friends, you are so loved

I love words. But today they've been failing me. I feel like I have so much to say about what happened in Orlando, but I can't organize my thoughts.

But saying nothing says a lot, I think. So I can't say nothing.

To my friends in the LGBTQ+ community, you are so loved. I grieve with you. This is hate, and this is wrong. I'm so sorry you are feeling fear today. You are not alone. You are dear and precious and so very loved.

To my friends in the Muslim community, you are so loved. I know that one murderer claiming your faith doesn't represent your entire religion. As a Christian, I don't stand accused when someone of my faith commits a heinous crime, and I'm sorry you aren't treated with that same dignity.

To fellow Christians, you are so loved. Please join me in condemning this. We can't be moved to speak against hate only when it happens in a church in Charleston or a school in Newtown but stay silent when it's a gay nightclub in Orlando. If we say that Jesus loves everyone and so do we, then let's show it by not being selective with that love.

To all of us, hatred doesn't get the last say. I believe love can win. As we engage with the litany of hard topics this mass killing brings with it, let's do so with kindness. Even when we disagree, we can do so without being disagreeable. Politics matter but not more than people. When our passions run high, let's make sure our compassion for others is present too.

Lord, be near to the brokenhearted today.

her life isn't ruined, and neither is mine.

Again and again and again, I'm seeing the comments saying "her life is ruined."

Yes.

And no.

Her life is different, certainly.

But ruined? Not necessarily.

Let's be careful with our words, please. Because when you say her life is ruined because of her rape, it sounds like you're saying my life was ruined by each of mine. But this?

 

This.

Is.

Not.

 

A.

Ruined.

Life.

 

She knows, I know, 1 in 6 women, 1 in 33 men know a darkness that can threaten at any moment. For her, it might be a glimpse of a dumpster, an ordinary scrape on her arm that's too much like the ones she woke up with, an article about a swimming prodigy. For me, it can be an unanticipated touch, a certain kind of bush that was nearby then, any moment when I have trouble catching my breath because I couldn't breathe then. For you, if you've survived the darkness too, you have your own list of triggers that can put you back in that moment.

One ugly chapter - maybe you could even call it a ruined chapter - doesn't define our stories, though. Rape doesn't get that power. Darkness doesn't get the last say.

Therapy helps. Friends help. My husband helps. (Oh, how he helps!) Snuggles from little ones I love help. My dogs help. Being safe now helps. Sharing my secrets in safe places helps.

But the darkness still threatens, often when I least expect it.

That doesn't mean my life is ruined. Changed, yes.

Her life is changed. Right now, in the pain of all she's endured with the assault and examination and continual revictimization throughout the trial and sentencing? She might feel ruined. She is fully entitled to that. I have a faint scar on my wrist from a failed attempt of ending the ruin once, many years ago. But that scar wasn't the end of my story. (Thank you, God, for the grace of being woozy at the sight of too much blood.) And now? The word enough is permanently etched into my skin below that line. Nothing about what happened to me robbed me of being enough.

My story wasn't over then, not in the moments or the aftermath. Neither is hers. In her statement, not to mention her tenacity in seeing this case through to its unjust end, she has shown the bravery she'll need to keep waking up each morning and fighting the darkness when it comes.

As for me, I keep a post it note in my car to remind me that the darkness doesn't win.

Some days I need to read it more than others. Some days I need to scream in secret places. Some days I need to have a hot sweaty workout. Some days I need to eat all the sugar. (Don't judge.) Some days I need to text a friend to say I'm hurting. Some days I need to rewatch Pitch Perfect for the hundredth time because it always makes me laugh. Some days I rest in God's arms, and some days I wrestle with him, and some days I give him the silent treatment. Some days I take a break from Facebook. Some days I post passionately there, because using my voice on behalf of the vulnerable soothes sore places in my heart. Some days I have to talk something through with my therapist by phone in between sessions. Some days I say all the bad words and make up some of my own. Some days I need to have a dance party in the kitchen to remind myself of all the light in my life.

Every day I get out of bed again, because this life - even when it's hard - was never ruined.

Neither is hers.

thank you for your outrage about the Stanford rape case

Outrage has gotten a bad reputation lately. I'm not sure that's fair. Sure, we shouldn't be fired up all the time. But? If we're never outraged in this world full of brokenness, then we're either heartless or simply not paying attention.

(That said, give yourself permission to not pay attention sometimes. If you need to step away from all media outlets from time to time because life hurts too much, you're not alone. Step away. Take care of you. The world won't suffer without your outrage. Promise.)

When outrageous events occur, outrage should follow. That's logical. Healthy. Good. Deserved. Meanwhile, if we can stay silent in the face of injustice, something inside us is woefully broken.

Lately the main topic of social media outrage is one million percent deserved. When news stories about a heinous crime lead with descriptions of how much alcohol was consumed and what a skilled athlete the offender is, that's not okay. When a judge handing down a shockingly short sentence on three violent felonies expresses more concern for the rapist's future well-being than the victim's, that's not okay. When the only truth teller in the room is the one who is still recovering from her trauma, that's not okay. When the perpetrator talks about wanting to address the drinking culture at college without acknowledging the rape culture, that's not okay. When the felon's father refers to the rape as 20 minutes of action as he excuses his son's behavior, that's not okay. When black criminals are identified in the press by their mug shots but it takes public outcry to get the white swimmer boy's, that's not okay.

When so much is not okay, outrage is the righteous and just and proper response.

I haven't shared a single post about this situation, though. So far, I've been silent. But I've been soaking in your outrage. It's been a gift, truly, because this feels personal to me.

I wasn't behind a dumpster. I didn't face my attacker in a courtroom. I couldn't speak with the survivor's eloquence until years later. I've never publicly owned this part of my story before now. I don't see any benefit to you or me in offering specifics, but let's just say that I identify with the brave girl in the beige cardigan in more ways than one.

Yes, I am a survivor of sexual assault as well.

I don't think we need to be inflamed by every topic of potential outrage in our Twitter and Facebook feeds. But this one has been so worthy of our outrage. And with each post someone has made, it's felt like you're not just saying that she is worthy of more than what she has endured.

I'm hearing that you believe I'm worthy of more than what I endured.

Other survivors are hearing you too.

And? We are thankful for your outrage.

And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you. On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought everyday for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you. As the author Anne Lamott once wrote, “Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.” Although I can’t save every boat, I hope that by speaking today, you absorbed a small amount of light, a small knowing that you can’t be silenced, a small satisfaction that justice was served, a small assurance that we are getting somewhere, and a big, big knowing that you are important, unquestionably, you are untouchable, you are beautiful, you are to be valued, respected, undeniably, every minute of every day, you are powerful and nobody can take that away from you. To girls everywhere, I am with you. Thank you.
— the survivor in the Stanford rape case

So, please, keep being outraged. Keep speaking up. Keep saying this is not okay.

Some of us can't speak out like the Stanford survivor did so powerfully, maybe not yet or maybe not ever. If you can and you do, your voice matters. I truly believe that righteous outrage can make a difference.

After all, rape is always bad. Outrage isn't.

a big change for our family

I have loved my church for a decade. I still love it. 

But we’ve been visiting another church for a few weeks. We’re not sure it’s home, but it’s feeling right for now. We’re being loved well by the people there and being fed God’s word.

You might be wondering, weren’t you being loved and taught well at your other church? Yes. We wouldn’t have been there for 11 years if that weren’t true. 

This shift happened fast, much faster than we expected. Church friends, we genuinely wish we could have told everyone ourselves, as we know hearing about this on social media instead of from me will sting if we’re close.

I’m truly sorry for that.

As we just officially communicated to all the Access Ministry families and volunteers about our transition yesterday, we know this sort of news will spread quickly. I’d rather put the news out there from me in this impersonal way rather than have you hear it from someone else.  

Why? That’s a valid question, and the answer is complex. (Again, let me say that we love our church. If you’re hoping for juicy gossip behind this change, you won’t find it.) The three basic reasons are racial representation, sensory issues, and adoption transitions:

  • Racial representation: When we joined our church, we were newly married white couple. Now we’re a multiracial family by transracial adoption, with half our family made up of people of color. A few of our non-white children are struggling with feeling like church isn’t a place for them because they don’t see people in leadership who look like them. With racial tensions in this country at an all time high in our lifetimes, we’ve decided it isn’t healthy to raise our children - two white, three black, and one Asian - in a church whose leadership and membership is more white than their school, their city, or the faces that influence them from their favorite TV shows. Lee and I both consider our faith to be more central to our identity than education or politics or entertainment, so it hasn’t sat well with us to know that they see people like them front and center in those arenas but not the one that matters most to us.
  • Sensory issues: One of our children is being evaluated right now for what we expect to be labeled as high functioning autism. One way this shows up is sensory overload. For the past year, we’ve been realizing that church literally hurts for him. The sounds, lights, and chaos of a larger church environment are experienced as pain by this child. Our church has accommodated us the best they can (I even wrote about it here), but we’ve seen this kiddo grow to hate church. All the accommodations we can offer simply haven't been enough. In three visits to a smaller church, though, we’ve seen a huge change in this kid’s attitude on Sundays, both before and after church. Even Saturday night was easier last weekend. Meanwhile, I pulled into our long-time church’s parking lot for a quick stop a week or so ago, and he started rocking back and forth, covering his ears, and crying, whimpering that he “didn’t want to go into the big loud church.” That was the moment for us that made us decided to have a faster transition that we planned. We’d hoped to alternate between churches for a while as we sought discernment from God. That’s clearly not going to be wise. Furthermore, our son's reaction offered the confirmation we needed to keep moving forward with this change.
  • Adoption transition: Honestly, we didn’t even see this need until we talked to one of our children after the first time visiting the church we’re currently attending. One of our kids who was adopted at an older age feels like everyone in the old Sunday school class knows their adoption story and remembers when they weren’t in our family. That’s mostly true. Our church friends and their kids - our kids’ future classmates - were excited for us through the adoption process. We were loved. All our kids were celebrated. This was good and right and wonderful (in other words, you did nothing wrong, my friends!), but it created a consequence we didn't expect for some of our darlings' tender hearts. After one visit at this new church, one child told me, “Mommy, I like that no one at this new church knew our family before I was in it.” Wow. We talked about that a little more as a family. I realized that this was a big deal not only to her but another one of our kiddos. Because of adoption and race and disability and other factors, a lot of our kids will experience being othered: treated as different or as if they don’t belong somewhere. If we can minimize a small bit of that, we think that’s worthwhile.

What about families affected by disability at the church we’re leaving? First, let me be direct: we’re confident that Access Ministry wasn’t about us. It wasn’t led by us. It wasn’t centered in us. It is and has always been God’s. As we have seen this coming, albeit more slowly, we have been intentional to raise up leaders to step up in our absence. We are sure this area of ministry will continue, and if you are at that church, the family discipleship team there can answer any questions you have about the transition. But second, we want to share here that leaving Access Ministry is the most heartbreaking part of this transition for us. I love the children and families we serve, as well as the sweet servants who serve alongside Zoe to include her well in her classes. As I said in emails to those groups last night, each of you is one of the reasons we’ve wrestled long with God over this, in hopes of finding a way to stay. While we know this ministry will outlast us, we are grieving over leaving it. 

Why are we sharing this publicly? To be clear, we are not trying to malign our church or create dissent. Also, none of this is brand-new news to our leadership, as we’ve worked with the family discipleship team at our first church to make for a smooth transition. (And we have been so loved by them in that process!) But simply put, we’re a public family. I’m a public speaker at ministry conferences. Before making this move, I had to communicate with a few organizers who have scheduled me to speak at upcoming events in case a change in churches would lead them to change those plans. (If so, we would have respected those changes but not changed what our family is choosing.) 

And? There’s always a chance God could lead us back to the church where two newlyweds found a home eleven years ago. I do see an increased willingness there lately to wrestle with issues around race in a way we didn’t used to. For that, I am thankful. Perhaps the racial make-up of leadership will change in time too. Additionally, the new building plan will result in different acoustics and a different flow that might be received differently by our child with sensory struggles. Perhaps God is leading us away for a season, only to bring us back again someday in the future. We don't know. We don't have to know. Honestly, I don’t really think that’s how this will play out, but we’re open to whatever God’s plan is for our family. We can say for sure that we won’t church-shop for long as we don’t believe that to be biblical or wise. Church membership matters to us.

For now, please pray for us. 

Please don’t worry that our relationships will end when our church membership does. We continue to love the church we’re leaving, and we know our friendships aren’t so fickle that a change in churches will end them.

Please ask any questions you might have. I’d prefer to do so privately. We don’t have any secrets, but I feel like I’ve probably said all I’m going to say publicly here. That said, I don’t want anyone making false assumptions, so ask away. We’ll do our best to offer answers or explain why we’re not comfortable doing so (for example, if it would be sharing too much of a child’s story than we consider fair).

Please trust us when we say this is good and right and positive, even as it is sad and hard and challenging too. 

Please pray for our kids, for whom this change is beneficial but who have already experienced more change in their short lives than anyone should have to.

And please join us in being excited. As hard as this is, we believe God is writing a new chapter in our family’s story. How cool is that?!

fighting to see the good in Good Friday

I wrote this post a year ago, but I couldn't bring myself to publish it then. Through my warped lens of grief, I felt like blogging about the death of my dear friend would make it more real. Maybe, I hoped, if I just didn't share these words, she wouldn't be gone... 

But she still was. She still is. One year ago today, she took her life.

So today, after a hard and good conversation with her husband this morning, I'm sharing these words - just as I wrote them last year with all the raw emotion intact - because I don't think grief is meant to be silent. We exalt comfort and pretend it's right and good and even godly. But? God's word is full of lament and pain and even doubt, so I think I'm in good company to say this life hurts without sugar-coating or silver-lining my words. God is glorified in the pain and not just the platitudes.

So here goes, my post written on Good Friday 2015...

I grew up Lutheran. The rhythms of liturgical seasons still flow through me, but I haven't felt that same somber feeling at Good Friday most years since joining a Baptist church.

Until today.

In my youth, the notes of Ash Wednesday, Lent, and purple vestments joined with the singing of "Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" to elicit a mix of grief, reverence, and expectation. Today the memorial service of one of my dearest friends is doing the same. 

Oh, how I miss her. 

Since her death almost a week and a half ago, I've found pockets of joy here and there but most have been bittersweet. Despite them all, Melinda is gone from this earth. I believe God's words are true in Revelation 21:4 when they promise of heaven where "He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain any more, for the former things have passed away." I believe my friend is there, eternally divorced from this life's torments and brokenness. While I am glad she is fully free, I feel bound by my grief.

Today I am better able to imagine the depths of agony that day long ago held. While I know Sunday is coming, I woke fighting to see any good in Good Friday. While I know I'll see Melinda on the other side of eternity, the day seems too far away and today feels too dim without her.

So I scanned Facebook, busying my mind with anything other than my friend's memorial service later today. And I found words from my friend Hugh that resonated deep in me, and maybe they will in you too:

I know it breaks me with orthodoxy (surprise!) but I have always seen Good Friday as a victory for Jesus.

The most powerful Empire the world had ever known sets out to kill you in the most violent, most painful, most humiliating means it has at its disposal. It humiliates you, beats you, mocks you, spits on you, hangs you on a pole to watch you die in the afternoon sun in front of your mother.

They do all of that.

If after all of that, your last words are your forgiving them for what they have done? Then they didn’t win. You did. Or more accurately, Love did. (See what I did there?)

Empire has lots of tools at its disposal to strip you of your humanity, of your dignity, of your ability to love. But if you can love anyway in spite of their best efforts to break you, they don’t win. And they don’t know what to do about that.

‪#‎FightTheEmpire‬
— Hugh Hollowell

I know the darkness doesn't win in the end. And I don't want the darkness to win in my heart, not even today, a day on which I'm tempted to let it overshadow all that is good and light and cheer. I know Melinda wouldn't want that for me or anyone else she loved either.

As I searched through old pictures for our oldest child's school project this past week, my breath stopped for a moment with one in particular. At my daughter's baptism, my friend sits just behind - feet in the water, sunglasses on, smile radiating - cheering with me in my girl's step of faith:

It seems fitting to share, as baptism represents dying in the water and being raised to new life again. Because we can hope in the latter, we deem the former to be worth it. Today I celebrate my friend and I grieve her absence here, in a fickle dance of pain and joy, grief and hope, loss and love.

________________________

Depression is a heinous illness, and sometimes - as was the case with my friend - it can become terminal.

As much as I want to say "what if..." the reality is that she was doing all the right things with medical care and support and vulnerability, but it wasn't enough. I wish an extra measure of friendship from me or love from anyone else could have changed the story, but we're not the authors of this. We did all we could, and so did she. Please don't talk in hushed tones about the choice she made. Please. In her darkness, she couldn't see choices anymore; if she had seen another way, I know my friend well enough to know she would have chosen it. Just as someone can succumb to breast cancer despite all the best treatments and deepest will to survive, my friend succumbed to another terrible disease, one called depression. 

If you are struggling, tell someone. Seek help. Find a therapist. Talk to a doctor about whether or not medication might be a good option for you. Risk trusting friends to be faithful to you, even when smiles are hard and burdens heavy. 

I've done all of those things in the past year - for myself and my family, but also in honor of Melinda - and I'm better for it. If you need encouragement in taking the next step toward healing, let me know. I'm here for you. 

(If you are in a similar place as my friend was and don't know what to do, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is one good option. You can also reach the Crisis Text Line by texting "START" to 741-741. You are precious, and your life is worth fighting for.)