Charleston, Voices and Fear

20
Jun

There has been a lot of appalling news in the last two days, news of death and racism in a place that offered sanctuary to the very person who betrayed nine innocent people to their deaths. He sat there, basking in Mother Emanuel’s hospitality, and then opened fire. He came into a place that has traditionally been a place of refuge and basically defiled that sense of safety.

What can I offer to this conversation?

What words can a white woman add to make one whit of difference in the face of such monumental tragedy?

We are not made for fear, friends. We’re not made for despair. We’re made for so much more.

Events such as natural disasters, a child diagnosed with a chronic disease or health condition, a violent crime, a national crisis, these make us ask where the light is or what our society’s coming to. When brothers and sisters in a church are gunned down, it makes me ask where God was. Someone can try to answer that God was in the midst of the victims. Maybe He was. Maybe this evil man would have taken even more lives. What I know is that we need not fear one another, though we may not look the same. And people who are white like I am need to assert our voices in opposition to racism, be it overt or subtle. And if we fear that which we do not know, then it’s time to get educated. We need to know our history and acknowledge our implicit role in a system that has been discriminatory and has given whites advantages that we’ve profited from without even noticing.

What I know for sure is that God has not given us a spirit of fear.

Even when it feels like the fear is crawling up the back of our necks, even when it makes breathing hard, or makes a hard, cold little home in our chests.

God has not given us a spirit of fear.

That also means we can’t be afraid to wade into the conversation, afraid we’ll say something wrong or we’ll offend someone. If I come as a learner, asking to be invited to the conversation so I can listen and become aware, that’s an entirely different posture than coming in to negate someone’s position or make myself come of looking shiny and free from playing any negative role.

That said, we should hear voice of people of color who are living the experience. Please read what these good people are writing about the Charleston killings, and about the issue of race in the United States.

Osheta Moore at Shalom in the City

Austin Channing Brown

A’Driane Nieves curates amazing articles and pieces and writes about it here.

If you’re on Twitter, you can follow Deray McKesson.

If you want to “do something” to help Emmanuel AME Church minister to it’s congregation and continue its ministry in Charleston, you can consider donating to one of these organizations.

Let’s be in prayer for Charleston, for Emanuel Church, and for the families of these nine victims. And if you needed a soundtrack of inspiration, I’m leaving you with a throwback song that pops into my head whenever I think about not living in fear. Click here for musical fortitude in the face of darkness.

Be well, and live in freedom and love today.

Edited to add: this Amazing reading list , which comes from the African American Intellectual History Society website. Here’s their introduction of the reading list:

Here is a list of selected readings that educators can use to broach conversations in the classroom about the horrendous events that unfolded in Charleston, South Carolina this week. These readings provide valuable information about the history of racial violence in this country and contextualize the history of race relations in South Carolina and the United States in general. They also offer insights on race, racial identities, global white supremacy and black resistance. All readings are arranged by date of publication. This list is not meant to be exhaustive; please check out the #Charlestonsyllabus hashtag and the Goodreads List for additional readings.

Mile Markers Part B – Facepalm

16
Jun

Oh man. You are helping me face one of my worst fears: publishing a blog post by accident. I’ve been blogging for like five years now and I believe this is the first time I’ve messed this up this badly.

**shrieks in terror as she realizes her fear has come true**

That’s what I get for working on my phone and thinking I could easily pop over and save a draft of a post and instead I published it before it was complete.

Deep cleansing breath.

Ahhh…

There. Better.

Now that we’ve bemoaned my mistake (complete with an actual facepalm here on this side of the computer) please allow me to share the revised all-in-one version that I posted in two portions yesterday.

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Signals of prayer.

My friend Kim’s daughter is getting married this weekend. Let it be known that I am only 40 and none of my children will be getting married any time soon. My friend isn’t that much older than 40, but she got an earlier start than I did, and so her daughter (who is also getting an earlier start than I did) is getting married. Maybe I was a late bloomer. 🙂

Getting married is a mile marker, a major life event. It changes you, makes you open your life to someone else, making their growth and their desires and their health equally as important as your own. You may, heaven forbid, one day find yourself unmarried, but from the moment you take those vows, there’s a kids before and a life after.

I have another friend (yes, I have more than one friend, smarty pants, and for that I am grateful) who’s daughter and husband just bought their first house. Say what you will about the mortgage and banking industry, debt or the stereotypical American Dream, but buying your first home is an entry point into full adulthood in the eyes of many. The ability to be deemed creditworthy of making such a long term investment says something about your stability and responsibility. It’s a mile marker, and even if you sell the house and decide not to own a house again, it’s life event and it shapes your attitudes about a whole myriad of subjects.

Another friend of mine is walking alongside her mother through the process of being diagnosed with cancer. Have I mentioned lately that cancer sucks?

I’ve started wondering if cancer is going to be another mile marker in our lives. Is it something everyone will face? Is it another common experience that forever changes us?This time it isn’t something we enter into with any choice, and we’d certainly reject it if given the opportunity. Even if we are bystanders we are impacted, and our sense of safety and invincibility is sent spinning.

It would be nice to think that as we continue through life we are granted immunity from loss and grief, and there are definitely monumental life events that are full of joy and deep contentment. But I’m starting to realize…or maybe I’m just wisening up to what everyone else already knew, that just as happy mile markers are a part of life that should be expected, perhaps difficult ones are too. If we begin to accept the idea that they’ll visit us eventually, maybe it can take the surprise out of their arrival.

Resilient Heart

Get Messy Blog Hop Final Round of Bravery

20
May

Lately I’ve been pursuing things that are brave, even if that simply means something as small as believing in a possibility instead of dismissing it, trusting someone with an important decision, or trying something new.

These are challenging things, even if they seem small.

I’m also very aware that the calendar keeps flipping over and my family and I are approaching a painful milestone as we come up to the one year anniversary of losing my dad. I don’t know how to prepare for that. I don’t know what to expect. I’ve found that in other situations if I put too much emphasis on feeling a specific emotion in a particular moment, I usually get it wrong. It’s like my feelings are petulant toddlers who don’t want to be told what to do. I don’t have a lot of words about the anniversary yet, except to say that I think some of the incapacitating intensity of loss has ebbed…today.

That said, I’m trying to focus on what I think I might want to have around me as that day nears: my favorite scarf, fresh air, my family, and some paints.

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This great community of art journalers, Get Messy, has been focused on the word “brave” for a while now, and this is one of our last linkups on that topic. I didn’t include any pictures that had the materials used to create the pages but I’ll try to get some of those again in the future. If you want to see the way other people interpreted some of the challenges, click here.

Are they falling down or floating up?

My biggest news is that I started a part time job. This may not seem like big news, but I’ve been home full time with the kids for many years. MANY YEARS. So any paying employment that takes me away from home and has regular hours and a PAYCHECK is a big deal. It’s going really well, but the next art journal page comes out of A. being brave in re-entering the workforce, and B. being swamped with all the new information I have to learn (relationships, names, positions, responsibilities, programs, etc.).

It’s a waterfall of information.

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When I was in fifth or sixth grade, my family went to a conference out in Colorado. Remember, I’m a child of the 80’s so this was around the time that neon colors and black rubber bracelets were the big thing.

I wanted to join in the fad, so I somehow acquired a new pair of earrings (I don’t remember having money or taking the initiative to go buy them, so my mom must have bought them for me). They were super-cool, dangly and neon. I wanted to wear them with an air of nonchalant confidence but in fact, I was terribly self-conscious about them. I was sure everyone was staring at me.

My family went to a party — with dancing — at the end of this conference, which had people of many ages attending. A much older boy came up to me during this party and very sweetly asked if I’d like to dance.

PANIC!!!!!

No way was I going to dance with this super cute older boy. Was he insane?!

“No, thank you,” I mumbled, totally embarrassed.

He left and I spent the rest of the evening silently wishing I had said yes.

This journal, made on a flat canvas board, is a shout out to those earrings, which were an act of bravery even if I was self-conscious about them the entire time I wore them.

An ode to neon earrings.

This one is an attempt at a new technique.

Trying new things is fun…and unpredictable. The words read: What’s happening on the outside and on the inside are very different.

I submitted some artwork and an essay to an online publication. I don’t know if anything will come of it, but it was definitely an act of bravery to push “send” on that email.

Feathers are inspiring.

Okay, this final page is scary for me to share but that’s part of what this is all about. I’m trying to learn a new thing and simultaneously take steps to share, even if in the process things are imperfect.

More feathers, in lots of ways.

There we are, friends. I’ve shared some of my brave moments with you. Do you care to share any brave moments of your own? Can’t wait to hear from you in the comments!

Parents who work away from home are tough as Nails (in case you’d forgotten)

18
May

The back door to somebody’s workplace.

For all the parents who made umpteen phone calls arranging childcare,

For all the hours spent searching online for reputable organizations and references,

For the extra batteries in the alarm clock, the lunches made the night before, the papers signed, the backpacks packed,

We salute you.

For all the pinch hitting,

For all the brief personal phone calls at work saved up and made in a flurry during a break,

For the favors called in when a child gets sick,

We humbly bow.

For every meeting missed,

For every boundary established,

For every “quick bite to eat with the team after work” sacrificed,

We hear your call.

For the way you prioritize projects at work,

For the art of delegation,

For every lunch taken at your desk,

For your ability to switch gears from employed person to parent of a young child,

We give you props.

We doff our caps to you, sir or ma’am, for you have earned this small gesture of respect.

You work hard at work and at home, and this is no simple task. It involves organization and planning, and

You go get ’em, ’cause you got this…
Like a boss.

What makes you Brave?

26
Apr

I’ve been thinking about the different aspects of being brave, and I wanted to consider how there are many ways of being brave. We’re quick to forget some of the things that scared us so bad once we’ve overcome those things. It’s easy to forget how hard it was to do something once we’ve conquered it — think of your first time jumping off a diving board, for example. On an emotional level, there are certain events that were turning points in our developments, and with the benefit of hindsight (since we now know how the event turned out) we often diminish how much bravery it took to have that conversation, write that letter, decline that invitation.

It’s in that spirit that I offer these art journal pages on the topic of “brave” and through the Get Messy website I’ve pulled some of them together in a “zine” which is a small booklet usually on one specific subject. If you want to see a bunch of different interpretations of this, you can check them out here. I’ve included a couple other thematically appropriate paint expressions as well. I hope you enjoy, and I’d love to hear your stories of “brave” in the comments. Thanks for reading!

The cover of my first zine

Walking in the dark

Scared and feminine are not mutually exclusive.

Sacred and feminine are not mutually exclusive.

Trying again can be an extreme version of bravery.

Why is saying no so hard for us?

It takes bravery to be patient and believe there are opportunities for us all.

Show up and be you.

You are a lionheart.

Putting these things out there is an act of bravery for me, especially since I don’t LOVE them all. But I think showing them to you is important; it takes the power out of perfectionism, especially when it comes to arty things.

In what ways have you been brave this week? I’d love to hear about it!

Playdough and other gray Areas

21
Apr

http://mrg.bz/DLazQs

We are such a comparmentalizing, either/or people, arent’t we?

We want each washcloth to be folded and neatly stacked. If we could give each one its own zip locked, mesh, linen bag, that would be extra comforting. That way, it won’t come unfolded, get wrinkled, or tumble out of the linen closet when we open the door. It will stay contained.

Decided.

Resolved.

Tidy.

But what if the stack tumbles over, the bags come unzipped?

To use another analogy, what if the play dough colors get put away in *eek!* the wrong containers?

Clay will become swirly, a merry mix of blue, green and red, yellow and purple to make **double eek!** a warm shade of gray. (All you play-dough separators out there — and I KNOW you’re out there — this is NOT directed at you personally. Go with the analogy okay?)

We don’t like gray much, do we? We want the colors (and people and ideas) to stay obediently in their places.

Moms stay in the home.

Dad’s are the bread earners.

Women are the ones who communicate emotions.

Men want respect above all else.

Men are the analytical thinkers. Women’s views are skewed by hormones and feelings.

We can do only one role well, or other roles will suffer.

Or we apply this to issues of faith, wanting there to be an “in” club and an “out” club. Because it’s not fair if I do all this work to be in the “in” club only to find out it’s ALL the “in” club, is it? And those gender role stereotypes come heavily into play in the church, even when we think we’re being forward minded.

What if we were able to see the beauty and relief of gray?

What if we focused on the coolness a shadow provides after the burning rays of the sun?

What if we admired the texture of an elephant’s skin instead of criticizing it for being less vibrantly colored than an exotic bird?

What if we valued the creative process of expression that produced that marbled mix of all colors when a child finished with that clay, instead of painstakingly separating out the colors and returning them to their yellow containers with corresponding lids?

It seems that some people feel that to not know the answer to a difficult question is indicative of not knowing the answers to any questions, and this inhibits them from seeing an opportunity to learn more or reexamine long-held suppositions. It makes people more uncomfortable to sit with the question than it does to spit out an answer they haven’t thought about in years.

What if we were okay with the question, even if that left us in the gray?

Lots and lots of questions here today, but I’m going to be bold and ask one more: what is your take on this? There, I did it. That was just one more. I’m a woman of my word. 🙂

Medicine is a Practice

20
Apr

The following is a letter sent to me by a friend I’ve known for more than twenty years. After I read it, I asked her permission to post it here for Medical Monday. It’s a honest perspective from someone in the medical field who has walked alongside people in some of their most vulnerable moments. The only edits I made were in paragraph breaks so it would be easier to read on a screen.

Thank you, Kris, for your friendship and for allowing us to hear how your experience with your dad shaped the course of your life.

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TC,

I was so sorry to hear that your child has been diagnosed with diabetes. Not because I don’t think that you can handle it, just that it is a long road and must seem quite overwhelming after just losing your dad.

I work in Medicine, the practice of medicine and although we wish we had all the cures there are some things that we can only help, not cure. As I am sure you recall, my dad had a seizure when I was in 8th grade. It changed our family forever. Dad was no longer a larger than life person, he was mortal, frail and they said he could die at any time. Living with death knocking at our door became a horrible reality as we watched him, waiting for the next big something that would take his heart out completely after the first episode had weakened his heart so severely.

He lived, and I do not pretend that I have been through the grief that you have had to bear, however knowing someone close to you can go at any time….. well it shook my whole world.

I had no safety net.

I had no place to curl in the security of this world.

I had to lean into the eternal. I had to look at what does last, knowing every breath could be our last. It was a horrible and wonderful place all at the same time. Those moments, days, months, years of waiting to see if my dad would live created a hunger for the eternal. They created a place in me that hoped to help others as they live with things nobody can cure. They created a space inside that hungers only for what really matters and what will truly last forever.

I work with bodies, broken bodies. Ailing health and diagnosis that don’t become a distant memory, however in the midst of all that tragedy the light of the eternal shines bright. The hope that we are not home yet, and as my daughter said yesterday, there won’t be anybody crying in heaven. No more pain, no more sorrow. The Lord that we cannot fully understand sent his Son to die so that we could have an eternity with no more pain. I live my life in medicine in hopes that I can always give a glimpse of what really matters to the patients I see. I take care of ailing bodies hoping they know the One that will make them whole and complete. I try to be joyful, but I cry a lot with those who mourn and those who have broken spirits. The fact that God loved us enough to save us by sending His son to die, that hits home so much more when you have lost someone close to you.

So in honor of medical Mondays, I say medicine is a practice, and we are all on the same team. Trying to help as much as we can and yet remembering that on our knees is where the real help comes. Medicine is wonderful, however God is always in control. So thankful that He is a God that loves us, even if we don’t always understand.

Love you friend, keep clinging to Jesus. -Kris

Being brave might look different for you than for Me

10
Apr

I hate to say that some things are relative. It sounds so milquetoast, so ambivalent. And yet, there are things that are relative. Not everything is concrete or one-size-fits-all. Have you tried on a glove that’s one-size-fits-all? It just doesn’t, that’s all I can say.

In the same way, being brave looks different for different people. Going without hand sanitizer for a whole day may be brave for some people to the point of nervous twitches and increased blood pressures. Daring to speak in public can really challenge some people, while others thrive in that setting.

This month I’m working through a theme of “Brave” with the Get Messy peeps, and the timing is eerie. This word keeps popping up for me, which makes me feel like somebody’s walking around two steps in front of me, leaving me little notes. Maybe that’s the idea of secret messages – that when we’re paying attention we receive many more of them than we previously realized. This is definitely one of those alignments.

In that vein, I’d like to share some more art journal images I’ve come up with. If you’re interested in finding out more about the Get Messy prompts and crew, you can click here.

I Use My Voice

Look at all the jumble-y yumminess!

Disappointment versus Hope

I am Brave

Dripping with Bravery

Okay, now it’s your turn. Would you call yourself brave? Have you tried anything lately that’s made you feel brave? And how about those secret message — do you ever notice any of those sent to you? I’d love to hear your story!

Medical Mondays: An Occasional Series

30
Mar

We are in Spring Break this week, and as further evidence of my tendency to forget to look at the calendar more than a week or so in advance (that’s if I’m lucky; many times i only look out a day or two), I neglected to schedule anything for Medical Monday.

Call it a symptom of my mental state.

While I think there’s a place for discussion here of all things health and wellness, it may be better for Medical Mondays to become a less regular occurrence — call it an occasional series. With our family’s sudden exposure to more aspects of the world of healthcare and chronic health issues, as well as emotional wellbeing, it makes sense to state for the record that these things are an important part of our lives and deserving of attention. Maybe that’s the intention of this series — trying to give these things more attention in my own life and have that intention reflected here.

If you have a desire to share your story, please connect with me. There’s space here for you.

Thank you for reading and being a part of this community. If you’ll excuse me now, I get to go have some vacation.

Hard Skin and Dragon Scales

27
Mar

I previously shared this on the Story Sessions website, which is no longer active…so I thought I’d share it here. Hope you find something in it that encourages you.

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“I was just going to say that I couldn’t undress because I hadn’t any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course, thought I, that’s what the lion means. So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully, like it does after an illness, or as if I was a banana. In a minute or two I just stepped out of it. I could see it lying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bathe. […]

“Well, exactly the same thing happened again. And I thought to myself, oh dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off? For I was longing to bathe my leg. So I scratched away for the third time and got off a third skin, just like the two others, and stepped out of it. But as soon as I looked at myself in the water I knew it had been no good.

“The lion said—but I don’t know if it spoke—‘You will have to let me undress you,’ I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.

“The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off. You know—if you’ve ever picked the scab of a sore place. It hurts like billy-oh but it is such fun to see it coming away.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Edmund.

“Well, he peeled the beastly stuff right off—just as I thought I’d done it myself the other three times, only they hadn’t hurt—and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobbly-looking than the others had been. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been. Then he caught hold of me—I didn’t like that much for I was very tender underneath now that I’d no skin on—and threw me into the water. It smarted like anything but only for a moment. After that it became perfectly delicious and as soon as I started swimming and splashing I found that all the pain had gone from my arm. And then I saw why. I’d turned into a boy again. You’d think me simply phony if I told you how I felt about my own arms. I know they’ve no muscle and are pretty mouldy compared with Caspian’s, but I was so glad to see them.

“After a bit the lion took me out and dressed me—”

“Dressed you. With his paws?”

“Well, I don’t exactly remember that bit. But he did somehow or other: in new clothes—the same I’ve got on now, as a matter of fact. And then suddenly I was back here. Which is what makes me think it must have been a dream.”

“No. It wasn’t a dream,” said Edmund.

“Why not?”

“Well, there are the clothes, for one thing. And you have been—well, un-dragoned, for another.”

“What do you think it was, then?” asked Eustace.

“I think you’ve seen Aslan,” said Edmund.

~Excerpt from Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis

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There was a period of my life when I wore an extra skin emotionally as if it was heavy chainmail or a coat of dragon scales.

It was knobby, thick, suspicious, sarcastic, and dismissive.

I grew this layer of protection over time. The barrages of arrows whose poisoned tips bore insults hedged as jokes about my body, necessitated this thick skin – the arrows didn’t hurt as much when they met hard scales. Snide comments about my lack of intelligence or critical thinking skills couldn’t meet their mark when repelled by bony skin. The repeated defense of my family’s expectations or my role as the pastor’s daughter, the constant sense of being different than everyone else, called “weird” for my sense of humor or mocked for my vocabulary, these things built layer upon layer of cartilage armor.

I was quick with a joke or a biting comment, even if it was about me – better to be aware of my weakness than to let others announce it.

I became skilled at assuming the twist of a statement, rather than believing it was said straight. It made me paranoid about what any sentence meant.

I grew weary with the analyzing, stony in the silence I adopted rather than open myself to hurtful responses that were bound to come, should I offer the opportunity.

Any gentleness I once had slowly shrunk and hardened until it was only a pebble.

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In the excerpt above, Eustace’s dragon scales are the result of greed and selfishness.

My scales were the result of a perceived need for self-preservation and protection.

The image has returned to me time upon time, the image of scraping away dragon scales, peeling them back as a snake slips its skin. The effort of learning a new way to relate to the world, the hard work of retraining my brain synapses so messages wouldn’t travel the same well-worn canyons, and the strain of finding new thought patterns felt like ripping off layers. I worked to allow myself to believe the compliment that came from the lips of the one I loved, rather than hearing its reverse, and the awareness that the former was still my first response, felt like Eustace when he thought he had scratched away the dragon skin, only to discover he was still wearing it. Try as I might, my best efforts only removed the outside layers with no impact on those that were thicker, those that were deeper.

There comes a point when, if we want real change, we have to admit we can’t do it ourselves.

We have to lie down in the grass and allow Aslan to undress us.

It feels vulnerable and intimate.

It feels defenseless.

It feels like a death.

And it can hurt like a bitch.

While we lie there, letting our defenses be stripped away, we might feel like we’d rather continue wearing the dragon skin, except for the sublime gratification that comes with the removal of it, like peeling a long strip of wallpaper after you’ve been laboring and only getting scraps, or the feeling of finally getting all the snarls out of your daughter’s beautiful long hair so you can drag the comb through it unhindered. We become our truer selves, closer to our clearest essence, unhindered by the bulky armor we accumulated. Only once it is removed are we released to feel earth on flesh, breeze on face, and warmth of embrace.

It is only once our dragon scales are removed that we learn the strength of being vulnerable, the confidence that undergirds gentleness and the freedom that comes when we are our most unfettered selves.

2 Corinthians 3:17-18 (NKJV) “17 Now the Lord is the Spirit; and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty. 18 But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as by the Spirit of the Lord.”