Thinking About Michael Brown

When Michael Brown's death made nationally headlines, I thought, "Aw, that sucks."  Which.  Is maybe the most disgusting reaction to the knowledge of a human being's death?  My self-centered privilege could not be better summarized than my indifferent reaction to the end of a person's life.

I was going to write about how my opinion changed, a process that mostly revolves around the destruction of my naive belief that of course Darren Wilson would be charged with murder.  But I'm not good at talking about this.  Racial tensions, and a history of racial privilege and abuse that has been largely swept under the rug (because of embarrassment? a genuine hope to move past it?), oh my gosh, that is so out of my depth.  I very much believe racial equality is still something for which America must strive, but I'm not knowledgeable on all the details of how this plays out. 

So instead I'm just going to post some of the things I've been seeing online that have got me thinking.

I'm ashamed to admit that when this first was blowing up, I thought, "But I'm fighting for gender equality, not racial equality."  Again, ugh, the inside of my brain, ugh!  As if my concern for justice can only cover one group.  Thankfully I saw things like this that connected the dots for me.

This grossed me out...

One quote that especially made me sad...

“What age is a black boy when he learns he’s scary?”― Jonathan Lethem

And then there were a lot of comparisons made of how the law treats black and white people drastically differently.

"Just a reminder that James Holmes shot 82 people, walked out of a movie theater armed to the teeth and was arrested peacefully, while Mike Brown and a 12 year old boy with a toy gun were shot to death by cops because of 'self-defense.'"

This is not a place where I'm defending what "really" happened or how this specific situation ought to be played out, although I definitely have opinions.  What I care about is my growing concern for the racial divides that run deep in American veins.  In my veins.  I am appalled at how easy it was for me to not care about the death of a human being.  I am appalled at my preference in supporting one oppressed minority (aka the group I'm in!) while totally ignoring another oppressed minority.  I want to be on the side of the downtrodden, the abused, the hurting, the ignored, whether or not I can personally identify with them.  I'm done with not caring.

Reframe

Whenever I'm with a group of single women, there is an 80% chance that the conversation will meander towards a discussion of the fears we have surrounding marriage--giving up freedom, trusting that intimacy will stay despite personal growth and/or change, etc.  And twice this has happened.

Me:  Marriage is scary!  I just haven't found a guy who I like and respect enough to let go of the fear and start trusting.
Friend: That's not true.  You've loved guys that deeply before.  They just didn't love you back.
Me:  ...

I'll be real, I can only barely tolerate that level of honesty.  I have been pissed about this conversation for months, and I'm only starting to process what that means.

Why does that reminder--they just didn't love you back--make me so angry?  Well, obviously because it touches on rejection and unworthiness and all those horrible feelings.  It feels like it is a break of the friendship code, where you don't, you know, shove your friend's face in all their insecurities.  But on a deeper level, that statement angered me because it took away my control.  When I narrate my singleness, I give myself the power, telling people I haven't found the right guy, I'm not willing to give up freedom.  I am the person keeping me single.  It's my choice.  But when my friend called me on this, I was suddenly stripped of even that.  Not only do I not have a person who has committed to loving and supporting me through life, I'm not even responsible for this lack.  My last shred of dignity, taken away.

The introspection doesn't end there!  Again, months after this conversation, I am only beginning to shift the way I frame my singleness.  If it's not my choice, then what?  I mean, it would be easy to sink into all the things I'm avoiding (rejection, unworthiness, etc), but there's another side.  If I'm not choosing to be single, then that means--I'm open to love.  I do give my heart away.  I practice vulnerability.  I risk my affections, and I'm willing to gamble on romance. 

I have to give up the illusion that I'm in control of my singleness, and that hurts.  But I get to give up the illusion that I'm a cold-hearted bastard.  Giving that up is a bit scary, of course, since a cold heart isn't broken so easily.  But it also means all that therapy nonsense where I worried I couldn't feel and that I lived in hopelessness was, well, nonsense.  I do nothing but feel and hope. 

That's my new narrative.  I'm ready to love and be loved.  So far those halves of the sentence are not synchronized, since I'm not interested in being loved by those who confess it, and the guys I love similarly dismiss me.  But I'm not broken, I'm not shut down, I'm not hard.  I'm ready for marriage, and when the day comes that the guy I love says, "hey, me too," I don't think it will be difficult to take the next step.

Unless he's allergic to cats.  Then there's gonna be a problem.

My Old Heart

I had a sweet moment with God, but it includes a curseword, so I'll put it under a cut.

Nickel

Dr. Jones told a story in class the other day that hit me hard. There was a little girl, he said, who begged her dad for a nickel so she could buy a gumball from a machine. When it wasn't working, she whined, “If you loved me, you would give me a nickel!” Her dad smiled, leaned down, and said, “I love you this much,” and handed her a twenty dollar bill. She looked at it for a minute, then threw it to the ground and cried, “But I wanted a nickel!”

It got me thinking about how lately I've been so hung up on wanting to date someone, wanting marriage to be on my horizon. I beg God and give God a list of fifty reasons why this would be a good idea. I sulk and I whine and I pretend like it's not bothering me to see if reverse psychology will work on Him. I'm stuck on this boy-shaped nickel, ignoring and even throwing away the costly gifts that He has already given me.

I am in a great school, studying something I love, debt free. I'm going to get a job in a profession that I am passionate about while so many people work whatever they can get just to pay the bills. I have so many friends in so many places who support me, love me, and listen to me. I live in a big city just like I always wanted, and I'm learning to love the small city from which I came. I have a wonderful brother who likes to hang out with me. I have three roommates who were previously strangers but we all get along. I have more books than I could ever read, more TV shows than I could ever watch, and people with whom I can discuss them. I found a church in Dallas who preaches grace and a small group who makes me feel welcome, loved, and necessary. I work for a wonderful family who treats me as one of their own, nannying two kids who could be my own, where going to work means fun and not stress. I'm healthy, which isn't fair, because I don't take care of myself. So much of my life is blessing—extravagant blessings, even. God has showered me in twenty dollar bills, and I'm still whining for that nickel.

It's a nice nickel, I've heard. And I do want to be married someday. But I want to appreciate the gifts that God has already given me, and trust that He gives gifts in His perfect timing, which sometimes means never. And that's okay, because He is good. I want to know that, deeply and continuously.

I Think This Is About Identity

I think most of life is paradoxical.  For instance, one of my deepest desires is to be known, but I freaking hate it when someone says they understand me.

So, me being me, I thought about why that might be.

What bugs me most is that no one really does know me.  Liz is probably closest, and she never says that she knows me, which probably just goes to show how well she really does.  But with pretty much everyone, I hide parts of myself.  Sometimes it's stupid, sometimes it's important.  Regardless, I am very aware of the fact that no one knows all the nooks and crannies of who I am.

Especially online.

I have a pretty thoroughly-crafted online persona.  I reveal my weaknesses, but only the ones I'm comfortable revealing.  I create witty Facebook statuses, but if no one likes them, I delete them.  Sometimes I rewrite a stupid Facebook status three times before leaving it alone.  I have a self-deprecating sense of humor so that I laugh at myself before others can.  I write about things that I have an opinion upon because I want to look at least mildly informed and intelligent.

I'm aware of the fact that, if that is the person I present, then why get mad that people assume it's who am I?

Well, I'm human, obviously.  Even though I'm hijacking the system, I still want to be known.  And watching someone act like they know me when they are missing crucial parts of who I am is painful.  Even if I am the cause.

Liz has a theory that we stick people with labels whether they want it or not.  She's "the girl who gets coffee."  When I was in Peoria earlier, I learned that I've apparently been labeled "weird." 

Which, just, what?  I don't think I'm all that weird.  Sure, I've stepped away from a lot of my Baptist roots, but....fundamentally, I'm not weird.  I want the same things everyone wants.  I want a life of meaning, I want relationships but I'm scared of getting hurt, I seek pleasure in things that never fully satisfy, I doubt and I dream and I hope.  I'm a complex human being, and it's really annoying to be labeled with only part of who I am.

Peoria always does a number on me.  Hometowns are hard.  "Is it any wonder why we all leave home? / People say, "I knew you when you were six years old" / And you say, "But I've changed, I've changed, I've changed, I've changed."

But also sometimes, I haven't.  So.  No easy answers.

I'm just rambling now.  Yeesh, emotions.  Which reminds me of another post I want to write about how the stereotype of women being overly emotional might just be the result of culture not holding women responsible for becoming emotionally mature.  MINDBLOWING, so good, etc, ugh I'm tired but I don't want to go to sleep, and the Internet is not as endlessly entertaining as the adverts promised, so now I'm just stream-of-consciousnessing, eurgh.

Keep Some Love To Yourself

"It's easy to hate yourself when all your love is inside someone else."

This song lyric blew me away a couple days ago, and I'm not done thinking about it.  I think it is the key to my low self-worth.  I have a tendency to fall in love easily and deeply.  I crush on a guy, and I immediately imagine our joint future.  I wonder if he is The One, I smile into the middle distance, I text and delete and look through pictures.

I put all my love inside someone else.

And when they reject me, it's easy to hate myself.  Because if this guy who I think is so awesome does not think the same of me, then obviously there's something wrong with me.  I'm unloveable.  I'm disgusting.  I'm too neurotic, too passionate, too different, too tall, too opinionated, too ugly.

It's easy to hate myself when all my love is inside someone else. 

So what needs to change?  I need to keep some love for myself.  I need to rest in the assurance that I like who I am, even if some guy doesn't.  If I give someone else the power to decide if I have worth or not, I will always be disappointed.  People, in all their glory and folly, will always disappoint.  Even if someday a guy I like feels the same way about me, there will still be days when he says something unkind or unthinking, and I'll be back in the same pit of self-doubt. 

I need to trust my own judgment. 

(I know some readers will think, you should find your identity in God!  Which is true.  Of course I do not fully understand God's love, but most of me thinks, "Well of course God loves me.  I want people and cute boys to love me just as much!"  But yes, I can always learn to lean more fully on God's opinion of me.)

My First and Last Pub Crawl

On Saturday I experienced the Dallas bar scene, and it was the worst.  To be fair, the evening started out lovely.  My friend was celebrating her birthday with a party hat pub crawl, so we wore party hats, and during dinner I met some of her other friends.  Good times.  Then we went to another bar down the street, and we all sat around two tables pulled together, and I got to know other friends who now happened to be sitting near me.  Then we crossed the street and went upstairs to a techno dance floor with glow-bands, which, obviously, was awesome.

*mild, or maybe not so mild, obscene content ahead.  I dunno how to do proper warnings.  IT WASN'T MY CUP OF TEA, basically.*

But then.  We ended the night down several roads with a couple turns, somewhere I wasn't familiar.  We went into a bar, and suddenly after midnight, everyone in the world was out and about.  My birthday friend had decided it would be a good idea to get a kiss on the cheek for each of her 27 years.  I thought this was a bad idea, but when she started with her guy friends, it was adorable and sweet.  Then random guys at the bar were pulled over.

I have to admit I shamelessly abused her.  When one guy came up to me, I grinned and pointed toward my friend, "Kiss her cheek!  She wants her cheek kissed!  Her, not me."  One guy obliged, then pushed his crotch into my thigh and whispered in my ear.  Since bars are notoriously loud, I couldn't hear him, so I grimaced and scooted away.  He followed, continuing to press against me and shouting.  Finally I worked out what he was saying:  "He's a stripper!"

I said alright, whatever, and when he turned away I turned to my friend and pointed to the other guy, screaming, "He's a stripper!!"  My friend thought this was hilarious, so he was beckoned.  After understanding the kiss thing, he licked up her cheek.  It was, well, repulsive a bit, but also hilarious, because at least she could say, "A stripper licked me on my birthday!"

Around this time all of her friends left minus one.  It was 1:00 in the morning, and somehow a group of them all said goodbye at once, and they told me and our mutual friend to get the birthday girl home safe.  I was so beyond done with the bar scene by this point, and for goodness sake, it was past midnight and I had a half hour drive home ahead of me, and I wanted to sleep.  But they were gone, and I didn't have it in me to leave my birthday friend alone with just one other person.

We were still sitting in the corner of a bar, and I cannot describe how little fun I was having.  The place was so loud, and so crowded, and there were eyes everywhere, and people touching me that I didn't know, and I just like to have my personal space respected, you know?  Wanting to get the show on the road, I said, "Are we still doing the kissing thing?  Because we should maybe move around.  Find more guys."  So practical, I am.  So we did, pushing toward the back of the bar, and yeesh gross ugh these two guys came up to us.

They were both tall, and one stood beside me.  He grabbed my arm and twisted my wrist so he could see my tattoo, pulling me into his side in the process.  Whenever he talked he leaned close to my face, frequently spraying me with saliva.  His friend was chatting up my mutual friend, and another guy who had given birthday girl a kiss was back for more, I guess.

Slobber Guy:  What an idiot.  What kind of idiot wears sandals? (referring to the guy chatting up birthday girl)
Me:  Well, it's hot outside.
SG:  Real men wear close-toed shoes.
Me:  Oh, yeah?  Anyone you know?
SG:  I'm awful.  I'm really judgmental, you might have noticed.
Me:  I did notice.
SG:  But you're fine.  I give you a pass.  In fact, if the world were ending, and I could only save 20 people, you'd be at like, 25 right now.
Me:  I'm sorry you only know 24 people you like better than me.
SG:  Hah!  Good one.  I'm going to get another beer.  You want anything?
Me:  No.
SG:  Really?
Me:  Yes.

Let me insert here, studying feminist things can make a girl a little leery of men.  So this whole exchange just absolutely repulsed me, because the only reason I could see for him wanting to buy me a drink is so that I would be just drunk enough not to resist his inevitable sexual advances.  Disgusting.  Underhanded.

Also, if you wear a party hat to a bar, drunk people think it is entirely within their right to pet it, move it around on your head, or gesture obscenely toward it.

Slobber Guy came back, but I suddenly thought of something I had to tell my mutual friend, which could only be spoken into her right ear, so I moved to her other side.  Where "Nice" Guy was standing.  He was pleasant for awhile, mostly making fun of his friend.  Good tactic, because I didn't like his friend.  I kept trying to convey my dire need to escape to either of my friends with my eyeballs, but they didn't seem to catch the hint.

"Nice" Guy:  You both seem way too sober for 2:00 in the morning.
Me:  We go to seminary.
"N"G:  All of y'all!?
Me:  Yes.  We go to seminary.  So.  No drinking.
"N"G:  Well, okay.  I love Jesus!  Woo hoo!  Halle-f**king-lujiah!  Jesus!
Me:  Aw, jeez.

I made serious eyes this times, and birthday girl said we were all tired.  They guys tried to hug us as we struggled past them, but I skittered away and gave high fives instead.  When we got outside, birthday girl looked upset.

Me:  You look like you're not having as much fun anymore.  With the kissing thing.
BG:  They just.  They started, you know.  Taking advantage, and instead of just kissing my cheek they would linger or touch my waist, and just.
Me:  THAT WAS AWFUL.  I'm sorry.  Happy birthday.  Just, ugh.  Right there, I didn't love that.
BG:  Let's go meet my friend at another bar.
Me:  Wut.

So we walked to yet another bar.  It was 2 a.m. by now, and everyone on the sidewalks and hanging over bar patios screamed "happy birthday" at us, or sang at us.  I won't lie, I kind of liked that part.  Drunk people are often very sweet, when they aren't being gross.

Luckily birthday girl could not contact her friend, so we did not go into another bar.  Instead, one of the guys who had abandoned us an hour earlier drove to pick us up, and when we were dropped off in front of her apartment, I positively fled to my car and sped home.

Here's the thing.  I knew the bar scene existed.  I knew that people spend their weekends drinking with friends, meeting people, maybe hooking up.  But I do not know how they do it.  I hated the aura of the whole thing, this idea that personal space no longer matters, that everyone is there to chat up someone else, that personalities don't matter so much as the vague shape of being the opposite sex.

And I hated even more that I had willingly walked into that world, that by going into a bar after midnight, I was tacitly giving my acceptance to be leered at, grabbed, and spit upon.  Or told nasty things, I didn't even relate the worst things guys told me, ugh.  The guys I met at the bar quite literally had only one thing on their mind, and they knew that I knew, and they didn't care.  That was the whole point of the thing.

I can't do "romance" that way.  My interactions with the opposite sex go like this:  Notice someone is attractive.  Initiate awkward conversations.  Continue awkward conversations for several weeks.  Perhaps escalate to flirting, by which I mean lingering eye contact and maybe punching of shoulders.  Pine after guy for two or more years.

Obviously, I'm not cut out for pub crawls.  When I talked to Liz, she said she'd gone along on a few when she was in college, and she kind of enjoyed the attention.  Which, I get, I guess.  But attraction for me is all about words, about joking and questions and personality.  You can't really have conversations in crowded loud bars.  And anyway, even if a guy finds me attractive enough to have sex, well.  I'm educated and cynical.  All guys want that, I'm just a warm body, get away from me.

So.  That was my Saturday.

My Mentors: Kim and Clive

On Sunday night, Kim ended our prayer time by saying something like this:

"God, you made us as eternal beings.  We aren't meant to have to say goodbye.  Help us to see that this goodbye reveals who we truly are as we look forward to the time when we won't ever have to say goodbye again."

I'm feeling very "goodbye" this week.  The people around me are the wrong people.  The food I'm eating is the wrong food.  The house I'm in is the wrong house.  In a week or two I will once more appreciate Dallas and the friends, kids, and places here.  But I will still miss the Senegal reunion, because it is with them that I feel most like myself.

Kim talking about our weekend as a precursor to eternity got me thinking.  I've never really subscribed to eternity as playing harps on a cloud, but I think I did cling to some kind of majestic vision.  Now I've got a picture of eternity as resting my head on someone's shoulder, of telling stories that make people laugh, of spontaneously deciding to go out for a delicious snack.  There will be picture taking and hugging and lots and lots of laughter.  We will all be free to be who we are, the embarrassing habits no longer embarrassing, love and acceptance free.

Of course, I don't know if there will be cameras or Sonics in eternity.  But I think the underlying emotions of this past weekend are exactly correct.  Friendship, fellowship, fun and worship mixing together in conversations and prayers and songs.

C.S. Lewis talked about his painful visions of joy, of these perfect glimpses of what ought to be, and how devastating it was not to have that all the time.  He concluded that "If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world."  I long for friendships that do not require a goodbye, and my hope in Christ is that my longing will be realized in the world He is preparing.

Pre-emptively Nostalgic

Today is our last day as roommates.  AH.  Amy moves out tomorrow, and Liz and I are going to Tennessee.  When we get back home, I will go upstairs, and she will drive to Carrollton. 

Last night we all sat around and pre-judged the two replacement roommates.  Sometimes you have to be mean to avoid feeling sad.  That's not a good life lesson.  But it's true.  Liz and I were kind of cuddled up watching a movie with Greta Gerwig (the movie was okay, and after, Liz said, "the moral of the story is: Greta Gerwig is adorable" which is really all that matters), when Amy came in and later Jess.  Jess even put her head in my lap momentarily.  We are not a touchy-feely bunch.  I mean, actually, I think we all are, but we are mostly touch-receivers rather than touch-initiators, so all that random affection was seriously depressing.

Jess and I are going to be reading cat-lovers, which will be nice, and then Liz started sneezing at the mere mention of cats in the house.  Amy entertained us with her Day From Hell; I will miss her drama.  Jess and I argued over what movie to watch tonight on our Last Night Together--she wanted to watch The Kite Runner, and I insisted I would cry and didn't want to.  Instead I suggested Silver Linings Playbook, but Jess said bipolor was a trigger for her, and Liz piped in and said, "Well, The Kite Runner is pretty bad for Tricia like bipolor is for you.  She wouldn't like it."  Ugh, Liz.  She's my little defender.

ALSO she is weirdly proud of the strangest things about me.  Apparently when she was telling Amy and Jess about me before I moved in, she told them I passionately wrote on forum threads about Buffy the Vampire Slayer and liked to make dance videos.  They were scared to meet me.  When I told Liz that those are not things I want people to know about me before meeting me, she said, "But those are things I love about you!"

UGH, LIZ.  I swear, she is so great.  She's my best friend and so easy to live with and we get along like a married couple.  If friends could get married or something, I might, because I can't imagine living with a husband as seemlessly as I live with her.  But friends are often transient, and the power is in the non-commitment--it's choosing to wind the threads of your lives together for awhile, making each other stronger, and then spinning off to separate ways.

I freaking love her, and I'll miss her, and I'm so glad we have a four day roadtrip weekend!

Ranting on the Interwebs!

One of my pet peeves on the Internet (oh man, that's a can of worms) is when people use Scripture to defend their opinion, and it especially bothers me if it's a political opinion.  But that's not all.  What I hate the most is when someone then refutes that statement with non-logic or disdain for religion or a misunderstanding of Scripture. 

This happens all the time with marriage equality.  When someone says the Bible says same-sex marriage is wrong, but then someone counters this by saying the Bible is great, but let's acknowledge that it's a 6,000 year old culture-ridden book written by men.  And I just start writhing on the floor in a fetal position, because this could be a GREAT conversation, but now everyone is pissed off at each other. 

If you want to engage in a conversation (and clearly, most of the time people do not), you have to enter into the world of your conversational partner and speak from their position.  So in the first case, Christians should look at the complexity of the Bible from a non-believer's standpoint and empathize with the crazy, because let's be honest, even as a defender of inerrancy, there is a TON I don't understand, and if we bring interpretation into the equation (which we have to), it gets soooo confusing.  And non-Christians should realize that they are not going to change any Christian's mind by mocking the Bible or making it less than the revealed word of God.  So--engage in the interpretation conversation!  There is a conversation to be had if both people respect and acknowledge the position of the other.

I've also been seeing responses to Mike Huckabee's tweet "My thoughts on the SCOTUS ruling that determined that same sex marriage is okay: 'Jesus wept."  And the responses are all sassy things about how Jesus would think Mike Huckabee is a jerk, or that they were tears of joy or whatever.  And that is also a disconnect!  No one goes away happy!

And yeesh, I just want someone to tell Mike Huckabee that you CANNOT take words out of context without cheapening them.  Jesus was crying because he was at his friend's tomb, and his other friends were freaking sad about their brother's death, and they didn't trust Jesus or know Him fully yet, and Jesus was sensitive to all that, and there was a lot going on in that moment, but I'm pretty sure the legalization of same sex marriage wasn't one of them.  So.  Just shut that conversation down, and everyone stop being so bigoted and insulting in perpetuating this awful culture war.

Ugh, the Internet.  Basically, this post says I'm smarter than everyone, na na na na na na na. 

Ugh, me.  I'm so aware of the pridefulness behind this post, but also, I'm totally right.  So.

Boys Will Be Boys

When I picked up Anju this afternoon, she was watching the new One Direction trailer.  I was pleased to see that a minute in, a 40-year-old woman was buying a lifesize cutout of Louis.  "That's my future," I thought, and I forgot even to feel ashamed. 

The thing is, I freaking love boys.  Boys and their boyness.  No matter the age.

There's a very particular memory I have from college, when Stephanie and her roommates and Kevin and his friends and I all went adventuring in the woods across the street from campus.  It felt like an amalgamation of fantasy lands, so we dubbed the exploring MidNarniWartsLand.  After we'd traipsed and jumped and nicknamed each other, we popped out of the treeline into a field.  Cameron immediately held up his arms as though defending himself with a sword, and Kevin and whats-his-name charged.  They had an epic imaginary duel, and they threw themselves to the ground and acted ridiculous.

I was utterly charmed.

Ever since Roy and Aaron allowed (or were forced to allow) me to accompany them on their forest adventures, I have longed to be in BoyVille.  The imagination, the danger, the nature, the silliness.  It's wonderful.  And even though I love, even though I've done it for most of my life, I've always felt like an outsider.  The easy affection between boys (which is mostly why I'm obsessed with One Direction, they are freaking adorable with each other) and predisposition for mockery and punching and smiles--that's what I love, but I never felt like I was supposed to be that way.  Because when I ran off to play with the boys, my girl friends stayed back.  Eventually I stayed back too.

I don't know why that is, and I hate it, and I'm jealous.  But despite my outsiderness, whenever I see boys being boys in that particular way, I just fall in love a little.  Because that's how life ought to be, or how I want my life to be.

It's also, I think, why I love books like Bridge to Terabithia, where it's the girl who creates a forested fantasy world, or Beren and Luthien in The Silmarillion, who are Tolkien's original epic couple, but who fight together and love together and lose together and find together.  And that's what I want.  I want a boy with whom I can be a boy.  I hope that makes sense after the entirety of the blog.

Also, I'm totally going to pay money to see that One Direction movie.  If only I can convince Anju to ask her mother if she can go with me, but make it seem like her idea...

Get Out of My Brain (Just Kidding, Stay)

My friend Lindsay from DTS texted me awhile ago and said she had a book she thought I would like.  When we went out to eat the other night, she brought the book, and guys, I definitely read the whole thing today.  It's a memoir blog-turned-book, and everything this woman says is so much of how I see myself and who I want to be.  Imma review it all proper over on my book review blog, but I had to share a portion that made my jaw drop because of the uncanny ability she has to read my thoughts.

"Still, I was afraid to join this new church.  Because I don't want to pretend to believe anything I don't believe.  I don't want to pretend to not have doubts...Before I joined any church, I needed permission from whomever was in charge to be different.

So I invited one of the ministers over to my house.

I was scared.

...I told her that I love Jesus madly and deeply, but my problem always seemed to be that I understand him quite differently than many other Christians do.  And I love these other Christians, so I didn't want to offend them.  I suggested that maybe it was better for me to remain unattached to any particular church rather than disrupt a perfectly lovely one.

I explained that I had all kinds of doubts and questions and negative feelings about the church's role throughout history.  But I told her I still loved the church.  I felt kind of like St. Augustine, who said, 'The church is a whore, but she's my mother.'  If I were to become a member of her church, I would need permission to speak my mind respectfully but freely.  I would need permission to be myself."

Oh, and the book is Carry On, Warrior:  Thoughts on Life Unarmed by Glennon Doyle Melton.

What Makes a Church

My thoughts, over the past week, have been forming stars, and I think they are finally discernible as a constellation of sorts.  That's my highfalutin way of saying I finally know what I want to say.

I've spent a lot of this year thinking, "Finally!  People who think/feel/act like me!"  By which I mean, I met people outside the Baptist bubble who think Catholics can teach us things about Jesus, and Communion is a lovely weekly reminder of our dependency upon God, and drinking isn't evil, and cussing has a purpose, and women are equal imagers of God.  When I found these people, I formed my own bubble.  A snobby and exclusive bubble, I might add.

It was all very confusing, because while I adore my family at Woodland, I started feeling like maybe I'd been brought up wrong, and I resented the faceless and nameless church for raising me conservative and bigoted.  I think I was taking legitimate experiences at Woodland and heavily overlaying them with my own personality as well as the face of the Church presented by media.  I needed someone to blame for who I was, and I took it out on people I love.

Then I went home to Peoria last weekend.  And I mean, went home.  Woodland, for all its ridiculousness, is my family.  It was heartbreakingly wonderful to hug dozens of people, to continue conversations from six months ago, to know and be known.  It was so good to hear the Truth amongst people who may not agree with me about everything, but who love me anyway.  It was complete crap, leaving after two days.  Watching Woodland gear up for summer, with VBS (which I hate, even, but I wanted to be a part) and mission trips and youth gatherings and Sunday School plans and summer Sundays, I ached inside for missing it.

When I got back to Dallas, I didn't know what to feel, which is why I haven't written about it yet.  Because the fact remains that sure, I don't 100% with Woodland's party line.  There are people in Dallas with whom I can sigh, "You think that?  I do too!  Can we be best friends??"  I'm so grateful to have those people in my life, who make me feel less weird, who encourage me to pursue the ideas I'm passionate about and engage with culture.  But I couldn't ignore this huge hole inside reminding me of my church family in Peoria.

In July, I'm going to take a class on Ecclesiology, the theological word for "study of the Church."  In preparation, I've been reading Life Together by Dietrich Bonhoeffer.  He lectured pretty fiercely on the stupidity and sinfulness of "visionary" people who think they can "fix" the Church.  Which, well, stung a little, because I can definitely remember a particular blog post I once wrote that was all about how Church would be if I were in charge.  Bonhoeffer's point is that the Church is God's gift to us, with all its messiness and glory and frustrations.  In fact, it's in the messiness and frustrations that we really shine.

That's what I realized.   I'm copying a sentence I wrote earlier: "It was so good to hear the Truth amongst people who may not agree with me about everything, but who love me anyway."  That's the Church.  A bunch of people with a bunch of ideas, trying and failing to understand our great and mysterious God.  Agreeing on every little detail is not what glorifies God--honestly, that might mean we are cult.  It's in the disagreements, expressed in love, that Christians show the character of Jesus.  The fact that I push people's buttons, but they still hug me and ask my opinions, well.  That's what Woodland is.  It's my church.

I guess the point of all this is, my feelings haven't changed.  I still get frustrated with Woodland, and with Christianity as an institution.  But my feelings about my feelings have changed.  Those frustrations are something beautiful, I think, and I love being a part of a group of people who accept me despite my idiosyncrasies, and I love being friends with people even when I disagree with something they say.

Maybe If I Talk About It I Won't Feel So Depressed

Blogging Every Day Guidelines (Kind Of)

Yesterday, I stood at the balcony outside the kids' capoeira lesson, and I thought, "I wish I weren't alive."  Which is when it hit me that for the last couple weeks, I've been experiencing depression.  Knowing that, and giving my emotions that label, made everything better.  This has been a weird stretch of depression--I told Liz a few days ago that when I look at each moment of my life individually, it's awesome.  But when I step back, I get very sad.  I didn't really know why.

Here are some explanations.

I've finished my first year of school.  While it's awesome to be mentally free, I miss having a purpose and a goal.  I can only be aimlessly lazy for a couple days.  The long stretches of free time were wearing on me.  But depression makes me seek solace in being alone, which only exacerbates this problem.

I've not been intentional in my relationship with God.  Turns out most of my growth this past year is wholly dependent on seminary.  Which is great!  But I need some takeaway skills for summer and well, the rest of my life.  Unfortunately, depression also makes me avoid God, so again, problem exacerbated.  Depression is a bitch!

Other stuff.  Everyone is leaving.  Boooo.  Michal Ann was awesome, and she moved to Austin in December.  Which isn't so bad, but I kind of planned on spending weekends visiting her, only now she's spending a couple months in Turkey.  And Liz is moving out, which SUCKS, and I hate finding a new roommate, and her family is all here, which is great, but I MISS HER, and I just want to hog all her time to myself.  But paradoxically, stupidly, I hole up in my room instead of spending time with her, because DEPRESSION IS OBNOXIOUS.

More people left.  Chad and Melissa were my comfort blankets at Trinity, and they invited me into their small group, and I helped them move (the first time), and I loved them!  But now they're in West Virginia.  In order to share my sadness and find comfort from similarly bereft people, I....skipped church last week to avoid not seeing them.  Shall I reiterate how awful depression is, how it makes people abandon the very things that would help?

Having my church world rocked made me think back to Woodland, and since it's summer, I am desperately missing family mission trips.  I long for pool fights, and breakfasts in motels with random church members, and wearing scrubby work clothes, and sweating with my friends, and complaining and laughing and learning and bonding.  UGH.  My face just made that awful "I'm about to cry oh crap shut that down" face.

Why do I keep leaving the people and the places that make me feel safe?

Which is another thing.  My mental state is AWFUL.  I'm confused about a lot of deeply important issues, and I hate not having an opinion.  I hate being confronted with the fact that life is bigger than I imagined.  I want my little boxes, darn it!

And I just, I have this feeling that there are some really deep-seated psychological issues I need to work through, only free counseling is in four months and I don't want to spend money I don't have, and I'm scared to go to counseling as much as I long for it.  I'm scared what I'll learn about myself.  I'm scared what I'll have to do with that knowledge.  I'm scared to admit how broken I am.  I don't want to think about any of that!

Whew.

That covers--a lot of it?

It might seem weird to say after all of that, but today was actually a really great day.  Anju and Ketan are done with school.  We spent a couple hours at the library, which was lovely, and then we went to a fun zone park with mini golf and go-karts.  I've never been on a go-kart before, but it was SO FUN.  So I got to do something new, and feel the sun, and laugh and cuddle with these awesome kiddos.

Like I said, moment by moment, I really love my life.  There are just a lot of things circling around that wear at me and chew at my soul.

If anyone else ever feels like that, I VERY MUCH recommend Hyperbole and a Half's comic about depression.  She nailed it.  Sometimes it's just nice to feel understood and not so alone. 

Learning to Apologize

I like to post Facebook statuses that are mildly insulting of marriage or children and see how long it takes before someone says, "Oh, but really it's SO GREAT."  My favorite was when I mentioned how hard motherhood would be for me since I am used to getting paid for watching kids, and someone responded, "But when they're your own you just won't care!"

I'm sorry, but.  Isn't it the new American dream to get paid for something you love?  Loving kids has nothing to do with it.  I love watching TV, but I would definitely enjoy getting paid for every episode I watch.

It feels conspiratorial.  Everyone knows marriage is not 100% awesome.  Everyone knows raising kids is not 100% awesome.  So when people say that it IS great all the time, all I can do is give them the side-eye and assume they are hiding something.  Yes, I'm a cynic.  But I'm also studying counseling, and I know how many ways relationships can go wrong.

It's also annoying, because people say things like, "Marriage teaches you sanctification more than anything else!" or "Being a parent has really helped me understand God's heart for us!"  You might not mean it this way, but all I hear is, "Because you're single, you simply won't be as godly or love as unconditionally as us married parents!" 

Today I think I glimpsed a bit into what these people mean.  I took the kiddos to piano, and while Ketan was in lessons, Anju was doing theory near me.  She asked me to help, and I told her to look back in her book for examples.  She started crying, and cold-hearted bastard that I am, I intoned, "I understand that you're upset, but I gave you my advice.  If you don't want to take it, you don't have to.  But I'm not going to help you just because you're crying."  She kept crying.  Ketan came out to check on her.  The teacher came out to check on her.  I sat there, immovable.  When the teacher said she could give it a rest until next week, I moved to another part of the lounge.

And immediately felt guilty.  I should apologize, I thought.  I'll do it when Ketan goes to Boy Scouts.  I should do it now.  She might not remember why as clearly if I wait.  So I sucked up my pride, and knelt in front of the chair she was in. 

"Anju, I'm sorry for not comforting you when you were upset earlier.  I'm in kind of a bad mood because Ketan didn't feel well earlier, and I'm stressed because I have a midterm tomorrow.  I took out my bad mood on you, and I shouldn't have.  I care about you, and I'm sad that you were upset.  Okay?"

She nodded sagely.  "Can I hug you?" I asked.  She nodded again.  I hugged her, and she whispered, "That hurts my shoulders."  So I rocked back on my heels, grasped her shoulders in a arms-length dance-hug, and said, "How about this?" and stared wistfully into her eyes.  She giggled a little, and smiled, so I went back to my seat.

What I learned is this.  You have to learn to apologize with kids because YOU ARE THE ONE SCREWING THEM UP.  When you ignore adults, sure, you might be solidifying their distrust of relationships, but with kids, you are the one forming them to be distrustful.  That's a lot of pressure.  Also, kids are freaking annoying when they are in bad moods.  They have not yet learned how to suck it up and put on a fake smile.  So you have to apologize quickly to defuse their tantrum bomb.

I still don't think that parents have some magical insight into the mind of God.  What I think is that we all need to be investing ourselves in people of all ages, sexes, races, and relationships.  We can learn how to forgive, or be patient, or love unconditionally no matter our marital status.  It just takes getting outside of ourselves and being in relationship with others.

In this case, it involved a child.  But it doesn't always have to.

There and Back Again

I've just spent a week in Peoria, and while I'm glad to be back in Dallas (especially because Liz bedecked our halls with Christmas cheer while I was gone), I miss the comfort of Peoria.

It's so nice to have ready-made dinner plans, friends to cuddle with, old jokes, deep understandings, familiar roads, cozy cats, and all day every day devoted to renewing relationships.

There is no doubt in my mind that God has given me so many great gifts in Dallas, and I am grateful.  But tonight I am homesick for my hometown.

The World is Getting Worse?

I get kind of tired of hearing things like, "America is becoming a secular nation" or "The whole world is falling apart" or whatever.  For one, this seems like a very depressing outlook on life.  I believe there is both bad (sin) and good (redemption) in life, and I'd think most everyone would prefer to focus on the good than the bad.  Apparently not.

But also, I don't actually believe that things are getting worse?  I could never quite formulate why I thought that until I read an essay by C.S. Lewis in God in the Dock (which, sidenote, refers to a court room dock, like God is on trial--there's no maritime connections, as I previously assumed).  Lewis talks about the worries of his day, that England was becoming less Christian.  But he gave a very specific reason why that was false.  When chapel attendance suddenly dropped at Oxford, it wasn't because people started hating Christianity.  It was because chapel stopped being mandatory.

Maybe that's what's happening.  The Christian culture at large is declining in power (and thank goodness!), but I would wager that the number of committed followers of Jesus is roughly the same as it's always been.

If someone wants to bemoan the fact that a "Christian" layering of ideals is absent from our nation, then okay.  That might be true, and if that's where someone's hope is found, then people have cause to worry.  But my hope is found in Jesus Christ, the redeemer of children, women, and men, who is not bound by nations or policies or the internet.  His Spirit is going to keep working in every country and tribe and tongue, and I'm very excited to live right here, right now, and see it happening.

Oh the Shame

The past week and a half I've been robotically running into my culture shock wall, or maybe more accurately in this context, my "You mean this is real life and not a temporary displacement?" wall.  Nothing's bad.  I still love my roommates, my school, my job, and my church.  But I am TIRED.

I'm tired of reading seminary books all the time, half understanding the words floating through my brain.  I'm tired of thinking through the future, of what classes to take and when, and whether or not to plan for my licensure in Texas or Illinois or nowhere.  I'm tired of feeling like the new girl in social situations.  I'm tired of managing my money and waiting two weeks until I have enough saved up to buy stupid expensive Clinique face wash.

And then this weekend I got a cold.  Which is, whatever, unsurprising.  Stress and all.

Today I went to Dr. Kreider's class at 7:45 a.m. because I will not miss his class unless I am dead.  After that I thought, "I've got my chapel hours a little ahead of schedule.  I could go home for two hours before my next class.  But if I go home...there's a good chance I'll stay there."  My sneaky manipulative brain answered itself, smarmily assuring itself that "Of course I'll come back.  It's no big deal!  Just go home and rest."

So I drove home, knowing there was an 80% chance I wouldn't return.  Just in case, I refilled my water bottle and set out my books and purse for a run out the door.  Then I lay down on the couch and napped.  When my alarm went off at 12:10, I spent all of ten seconds deciding to dismiss it, and then I slept for another two hours.

THERE IT IS.  I skipped my first seminary class!  Agh, the shame!  I'm a skipping skipper who skips, and that will never change, and I spent my own money to pay for that class, and I just let it go to waste!

And now, it's like a death knoll, or something.  I don't really know what that means.  But I've skipped once.  The perfect record is tarnished.  WHO KNOWS WHAT WILL HAPPEN NOW?  But really, hopefully, it's just because of my cold.  And my life crisis.  That's all.

Yup. Here's the Depression.

This morning was awful, saying goodbye to my mom and the Woodlanders.  Watching them drive away and return to life in Peoria without me was harder than I anticipated.  I spent the day alternating between productivity (I got a library card!  I organized my room to neatness!) and sadness that I had no one to share it with.

I have exactly one friend in Dallas, though she is definitely a great friend.  Gone is the easiness of church programs filling up my week.  Gone is randomly stopping by a friend's house because I'm in the area.  It will take me at least a year to build up even a passing resemblance to what I have at Woodland.

Which made me think:  Why am I doing this?  Why move nearly 1,000 miles away from my friends and family?

Because I felt like God led me here.

And you know what?  I hate that answer.  Last night I went to the Mission Serve celebration worship, and the pastor talked about the demoniac who asked, upon seeing Jesus, "Are you here to torment me?"  That's how I feel.  I feel like God has continually put me in new places with new friends, only to yank me away from them when the relationships get really deep.  It feels sadistic.

I know that there is a part of me that longs for change, who loves the newness of cities and people and jobs.  I cannot sort out how much of this move to Dallas is something I want and something I blame God for.  But I know that it is easier to blame God than acknowledge that I did this to myself.

I want to trust God again.  I want to love Him, to genuinely love Him from my heart rather than reciting facts and theories from my head.  I don't right now, and my persistent ignoring of Him is only hurting things.  But that's just it--I don't WANT to be close to God.  I don't want Him to win me over only to screw with my life.  So I'm ignoring Him, and have been for months.

This has happened before, and I'm resigned to believing that it will happen again.  I will choose to leave a group of people who are more family than friends, and it will hurt.  I think part of my desire to move frequently is to avoid getting attached.  I have this idea that my life will be frantic and mobile, so why not turn off emotions and never get too close to anyone?

I haven't gotten very good at that yet.