I’m starting to wonder if God maybe loves being in the business of redemption.  If this is the kind of work that makes his heart sing.  If it is exhilarating and fulfilling and exciting work for him.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been binge watching last season of Gray’s Anatomy on Netflix, but this idea of God loving the work of redemption makes me think of surgeons.  Surgery is long, and complicated and exhausting.  And yet surgeons, the ones who were made to be surgeons, can’t get enough of it.  They would stand in one place for hours and hours at a time fixing what is broken in the human body and walk out of that operating room exhilarated, fulfilled and excited.  They aren’t rolling their eyes and huffing about having to fix another heart.  They are in the business of fixing hearts.  It’s what they were made to do. 

And I think God is in the business of redeeming what is broken, hard and hurting. 

So I’m starting to pay attention to this work.  When I do this well I notice it all around.  God is redeeming hard things all the time.  Which is good because we humans are really effective at creating hard things in need of redemption.  I want to partner with God in that work of redemption.  I want to pull people out of wells and help redeem their stories.  I want to be a person who looks for ways to bring about something redemptive in all things.

Because there is something different about redemptive work.  It’s not false positivity.  So many times in this past year of grieving I would get so frustrated with people who constantly wanted to point out any positives or push me along to happier thoughts.  Comments like, “I know this is hard but I pray that you can draw on all your happy memories of your dad right now” did anything but uplift me.  People are uncomfortable with sadness and so they are desperate to find anything positive and I get that.  But it left me feeling like I shouldn’t be sad, like if I just focused on the happy stuff the unbearable pain would just go away.  False positivity wants to hide the pain, cover it up, distract from it, pretend that it doesn’t exist.

Redemption is different.  Redemption sits in the pain and broken.   Honors it.  Allows for it.  And then out of that pain creates something new.  Redemption is rooted in the broken so that you don’t have to ignore or deny it, but blooms something beautiful out of pain.  Where false positivity wants to pretend like things can be the same, as before, if we just focus on what’s positive, redemption recognizes that nothing will ever be the same, but beauty is still possible.  Something new is created and it is good.  It is something altogether different than before it was broken, but it is beautiful and redeemed.

Redemption is everywhere I’m realizing.  Just as God is everywhere, so is his redemptive work.  In all things God redeems.