A Conversation on Ferguson: Help Me See What You See

I’m not sure why I stayed up last night, lying in bed with my kindle, waiting for the Ferguson verdict.

I’m not sure why it was the first thing on my mind this morning when I woke up.

There are people all over the country right now who are in so much pain…so very much pain. There are people who spent a dark night in tears. There are people setting fires and screaming from a rage that comes from somewhere down deep in their soul. How deep can rage go?

I felt like I should do something.

I am a white female who grew up in a middle-upper class neighborhood. For as long as I stayed there, and only there, I never knew how privileged I was. I thought the term “white privilege” was nothing but a remnant from an era long before mine.

I was born blessed. I have never had to worry about the thing that much of the rest of the world has to worry about. Why? I don’t know.

My whiteness and privilege have not exempted me from suffering. I have had my own demons in the form of spiritual bankruptcy. There are some forms of suffering that no privilege can exempt us from. I have suffered – because I am human, and it is a human thing to do. But my suffering is not the point here.

The point is that I can only see the world through my own context. I only have my eyes, my experience, and my upbringing. On my own, I can only see and make sense of the world through my own lens.

I stare into the image on the news of a police cruiser set on fire, and I feel deeply troubled by the limits of my own context. I am troubled by the tendencies I see as I look into my own heart. I realize I don’t – I can’t – understand the pain of those protesting the Ferguson decision.

I could look away. That is what we do best, when it’s ugly and confusing, right? By the power of a remote control, I can choose my own reality. I can simply turn it off – or turn on something less disturbing.

But there are an awful lot of people who don’t have that option. Because they live there.

How deep can rage go?

I had to do something.

A friend came to mind. An old friend.

I messaged her – talk to me today about the Ferguson decision.

She called and we talked for an hour.

“Letitia – tell me what it is like to be black. I don’t get it. I can’t imagine. Your pain is not my pain. Give me your eyes, let me see life through them. My own context is inadequate.”

And so we unfolded our hearts. I spoke of seeing cops as heroes. She spoke of being raised to distrust them. I spoke of being entirely unaware of my own privilege. She spoke of having to claw her way into opportunity. I spoke of feeling confused at why an entire community is outraged over a criminal being shot after a scuffle with a police officer. She spoke of case, after case, after case, where justice was not served, and of a Michael Brown who made mistakes that were not worthy of death. I spoke of living in comfort and never questioning it, and she spoke of living in fear.

“Amy what I wholeheartedly believe is that there is an undercurrent of unsettled fear, and yes even racism that has been passed down from one family to another because of our country’s roots…Many white people aren’t even aware that they are instinctively nervous or afraid…They simply cannot understand our rage.”

She spoke of Malcom X and Martin Luther King Jr. I spoke of changing the hearts of humankind. We spoke of hope and despair, of making noise until people pay attention.

Of the violence she said, I grew up in Detroit and saw violence outside my house every day when I went outside. I don’t advocate violence. I get very upset when I see the violence and looting….but as much as there is an undercurrent of fear in white people, there is an undercurrent of rage in black communities. The violent response is not sustainable for change. But it is understandable.

Again, I am back to looking at my own heart. It is uncomfortable.

What can we do? Where do we even start?

She responds, the first thing that needs to be done is that all Americans need to admit that there are still racial problems and color lines in this country. I get angry when people pretend it doesn’t exist. So be pissed. Be pissed and make some noise so people will pay attention.

How deep can rage go? Rage can go deep, and even deeper when the whole world keeps telling you that your pain is invalid.

I don’t have many answers. Not to Ferguson. Not to a global history of injustice and inequality while many continue to deny deny deny that these things are real.

I will not put down my white privilege. I will not walk in guilt for the blessings I have been given. I will not patronize my fellow white folk who live so far separated from other cultures that they honestly, wholeheartedly believe that racism is no longer a problem and that white privilege does not exist. I have been there and still often live there. Not seeing what one cannot see does not make one malicious. It just makes one unseeing. Putting down white people is not the answer.

But I will be grateful for what I’ve been given. And part of being grateful will involve pointing this out to myself and to others: your story is not the only valid one. Your context is not the only true one. Your vision is not comprehensive. You are a fool if you think it is. And more than a fool, because by living in the limits of your own story you are missing out on the richness, the beauty, the passion and the depth of the world. You are missing out on humanity, on love, on healing and all that life was supposed to be.

After our conversation, I sat in the quiet, letting these things sink into my heart. There is an aroma of sweetness in this friendship – this friendship where we are nothing like one another, yet we can let each other be just as we are. This friendship where what is different makes conversation spicier, life more beautiful, and hearts more enriched.

Her pain is still not my pain, but I see the world a little differently – and I trust this is mutual. Today there has been a small movement toward healing in this big broken world. Small indeed, in the face of all that is wrong in the world. But not insignificant.  Isn’t this how the world is made better – from one heart to another? 

This feels like what we should all be doing.  

Social media is in a frenzy. It is enough to make anyone want to fight – or worse, to check out and turn it off – to look away. But I don’t want to look away this time.

What goes on in your own heart as you watch the news today, friends? Have you examined the patterns you find there?

Did you get uncomfortable reading this?

Would you consider talking to someone outside of your story, instead of talking about them?

Listen without having to have everything answered in a clear cut way?

The world needs more of this. I need more of this. 

(Thank you Letitia for being a beautiful, deep soul and lovely human being!)

On Motherhood and Being Pruned

Being a mom is hard.

It looked quite lovely really. Even easy. From the outside looking in. 

Or at least, that’s how they made it look.

They. The marketers. The ones that market motherhood as something made up of rose blossoms, beautiful soft white linens, and always enough gentle mommy-love for each day. Especially that.

But even more than the marketing – I think that They lived mostly in my mind, in my expectations, in that lurking feeling in the back of my mind that I know nothing and other moms simply don’t have that problem.

If I had to narrow the lessons of motherhood down into one, big, pin-pointed idea, it would be this:

LIFE IS A BEAUTIFUL MESS.  A mess indeed - but so beautiful.

A few months ago I went to a baby shower. The mom-to-be was the real deal. She had a strong opinion on everything from breastfeeding to homemade organic baby food, clothing texture to brands of pacifiers, footie pjs verses non-footie pjs, no caffeine while nursing, no fish while pregnant, NEVER co-sleeping because it is the root of all evil, only all-natural laundry detergent and eco-friendly washable diapers made only out of recycled grass and wood chips…

As I listened, I couldn’t help but think to myself….now this is DEFINTIELY not the kind of mom who will stick their kid’s pacifier back in his mouth after it falls on the floor in Meier….

And in that reflection I realized a whole lot of things about motherhood. Basically, that it’s NOTHING like what I thought it would be. It’s so much better, and so much worse.

Somewhere between my first son shooting violent diarrhea all over the new nursery the day we brought him home from the hospital, and my screaming for someone to knock me out with a two-by-four after 24+ hours of labor with my second son, I realized that this thing was perhaps not going to be what I thought it would be. This thing – this life – this family - this mommy job.

In early recovery we talked a lot about our hopes and dreams. As a girl coming out of a life of wretched brokenness, drunkenness, debauchery, and promiscuity, one of my hopes and dreams was that I would meet a good man and have a family. I am glad God put this in my heart. At the time it was something of a girlish fantasy left over from wherever I had fallen out of childhood. I had no idea the depth and breadth and blessings and wonder that would come along with such a path.

What motherhood has done for me, is that it has taken all of my far-reaching expectations, all of my delusions of control, all of my best intentions at being able to do a good job, in essence – all of ME. And it has smashed them, and me, entirely to pieces.

Not even smashed – more like torched. And slowly, they and I have burned away, melted, smoldered. The wind has come, and blown away the ashes. They have been swept away, through yards, down streets, and in back alleys. The rain has fallen, and dissolved what is left. Gone.

But if we learn by motherhood to die to ourselves, it is not a becoming of nothing. It is a death to what must go and a new birth into something infinitely better. And while God grows, and prunes, and waters, and tends this mommy, I am profoundly, unspeakably, beautifully, thankful for it. For the smashing and burning, the rain pouring down and the cleansing, the leveling and rebuilding. For new thing I am now, and for the pruning that goes on and on.

As for pruning, in this season the Lord is cultivating gentleness in me.

In smashing motherhood delusions, it was a real shock to me to discover that I don’t have enough love to give these sweet babies. Ever. Never on any day do I have enough love or kindness or nourishment or attention to give in my own strength.

 You see there is something about little boys that can make even the saintliest mother entirely void of patience and kindness within two hours of waking in the morning. They begin pounding each other with pillows around 6am. They are loud. They run everywhere. They spill everything. They stink. The whining is over the top. They throw things. They need me constantly. They kick and hit. They splash water all over the bathroom and leave toothpaste marks on the light switches. They eat like teenagers. Everything is always in extreme disarray, in a way that only other moms of boys can possibly understand.

Often, I feel I am DONE before we have even started. Often, my first instinct is to just get them to GO AWAY so I can HAVE A MINUTE.  So I YELL. I lose my temper. I freak out. I hoot and holler and send everyone to their rooms. And then I regret it. Every. Time.

It brings me to my knees, and so the Lord is pruning me.

Tonight I was working on the pile of never-ending dishes in the kitchen. It was after their bedtime, and they were still awake, infringing upon MY free grown-up time.

Little Theo came in. He leaned against the kitchen sink and looked up at me with his enormous brown eyes. He started talking my ear off and splashing annoyingly in the dirty sink water. I really, really wanted to tell him to go away. 

But something about the warm summer night and the smell of rain made me slow down and look at his long eye lashes.  Not something – but Someone- the good Lord softening me, teaching me gentleness in His gentle way.

So he stood in the kitchen with me for a while, talking about elephants, and sneaking pieces of watermelon off of the cutting board. He thought this was very funny. Then he told me he loved me and went back to his cartoon.

And you know what? It didn’t kill me. It never does. This version of me – it’s better. For all the times I have regretted losing my temper and choosing myself, I have not once regretted choosing THEM.

Choosing kindness, and gentleness, and attention, and slowness, and love. Choosing to be available. Choosing to not belong to myself. It’s always better than choosing my empty, needy, ME-ness. I think that in this way, there is hope that they can learn that this mommy is just like them, just a grown-up child, learning how to live and love. And they are my best teachers, truly truly.

Isaiah 40:11 -

He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.

Read that again. He is tending us, mommies and children together. We are gathered, carried, and led, together in this thing. Thank you Jesus.

My sister says love ‘em, and give ‘em Jesus.

I would add love ‘em, and give ‘em Jesus, and give ‘em watermelon, too.

Voices from the Pit

There are a lot of things I am easily willing to expose about myself, things that are not particularly flattering, but which I share anyways because they might help other people know they aren't alone in life.

Examples may include:

 “You aren't alone, sometimes I lose my temper and scream at my kids too…but I have gotten better at learning how not to do this as often…”

“I understand. I too am regularly baffled by the depth of my own selfish tendencies…but God is always faithful to mold and shape me…”

“Yes, I have also wrestled senselessly with God while He pursued me….it was quite painful…it is much easier to stop kicking against the goads…”

“I also had no idea that parenting is so hard…..I had no idea that I would be so exhausted…and some days, the best thing for all of us is just to watch some extra cartoons….”

 “My name is Amy, and I’m an alcoholic…I also used to be entirely baffled by my own inability to stop drinking whiskey and doing drugs….I thought I was permanently broken too…but there is hope….”

I really believe that we identify with each other in our brokenness, and therefore we should talk about it. There is healing in the talking about it – it is not so powerful, not so broken when we talk about it, when we bring it into the light and look it up and down, and realize it’s nothing special to humankind. We identify with each other in the broken places and the way our cracks get filled with grace.

But for me there is one area where it is very hard to carry this happy philosophy.

Sometimes, I suffer from depression.

Just saying it out loud feels like puking – like I want to clean it up and explain it away.

Why is this such an unforgiveable, grotesque weakness to me? 

I do not find it to be such in others. When others are struggling with depression, I know how awful they feel, and I tell them to be kind to themselves, to rest, to get help from the people around them, to know that they are loved and that it will pass. But when it shows up in me, I am disgusted with myself.

The thing about depression is that it is characterized by an inescapable sense of self-centered neediness. The nature of depression itself is such that it magnifies every possible thing I could hate about myself or the world. Character tendencies in me which could normally be relieved through prayer, Scripture, self-care, and talking to others – these things are completely inescapable under the veil of depression. And not just inescapable, but MAGNIFIED. It is just self, self, me and my needy needs.

That is why I hate it. Because it is way too much me. Because there is no solution to it, no fix, no amount of work that I can do to make it better. It is just a big ugly gloomy cloud looming, making everything seem darker than it really is. And I just have to ride it out.

This time it has been here for just over two weeks. Thank God within those two weeks, I have had some grace-filled good days, days when the sunshine has hit my skin and brought tears to my eyes, days when I can actually get through the day without a nap, days when I am not wondering if it will ever lift. Those days give hope that it is getting better. Maybe. Eventually.

This guy speaks my language

Depression feels small…like being a tiny voice in the bottom of a deep, deep well. And the thought of trying that hard to be heard is absolutely overwhelming. It feels a lot like screaming silently, like being trapped in someone else’s very unwilling body. It feels jumpy like nightmares and creepy shadows at night and intrusive fear of bloody tragedies everywhere. It feels like a whole lot of Adam Duritz on August and Everything After (if you love this cd, you are my kind of crazy).

It feels like noise is amplified exactly to the level of nails on a chalkboard. Like I am a prickly cactus porcupine. It feels like a 30 minute homework assignment is suddenly the equivalent of an 8 hour final. It feels like the thought of cooking dinner could bring me to tears. It feels very, very heavy. It mostly just feels like I want to take a nap….like I have not slept in years and I just need to sleep it off. Every day. It feels like time is slow and two weeks seems like two years.

It also feels like guilt – it feels like dripping with grandiose, irrational, over-the-top guilt. It comes in waves when my 2 year old tells me about his Triceratops (“Tops”) with his little voice, and I am washed away by how I just don’t have enough to give to these little guys right now. It knocks me over with sadness when I fold their little socks and I just want to have more love to give them, to give everyone, to give to myself.

It feels like sliding down a stupid, idiotic pit – pointless and going nowhere. It feels like carrying a very useless but constant awareness of how much I don’t feel like myself, an awareness which serves as a nagging reminder that I am currently dysfunctional, and better remind myself of it because I can’t seem to think of much else, other than how I don’t feel good all the time. It feels like being so sick of yourself you can’t even stand it, and you feel blessedly free when you actually forget about yourself for a minute.

It feels like losing all of your productive abilities, all of your top-notch qualities, all of those favorite things about you which highly recommend you. Someone robbed them. They are gone. You are just a blob, a big, needy, tired blob. Only mostly no one notices except for you.

So that is how I have been feeling, and I am both glad and disgusted to share it with you. I know many of you can relate.

One thing I have learned:

When my first son was born, one of the unexpectedly shocking things about motherhood was that it was no longer so easy and convenient to get fed. Worship? Crying baby. Sunday school? Time to nurse. Listening to an entire sermon uninterrupted? Those days were over. At some point…I felt like I was starving.

My sister, wise mother of six and fellow depression sufferer, told me this simple thing: God knows what you need, and He who once fed you with the feast of entire sermons and deep theological discussions can now sustain you with just a few sentences, just a snippet, even just ONE word of grace. And it will be enough.

She was (and is still) so right.

And it’s true for depression too. He still rains His grace down into the pit. He is, after all, the helper of the helpless. And we are so quick to forget it, when we aren’t forced to wallow in our own helplessness.

So there are blessings too, even down here in the pit. Blessings which come from mom and mom-in-law swooping in to help, because they somehow see how tired I am even though I didn't tell them. Blessings which come from Word and song, from friendship and tiny affirmations that all is fundamentally well. Blessings which whisper of God’s warmth melting the ice, blessings which sing that His power is made perfect in our weakness, blessings which soothe our souls in this dark winter. 

And it is enough.

Winter Silence

I have not been writing lately.

Why?

I could come up with a plethora of reasons why a winter silence has gripped me - most of which have a degree of credibility. 

Must Sleep With Mommy

I suppose in part it is due to the (delightful) demands of school.

I supposed in part it is due to my wiggling and giggling little boys who seem to want to stay up later, or the lingering ear infection making my 2 year-old want to sleep plastered against me every night, or the way that sometimes I need to make them more important than other things I want to do.

I suppose in part it is due to this incredibly long, dark, cold, cold, cold winter, and the way its icy fingers seem to be wrapping around my heart and freezing up all of my energy. The way that occasional bouts of depression have been a little more than occasional this time around.

Endless Winter

It could be my lack of exercise and good nutrition, the way I am eating too much sugar and cheese, and drinking too much coffee with not enough water.

I know a good part of it is due to the huge change we just made, leaving the warm greenhouse of our home church and stepping out to follow God’s call to a new church. I am still getting my bearings. I am still catching my breath. I am still figuring out what this means. I am still celebrating and grieving.

I think the biggest part of it is just that I have been tired. I am learning that writing requires discipline and slowness - two things which are not easily incorporated into this season of my life. Writing requires me to draw deeply from a well within myself; it requires me to expose myself to you, and to God, and to myself. When I write, I always, inevitably, discover the shocking but relieving truth that I am still full of crap and in need of a lot of grace. Every. Single. Time.

 In short, it’s a lot of work, a lot of emotional, spiritual, introspective work.

And sometimes I just don’t feel like it. I don’t feel like soul-searching, I don’t feel like slowing down and reflecting and expanding on the tiny beauties and sorrows of life. I don’t feel like being stretched and changed and unraveling the things that go on inside of me. I get incredibly, disgustingly tired of myself. 

I would rather just be, just coast, just flip on the autopilot, eat a lot of chips and cheese, watch My Name is Earl with my husband, go to bed early, and take naps during the day. (This is probably why I liked to drink - although unfortunately it never worked out well for me. These days I stick to naps and chips and cheese.)

And sometimes that is okay – sometimes that is the right thing to do. Sometimes God, says – hush, rest child. You need to rest your mind, your spirit, your body. Rest. Stop struggling.

But then inevitably, I start to get the writing itch. I try to ignore it, but there it is. And so here I am again, starting back up, doing the thing that I at once love and hate, that gives me life as much as it sucks the life out of me. Here I am again, saying yes, I will intentionally live in an agitated state of awareness in hopes that I can transform my observations into words of grace to share with you. 

It sounds nice but it usually feels more like giving birth or trying to cram a polar bear into a jar of mayonnaise. Not all that romantic really. 

I’m tired just thinking about it.

Tonight we were stupid enough to go to Meier to “get a couple of things.” It was a zoo. And by zoo I want you to think of "Pictures of Wal-Mart" only at Meier, and there are swarms of them everywhere, making it hilarious as well as irritating beyond belief. Two hours, one hilarious crusty old man cracking jokes in the checkout lane, 6 Meier pony rides, one nearly-in-tears cashier, one box of fruit snacks, four chocolate muffins, and two whiny starving little boys later, we pulled out of the packed parking lot and headed home.

Hope 

As we rounded the corner by the park near our house, I realized that it was 6:30pm and I could still see a pinkish light in the clouds of the sky. I felt the same thing I felt earlier this week when some beams of sunlight hit my skin for the first time in weeks. 

Almost tears of joy. Almost like feeling alive.

Winter is drawing to an end, dear friends. The great thaw is coming soon. This bitter winter will melt away as it always does, and green new life will move in. The end is near. Aren’t you glad? I love new seasons, and the way God speaks to us in them.

Look for more from me soon. I love you all.

Amy