Get Out

Have you ever cried to try and get out of something? The tears may have been real, but they also may have been amped up for dramatic effect, all in the hopes that someone will want so badly to stop your tears that they’ll do what you want?

I tried that once. To get out of a ticket.

And so did the presenter at a workshop I attended recently. The presenter shared that when she was in college, she tried to persuade a police officer not to give her a ticket by crying. In college, she had gone out with a bunch of guy friends - her preferred crew since they came with less drama than girls. I get that. And she and her group of friends engaged in a game that involved spraying a fire extinguisher at unsuspecting folks. A hilarious and terrible game to play. Eventually, they were stopped by the law. And this presenter turned on the tears to get out of trouble. Every single guy she was with got ticketed. But she did not. Her tears had persuaded the officer.

Since she had begun her anecdote by asking the room if any of us had ever tried to persuade anyone by crying, the memory of the time I tried to cry my way out of a situation with police came flooding back to me. In a moment during a break, I approached the presenter to tell her how differently our stories had ended.

In the spring of 2003, my bestie and I took a short weekend road trip to New Orleans to see Matchbox 20 concert. We headed down I-20 out of East Texas, but before we could cross over the state line, I was pulled over for speeding. I freaked out immediately. I had never gotten a ticket before, hadn’t even had my car for a year, and was a poor college student trying to figure out how i would ever be able to afford a speeding ticket, especially since i had barely enough money to take this trip with my bestie.

I told the officer I’d never been pulled over before, even as I handed over my license. By the time he asked me to get out of the car and stand by the trunk, I was ugly snot crying. I barely noticed through my tear-blurred vision that he approached my bestie’s side of the car and talked to her briefly before returning my license to me, handing me my ticket, and sending me on my way.

But y’all. This is not the extent of the differences between the presenter’s “tears of persuasion” story and my own. My bestie told me years later that when the officer approached her window, he asked her if she was there against her will.

When I shared this with the presenter, her jaw dropped. She was - appropriately - shocked.

And of course you will have guessed by this point that both my bestie and the presenter are white women.

A Watchman Meditation

“Every man’s island, Jean Louise, every man’s watchman, is his conscience. There is no such thing as a collective conscious.”  - so says Uncle Jack to his niece Scout in Harper Lee’s Go Set a Watchman. In Lee’s novel, Uncle Jack’s words to Scout echo the words of the prophet Isaiah, in chapter 62, verse 6: - "O Jerusalem, I have posted watchmen on your walls; they will pray day and night, continually. Take no rest, all you who pray to the LORD." But in church this morning, our reading of Psalm 127 pointed out that, “unless the Lord watches over the city, in vain the watchman keeps his vigil.” And as I sat in my pew, mulling over these words and connecting these recurrences of “watchman” to each other - because I’m never not an English teacher - a truth came into focus.

Several months ago, Andrew and a couple friends from church arranged a concert of their music. They played shortly after the Charleston church shooting, during a time when I was still personally deeply wounded, reeling from the horror of such a violent, racially motivated hate crime. During that concert, I noticed for the first time that black church and white church* are different: not just in worship style or length of service, but in the very theological concept of who God is and the reason we meet from week to week. Where white church seems primarily concerned with worship of God for who God is, black church - by contrast - is also concerned with reaching out to God for help not just with daily life but with the deep, ugly struggles we’d sometimes prefer to ignore. In my upbringing in the black church, I always saw a place for catharsis alongside worship. In white church, I’ve missed that.

The priest said today that, “In God’s world, there are no unseen people.” His insight connected very strongly with the Gospel reading from Mark, when the poor widow who gives two small coins is recognized by Christ for giving everything she had from her poverty. When I reflect on my upbringing in black church, I see the collective conscious Uncle Jack told Scout was a myth. And I see, too the call to individual conscience and watchmanship, the invocation of the Lord’s eyes to watch over our collective city, to see our invisible struggle.

And here is why I think white church doesn’t speak to the whole of my spiritual experience: I don’t see there a place for corporate lament, an acknowledgement of our society’s unseen, a call to stand in solidarity with those whose voices the church has historically refused to hear: the LGBTQ individual, the ethnic and socioeconomic minority, the outspoken and assertive woman. These groups are invisible to white church not because they can’t be seen but because there’s no desire to hear them in a way that acknowledges that they too are fearfully and wonderfully made, just as they are. And who can worship freely where one feels oneself is unseen, unacknowledged, unheard?

In one way, I agree with Uncle Jack’s assertion to Scout that every man’s conscience is his watchman. He’s right: we must each be accountable for our own actions, bear responsibility for our own decisions, pay attention to our surroundings enough to see and act accordingly in our day to day lives. But in another way, I think Uncle Jack missed the mark here. Unless the Lord watches over us, our labor as watchmen is in vain. We must look to God to guide our conscience - collective or individual - so that our eyes may open to those in need right in front of our faces, and so that we may be led by God’s grace, to act for, with, and alongside the otherwise invisible.

* When I use the term “white church” here, I’m referring specifically to the evangelical, fundamentalist, [mostly] non-denominational American church in the south, as I’ve experienced it, with its population being almost entirely white. When I use the term “black church” here, I am referring specifically to my upbringing in predominantly black Baptist churches.

When Testing Season is Upon Us

Okay, parents. Here's the thing I hope someone's told you before now: No test can prove how smart your kid is. No, not one. Not even an IQ test can assure you beyond a shadow of a doubt that your child is the most intelligent, entrepreneurial oriented, destined-for-indefinite-financial-security, beautiful and unique snowflake of a child.

Tests only measure what they can assess. They're only as accurate an assessment as the conditions under which they were taken, the mood of each individual student, the thoroughness of the committee who put the test together, the clarity of the language, the diversity of the demographics effectively targeted by the test writers, the anxiety level of each individual student on the testing day. That's a very long way to say that tests are only tests: they're not infallible measurements of who our kids are or will be.

It's totally natural for students and parents alike to have testing worries this time of year. These tests will sometimes determine if our kids get into "good" schools, if they get scholarships, if they are promoted to the next grade or retained, etc. Similarly, it's natural for teachers to feel pressure: to prove the effectiveness of their lesson plans, to earn more money (should they happen to find themselves in an incentive pay situation), to generally validate the goodness of the work they do.

But a test can't do any of this. All a test can do is indicate some general areas of strength and weakness. It can't answer all our questions about our babies: are they normal? are they slow? are they exceptionally bright like we suspect they must be? are they caught up yet from that one year with that one teacher who taught them who knows what?

No test can answer all these questions definitively, and truly, neither can any teacher. Tests should be used as one tool to assess our kids, not as the only way to know if they're smart. The best any test can do is to act as a ruler, in the same way a ruler would measure your child's height at the doctor's office. If that ruler indicated your child was a bit small or large for his age, it may indicate that a change in diet or sleep was needed, or it may indicate over time that your child is more than likely to remain at or around a certain height based on his or her genes. No way would a one-time measurement of your child's height raise so many red flags for the pediatrician that your child would be labeled with a genetic abnormality, diagnosed with a disease, or forced to remain in a class with other kids his size while other kids his age moved on because they were taller.

In other words, no test can measure your kid's worth. You know your kid's worth. Your kid is worth more than all the tests in all the world. Amen.

How to be a Person when Atticus Finch is not who you thought he was

Some background: Months ago, when rumors surfaced regarding the existence of a *second* Harper Lee novel, I geeked out. All the way. Out. And I'm not even a super To Kill a Mockingbird fangirl with a kid named Atticus and another named Finch. In fact, I've only read the novel once - never had to read it in high school, bought a cheap copy in college, and decided to read it a couple of summers ago.

Loved it.

So I was super happy at the idea of another Harper Lee novel.

Like most red-blooded Americans.

And then like many other people, I began to feel conflicted about whether I should read this novel, since it was also rumored that Harper Lee never wanted it published,* and that people currently taking care of her and making decisions on her behalf are taking advantage of her old age and diminished ability to keep track of what they're doing.

Shady.

But I worked through those feelings of guilt at the realization that so many writers' work has been published posthumously, and many of them - Dickinson comes to mind - would be mortified to know their works were in anything like a canon of American literature. So I pre-ordered my copy of Go Set a Watchman and spent a weekend in bed reading it. What follows is my review of this novel.

It contains spoilers. A lot of them.

Summary Watchman concerns itself with a handful of characters, most of whom featured prominently in To Kill A Mockingbird as well: We still encounter Scout, Atticus, and Calpurnia; Hank and Aunt Alexandra feature more prominently; we meet Uncle Jack. These few characters and the ways they interact comprise the meat of the story.

The novel opens as 26 year-old Scout Finch makes her annual train ride home to Maycomb for her annual two-week visit with Atticus and the town that raised her. Scout's father Atticus is now 72 and arthritic, and his sister Alexandra has moved in with him to take care of him. The plot begins to come into focus: Scout and childhood friend Hank are involved in a semi-serious courtship. Aunt Alexandra mightily disapproves of Scout's general demeanor (she still isn't feminine or genteel enough, neither does she silence her voice when she hears people around her speaking about black people in ways she thinks are wrong). And gradually Watchman unwinds the "truth" after Scout discovers Hank, her father, and Uncle Jack in a meeting wherein the black people of Maycomb and the NAACP are referred to...unfavorably.

Scout's visit includes lots of mental trips down memory lane, as she recalls the case her father famously undertook - and won! - to clear a black man who'd been wrongly accused of sexually assaulting a white woman. [This case is undoubtedly the same as the case at the center of To Kill A Mockingbird, and I find it interesting that in this version of that case Atticus won.] Scout also recalls childhood summers spent with her brother Jem - whom we learned dropped dead suddenly outside his father's law office, of the same heart condition that killed his mother while she rocked in a chair on the front porch. And through Scout's remembrances we get to see childhood friend Dill, the adult version of whom presently resides abroad. A key memory of Scout's is one wherein she recalls how Calpurnia, Atticus's hired help who took care of his house and children and who- in Scout's mind - was a part of their family, would change the way she spoke when company came around for dinner. Scout remembers knowing as a child that Calpurnia spoke "Jefferson Davis's English" perfectly well, but she would drop her verbs and put on her company manners when unfamiliar dinner guests were around.

The reason for this memory's importance comes into play when one of Calpurnia's relatives gets into trouble, and when the family calls on Atticus to help, Hank - his law partner - answers that Atticus won't help (which is false). And before Atticus can set the record straight that he will in fact help Calpurnia's family member, an invisible but very real wall rises up between Calpurnia and the family she's worked for all these years. Scout goes to Cal's house to speak to her, notices how conversation quiets when she arrives, men leave their conversations and stand and take off their hats. And she hates it. But then it gets worse: when she gets to Cal's room to talk to her, apologize to her, she finds that Cal has put on her company manners. And she refuses to take them off.

And here is where Scout seems to lose it. She heads over to her eccentric uncle for some kind of Explanation, receives one she does not entirely understand, then in her rage breaks up with Hank whom she sees as a racist and a coward (he has a slight sympathetic appeal but really?), and then she tells. Atticus. Off.

The novel ends with an awkward reconciliation between Scout and Atticus - after her Uncle has slapped her out of her hysteria. And then life- we assume - goes on.

Review: If this had been an assignment for my students, I'd have expected them to spend some time analyzing the novel before moving on to telling me their opinion. But "Watchman" contains so many nuanced cultural and literary references that I know full well went right over my head, that I couldn't complete an adequate analysis at this point if I tried. So here's my thoughts...

This novel is not an easy read. Atticus is no longer superhuman, and he may not even be likeable, let alone the father you may wish your father was more like. He's human here, and he's a product of his time. Scout's idealism and impulsivity contrast starkly to his cool demeanor, and so my first criticism is that Scout seems to be the only of the main characters to really be on the right side of history, and her message is easily tarnished by her youthful rashness. That said, Scout speaks a lot of truth when she goes off on her dad. I can't say she's right to talk to him the way she did, but she says a lot of correct things in her diatribe.

As a coming of age story, I think this novel is important. In fact, it may be more important than the novel that made its author famous. Because its plot doesn't depend on a superhuman, unconventionally wise, white male character saving the innocent black man who can do nothing to save himself, this novel is especially timely as well. Its characters are vivid, human, puzzling, complex, and in the end not much gets resolved except that family members must agree to disagree. This is at first deflating. I'll even share with you that I was still shaking when the novel ended, in outrage at some of what these characters had to say, about their opinions on the way of the world, the complexity of what was - and still is - a mighty simple case of racism entrenched in and intertwined with southern culture. This novel's plot is flawed not in its prose but in its characters' very human fallibility, in their staunch unwillingness to accept needed changes occurring in society at large because they disagreed with the methods used to achieve that change, and the speed at which it was headed their way.

If Atticus is the hero of To Kill A Mockingbird, Scout is the hero of Watchman. I'd suggest you read it with open eyes and heart, and be aware that the parallels between the historical setting of this novel's events and the events unfolding around us in America today are many.

Watchman takes its title from Isaiah 62:6 - "O Jerusalem, I have posted watchmen on your walls; they will pray day and night, continually. Take no rest, all you who pray to the LORD." I have concluded that Harper Lee's ultimate purpose in writing this novel was to encourage us all to examine our consciences, to take no rest.

And so we should.**

*Word around the Google water cooler is that Harper Lee wrote Watchman before she wrote To Kill a Mockingbird, from the point of view of Scout as an adult. When she presented Watchman to her potential editor/publisher, the editor's suggestion was that she re-work the novel to be form Scout's point of view as a child; the resulting novel after that self-revision process is To Kill a Mockingbird.

**Apologies if I misrepresented any details in the novel. I didn't highlight or dogear my copy, and it was hard to go back and find specific passages without any markers.

How to be a Person When Racism Hides in Plain Sight

This afternoon as I was scrolling through the Facebook page for a devotional I've subscribed to via email in the past. My reason for doing this was that something in my feed had caught my eye and disturbed me: A recent post from this devotional featured a picture of an open Bible with a black man's hands folded in prayer on top of the Bible's pages.

Nothing wrong with that, right?

Well, what caught my eye was that the verse at the top of this devotional thought read, "Count it all joy when you fall into various trials." —James 1:2

Well, Q, you say, that's biblical. And the man in the picture just happened to be black. Besides, if this devotional never used pictures of black people at all, wouldn't that be a bigger problem anyway? Andplusalso, you continue, this is an international publication, so it really isn't fair to assume any political stance about current race-related issues in America. People all over the world read this. Finally, you eloquently conclude, it's a picture. Calm down. A picture can't possibly be racist.

Some variation of each of these thoughts ran through my head too. This is why I headed over to their page before jumping to any conclusions or ranting about it. I needed more information, context. A perusal of their page showed about twenty or so recent posts. Images of people weren't prominent, as most of the pictures were nature shots or simply words against a solid background. But as I looked further, I noticed that black people were featured only in images accompanied by verses or admonitions warning against complaining or obstinacy, to count trials as joy, and how to find our way when we feel lost in darkness.

Why does this matter, Q? Why you gotta be so sensitive? Does it really, always, have to be about race?

This matters because it helps to perpetuate the idea that black people are more in need of saving than white people, that we complain when we should be praying, that we are stubborn, that we are lost. Especially in this country during this time, it helps perpetuate the idea that when black people fight back against oppression and injustice that their response is from a place of stubbornness and a tendency toward complaining instead of praying. And that's not too far from the implication that we put and/or keep ourselves in the situation we currently find ourselves in. Furthermore, it encourages Christians to continue seeing blacks as being in need of saving, people who know not what they do. It's a subtle message, but it's there. And it's the prevailing message across mainstream media. It is not only irresponsible, but it is also dangerous and unbiblical.

Did this publication intend to slant its published images in this political way? I doubt it, which is why this post doesn't mention the name of the publication, and it's why my email and FB private message to them indicated that I assumed their perceived message was unintentional.

Even if this slant was unintentional, I won't let it go past my line of sight without speaking up about it; that's not how change happens.

We have a responsibility as citizens of this country to pay active attention to the stereotypes being slipped into our consciousness via media.

We have a responsibility as Christians to seek justice for the oppressed, equal treatment for those whom society ignores or dehumanizes.

We have a duty as human beings to behave as if we belong to each other.

How to be a Person when Love and Unity Seem Far and Not Near

At Bible study this week, we ruminated over Colossians 1:24 – 2:5. Our first reflection question was almost uncomfortable in its very direct-ness. This question asked if Paul’s stated purpose in 1:28 & 2:2 was a reality in our own lives, or if we were still somewhere along the way. The NIV translates these verses as follows:

27 To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. 2 My goal is that they may be encouraged in heart and united in love, so that they may have the full riches of complete understanding, in order that they may know the mystery of God, namely, Christ, 3 in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.

Paul’s purpose –as stated here – was to make known among the Gentiles the glorious mystery of Christ in each of us, his goal to encourage believers and see them united in love.

When I’m sitting in Bible study – any Bible study, not just this one – I can’t help but to relate verses we read to what’s happening in the world around me. As I sit and try to understand what new-to-me truths these Bible verses might hold, my limited knowledge of world events inevitably creeps into my thoughts as I try to make sense of happenings that don’t always seem to mean anything good. Tonight, as I sat and read over this passage, I began to wonder where exactly our focus is with regard to the Gospel. There seems lately to be an epidemic of American Christians who are staunchly convinced they are right because the Bible. And the message of what it means to be a follower of Christ’s teachings and example begins and ends at a discussion of sin.

To my knowledge and according to my experience – and I’d even say according to Paul’s stated purpose above – the Gospel of Christ involves His indwelling each person who invites Him in, and the goal of the Paul’s teachings for the early church (and arguably the mission that should be at the heart of the church today) is that believers be encouraged in heart and united in love…in order that we may know the mystery of God. To me, this means Christians who wish to grow in maturity must necessarily embrace the fact that the wholeness of God’s Self and love for us is not entirely knowable – hence the mystery. To me, this means all treasures of wisdom and knowledge are hidden in Christ Himself. So when I find myself confused when trying to understand the Bible's teaching and relevance for today's culture, I turn to the example of Christ Himself and to prayer for illumination.

Therefore, my concept of my faith and relationship with Christ allow me to reject some Christians’ “fine sounding arguments” in favor of the treasure and mystery of Christ Himself.

As I shared with the group the other night after browsing the commentary my Bible offers on verse 2:8(which refers to Colossian heresy which in part taught that faith was not enough for salvation because rules), I realized that the nature of the Gospel message as being a free gift to all is an idea that is still as offensive now as it was when Jesus lived and walked this Earth. The free gift of salvation, grace, love, acceptance, just as we are, is not quantifiable, doesn’t follow the rules we’d much rather establish for the sake of order (and freedom, truth, and the American Way), and therefore it gets all up in our shizz. It’s audacious – this idea. And how very dare we live like we believe it, especially if someone who disagrees with us on a point of doctrine also claims to believe the same.

There has to be a time for Christians to come together, look each other in the eyes, embrace each other, and move forward together, in faith. Lines drawn in the sand in order to enforce arbitrarily chosen and elevated Bible verses only serve to further divide us, not to encourage our hearts, and not to unite us in love – which, as we well know, will win.

So in answer to that initial, invasive question about whether Paul's stated purpose  is a reality in my own life or if I'm still somewhere along the way, I think I'd have to say, "Yes." It is my desire to encourage others and be united in love, but I know I've got a long way to go. So does the whole of the American church.

How to be a Person...when Charleston changes you

I went over to a friend’s house recently to spend the evening chatting and drinking wine, as we’ve done more than a few times before. This time was a little bit different, because it was the first time we’d spent such time together since Charleston. I looked into the eyes of my dear friend that evening as we sat on her couch, and I told her that Charleston changed me. She asked me the most logical but profoundly difficult of questions: How? Why? This is my best attempt to answer those questions.

I was shaken – badly – by the Charleston church shooting: because it was a vicious and premeditated atrocity carried out by a self-proclaimed white supremacist racist, because I’m black and my children are biracial but still black enough to be viewed as black, because Roof wasn’t apprehended quickly but when he was taken in got food brought in to him when he became hungry, because certain media outlets immediately changed this killer’s motivation and re-branded this atrocity as an attack on the church, because of media coverage which sought empathy for Roof with the headline that he “almost didn’t do it,” because the judge who presided over Roof’s arraignment stated – with conviction – that Roof’s family were victims just as much as the men and women who were murdered at their church – and the families who now mourn them.

There’s the why.

Here’s the how:

I feel I can no longer sit idly by and ignore microaggression and racism in its most passive forms. Such hatred-borne violence that gets promptly written off as an anomaly, re-branded as an attack on Christianity, and has its stated racial motivations blatantly ignored, demands activism, counteraction, education and self-reflection of the hardest kind.

By my having remained silent regarding matters of race, I’ve unwittingly encouraged a culture 

of nonblack Americans who have convinced themselves that racism is a thing of the past and not the present. The prevailing opinion among these Americans seems to be built upon the problematic teaching that “color-blindness” is the cure to racism.

It is not.

In fact, this doctrine of color-blindness has encouraged a large segment of the population to de-legitimize the cultural experiences of nonwhites: If I don’t see color, that must mean no one does. Therefore, it is simply impossible to acknowledge as true that someone else is being treated differently because of their race.

Let me put this more simply: If #blacklivesmatter offended you, it’s because you’ve been conditioned to believe that such an assertion is audaciously untrue by a system that insists black lives don’t – in fact – matter. This point is illustrated when innocent, unarmed black men, women, and children are killed – particularly at the hands of police officers – and their killers are not held accountable. This point is illustrated when nonviolent protesters take to the street in order to draw attention to such brutality and injustice and are branded as race-baiters and greeted with heavily armed police officers hidden behind shields and “protected” by helmets and batons. This point is illustrated when a white supremacist racist maliciously plans and executes the murder of nine innocent black people inside their house of worship and is treated to Burger King after he gets to jail.

When I say Charleston changed me, I mean that #IAMCharleston. When I look at the face of Tywanza Sanders, I flash forward mentally and imagine my son, having graduated from college, become gainfully employed, and plugged in to a local church, being killed in cold blood by a man who sought him out based solely on his skin color.

When I say that Charleston changed me, I mean that if you share a meme which spouts someone else’s ignorance and has a snappy picture to accompany it, you can expect that instead of hiding your post like I have in the past or simply ignoring you, I’m going to kindly but definitely ask you what you mean by what you post, and if you realize its implications. I will initiate a conversation that I should have initiated long ago.

When I say that Charleston changed me, I mean that I’ve never told you the story of my first – and only, to date – speeding ticket. The one I got while driving to a Matchbox 20 concert in New Orleans with my best bestie. I haven’t told you that I was asked to get out of the car while the police officer asked my bestie – who’s white – if she was in the car against her will.

When I say that Charleston changed me, I mean that I need to tell you I am vigilant in my insistence that my children always keep hands out of pockets while we are in any store. Because all too soon I know they will be in a store without me, and they’ll be tall for their age and will look like grown men to store-owners.  And that it won’t matter if their hands were near pockets rather than in them, won’t matter if they truly took something from the store without paying by accident. It’ll only matter that they are there. And they are black. This is my reality.

So as I sat talking to this friend on her couch, she listened. And her countenance changed noticeably. She looked worried. And she told me some truth: that I have to give all my anxiety and fear over to God, that He doesn’t want me to be afraid and anxious. To an extent, this is true. True, too, is the attention and care Jesus afforded to those on the margins of society, to those whose voices were ignored, invalidated. And for the Church – and me, as part of it – to live out the Great Commission, we must necessarily pay attention to the hurting in our own society rather than assuming the only people who need Jesus and justice are those who live far away from us.

For me, Charleston was a call to action, awareness, a call to wake up. 

I intend to answer that call. 

How to Be a Person When Summer Hurts

Dear Adam Levine,

You have no idea. This summer really, truly has hurt like a mother. And not in that way your song seems to describe, a la I-can’t-get-this-girl-off-my-mind. More like, this summer has introduced to my body a new affliction: hashtag indigestion.

I remember exactly where I was when I read about Charleston. I was getting ready to go to bed, having readied my home and our fourth bedroom for my parents-in-law, whom my husband had just that evening picked up at the airport for their week-long stay with us.

I scrolled my Twitter feed – I follow a handful of people who are vocal on Black Twitter – and began to see snippets of information that alarmed me. I remember saying to Andrew, “Something’s happened.” And I kept scrolling until I could find a cohesive story about the shooting, the victims, the alleged shooter still at large. My prayers that evening were for the victims’ families, the shooter’s quick apprehension, and that he’d have no opportunities to inflict further harm, take more lives.

And when I woke the next morning, stomach knotted, I checked Twitter and Facebook, confident that he must have been found while I slept. In fact, that confidence was the only reason I had been able to allow myself to fall asleep in the first place. And while this man was found and taken into custody that same day, I have to say it felt like the Longest Day to me.

And then there was more. Every news story that followed seemed centered around the families’ forgiveness rather than the video I saw on Twitter which showed people who were rightly rallying and calling for justice, or rebranding the racially motivated hate crime to which Roof himself admitted as an attack on the Church, or humanizing the killer by highlighting that he “almost didn’t do it.”

I was shaken. Angry. Tired. Sick to my stomach. Sad in my heart. Mourning these people I’d never met, for the tragedy of their lives cut short so violently, solely based on their race, which is the same as mine. And terrified of the public response to focus on forgiveness, move on, and ignore the racism so entrenched in this country that it produced Dylan Roof: not an anomaly but a proof of concept.

I mean, for real, Adam Levine. When this summer started, I thought for sure I’d found a summer anthem in Maroon Five’s single. It had a good beat, didn’t seem (at first, wasn't listening closely enough:fail) too obviously to reduce women to objects, and didn’t contain any discernible profanity – though it’s obviously hinted at in the title. This seemed like a win to me.

And then Charleston. And all I could do was pray and cry and try not to be sick to my stomach. And try to look forward and trust God but still look around me and see a country much harsher than the one I thought I was raising my children in. So my anthem became Tamela Mann’s “Take Me to the King,” as I showed up to church every Sunday wearing black, because I can’t stop thinking about these lives cut short, sorting through complicated grief even in the midst of faith, because I can’t say enough that #blacklivesmatter, even though so many people in this country are so determined not to hear it.

Indeed, this summer has hurt like a mother. I pray there’s never another like it.

How to be a person...

...when 50 Shades of Grey is a cultural phenomenon.
What is a teacher? Only a certified adult with subject-area competency, standing behind a podium, molding young minds?

Or is a teacher any person or thing from which a lesson can be learned? Must learning be consciously, intentionally attained, or can learning happen bit by bit, as you wake and as you sleep, as you walk and as you rest?

What becomes of a society, or a person, accustomed to passive intake of information, largely if not completely devoid of precious critical thought?

Does that society, that person, dry up like a raisin in the sun?

Or does it continue to mindlessly consume purportedly harmless, indulgent housewife erotica, catapulting hurtful, dangerous subject matter onto the New York Times Bestseller list, all the while its relational core deteriorates silently, helpless to mend itself?

What is going on, really, when such an unhealthy, codependent, abusive relationship captures the attention of a nation and soars to high heights of financial success?

Are we a society asleep? Are we a society apathetic? Are we a society innocently unaware? Are we paying attention at all?

The following are fifty reasons - some funny, some serious, all legit - that I will #not see or read 50 Shades of Grey.

50 Shades of...No.
49 Shades of...Hide ya kids
48 Shades of...Hide ya wife
47 Shades of...Ain't nobody got time for that
46 Shades of...#nothappening
45 Shades of...Dysfunction
44 Shades of...Misogyny
43 Shades of...Wrong
42 Shades of...Leave. Anastasia. Alone!
41 Shades of...Crazy in something...but it ain't love
40 Shades of...Hell to the no
39 Shades of...Miss me with that ish
38 Shades of...Wtf
37 Shades of...Wtactualf
36 Shades of...Mr. Grey will *not* see me now
35 Shades of...No he didn't
34 Shades of...Don't let the doorknob hit ya...
33 Shades of...Not today
32 Shades of...Not tomorrow either
31 Shades of...No you may not
30 Shades of...Bye Felicia
29 Shades of...If loving Christian Grey is wrong, I don't wanna be wrong
28 Shades of...You can't handle the truth!
27 Shades of...#hotandspicymess
26 Shades of...#notflawless
25 Shades of...#beydidnotwakeuplikedis
24 Shades of...Twifan fic
23 Shades of...Even left shark can see this is wrong
22 Shades of...I knew this book was trouble when it walked in...
21 Shades of...Anastasia needs to #runlikeagirl
20 Shades of...Shenanigans
19 Shades of...Tomfoolery
18 Shades of...I'mma let you finish... but I am not gonna be a part of that
17 Shades of...Do *not* eat this book
16 Shades of...Good luck with that
15 Shades of...If you see something, say something
14 Shades of...Put that thing back where it came from, or so help me...
13 Shades of......so help me. so help me, it's true!
12 Shades of...Emotional abuse
11 Shades of...Manipulation
10 Shades of...I'd rather build a snowman
9 Shades of...Love should be an open door, not an abusive relationship
8 Shades of...Mr. Grey is not just a bit of a fixer-upper
7 Shades of...Anastasia shoulda ended up Grey's ex-girlfriend
6 Shades of...Cray
5 Shades of...I wish there was an app to make this book go away
4 Shades of...Self-Loathing
3 Shades of...Some books are better left unread
2 Shades of...Sssssssshhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaddddddddddeeeee
1 Shades of...Anastasia, girl, you don't have to try

...when a college crush dies from cancer

I had a large, awkward, disproportionate crush on Seth in college. He was pretty crushworthy: dark hair, blue eyes, and a certain intangible quality that my younger self read as strong and silent. To be honest, I didn't know him terribly well. But my younger self wasn't concerned with a detail like actually knowing him; I was content to nurse my crush on him anyway.

When I found out yesterday that he had passed, I felt a heaviness: for his wife and children, his parents, and for my own self. How does someone my age, with a lovely family, succumb to cancer? I've wondered this same thing several times in recent years: once, when a former fellow Bible study group member lost her husband tragically, leaving her with four kids to raise; once, when a beloved local chiropractor and his young son died in a car accident, leaving behind his wife and three daughters; and once several years ago, when a fellow MOPS mom died after numerous health issues, leaving a husband and three kids. I struggle with this heaviness of mortality. Not the sense of my own mortality necessarily, but the heaviness of the lives we are left to live when those closest to us - in our homes, in our beds - die.

I pray often for friends who have experienced such loss so recently. I sit, looking at my babies run around the house in their pajamas, listening to them tell too many potty jokes at the table, and I look at my husband interacting with them. And I am in awe of the task those going it alone have before them. Raising kids is not easy, even when one has a loving and supportive spouse. My heart absolutely breaks for those people in the throes of building a life together who are abruptly separated when one of them passes on.

As I remember Seth today, his friends and family are remembering him at his memorial service in Austin. I - the woman who was the girl who had an awkward crush on him in college - am not in Austin with those closest to him but will remember him as someone who was kind, funny, and honest. And as often as I remember Seth, I will pray for comfort, peace, grace, and strength for his family as they find their way through grief and learn how to live without him.

... when old hurts may not be as old as previously thought

I am going to tell you something that surprised me. Yesterday, while mentally chiding myself for the umpteenth time for not maintaining a daily morning quiet time - for my own mental health, right view of myself as a child of God, and in general the good of all mankind - I realized I haven't had that practice as an uninterrupted part of my daily routine since I miscarried more than eight years ago.

This is not to say that I haven't had a relationship with God since that time. In fact, it's been quite the opposite: My view of God and His love for His children has grown, not shrunk. I feel that in the past three or four years especially, I've begun to be able to see a God who is larger than anyone's culture-driven interpretation of the Bible, political views, race, or doctrine. And this has happened due to my involvement in BSF. some very open conversations with dear family and friends, some blessed moments with loved ones wherein they found themselves finally able to share a struggle they hadn't before, and no small amount of personal prayer time, biblical study, and extra-biblical writing from Christian bloggers. (Most of this last group were women, but that's a post for another day.)

Back to yesterday: When it hit me that I had not had that idyllic, beginning-of-the-day reflective time every single day without ceasing since my pre-miscarriage days, a burden lifted. I don't know how healing happens for you, but for me, it is usually intentional, purposeful, and noticeable. This moment was none of those for me: it knocked me on my butt a bit. Who knew that inwardly I've been associating that daily quiet time with my painful experience from that many years ago? Not I.

I am unsure what shape my daily, routine time with God will take now that I have had this personal revelation. But I do know that He is the same from day to day, never threatened or surprised by my bruises, hurts, or scars. He has never failed me yet and won't start now. I am secure enough in my faith not to have all the answers to the hows, whys, and whens. I am not sure this is something that is said among Christians often enough. Instead, we tend to exhort/challenge/one-up each other in our misguided attempts to hold up the culture of American Christianity. I'd love to see us do more being there for each other with listening ears and open hearts, praying for each other without ceasing, and watching God's work unfold before us.

I hope this post somehow meets you exactly where you are today, and invites you into relationship with Him in a way you haven't felt invited before. Be open. Be real. Be you.

 - Honest Q

My students are taking

On Love and Mawwiage

As an impressionable young college student who was still something of a baby Christian (I was saved at 14, so maybe by college I was a preschooler, ready to learn letter sounds?), I heard many a chapel speaker say confidently of marriage: it's about commitment, not feeling.

May I please tell you, ten years into a marriage my young college self didn't ever want to have, that marriage is about both feeling and commitment? After all, why does one commit in the first place? Does that reason not involve both head and heart? As I stood at the sink washing dishes, I mentally composed this blog post. I was delighted to find that my last post was on a similar topic, even though I wrote it almost a year ago. I feel that in our years of marriage,

 I have learned some things, both from watching others and from living with Andrew:

1) I had the privilege of spending time with Andrew's maternal grandparents while both were still living (his grandfather passed away a couple years ago). In his last years, Andrew's grandfather didn't remember many of his family members, even his own daughters. And as I watched Andrew's grandmother care for her husband, I was stricken with the idea that when we marry, we don't usually actually picture what "in sickness" may look like. But how beautiful it was to see one spouse care for another, especially in very difficult times. This, I think, is what marriage is about.

2) Feelings happen. Denying them or belittling them does nobody any good. In my own experience (full disclosure: I'm blue-green, but mostly blue), I cannot move past an emotional reaction until I acknowledge my feelings and figure out where they came from. Then and only then can I look at the facts. Sometimes, this means I clean the house or otherwise distract myself from deep, meaningful conversation with my husband for a couple of days - not to avoid a conversation or put my feelings in a box, but to sort the feelings from the situation before I say something in anger that I really don't want to say. My husband is human, as am I. I like him like he is, but sometimes the little things seem to outweigh my perception of who I know he is, so I find it helpful to step back and evaluate and reweigh those little things against the larger picture of who he is. Yes, that means feelings. No, it doesn't mean the feelings always win. This, I think, is what marriage is about.

3) Having children has changed the dynamics of our marriage, the amount of chores we share and how they are distributed, and sometimes the boys flat out zap all my energy, leaving me feeling less like a woman and more like a caregiver. This is when date nights help - not when they are done out of obligation, appointment, or habit, but when they are needed and appreciated and altogether more organic. And yes, Redbox and a bottle of wine after the kids go to bed counts as a date night. I've also found that I struggled with staying at home with the boys not because I didn't want to be there, but because I didn't want someone else's dogma deciding that doing so was my place as a woman. While becoming a mother has helped me to reach new levels of empathy and understand God's grace more deeply, it's been a challenge to my inner militant feminist. But thankfully, Andrew and I have never been the couple that puts on airs or roles for each other. We are who we are - known and accepted.

I don't know that my former impressionable college self would have agreed with some of my current thoughts on marriage. She probably would have thought they were thoroughly unromantic, and she'd be right. But she also didn't know anything about how man-woman relationships work (plus scientifically her brain wasn't finished leveling out).

If I could sit my younger self down, I would tell her how well-meaning those chapel speakers were, and that they probably didn't mean to imply that marriage is only about choice and commitment and therefore is an arbitrary force of will. What I think they meant to say is that college students away from home for the first time shouldn't necessarily assume that because they really really like each other that marriage is the only logical conclusion. It was for Andrew and me, by the way, but it isn't that way for every couple. Marriage should not be entered into without heaping amounts of prayer, reflection, maturity, and knowledge about each other. The feelings alone aren't enough to make it work when the kids have been crying all day, the checkbook is overdrawn, and the two of you can't agree on what to do with the tax refund you haven't even gotten yet.

C.S. Lewis said that “Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person's ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.” I would say marital love isn't only an affectionate feeling, but an ongoing desire to share every part of your life with your spouse, and to encourage him or her to be the best person possible, at whatever cost to onself.

And my younger self would roll her eyes and go to Taco Bell. But at least I would have tried.

A Brief Note of Caution

The straw that broke the camel's back was this:

The local Christian station that I really enjoy listening to, especially with my sponge-like boys hearing every little thing, even when you think they're not listening, has been running a 1 to 2-minute spot about how there's a current movement in psychiatry/psychology away from acknowledging fact in favor of only acknowledging feeling, specifically in the area of marital conflict resolution. The supposed idea is that to introduce any type of fact into an argument is to invalidate the other spouse's feelings, so in effect this makes the facts irrelevant. The radio announcer goes on to say that the Bible tells us to test disputes by using one or two witnesses, 'in other words 'facts'," to come to a resolution. The claim made here is that feelings are wrong and facts are the Christian way to resolve disputes.

::sigh::

Before  you read further, I should tell you that I think this will have to be more than one post, so consider this the first in a series, and I can't promise the series will be written quickly. But I will finish, which means I must start.

In BSF this week, we read 1 Peter 1 & 2. One of the study questions asked us to look at verse 23 of chapter one and then explain in our own words what it means to be born again. The very next question told us to share how this process has occurred in our own lives. I was so glad they asked. I'll share with you what I wrote:
"At the age of fourteen, my mother, brother, and I joined a church after years of visiting different ones. I had been in a dark and sad, lonely place until that day, when I felt the Holy Spirit wash over and indwell me, and I was changed."

That's how salvation happened for me, folks. He just changed me. I was not the same person on the inside after that. I've never gone back to that dark place because of His grace and mercy, which began working in my life in the realest, most intangible way that day in 1996. I understand that for others salvation is a different experience -  more of a conscious turning from one mindset to another in ultimate surrender to who He is. But for me, years passed - maybe until college - before I could confidently state that I was saved that day, because it happened in such an inexplicable way. I remember the rush of exhilaration I felt and the tears I cried on my mother's lap because I felt so overwhelmed by what was happening. But I didn't know what to call it until I was able to look back at my pre-adolescent versus my adolescent years, see the difference, and boldly accept what He did in me that day.

The point I am making is that salvation was a feeling for me before it was a rational doctrinal principle I could stand on. This doesn't make it any less real or significant. It's just the way it happened for me. With that said, I'll save more of my thoughts on faith vs. feeling and why I think it's a lose-lose battle in later posts. Til then, here are some verses to chew on. Perhaps you can add to them?

• Proverbs 3:5-6
• Matthew 18:16 (I think this may be the verse the radio announcer was referring to.)
• Romans 8:26
• 1 Corinthians 3:13
• John 11:35
• Jeremiah 17:9
• 1 John 3:16
• 1 Peter 1:22
• 1 Peter 4:8
• Psalm 37:4

Before I leave you entirely, I do want to make it clear that I don't think feelings should rule our lives and that we should let them run rampant and do whatever they dern well please, but there is a middle ground between being controlled by feelings and being controlled by reason. Is it so crazy that the Lord Himself should be given control even over our emotions as we exercise the self-control to which we have access through His holy Spirit, and as a result of our submission of our entire lives to Him? To me, that's not ceasing to feel or acknowledge feeling; it's just letting Him have my feelings along with everything else.

I haven't spent

much time today in somber, reflective thought like a good Episcopalian probably should. I have thanked God for His sacrifice and spent quality time with my family, enjoying Andrew's day off instead of cleaning, scrubbing, painting, and laundering it away. And somehow I think that still counts.

I've read most of one of Lauren Winner's books - Girl Meets God - at the suggestion of our pastor and friend, who has read and was impressed by Mudhouse Sabbath. A couple of years ago, I got this serious case of Jewish-people-envy. I felt like there must be so much more to the Bible, particularly the Old Testament, than Protestants such as myself could ever hope to grasp without viewing Scripture through the lens of Judaism. I was sharing my thoughts when Jim Watson introduced me to Ms. Winner's righting. And it was like-at-first-sentence. So when Tamryn linked me to a post on a blog she reads, I was pleasantly surprised to find it was a book review of a new book by Winner.

If I'm being honest - and why should I be? I mean, they don't call me Honest Q for nothin' - I took my time reading this brief post(and have yet to finish Winner's book as well), and I've purposely not spent much time reading Rachel Evans's blog because it's almost too much for me to hope for, that someone else asks the hard questions and doesn't always find the easy, pat answers sufficient, that there's a kindred out there who shares her feelings and doubts freely, who wants to know God deeply and not just settle for the quick answers and the commonly held interpretations of Scripture. It seems so rare to come across such a fellow deep thinker and Christian in life, that I stop just short of believing it's possible to connect with such a someone across the interwebs, in such a deep and personal way.

In related news, I revealed to Andrew this week that I've figured out I'm a bit like a turtle - hard protective shell, likely to withdraw into it at the first sign of trouble, a slow but deliberate mover, unlikely to bite or hurt others unless provoked but equally as unlikely to let my true and unprotected self hang out there for too long before withdrawing to make sure I remain protected. (I even sleep like a turtle, with the covers almost completely over my head...)

I've been trying to process a lot lately, trying to reconcile my sometimes-doubt with my ever-present faith in a God who's bigger than I can ever understand. I think Winner addresses some of the same issues in her newest book, linked above. And if I may leave you with a parting, Easter-tide thought: I often struggle with the idea of God's justice, trying to reconcile the wrath and anger of God in the OT as opposed to the grace and love given in the NT, and the thought occurred to me one day that if I cannot understand the gift of God's grace and sacrifice, how can I hope to understand His justice?

Just a thought. Happy Easter, peeps.

I probably

shouldn't have left you hanging so long with that last one. It was rather heavy, wasn't it?

My bad.

I did attend Keri's funeral, and the pastor of NBBC spoke about the healing Jesus did at what was essentially a funeral, since Lazarus died before Jesus arrived to heal him. The thing I never caught about that story that the pastor pointed out was that Jesus wept with Lazarus's family - even with the full knowledge that He would heal Lazarus, and that not only would Lazarus have eternal life after the resurrection of all the dead but that he would live again on this earth after Jesus brought him back to life. It was just the message I needed to hear, and was a stark contrast to the typical celebratory Christian homegoing service. Though much mention was made of Keri's life here on Earth as well as her current rejoicing in the presence of Christ Himself, the appropriateness of grief at her passing was given a place as well - rather than just a passing mention.

Last week, I joined BFFJ in Dallas for her - ahem - 20-10th birthday, a session during which we each got a mockingjay tattoo, and a viewing of the just-released Hunger Games movie. (All of which were awesome, btw)

Since coming back from that weekend - which included both fun and work - I've had lots of balls in the air to juggle, and I may or may not have had a meltdown during an inappropriate time last week. With that in mind, I'd like to share with you some of the phrases I use when I need to give myself a pep talk. I find repeating each of these phrases in my mind is helpful when I start to feel overwhelmed.

• Be quick to listen and slow to speak. (My cousin Candace reminded me of this just the other day - post meltdown. I could have used this advice beforehand, but I should appreciate it more now that I have a bad experience in my rearview.)
• My children are a joy and privilege to raise, not a burden to be borne. (During the long days and weeks when their behavior is off for whatever reason, potty accidents are more numerous than potty successes, and naptimes seem to be silly things I once dreamed of rather than actually happened, I have to tell myself these words. And take a deep breath. And hug my children instead of yelling at them. And the truth is that so many women wish they could have children and cannot, and that even those who had children wish they had healthy ones, and even still others wish their children were half as well-behaved as mine sometimes are. It's all about perspective. And this particular phrase helps me to change out of my pity party pants and into my big girl pants.)
• Freedom, beauty, truth, and love (What can I say? I may have learned this grouping of words from the Moulin Rouge , but when I think of this phrase, and the powerful symbolism of the mockingjay, I can't help but remember what it means when Paul says that it is for freedom Christ set us free.)

Insomnia

My husband just poked his head out of our bedroom door to inform me I'm going to be wasted tomorrow. He's right. I've stayed up way later than I should. But I know the sooner I go to sleep, the sooner I have to attend the funeral of a mom not much older than me who died last week.

And I don't want to accept the reality of that fact. So I've stayed awake, trying to will her impending memorial service away, trying to remember more of her from the two or three conversations we ever had. I think we would have been good friends, but her health was poor enough that I didn't see much of her during our Mothers of Preschoolers meetings. I met her mother before I met her, and we chatted about her daughter during our Bible study times - Beth Moore studies tend to do this to women: make them examine their relationships at length.

I feel honestly like I have no right to feel any grief over her unexpected passing, but it cuts me to the quick to think that her baby - similar in age to Rhys - may not be able to remember much of her when she grows up. One of my greatest fears is that I will die before my babies reach an age that will ensure they remember me as their mother - not from pictures or reminders, but from their own hearts and minds. What a sobering reminder of my mortality that this mom is now gone physically from her children's lives. I've been thinking about her all day, and I take some comfort in knowing that she poured as much love as she could into her children - and that check will not come back void.

Dear JCPenney and Hulu,

JCP, I will address you first. You think that your "fair and square" ad campaign is fantastic enough to hire Ellen Degeneres to tout it. But who did you pay to come up with this? I'd like to have a chat with him or her. Because it sucks. On what planet does it make sense to stop having coupons in order to draw customers in? Not mine. I get that simple is better and that less is more. But when it comes to money, more people these days are figuring out that less is less. This means coupons and doorbusters are a help, not a hindrance. Ellen is cute and funny, but I'd rather have coupons.

Hulu, I don't even know what to do with you. You know I was incredulous a couple years ago when I heard the rumors that you would soon begin charging people to watch TV online (the nerve!), but by the time it happened, I was only a little shocked. I guess by then I had grown used to the idea. But now you've struck a low blow: offering an app on my Wii for the same price as Netflix, so I can miss Glee and still watch it the next day on my big screen TV instead of on my little laptop? Damn you, Hulu. I just might cave.

I'm Not Fashionista

And I do not aspire to be so. I enjoy shopping, finding deals, and wearing clothes that make me feel good/look good. But it ends there. I don't want to design clothes for myself or others to wear. But I do like to look at runway-type fashion shows on TV when the opportunity presents itself. So it happened that a recent news spot on CBS Sunday Morning caught my eye. One of the news anchors was talking to some designer - I forget who - and while they were talking, the designer was in the process of arranging clothes on a model that was - no joke - skinny as a twig and flat as a board.

And I had a light bulb moment.

That model looked like a human canvas. That was her physique: skinny and flat, like an artist's canvas would be. So if a designer considers him or herself an artist, why wouldn't he or she want the most nondescript canvas/model possible so that the art itself is on display, rather than the model. So often, girls think they are supposed to look a certain way based on the physical appearance of such models. They feel pressure to be thinner because that must be the ideal or it wouldn't be on the runway. But think about it: If an artist was going to use a canvas that was not perfectly flat or thin, that artist would have to plan his or her art around the different medium that was going to be used. "Starry Night" doesn't look the same on a vase as it does on a canvas. If "real women" were used in what Tyra calls high fashion, the fashion itself would not be on display; the women would be. And while there is a place for women to display their curves, perhaps the runway simply isn't that place - unless the artist chooses to use a woman's curves as his or her medium.

Just a thought.