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Archive for the ‘Hope’ Category

Going Home

Linking up today with Tara Owens’s synchroblog on Coming Home.

Christmas means going home to me.  I always go home (to my parents’ house) for Christmas Day, and that starts a week of celebration for me.  It’s the end of the rush – the end of the preparation.  It’s time for celebration.

Going home is not always easy.  I don’t have a lot in common with my family, other than bloodlines and Jesus, and we approach Jesus differently.   Their Christmas ends December 26, when mine has just begun.  I’m also somewhat of an anomaly because I’m 38 and have never been married.  My parents have been married since they were 19 and 23.  My younger sister and brother-in-law are celebrating their fifth anniversary this year.  My aunt is widowed, but in order to be widowed, you have to have been married (twice, in her case).  I think they don’t know what to do with me.  I think they don’t understand (I don’t really understand either, but that’s another post for another time).

So going home is often lonely.  It’s the loneliness where you’re surrounded by people who love you but you still feel like the other – the one on the outside, peering into the foggy window to the beautiful scene that you can’t quite reach and don’t quite know how to fit into (or even if you’re supposed to fit at all).

But being away from home on Christmas is worse. To be lonely and also alone is bad.  One year, north Texas had a freak snowstorm around Christmas.  But it was December 24, and I was not going to let it deter me.  Then, when I called my mom to let her know that I was on my way, car fully packed and fueled, coffee in hand, she told me that conditions were so bad that their road had been closed and that I shouldn’t come.  It wasn’t safe.  She tried to soften it by saying that Tammy and Matt were stuck in Oklahoma to let me know that I wasn’t the only one missing, but it didn’t soften it.  They were stuck, but they were together.  I had no together.

So I spent Christmas Eve how any responsible, mature Christian would – with baked goods, a bottle of wine, DVDs of Lost, and my sad feelings.  My friend Maranatha invited me over for the evening, but that was after the second glass, so I wasn’t getting back in the car.

The next morning, however, she and her family wouldn’t take no for an answer.  Her two sisters and her mother both called to inquire if I was on my way.  I was coming for Christmas brunch if they had to come get me themselves.  They fed me, plied me with coffee, and somehow managed to have a gift for me, which was totally unexpected, so that I would really feel a part of the whole celebration.  They let me be sad when it got overwhelming.

I love those people.  It was the next best thing to going home.  They still gave me Christmas Day with my family – just a different family.

A couple of days later, the roads were clear, and I was able to go to my parents’ house.  I ended up driving right behind Tammy and Matt the last five miles of the trip, so we timed it perfectly. Everything was back to the way we meant it to be – just a few days later.

I am lucky.  I am blessed.  I am happy (most of the time).  I am pleased with my life (again, most of the time).  I am whatever-adjective-you-prefer-for-the-relatively-charmed-life-I-lead.

However…

I yearn to move from “going home” to “coming home.”  I have spent the last week musing about what the difference is, and I can’t quite put my finger on it yet.  What I’ve come up with so far is that I don’t want to have to leave the little pocket of existence that I think of as my life to go home.  I want home to be a part of life – a place I come to – a place I find not only my family and the people who mean home to me but I also find myself.

This will be the first year that I’m with a church that observes the liturgical year.  This will be the first year that I am not doing Advent and Epiphany and Lent alone (or as the weird girl who sporadically appears at Vespers, shifty-eyed and guilty-faced, like she’s cheating on her church).  They’re very difficult to do alone.  Doing it alone is not doing it right (and we all know how I like to be The One Who Does It Right).  I hope that this helps me see home as a place I come to rather than a place to which I go.

Speaking of Coming Home, Tara Owens is offering an online Advent course.  It runs December 1-January 11.  If you are looking for your season to be different, too, sign up!

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Coming Out

Disclaimer: I identify as an ally in this piece only because friends in the LGBTQIA community have graciously called me one and because “ally” makes a more succinct tweet than this explanation. But I don’t actually get to decide that I’m an ally. I don’t get to decide if what I say and do is helpful or hurtful to them.  They do.

“If she turns the power on, maybe she saves the world.  Or maybe she sets it on fire.”  Revolution, The Dark Tower (Season 1 Finale)

This post was more difficult to write than I thought it would be.

It is not difficult for me to identify as an LGBT ally.

It is not difficult for me to challenge my residents and students who say or do careless things to consider the effect their behavior might have on others, and it is not difficult for me to reprimand students who, in the name of God and in their passion to serve him, say hurtful things to further what they believe to be God’s agenda.

It is difficult for me to admit that I used to be one of them.

I grew up in a Southern Baptist church.  I was the in-church-every-time-the-door-was-open girl.  I earned all my badges in GAs, and I completed all the levels in Acteens.  I sang in all the choirs.  I played handbells.  I performed the Special Music.  I saw you at the pole.  I played piano for the children’s choir.  I taught Vacation Bible School.  I went to Glorieta for summer camp and jumped up and down at Michael W. Smith concerts and had a holy crush on DC Talk (although I can’t really remember which member – probably all of them).

And I came to college and sought out people just like me.  I sought out my comfort zone.  The Baptist Student Union took me in.  They fed me and provided a safe place to air out all my grievances about this new, fast-track-to-hell world into which I had been dropped.  They understood, and they agreed with me when no one else did.

I also met people who were very different from me.  The Ones I Had Been Warned About.

You know the ones.  You’ve probably met them, too.  They’re loud and they’re proud.  Get used to it.

I was warned that they were the ones who would change me to live the way they do, if they could, because that was their Agenda.

That’s okay, I thought.  Let them try.  I also had an agenda, and I knew that it was sure to prevail, because it was clearly God’s agenda, and my God is so big, so strong, and so mighty, there’s nothing my God cannot do (clap, clap).

Uppity – when I prayed for a friend I knew from church choir at home when, on the way to dinner and Bible study, he stopped at Mable Peabody’s to fill the condom dispenser as part of his work with AIDS Denton.  I would not deign to walk through the door, but I assured myself that I already knew everything that I needed to know about what was going on in there to know it was not a place a believer had any business entering.

Snide – when I asked my friend if he was gay because he was afraid of women.  He responded much more kindly than I deserved, but I took his uncharacteristically soft-spoken response as a sign that God had convicted him through my words.

Afraid – if this one thing I’d always been taught wasn’t exactly true – if they weren’t godless, reckless heathens – then what was to stop the whole house from burning down?

Knowing them did change me, but not in the way I had been told that it would.

I changed because none of the people I met fit my preconceived notions.  A few of them acted like they did, but once I had a conversation with them, the act crumbled.  The walls came down.

I changed because they were loyal to each other.  They argued and got angry, but when it was over, they were on each other’s side.  I changed because they reminded me of my family and of what I wanted in a church.

I changed because in the bathroom at Mable’s, about two years later from that night when I was so convinced that I had finally reached him, I had this conversation with my friend:

“I’m sorry about that thing I said when we met.  That you were gay because you were afraid of women.”

He rolled his eyes, “That is so past.  What made you even think of that?”

“I just want you to know that I don’t think that anymore.”

He clicked his tongue and waved his hand at me, shooing away my concern.  “Girl, I know you love me.”

And that was it.  It was that easy.

It wasn’t the serious, intense conversations that I’d had before, conversations designed not just to restore but to make sure that I Learned My Lesson and was Fully Convicted of My Sin and All The Other Ominous Capitals, where the other person made a point to look me in the eyes, prayerfully and tearfully, as they murmured a slow, reverent, heavy “I forgive you,” like an aspiring Kirk Cameron.  It also wasn’t a begrudging “It’s okay,” forced through clenched teeth, offered only because we were Christians and refusal to forgive was not an option.

It was the easy forgiveness of a secure friendship.

It was the grace of a forgiveness offered and given before it was even requested.

I am an ally because I learned what forgiveness looks like at a gay bar.

I am an ally because my  LGBT community is not ashamed to call me one, despite my uppity, snide, fearful fumblings.

I am an ally because they are my friends.

I am proud to call them my friends.

I am an ally because being one did not burn the whole house down (although some of it could still use some remodeling).  There’s nothing our God cannot do.  And our God is a God who gets what God wants.  God will heal the brokenhearted and break the chains of the oppressed.  God will even save their oppressors.

God changes my self-righteous heart.  Every day, God changes me.

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Addie Zierman’s book When We Were On Fire (which has to be one of my top ten favorite book titles of all time) comes out today, and she’s invited us to tell our stories, too.  Hop over to her synchroblog and read some others.  More importantly, buy the book!

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Pie and…

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This little beauty is a thing that exists at my house right now.  But not for long, for it is tasty.  If one were to promise not to judge the terrifying state of my kitchen, one could come over for a slice.

It was a community effort.  I put hands to it, but I couldn’t have done it without the contributions of several others.  The pie crust and strawberry-rhubarb recipe are from Smitten Kitchen. The suggestion of replacing the vodka in the crust with gin, which complemented this filling beautifully, came from Preston Yancey (if you aren’t already reading his blog and counting the months until his book comes out, go on and check it out.  I’ll still be here when you get back.).  The rhubarb was a contribution of my sister and brother-in-law, because although I hear the word in a southern accent in my head, the plant apparently does not grow in our intense southern heat.  So they helped me search far and wide.  The wisdom of my mother, my go-to expert on all things pie, reverberated in my mind, telling me the exact moment to stop fooling with the dough, which always comes sooner than I anticipate.  Maggie fielded all my skeptical texts of “this looks too much like celery” and “this looks like the greasy crust we didn’t like that one time” and encouraged me to press on anyway.

All this help, swirling together against Beth Rowley’s rendition of Sunday Kind of Love and You’ve Got Me Wrapped Around Your Little Finger, which I’m convinced is how butter and sugar sound when you put them to music (especially if there’s also gin involved), produced one of the best things I’ve tasted this year.

I like doing things alone.  I prefer not to need others.  I prefer to go into a task, only depending on me, even when that doesn’t work out so well, because then at least I can chalk any bumps or ridges up to “Oh, well, I did my best – it was a lot for one person to handle,” rather than the ache of disappointment that I didn’t get the help I wanted – that I would have had “if only ____.”  I prefer not to be reminded of the “if only.”

I was told that I avoid community out of a fear of abandonment.  I admitted to a fear of being left, which sounded like agreement to me when I said it, but apparently it was not, as it inspired a rather spirited defense.  I suppose I downplayed the avoidance aspect, when that’s what they meant to be the theme of the conversation.  Anyway, it was an exhausting exchange.

Then pie happened.  And it took a whole lot of not-just-me to make it so.

It also took a measure of solitude.

It took both.  Both had value.  One did not take anything away from the other.  In fact, both were necessary.

I know that this post is disjointed.  I know that I’ve been quiet, but I’m starting to put to practice the idea of solitude and its value to community.  More later.

For now – pie.

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The last twelve hours

The last twelve hours have been emotional.  I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.

A couple of  highlights, in case you missed it:

1.  I love you, Texas Senator Wendy Davis.

2.  Thank you, SCOTUS.  A promising start.

I almost wept at work.  Perhaps I should have taken a personal day.

In other news, I am in love with these biscuits.  They might be my favorite biscuits that I’ve ever made.

Now, I am going to get another cup of coffee and see if I can’t remain upright for the remainder of the work day.

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  • {Day 3} What You Learned: On Thursday, February 28, link up at Preston Yancey’s blog and write about these questions: What surprised you this week? What did you take away from the discussion? What blog posts did you find particularly helpful? What questions do you still have?

This week was full of surprises, and all of them were good.

There are so many rich, wonderful voices in the places where feminism and Jesus collide – so many more than I knew.  So many more than I can choose.   Between working and reading, I haven’t slept a lot this week, but my sleep-deprived haze is a dreamy one – the euphoria of living in the magic of a book I can’t put down. FemFest has been that book this week.

This discussion has not stayed quietly on paper (er…screen?).  Several people saw my links on Facebook and Twitter and have stopped by to have conversations or emailed me to continue the conversation.  Many of them have experienced the same Happy Book Stupor that I’ve experienced this week in reading the posts, and they are thirsty for more.  I encouraged them to post their own pieces, and they responded that they didn’t think that they could say it as well as it had already been said.

Let me encourage you again to do the thing that this week has driven home to me the most – this time in writing.  Your voice is important.  What you have to say is important, and no one can speak your mind better than you can.  Speak.  Write.  Dance.  Sing.  Paint.  Play.  Fight.  But join the conversation.

To that end, I want to start a group.  I’m not sure if I want it to be a writer’s group or a reader’s group or both.  I think I would prefer for it to be a face-to-face group, if for no other reason than I make a mean frittata and would love to have another excuse to feed people.  I also think that there are specific things to be done and said where I am that don’t really translate to anywhere else.  But I have met me, so I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to resist expanding discussion via the intrawebs, at least in part.  The group is just a baby idea right now.  Who knows what it will grow up to be?

Step one – gauging interest with my face-to-face crowd.  More to come on this.

Thanks for inspiring me this week, FemFest.  This was fun.

Edited to add – !!!  Congress passes VAWA.

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{Day 2} Why It Matters: On Wednesday, February 27, link up at Danielle Vermeer’s blog, and write about these questions: What is at stake in this discussion? Why is feminism important to you? Are you thinking about your children or your sisters or the people that have come before you? Or, why do you not like the term? What are you concerned we’re not focusing on or we’re losing sight of when we talk about feminism? Why do you feel passionately about this topic?

Feminism is important to me, because I can’t do it alone. I need the world to want equality in both word and deed – for everyone. And I need feminism, because lately, I’ve been angry.

I want to be hopeful, and I am (sort of) – it’s just not the prevalent force in my life that I want it to be.

I am angry that…

– Too many women still have to work harder to earn the same respect, money, position, or insert-your-desired-compensation-for-work-here that men do, and that’s ridiculous. Don’t know any woman who has had that experience? Welcome to me. I can name four specific times in the last ten years of my career when I have been passed over for a job, only to find out that the man who got the job not only had less education than I do but more importantly, significantly less experience. And I would like to be able to say that those specific men chosen performed those jobs just as well as I would have, so it all worked out, but that’s only true of one of them (who was great at it, and I’m so glad that he got the job). The other three performed exactly how any rational person would expect someone with their limited skills and experience to perform. It’s frustrating enough to lose a job where I know I’d be an asset, but to lose it to someone who does not excel at it is maddening. I’m not naïve enough to think that the choice to hire them rather than me was merely institutional sexism – there were probably many factors involved, some of which were likely my own doing – but I am also not naïve enough to believe that sexism wasn’t one of the factors. And it needs to stop being one of the factors.

I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I do have two jobs that I generally like, while a lot of people are having problems finding any job at all. And there could be more cards stacked against me. I could be a woman AND a minority. I suppose I should see myself as one of the lucky ones. But do you really want to defend the position that working sixty hours a week, just to make ends meet, is lucky? Is that what a system that works looks like to you? That’s certainly not what it looks like to me, and that it works even less for some people than for others is wrong.

– Too many people are bound by rigid, socially constructed gender roles, and their unhappiness that they can’t seem to conform to them, despite constant pressure from church/family/media/society to do so, is unnecessary. I want a world where people can grow into themselves, especially the part of the self where their gender makes sense to them, without being told who they should be and being punished for violating some absurd norm from some imaginary world that was birthed so that the limited number of people who actually fit the stereotypes could feel superior.

– Too many people live in fear. I hate rape culture. I hate that, as a single woman living alone, I have had to take self-defense classes, and that I have various tools that can easily be used as weapons (and yes, I’ve practiced) stashed around my home, and that I have an escape plan – from my own damn home – the place that should be the safest place in the whole world for me – should it become compromised or violated. I hate that I am terrified that I just announced on the Internet that I am a single woman living alone. I hate that education on the subject tends to focus on how not to get raped instead of how to choose not to rape, assuming that prevention is a lost cause or worse – assuming that some people somehow deserve to be degraded. I hate that, twenty years after being a first-year college student myself, our culture is still so stunted in its awareness of this problem that I still have to explain to first-year college students why it matters whether or not they laugh at jokes about rape or abuse – why it is a big deal, always and every time –that that’s how desensitization works and that the complacency created by their desensitization is a big part of said problem. I hate that survivors of violence and abuse are silenced because their real and personal trauma seems like nothing but a big joke to our culture, which leads them to think that no one cares or will believe them and that, more often that you would believe, they’re absolutely right. I hate that rape culture is “just the way the world is,” and I refuse to let it stay that way.

– Too many people – mostly women and girls – are sold into slavery. I need feminism, because sex trafficking exists, and that’s not okay. I need feminism, because it pisses me off to live in a world where I have to say that sex trafficking – specifically, the selling of someone without her/his free consent (i.e., without threat of punishment, abuse, homelessness, ostracism, personal rejection, etc.) – is not okay. I need feminism because this is a problem in my country, in my state, not just “elsewhere.” And if somehow you manage to live in this world and you still didn’t know that, then you need feminism, too, because clearly your churches and your classrooms aren’t even talking about it, and that’s a problem.

– Too much of the world has too many problems, and too few people are whole enough to see far enough outside themselves to resolve them. There are people whose lives are defined by realities that I merely fear. There are people who work themselves to death and still go hungry and homeless. There are people who have to resort to illegal means or means that we, the richest 1% in the world, judge from afar as unethical in order to feed their family, because making an honest living doesn’t actually make a living at all (but it sure does make it possible for us to get great deals at Walmart, so for all our judgment, it seems that, once again, we’re the problem). There are people plagued by disease and poverty who have a voice but don’t have anyone to listen to it. We need to stop being selfish, sexist, controlling, thieving, abusive assholes to one another, because the world needs all the help it can get, and there are only so many hours in a day, and sometimes it’s too much to ask that we overcome our trauma and everyone else’s trauma, too. I am embarrassed that I ever accept that as an excuse not to try.

I am angry that people can see problems right in front of them, hurting people they claim to love,and still not understand or care.

I am angry, because I REFUSE to be apathetic, and most days, those seem like the only two choices.

I’m fed up. I’m tired. I could have written this post twenty years ago, because so little has changed. That’s exhausting. It’s disheartening to work so hard – to teach so much – and see it make so little difference. And I’ve only been at it twenty years. I think of those who have worked toward these goals for two or three times as long as I have, and I sometimes wonder how they get out of bed in the morning.

But between Jesus and feminism (which I suspect Jesus has a bit of a hand in), I have learned how to hope, so I can’t wait until I’m fixed to help others. There might be many pains outside our control, but there are enough pains that are fully within our grasp to alleviate or prevent. So let’s alleviate or prevent them. Let’s all cause each other less trauma. I need feminism (and my Jesus who taught it to me), because at its core is the theme that everyone benefits not only by our being less terrible to one another but also by our being good to one another.

So I am angry. But there is hope. Reading other FemFest posts this week has refreshed some of that hope in me. More on that tomorrow.

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Four More Years

I’m so happy right now, I can’t even stand it.  I’d sleep, but I’m too excited.  This is better than four years ago.

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