At first I didn't love you: a letter to my daughter

Photo by Mon Petit Chou Photography

i. the long slog to proper feelings

For the first 20 weeks you existed, I felt nothing of you, nothing towards you. I walked around in a haze of queasiness and exhaustion, I saw my belly growing, ignored the people asking me the same questions over and over again: “How are you feeling?” “Can you eat that?” “Are you allowed to do that?”

People told me you should talk to your baby when you’re pregnant. Talk, sing, send loving vibes. It was on a long list of things you should do, right up there with eating fish for the omega-3 fatty acids (but careful to avoid the 85% of fish that have too much mercury), finding a pediatrician, taking a birthing class, and forming an opinion about all things controversial: breastfeeding, doulas, screen time, and eating placentas.

For several months, all of these suggestions felt like a never-ending stream of demands. And the worst demand of all was the demand to be excited—to be in love.

I felt inadequate. I didn’t love you yet. I thought I must be too self-absorbed, or anxious, or unemotional, or cynical, or depressed. I thought I was not a real mother. Your father loved you then, already. He would wake laughing in the morning and say, “Are you excited for our future child?” And I would whisper silently inside myself how can I be when I’m not sure this is really happening? and all I feel is queasy, my body changing awkwardly, and the fear I will never be good enough to raise a loving, compassionate human. Then I’d sit up to prepare for another day of choking down foods and lying face down in the chaplain on call room, praying no one would call.

I’m telling you all this not to minimize my love for you—but because you should know the kind of mother you have. A mother who takes a little while to feel things, who never seems to have the right feeling at the right time. A mother who will be straight with you, who will not pretend to know everything. A mother who will try to hear your uncertainties, to hold them with grace.

ii. the moment you touched me

It was a March weekend I really started know you. I was weary of the hard work of holding other people’s pain as a chaplain; I was weary of being a me wrestling with depression; I was weary of keeping together a life and a faith and a pregnancy that never seemed to match to the expected norm.

That week, I had dragged my weary self to a conference, “Why Christian?,” which draws people who are very aware of all the reasons not to be a Christian. Doubts. Judgment. Racial injustice. Science. History of violence. Patriarchy. Capitalism. 81% of white evangelicals voting for Trump.

There we all were, a room full of cynical Christians who yet hold to their faith because of Jesus, because of grace. A slate full of speakers being real about their doubts and frustrations. A church of honesty. If anything could cut through my own cynicism, my own spiritual exhaustion, surely this room would be it. Surely God’s spirit could cut through. And yet I was still disconnected, impenetrable.

Then I felt your kicks for the first time, and like a surprise of grace was awakened to love, your touches like a massage on my belly, on my tired soul. You nudged me, urged me to remember that there just might still be miracles.

A friend once told me that motherhood for her was the reawakening her spirit needed, her overwhelming love for her son giving her the space to reimagine a love that perhaps approaches the love of God. I thought of how hard it has been for the last few years to pray earnestly, to profess faith unironically, to love purely. I thought of how sorely I am in need of a reconnection to love, to grace. And as I walked to communion in church that Sunday—to receive into my body some ordinary bread that brings salvation—a whisper slipped from my lips before I realized what I was saying. “Baby,” I whispered, “what about you? Can you save me?”

A tear or two pooled in my eyes and the bread caught in my throat as I swallowed it down. Is this what I have come to? It is an entirely unreasonable question to ask you, entirely unfair demand to place on your tiny being. Far too many parents count on their children for some kind of vicarious achievement, some kind of vicarious joy, some kind of salvation. It is never good for the children.

And yet—I have been saved by others before, others I was supposed to be “helping.” In 2007 I went to Tanzania out of a desire to save the world. And Tanzania saved me—awakened my faith, broke me out of depression and cynicism, reminded me what joy feels like. I think this is more akin to what I mean. I mean that maybe through you God can shake me up again, show me that I am not here alone, that I am bound to you and you to me, that we need each other. I mean I have hope for sanctification through sleepless nights, seeing the wonder of the world through your eyes.

I hope for that, but it’s still far, far too much to ask of you. So I ask instead with you, for God’s grace to come to us both as we navigate this world together, you and me.

iii. finishing pregnancy well

These days your movements are less like a massage on my belly, more like an escape maneuver. These days I don’t ask you if you’ll save me, or if we’ll be saved together. I ask you if you want to come in one week, or two or four, and wait for your wiggles in response. I ask you if you want to live in North Carolina or Maryland or Virginia, and hold my breath because there is so much that is up in the air for all of us right now.

If I were up on all the suggestions and demands, there would be meals prepped in the freezer by now, and I would have read the books about sleep. I wouldn’t have skipped the swim today, and you would have a name.

If I were more well-adjusted, less needy, I’d be using my conversations with you to sweetly discuss my eternal love for you, instead of what you think of my career options. I might be thinking less about my own Big Decisions and Major Transitions and more about the spiritual work that is becoming a mother.

But I’ve learned over the past eight-plus months that there is no perfection in pregnancy or parenthood. There are too many expectations, too many questions. In every other area of my life, where I strive so hard to be the perfect friend, student, employee, disciple, wife, I’ve been able to fool myself into thinking there was a right way; I've been convinced that if I pressed in hard enough, I might get close to that right way.

With pregnancy and parenthood, the expectations were so many and the task was so great, that there was never any chance I’d do it right.

So for today, finishing pregnancy well means telling the truth, confessing the weakness, and waiting for the grace that seems more essential and beautiful every day you’re with me. 

The grace that will be my only hope as I usher you into this terrifying, heartbreaking, God-loved world.

When we need everyone at the table

Imagine you are part of a movement to dismantle mass incarceration, in part through changing the prison-industrial system by which profits are made when more people are in jail. Imagine that representatives of this very prison-industrial system seek to join your cause. Will you let them stay?

Imagine you are part a community which wants to build supportive relationships across divisions of race and class. You want everybody to have a place in your community, a place to share their experiences and feelings. Imagine someone comes into your space spouting divisions of race and class. Will you let them stay?

*

About 10 folks in my organization, as a creative protest measure, bought one share each in the largest for-profit prison company in the US. Being shareholders, they attend the shareholder meeting every year to advocate for better ways, different profit incentives, various reforms. There may not be any visible results yet, but they are witnessing to a different way.

Meanwhile, some of the board members of the prison company have taken an interest in the efforts of my organization, the way they seek to support folks coming home from prison. They have taken an interest in our support groups, and our house for guys who've been recently incarcerated, and the jobs and education programs to which we are connected. They have given donations. They have come to visit. One may speak at our fundraiser.

The director of our organization acknowledged the dissonance. "Yes, it's goofy," she said. "It's an uncomfortable reality. When they first started giving us money, we weren't sure what to do. But then we thought if we didn't want to accept dirty money, whose money could we accept?

"Besides," she added, "we believe we need everyone at the table."

Yes. We can only break down systems of injustice if everyone is on board. Everyone. And that means that we have to be willing to engage with folks who disagree with us, who threaten our cause, with whom our relationship is complicated or goofy.

Because it's relationships and transformed hearts that we're after--not just new laws that leave old walls and divisions in place.

*

Photo by Jim Champion

In my internship, we have meetings called "Freedom Circles," which are dangerous things. Like an AA meeting or a summer camp sharing circle, the meetings start off with this week's leader reading or reflecting on a particular topic, and then there are 45 minutes before us in which anyone may speak. Which is the beauty, and the danger.

Because everyone is welcome at the table, and everyone has a voice.

Last week "everyone" included someone who was frustrated, someone who was angry, someone who was lonely, someone who felt wronged by the group. There we were, all of us broken together in the room, and the time was open before us, free for the seizing.

Several people shared, some speaking with candor and honesty, some with anger and walls, some with repetitive phrases that made me wonder whether this meeting had a point. There are days where the sharing is deep and succinct and profound, where someone gives us a window into her past, where someone acknowledges the pain he has caused others, where someone makes a new connection about her feelings of abandonment that have led to addiction, where someone admits he doesn't know how to fix his relationship.

This was not that day. A few folks shared. They mostly talked too long. They mostly exuded frustration and anger. After each person, we chorused "Thanks for sharing," even though saying it felt a bit disingenuous. After one angry outburst, I noticed sidelong glances and folks uncomfortably shifting in their seats.

The leader took it all in stride. Later, he would tell me, "that meeting went exactly how it was supposed to go." He proceeded with the meeting, explaining that we were all about to share the ritual of communion. He broke half of a hamburger bun and held up a punch cup half full of grape juice, then began passing them around the room, even as some of the other members of the circle continued looking around, unsettled, uncertain. I noticed a certain tension in my chest.

After a hesitating start, a woman offered the cup to her neighbor, saying, "This cup was given so that you may know that even though you are broken, you are not beyond God's love." Just as the reality of those words began to flood into all of us, the leader had begun singing. "Bind us together, Lord, bind us together with cords that cannot be broken...bind us together in love." A few of us joined in, and as we sang and shared and ate, something happened.

My breathing slowed and I turned just in time to see a man who had earlier been shaking his head at his neighbor in disgust and frustration, offering to him the bread and the cup. This was, for both of them, their first time sharing communion in our group. "The body of Christ and the blood of Christ, given for you," the man said as his neighbor took a piece. The neighbor then turned to me. I knew he was angry at me for an earlier miscommunication. But he pushed the cup to me and said simply, "The body and blood of Christ."

"Amen."

I thought how neither of us deserved this moment. None of us deserved to be at this table.

The leader closed in prayer, and people began filing out. I stood to talk to my neighbor, apologizing for hurting him. He accepted my apology. By this time the rest of the folks had left, and I wondered if some of them had been put off by the halting meeting.

I hope not.

Because to dismantle mass incarceration, we need everyone at the table. To build true community, we need to welcome everyone to the table, broken people included. And as Jesus reminded me that night, communion is holy because it reminds us that we are all sitting at a table only by mercy--you, and me, and the one with the angry outburst, and the one with only frustration in her heart, and whoever else walks in the door tomorrow.

Africa slipping away

I was twenty, swimming in questions and doubts and grieving broken friendships and a lost relationship, when I arrived in Tanzania the first time. I woke up early to climb up to the roof, to gaze at palm trees and women wearing colorful clothes and carrying bright red and yellow buckets of water on their heads, to take in this new brightness in the world and in myself. Late at night, I sat on a stool in the tiny, smoky kitchen with my friend Monika, the cook, learning Swahili and empathy through her stories of ambition and heartbreak. In between university classes I read big words in the Bible, words like “there is now no condemnation in Christ” and “there is no fear in love,” and I began to discover the openness of my heart, the vastness of God.

It was two months in before I realized I hadn’t cried in this country, which was remarkable considering that I’d cried nearly every day the year before. Here in Africa, I didn’t have to answer the questions or muddle guiltily through messy relationships or be good. I had only to see, to partake, to love.

I partook, one day, after enduring constant teasing from my friends for the fact that I’d never in my life skipped a class. We left Swahili behind, hopped on a minibus early one Thursday morning, bottled water and inaccurate map in hand, and set out to find a fishing village noted in the guidebook. Smushed into a crowded minibus, the three of us miraculously found our way and two hours later, we were walking out on a reedy beach south of the city, following a young boy to the nearest fries-and-eggs stand for the cheap, greasy local food we were craving. I stretched out my arms as wide as I could and felt the wind on my face and the last drop of tension draining from my bones and I wanted to sing for joy.

A few days before it was time to return to the US, I lay on a red couch with a lump in my throat, because in returning, I would be leaving this place of vast open spaces. I knew that in the US, I would revert back to the self that had to work and fight and say and do the right things, in order to be good enough.

I preemptively mourned the loss of this expansive self.

*

I was a little homesick my second time in Tanzania. But in the evenings, when my English students and I gathered in the cafeteria, their thirteen-year-old hearts and my twenty-two-year-old hearts melded together and we poured out our loneliness until it disappeared. They taught me their songs (“God created us skinny, God created us fat”) and I taught them mine, and we crooned together against the darkness, “We all need someone to be there and someone to be there for.”

Together we were dancing, together we were celebrating the wideness and love of God and community, together we were making it through the nights away from home. When Zawadi couldn’t get through class without crying for homesickness, I longed to make her smile. When Nambayo got healthy enough to concentrate better, I put smiley faces on her quizzes with pride. When Napoki got pregnant and had to leave, I wanted to cry. I loved those girls with as deep an affection as I have known. They were, for a while, home.

When I returned to the US this time (for good?) I wore four beaded bracelets—their gifts to me—until they fell off one by one over the next year. I grieved the loss of a love and a song across cultures, borne out of loneliness and a need to belong, bringing the kind of deep gladness that is usually a long time in coming.

*

The year I got married was 2012, the year I had promised I would go back to Tanzania to see my students graduate. The wedding conflicted. I didn’t go. I haven’t been now, for six years.

When I think of Tanzania now, I confess I don’t think of the colors or the openness of my heart or the songs. I don’t think of the plates of food I shared with friends like Communion, or of brushing my teeth under the stars, or of the gift of acceptance the people gave to me, or of the adventurous, open person I became in that place.

Instead, I think of the obligations. The need to measure up and be good enough. I think of the phone calls to friends I don’t want to make, because they will tell me my Swahili is slipping, and though it is silly banter to them, it is a reminder to me of a part of myself that is slipping. They will mean well when they ask “When are you coming back?” but I will feel guilty in my inability to answer, my shifted priorities, my complicated living out of some American (un)dream that no longer gives me the freedom to visit them.

And they won’t be objectifying or using me when they most certainly ask for money for the latest education plan for themselves and their children, because to share money means to be a part of a family; yet even though they treated me with nothing but acceptance and an open hand when I lived among them, I will feel now objectified and used for my connections and my relative wealth. My heart will sink as I realize that even were I to offend or insult them, they would stay in touch with me if only for the hope of money, and I will feel angry and resentful maybe most of all at myself for no longer loving them as people.

So I don’t call back, and the relationship rift grows, and the open-hearted Tanzanian inside me drifts further away. I grieve the loss.

Stay.

The two-hundred-fifty-day sleepover. That was what my roommate and I decided we’d call our memoir of the first year of college. We were giddy with the way our January term—a snowy four weeks of philosophy class and hot chocolate—had become a revolving slumber party of good friends in our room.

College seemed to stretch out before us, an endless stream of inside jokes and birthday surprises and silly hi-lighter wars and snowy cuddle-fests and long conversations late into the night.

The RA had even come once to talk to us about a complaint of being too noisy late at night. We were delighted. We—who had never quite hit our stride in high school—now being singled out as too friendly, too popular, too happy! We had finally found a group of people who wanted to sit around laughing to tears and examining the meaning of life, heaven and earth, and how to love the poor.

What I didn’t consider then was that this kind of intimacy will always lead to pain. When we come to know and trust each other, we are bound to hurt each other, and to hurt for each other.

It was just around the corner.

*

There were times, a couple years later, where friends at home or on study abroad would hear about what we’d been through together—convoluted romances, co-dependency, deep-cutting blows, more gulping tears than I ever thought possible—and would wonder why we were all still friends.

I confess there were times I wondered too.

I lost sleep; I withdrew; I did some of the most insensitive and selfish things I’ve ever done; I learned how cruel words could be. But I never really considered walking away from those people. They never walked away from me.

Because that’s not what friends do. Friends stay.

*

I have written about the lonely first year of my marriage. The hopeful second year. And it strikes me that though I don’t know at all what is coming around the corner, that is okay.

I know what it is to stay; I know what it is to have someone stay for me.

Marriage is just that, with a little more kissing and maybe some extra diapers.

 *

The two-hundred-fifty-day sleepover wasn’t the first time, and won’t be the last, that friendship hurts.

My wounds taught me how to hold back and isolate, but then slowly they taught me how to love again. How to forgive and be forgiven, how to have grace for myself. How sharing too much is a better mistake than not sharing at all. How you are forever connected once you’ve wrecked a ship together.

And if we hadn’t all somehow stuck it out (which was a grace) I would not get the privilege of flying across the country a couple times a year to attend a wedding or a party or just to sit in someone’s basement at 2 am Central time, bleary-eyed with sleep but not caring, because I only want to sit there, to keep listening, keep sharing, keep staying.

Packing my bags

Photo by Natasha Mileshina

I am going to be late for my flight to Ethiopia. I am standing in the hallway, bags in hand. The others are not ready, so I follow them into their rooms, nagging. "Let's go, let's go," I say. "We're going to miss the flight if we don't leave soon."

I am not entirely sure why I am going to Ethiopia. I haven't thought beyond making the flight.

We reach the airport, make it in the terminal, but my friends are lagging behind, and I press them again. "We need to get to the gate!"

A man passing by brushes my suitcase, and it falls open. There is nothing inside. I've forgotten to pack.

I run back home at saber-speed. I begin throwing clothes in the suitcase. More shoes, and sandals. It will be hot there. I might need a sweater or two. I empty my underwear drawer into the suitcase. My passport! Where is my passport? I am pretty sure I will be too late, I have already missed the flight, but I have to try. I keep dashing around, filling my bag. I don't have time to think if there is something else I've forgotten. This haphazard job will have to do.

*

My alarm goes off. For a moment I'm disoriented, frenzied. Then I breathe out, relief.

There's no flight to catch, no journey, no empty suitcase. Only eggs to cook and teeth to brush and a moment to sit still on the front porch, welcoming the day.

*

This is something of a recurring dream for me: rushing to catch a bus or train or plane, running into some essential obstacle.

The empty suitcase stays with me all day. I am rushing to get to seminary in two months, and maybe in all the commotion, my bags have not been packed. Maybe I do not have the experience or gifts or skills necessary for this. Maybe I have concentrated so much on getting to seminary that I don't remember why I'm going. Maybe I'm trying to cobble a cohesive theology and a vision and a plan together last-minute, without time to breathe it in, think it through.

I have had so long to prepare. For two years I have been looking ahead to this, standing in the doorway, ready to move. But I have not picked a track, a denomination. If I don't get it all figured out within a few months, I may not finish on time. I may not be eligible for a job when I graduate.

This is something of a recurring fear for me: wanting to have it all figured out lest I miss the boat, miss my chance to have an impact, to live fully into my gifts.

But there is no flight to catch at all. It is more of a long walk. God's love and guidance are available always, unscheduled, no security lines or last call for boarding. Mercy is new every morning, and life's callings are found on a winding path, not through a narrow door at the end of a straight terminal. In the journey we are all on, we pack as we go.

It is true, I am not prepared. I am not supposed to be. I am only supposed to be open, moldable, listening to the spirit, and willing. It is true, this summer as I embark, I am receiving a healthy blast of humility. I have also stepped intentionally into the good, challenging work of reflection. I am reaching down to a depth in myself that I haven't explored for months. I am remembering wisdom and yearnings that have been dormant for some time. I am refining, being refined.

I know I am called to witness to the great Love I have known in Jesus Christ. I know I am called to learn in the Duke community. If I am seeking to live and grow into these paths, it is enough for now. I may not know exactly where I will be arriving in three years--but the truth is I won't be arriving at all, only continuing to walk and live and learn and listen.

So there is no way I can be late.

Leaving Cherokee

I never wanted to live here. I say this with much love and gratitude and apology to the people who have accepted, guided, and known me while I have been in Cherokee this beautiful year and a half. You have sustained and cared for me this whole time, and you have made it worthwhile. But it wasn’t in my plan to move here, and Cherokee was the first place I’ve ever moved without looking forward to it.

When John first mentioned his job interview for a position here, I thought it was a terrible idea. I thought it would put pressure on our first year of marriage. It did, but it also gave us a space in which to really focus on our relationship. I thought it was the wrong job for him and not worth moving for. It was the wrong job, but while we were here he found another which led him to the perfect career. I thought I would be incredibly lonely moving somewhere I knew no one and did not understand the rural, native culture. I was, and I have misunderstood and hurt some people because of it, and I am sorry for that. But I also drained away my city-life stress and ambition, and learned to listen to the birds and to write, so maybe the loneliness has had its fruit.

When John was given the official offer, I kicked and screamed and begged and asked for more time and complained to several trusted friends and mentors and appealed to my mother-in-law, pastor, anyone who might be able to talk some sense into John. I prayed and journaled profusely. Please God. Don’t make me move. Not now, not just when things are seeming to come together here in DC, not just when I feel so surrounded by love, not just when I am sensing the stirrings of a career—a calling, not just when I am going to be starting a marriage.

Despite all my begging and pleading, though, I think I knew from the moment John said he wanted to go, that we were going to go. I just needed time to accept it, to realize that I couldn’t allow myself to stand in the way of a chance for him to explore his calling.

So we moved, and at first I worked at Subway, and I felt very lonely. Then I found a job I absolutely loved (even if only part time), and slowly I began to find beauty and grace in the days as they passed, while still looking with hopeful anticipation to moving on quickly, which had been my goal from the start, because after all I knew I wanted to go to seminary at Duke.

The time is finally here. While I am itching to start my classes, and get a chance to be in ministry, and take concrete steps toward my calling, and connect with new community at Duke Divinity School, and eat Thai and Indian food, and buy organic produce—I am also surprised to find my reticence to leave.

You see, I want so badly to see my GED students through this journey, to see them pass all the tests and then give them a giant pat on the back and help them apply to college. I want to keep the habit of long runs by the creek on Saturday mornings, and then eating brunch afterwards with my running friends. I love the comfortable rhythm of socializing and introspecting, teaching and writing, that allows me to have energy to give to John and others. I have come to appreciate that my small band of friends here includes people at such different ages and life experiences, who have so generously offered me themselves. I feel something like joy in these spring blooms and the blue skies of the Smokies, and I wish I had spent more time hiking and camping and taking it all in.

I am sad to leave these things behind. I am also full of uncertainty at what is ahead.

I’m scared of re-learning and adjusting all over again with John, of new rhythms and new communities and new pressures affecting our marriage. I’m scared of the inevitable return to a busy, stressful, overexerted lifestyle, of starting all over again, of examining my faith under the microscope again, of making big decisions about our future.

And maybe I am reluctant to move forward without ever having really loved my life here—a life there were so many reasons to love—without ever really felt it was home, without having understood why I had to come here and what I was supposed to learn and whether I learned anything at all. Maybe I worry that the sometimes-aimlessness and confusion of this stint is the new standard for my life, that I have become someone who doesn’t know how to live fully and gratefully into the places and experiences in which I find myself.

I hold in my heart all of these things as I sort and pack boxes. There are days it overwhelms me.

But I believe I should act out of my love rather than my fear, which I guess means finishing well for my students, saying thank-yous and goodbyes as best I can, and trusting that the grace that has sustained me here goes on before me.

What we deserve

On Thursday, January 30, I am riding my seventh snow day in a row, and I am angry.

I could enjoy it—read, write, bake—but instead, I calculate the amount of income I’ve lost over the last two weeks and become sullen. “Why can’t North Carolina take a chill pill about the snow,” I say to my husband. Two inches of snow on Tuesday meant the rest of the week off. When I say it out loud it seems a silly thing to be angry about. But I’m in a self-righteous mood.

I don’t deserve this! I think. What I mean is, I don’t deserve to be almost twenty-eight and never have had a full time job where I would get a consistent income despite snow days. I don’t deserve to have an employer that won’t allow me to work more than 22 hours in a given week even if there is work to be done. I don’t deserve to have a paycheck that can be cut in half by a couple crazy weeks of weather.

“I don’t deserve this!” I say out loud. I did so well in school, I worked so hard and I got so many A’s. Then I put in some years of service with nonprofits, and I worked hard there and my bosses liked me. Shouldn’t I have obtained a “real job” by now?!

The truth is I have only looked for this type of job twice. Once, I had three interviews in a week and didn’t get any of the jobs. So I took a part-time job. The other time was when I first moved to Cherokee, where I’m not the only one who has had trouble getting work. Maybe I “deserve” to have a full-time job by now, but then so do the fifty-year-old men who’ve gotten laid off from companies where they worked for twenty years. So do a good chunk of the ten million unemployed people in America. So do the recent college grads who are working as waiters and babysitters.

Because I’m off again today, I can’t say no when my neighbor knocks on my door to ask for a ride. He needs to go borrow money from a friend. “You’re not the only one who lost some days of work this week,” he says as we ride across town. Three days of his construction job were cancelled due to the weather. He is hard up for cash and trying to figure out how to make it as a single dad—he lost his young wife four months ago, to a sudden illness just weeks after she had given birth to their first daughter. They had both been in trouble with the law but had begun to turn things around, had “gotten saved” and sobered up and started associating with a better crowd, especially once they knew there was a baby on the way.  Now he is trying to hold on to that traction while he pieces together the disappointments and curve balls that keep coming. Does he deserve that?

We don’t always get what we deserve. Sometimes it is hard to understand why or how. I could write a whole separate lament on that topic.

But that is not the way my thoughts are flowing today. I know we don’t get what we deserve, but maybe sometimes it is better this way. Maybe this opens the possibility that sometimes, we get more. I don’t think I deserved a free Toyota Camry, for example, but when my grandfather died no one else wanted it. I doubt I deserved a husband who is far more patient and good-looking and fun to be around than I will ever be. Or a friend who is still my friend despite so many hurtful things I’ve done. Or a river view and a shining sun this afternoon and a box full of letters and photos from people who love me all over the country. Once I start playing this game, it is hard to stop. I know I don’t deserve Jesus—who lived a life that was holy and justice-oriented and ethically brilliant and accepting of the marginalized and all about ending down barriers and divisions and self-sacrificial in the freest way—who is the embodiment of God’s unconditional love for all of us.

I’ll take a couple snow days in exchange for that.

Coming out, part 2: Getting off the fence

This piece is a continuation of a post I wrote earlier this week. It will probably help to read part 1 first. Both posts are dedicated to the brave and wonderful people who allowed me to include their stories as a part of mine. I write this in hopes that this piece of my journey will help to break down walls rather than create them.

After the summer of 2008, I was changed. I returned home with new stories in my heart and mind. Three women had been vulnerable with me. They had been honest about their struggle to reconcile their sexuality with their lives, faiths, relationships, identities.

I needed to think more on this. I followed the news and articles closely when my favorite Christian rock singer, Jennifer Knapp, came out as a lesbian. I sought more commentary and read Andrew Marin’s beautiful book Love is an Orientation. I settled comfortably and honestly onto a fence between rejecting and accepting gay marriage. It seemed more important than ever to accept gay people, love them, and believe that God could speak to them, too. But it seemed good to resist labels, to avoid taking sides. After all, Jesus often hung around with the questionable folk, and he often resisted questions that created barriers, questions that tested which side you were on (Should we pay taxes to Caesar? Is John the Baptist legit? How can we get on God’s good side? What is your stance on homosexuality?). So I determined that I didn’t really need to define my “stance.” My orientation could be love.

Meanwhile I got to know a few more folks.

When I first met Martin at church, I had no idea he was gay. I did think he was a brilliant writer, a talented musician, and way smart. I remember feeling like he didn’t fit a label—he read the Bible critically, read the news critically. When someone got off on a liberal rant he could bring us back to see the other side. He never wanted to ignore the hard things about faith, like God’s wrath or the devil.

I also wondered why he was so reserved. In our writing group he always brought fiction and never seemed to want to share about his personal experiences. Then one day he brought nonfiction memoir to writing group, a heartrending story about being gay at his Christian senior prom. Growing up evangelical, he had prayed for God to take away his attraction to men. When he realized he could never fall in love with a woman, he resigned himself to celibacy. Later, after much thought, he came to reconcile his sexuality and faith. He hopes to marry one day. Whenever I have asked Martin questions about his sexuality and faith and journey, he is patient and gracious and takes the time to explain.

A couple months after Martin opened up with us, I started working at a new church, where I met a married couple named Sarah and Lara. They were one of the happiest, most in-love couples I had ever met. They seemed so affectionate and servant-hearted with each other. They had been married in a church ceremony though not “legally” because their state did not allow it. Again, they did not fit any stereotypes. Sarah was a teacher of special ed, and Lara worked for the school system in adaptive services for students with disabilities, and they liked a good concert and a date night and a long vacation like anyone else. Sarah once worked for a local Republican campaign. Sarah and Lara wished the state would recognize their marriage, and they wished they could be allowed to adopt. They would be loving, wonderful parents.

When I attended Sarah and Lara’s more progressive church, everyone probably assumed I was a supporter of gay rights. As I found excitement in my heart when DOMA was struck down and when Maryland voted to allow same-sex marriage…maybe I even started to assume it myself.

*

Last spring, I was accepted to divinity school to become a pastor, and I realized that within a few years I would have to take a public stance on the one question that really remained: Is there a place in the church for Christian same-sex marriage? and can this be supported by someone who takes the Bible seriously? So I began to read some books and articles and look closer at the Bible on this issue.

I write about stories, and memories. Not theology or politics or ideology. So this is the part where my story becomes halting. I’m not sure how to share the rest, the little pieces of different videos and articles and books and prayer and Bible study that have shaped my interpretation. Do I keep writing and try to explain it? Or do I just let the stories above speak for themselves?

By this point you realize what I’m going to say. You realize that I am “Coming Out” as a supporter of gay marriage, both politically and religiously, but more importantly, personally. And, if you’ve had the kindness to read this far, you are either shaking your head—why did it take her so long—or you are slightly frowning—this isn’t what the Bible says. Or maybe, just maybe, you are thinking, I understand. I understand the journey of slowly and honestly changing your mind on something you never really chose to think in the first place, something that was gently given to you by your culture.

So I think I want to stop there. To keep it simply what it is: a story of my journey in learning to love better.

And yes, you’re right, it took me too long, and I am sorry.

And yes, you’re right, the Bible is complex and deep and contextual and we have to read it so carefully and seriously, because it is living and holy and true. I know that you read it carefully and seriously and I understand that change is hard and I respect that. Please know that I read it carefully too. It is actually because of this Bible and this faith that I have come to this place. (If you’re interested in how I believe my position is supported, read this post with some additional thoughts and resources.)

The fence of ambiguous silence is no longer a good place for me. Today, I am Coming Out as an ally because I want to stand up for what have come to I believe is right. Because some people don’t have the choice to remain neutral and blend in everywhere. Because every day, someone on the fault lines of Christianity and the gay community is hurt. Because every day, we have the chance to take a step towards healing.

____

I would love to hear your thoughts on today’s post as well as Monday’s. Please keep comments charitable.

Silently

Photo by Taber Andrew Bain

How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is giv'n
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heav'n.

The mind-numbing, unending playlist of bad "holiday" music that I listen to while working at Subway is just one reminder that in our culture, we like a noisy Christmas. Then there are the Target commercials boasting colorful, sensory-overload parties; the endless lines of chattering people in stores; the traffic crawling along brightly lit-up downtown areas; the new movies and all the special holiday episodes of your favorite TV show.

It's not that (good) music, laughter, and cheery gatherings aren't wonderful things.

It's just we can't forget to listen also for that silent, wondrous gift; the night wind whispering to the little lamb, the gentle lullaby, the often hard-to-notice truth that God is here on earth, with us.

And God is here so silently. Isn't that clear especially this month? Hasn't God been awfully silent in responding to the tragedy of Sandy Hook? Silent about the 301 American soldiers who died in Afghanistan this year or the over 1000 Afghan civilians. Silent in responding to all the slow but nagging sorrows that drag us down, the secret shames and fears we carry like rocks. Slow to provide answers: how can we prevent this gun violence? How can we end this war? How can we fix our relationships? And why, why, why?

There was a point in my life where the Christmas story was almost too fantastical to believe. Because God comes so silently to us it's almost impossible to detect. God came silently that first Christmas, as a baby in a tiny town in the midst of a raging empire, in the midst of the killing of many innocent children. And God didn't stop it. God comes now, in the midst of our wars and failures, to quietly be with us. God doesn't stop them. Sometimes I don't know why.

Unlike bad Christmas music, retail stores and bright lights, God won't force Godself on us. We are free to reject, or to decide the sorrow is too heavy, or simply to ignore. We are free to carry on our clanging hatred. But God's love is still there, still constant, still present to those who practice listening. Remember the bell in The Polar Express? We learn over time not to hear the quiet ringing of God's presence. But sometimes, by grace, we are able to hear it again.

O ye beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow;
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
Oh rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.