ecclesia

 ἐκκλησία.

Gendered religion is as old as language. It's a projection of God made in our image, not the other way around. Hierarchy is human. A twisted byproduct of our initial command to bring order, we fixate on the KJV idea of dominion. Look at Genesis 1:26 in a different light:

"Then God said, 'Let us make humankind in our image, after our likeness, so they may rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the cattle and over all the earth, and over all that move on the earth." (NET Bible (netbible.org))

I learned that man was made in God's image, and woman made in man's image. This extra-scriptural interpretation asserts unwritten oppression. This teaching continues to survive in the mainstream Church because it allows leaders (men, exclusively) to be the chosen gender, the firstborn of Creation. (Nevermind that title is already taken by Jesus Christ, Himself gendered as male.) In my subconscious Bible memory, this Genesis account is connected to Paul's directions to the out-of-hand church family in Corinth, too.

"For if a woman will not cover her head, she should cut off her hair. But if it is disgraceful for a woman to have her hair cut off or her head shaved, she should cover her head. For a man should not have his head covered, since he is the image and glory of God. But the woman is the glory of the man. For man did not come from woman, but woman from man. Neither was man created for the sake of woman, but woman for man. For this reason a woman should have a symbol of authority on her head, because of the angels. In any case, in the Lord woman is not independent of man, nor is man independent of woman. For just as woman came from man, so man comes through woman. But all things come from God." -(I Cor 11: 6-12 NET bible.)

Regardless of your personal opinions about the Apostle Paul, this passage is directed to a specific congregation. I am a member of the Church, not the first-century church in Corinth. In this way, I'm comfortable with mystery and confusion about some of the specifics. (Ex: "because of the angels" is a phrase that scholars can't even agree on!) This discourse section is over-applied and used to oppress worshippers in our modern time, when the passage itself was an encouragement to worship in the first place! Paul is explaining how neither gender is independent, neither is superior. God is superior! Women don't worship men, they worship God.

Speaking of Church, the title of this post is the Latin transliteration of the Greek work that evolved into "Church." It means a calling out. A group or gathering called out of their comfort. Called out of their homes. It's a feminine word in an ancient language.

The Apostle Paul extends the metaphor of the feminine Church with my favorite expose in Galatians 5. The Church is Christ's Bride throughout Scripture, culminating with the beautiful wedding described in Revelations 21. I continue praying for revival within the Church, to value those oppressed instead of contributing to the oppression. James wrote that "Pure and undefiled religion before God the father is this: to care for widows and the orphans in their adversity, and to keep oneself unstained by the world." (James 1:27-NET bible). Since her rocky beginning, the Church has needed reminders that the vulnerable should find solace among those called out. The Church is a mother with welcoming arms, the literal hands of Christ. When we attempt to masculinize the Church, we lose the tenderness God intended. When we weaponize the Church, we lose the very mission she was given.

The narrative begins with the birth story of Genesis 1:2 (read this article by Admiel Kosman for more) to the birth story of Luke 2,  concluding with the birth story of Zion in Revelation 22. I'm not sure we talk about birth enough in many church events. Most men I know are more like Nicodemus in their understanding of birth and rebirth, wondering if it's possible to climb back into your mother (see John 3). Rebirth of the Gospel is even more unlikely! That's what makes the Gospel so beautiful, at least in my perspective. 

I guess my point is that God is bigger than any gender you can assign. I was created female, and I'm grateful for my identity. I love my husband and my son, both created male. But our gender identities don't cause God to be male or female. Our Church is women and men and children choosing to live a called out life with Jesus Christ. Ecclesia has been controversial since her conception.

Hope is alive

Say it louder. Say it again, until you believe. Hope is alive.

https://commonhymnal.com/songs/mothers-and-shepherds

As morning dawns on each of these darkest northern days, I choose to hope. I cling to the ancient promises I will never understand. Hope is alive.

Born into genocide, the infant Savior embodies hope. Rescue. Strength. The glory that only the poor in spirit are able to see. The Light that defies darkness. The Love that silences fear.

So many mothers grieved when Jesus was born. Like Rachel, I weep. Death still stings, this side of the Cross. Death is real and powerful,

BUT HOPE IS ALIVE.

Praise God. Hallelujah. Glory! Hope is alive.

  

Glimmer

 Our little family has been driving through neighborhoods most evenings to look at the sparkling, glimmering lights. Some homes have nativity scenes next to inflatable cartoon characters. Some have elaborate projections. Our Little Love doesn't care what the lights are, but announces "Lights" even for the smallest strand in a window or over a porch awning.

In the dark days of a dark year, I'm grateful for the glimmers. I'm grateful for the families able to plug in lights. It's like a proclamation against the night. We know Dawn is coming, no matter how cold it seems right now.

And it is dark and cold and lonely this week, as we continue social distancing from family and friends. Each day of Advent is a day closer to the due date promised in the Spring. The day we could have met our little Glimmer.

I was nervous about Advent this year. Nervous that a month of preparing to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Savior would be too full of painful reminders. I worried about sitting in a crowd of 2020 babies crying and cooing at church, with my own babies only held in my memories.

Yet, here we are. Church is smaller these days. We meet with four friends each Sunday, but our congregation has become the literal neighborhood, as my heart has always dreamed. We traveled around the city last Saturday, delivering Christmas ornaments and cards to people who have been dear to us in the journey this year. It was good to see faces, hear stories, or catch up afterwards. My mama soul was overwhelmed by the sheer number of babies born into our Church family. My grieving heart joins with multiple friends who are losing parents slowly, some newly gone. That's the power of Church, I think: Rejoice with those who rejoice! Mourn with those who mourn!

I called our Baby #3 Glimmer, thinking that hope would hold us through the pandemic. The story in December is not how I would have written it, ever. Hope, though, came through. The darkest moments continue preparing our hearts for Glory. Morning is coming. Love will win.

Our Advent traditions continue this year, reading the calendar I made last year standing midstream the darkness of grief. We're in Week 3: Redemption. Tonight, we read the story of God redeeming Israel as they walked through the parted Red Sea. I feel like Israel often: taken from terrible comfort and rescued into wilderness. I feel like Israel tonight: feet on dry ground with walls of the Sea to the left and the right. I pray that I can sing like Moses, sing like Miriam:

"The LORD is my strength and my defense, he has become my salvation.

He is my God, and I will praise Him,

My father's God and I will exalt Him." Exodus 15:2

I thought I would be 39 weeks pregnant today. Instead, I've suffered through three losses this year. I've stared the demon of suicide in the eyes and cried out for help. I'm learning the value of life, all life. I'm learning how to love those who look different, live differently and love differently than I do. I'm the rich young ruler, asking "And who is my neighbor?"

Losing our Baby Whisper taught me about grief and joy. Losing our Baby Glimmer taught me about hope. Losing our other two babies, so soon, so close, continues to be confusing and difficult. I'm learning that life and light are intertwined in the expression of Jesus. I'm learning the complexity of God's strength. I'm learning that hope is worth fighting for. I'm learning that Truth prevails.

May you find more than a glimmer of hope this Christmas.

but who is my neighbor?

 If you've been part of a church for more than a year, you've heard the story of the Good Samaritan.

It's a parable in response to a question. A story to explain a complicated response. A proclamation against religious appearances. A social reckoning. Insight into the despised sector of society.

Each night we pray as a family over dinner. First, we thank Jesus for providing His body in our place to pay for our sins. We take the command literally to remember Him every time we eat and drink, moving communion from a sacred Sunday ritual to an incarnational habit. Little Love squeezes his hands together and scrunches up his eyes to keep them closed, standing on his chair and leaning over the food.

Next, we pray that God would help us love. We ask for more grace to love God more. We ask for strength to love each other well. We ask for God's help to love our neighbors, the people we like and the people we don't like.

The parable of the Good Samaritan can be simplified to that last stanza:

We are to love the people we don't like.

The Samaritan wouldn't have liked the beaten up Jewish man in Jesus' hypothetical story. The priest should have. The Levite should have. But they didn't. The Samaritan is called Good for valuing the humanity (God's image) in the battered man on the road side.

I journalize and editorialize the adventures in our literal neighborhood regularly. I've written a lot recently about loving our neighbors. To that point, this story challenges my inclusive definition of neighbor.

You see, the month before a polarizing election and two months into the fiasco of remote learning...I have a few people that I don't like. I find myself interacting with more and more Samaritans. I find myself exhausted, running late, and much like the priest in Jesus' story. Or worse, many days it feels like I'm the Jewish sojourner, shoved off the donkey and left for dead.

And now, thousands of years removed from the first telling of this story, there is advice for my unfriendly encounters. Maybe the Samaritan tears off their face mask and tells me I'm a baby-killer if I won't vote for Trump and Culp. Maybe the Samaritan lights my car on fire for saying there are "good police". Maybe the Samaritan calls those same police because there's a gathering of more than 5 people in my garage. Maybe it doesn't matter why I don't like them. They're still my neighbor.

Jesus extends the teaching of the Torah that loving your neighbor is larger than your comfortable family-safe circle. Jesus invites us to love the "other". Jesus calls us out of our monoculture into human community. For Jesus came to unite all humanity to the Father. And for that, I am grateful.

valuing life

 A year ago, the dead little one inside me left.

I've been pregnant for eight of the last twelve months to children ushered into the Father's arms instead of my own. Four possibilities. Four opportunities. Four rounds of devastation.

I have become familiar with loss.

And through this loss, my empathy has been strengthened. My patience grows with parents struggling to support their children, as I was unable to foster mine. I long for the day when my black sisters have the same hope of safe birth experiences in my own country. My heart breaks as every new murder headline is more than a hashtag, but a family and community devastated with violence. Loss.

Over 200,000 families have experienced loss this year, too, just because of COVID-19. Each time I wash my hands, each time I faithfully wear my mask, I pray for the families lamenting loved ones. I remember my babies each time someone tries to tell me that "the schools should just be open because kids don't even get the virus." I want to ask, "who have you lost?"

I'm only a year into this mama-identity marked by loss.

But loss and inequality are constantly shoved into my consciousness. This week, those I love are again talking about abortion and "pro-life" ideals to make reproductive care harder to access. It's not extreme to consider a scenario in the near-future where my own D&C surgeries would become illegal or prohibitively expensive with national law changes. 

It's hard, too, to watch major political figures who shunned medical advice be offered the best health care, paid with tax dollars. We paid $7,000 to lose Whisper. We paid $1,000 to lose Glimmer. We pay up to $500 every month for my on-going trauma counseling. Out of pocket. With no help from insurance or government. Will pro-life judges help my family when we lose beautiful embryos or fetuses?

I am well acquainted with injustice. I have lived in puppet democracies, visited for-profit theme parks of "elected" presidents, and always been grateful to return home to the "Land of the Free." Becoming a Loss Mama has changed my perception of my homeland. I see images of babies like mine used to stir emotions for fundraising with NO REGARD for traumatized mothers. I hear rhetoric that claims religious piety used to slander women, even coming from the lips of women.

I am tired of weeping. I want to see change. I want to see the Church rise to this opportunity and love women through loss. Love women regardless. Listen to women, like Jesus did. Value life at every stage, for everyone.

I pray my babies did not die in vain, that I may live and love well as their legacy.

a wolverine, purchased

 Church is a familiar topic in our home.

Church bigger than a Sunday pageant.

Church forgiving and welcoming and strong.

Church that runs into darkness or danger.

Church like a purchased bride of another era. 

Church who still will not or cannot relinquish her whoring past.

Church made holy, waiting to be made whole. 

Church lamenting.

Church rejoicing.

Church proclaiming hope.

Church already present in the unreached spaces.

Church awakening from winter's hibernation.

Church like a wolverine, wild and scrappy.

Church as the unstoppable army of the Savior.

Church historic and present and timeless.

school year & a creed

 Chalked onto the concrete ramp that leads to our house is the following creed:

WE BELIEVE

• Every person reflects the IMAGE of God
• Every person is valuable
• Every human system has flaws
• Every person can find hope in Jesus Christ
• Every person is a sinner
• It's not our place to judge you
• Every heart can change
• If we stay silent, God will still be praised
• You are welcome here

It's been quite a summer. Conflict wracks our nation. Sin continues to be unveiled in our own lives, our Church, our family. We struggle to know what to say as people of color continue to be publicly and disproportionately killed by the twin evils of COVID-19 and police brutality. We're slack-jawed by loved ones supporting a brazen appropriation of scripture by the standing Vice President. We know that the world is broken and we can't stop seeing it.

This week, a stranger walked into our neighborhood. She asked if we had any snacks, so I put together a bag of school food that a neighbor had given us. She started to walk down the street. I yelled a dinner invitation (without checking with Beau) and she joined us for one of the weirder dinner parties of the year. I'm not sharing this to brag about our neighborliness. We've never done anything like this before, even though we've talked ad nauseum about how to turn dinner into missional opportunities.

I think we are called to do stuff like have drifters over for dinner. It's not crazy in the Bible. It happens multiple times. It was only awkward because that's not how middle-class Christians, like us, do everyday life.

I think following Jesus' example leads us to do super-uncomfortable, societally awkward things. 

That brings me to this school year. It's already challenging. The blatant inequality of remote learning has not changed in the last 5 months. If anything, it's worse in some areas of our specific community. I'm pouring myself out like a drink offering, as an educator and friend. I'm weeping in prayer for the children who are unseen, unsafe, and undervalued in our society. I'm doing my best to show grace and patience to the frustrations and ignorance of the commentators.

So, that's where I'm landing this tonight:

Whether or not you agree with our family's creed, could you be kind this school year?

Could you be slow to judge?

Could you recognize systems are flawed?

Could you be welcoming instead of divisive?

And maybe, could you stop saying awful things about schools on the internet?

how it grows anyways

 It's been 26 months since we moved back to our homeland. (Not that we were ever really that far away...) In that time, we pray and dream about "planting a Church" each day. I had some time yesterday at my parent's house to reflect on what has been planted in this time, and I realized that the Church is growing in ways I wasn't noticing.

Like a plant that needs winter rain, our experience of Church has deepening roots. It's been a season of finding nutrients, encouragement from increasingly diverse voices in more than our tiny neighborhood. It's been a season of drinking in the Word like water, prayer like air, and the rocky soil of "home." It's been a time to start small, quite small.

I expected our network to be wide, but it's deep, instead. I expected our support to be formal, like a cedar trellis. But it feels like we're honeysuckle, vining up a tree. The Church is growing and we are here; it's not growing because of us...or anyone. The Church is alive, underground and above ground, and virtually this year. The people who fellowship on our deck are a beautiful representation of the body of Christ.

The Bible is full of agricultural metaphor and example. The Church began in a garden, was tested in a garden, was redeemed because of a decision in a garden, and celebrates forever in a new and perfect garden. And true to the consequences of the curse, gardening on Earth continues to take work. I spent part of our morning in worship pulling ivy vines out of maple trees. The Church is messy and requires constant upkeep.

Every dinner or drop-in guest reminds us that the Church is ubiquitous. Wherever two or more gather in the name of Christ, the Church exists. We mission like it's a verb, as a little team of three. We worship like it's a lifestyle, with friends that become family. We celebrate the death and Resurrection of Christ at every meal, even if there are no visitors, because that's how we read Christ's instructions.

We sow seed indiscriminately. Who are we to decide who is "good soil?" Sometimes the Gospel takes roots in the rockiest of souls. Sometimes the "rockiest" appearance hides a very fertile heart. We seek the living water for our own faith in the Good News. How can we share what we do not celebrate? Who wants to join an angry throng of grouches? We rejoice for we are made new.

This is how the Church grows: like the garden taking root at our house in the Heights. It may look disorganized. It may feel slow to my impatient, Millenial timeline. But, to God be the Glory. The Church grows.

the Gospel of family disruption

My parents are among those concerned by the platform of "disrupting the nuclear family" embedded in the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement. Family is the greatest idol in the Evangelical Church within America. I felt this keenly as a single woman in Church leadership, and even more so now as a mother in the Church. Somehow, we have agreed to a human construct from recent American history and confused it with Gospel. With no further commentary, read these biblical excerpts on your own. Pray for the Holy Spirit to open your heart to the Gospel of family disruption:

•  Luke 12:49-53
• Synoptic Matthew account in Matthew 10.
• Jesus' birth story, through the lens of a yet-to-be married teenage mother and her formerly barren cousin, in Luke 1.
• Jesus' parting words to John & Mary in John 19:25-37.
• Abram & Lot splitting up in Genesis 13.
• This crazy turn of events from the ancestral story of Jesus: Genesis 38.
• Psalm 68 and Psalm 82 
• Ruth with Naomi
• Hosea.
• Pentecost, the literal birth of the Church in Acts 2:1-12.
• Revelations 21

Let me know privately if you would like to discuss these passages, or others, regarding family. I love my husband and son, my parents and in-laws. I love them because they are each made in God's image. I am grateful for their love, too. I'm just hoping that we can see past our immediate reactions and examine what the Bible actually says, especially about family.

What if "family" is meant to encompass all Gospel relationships? What if we stop looking at ourselves so closely and extend the same patience and respect to people who are very different from our "normal?" This message is incredibly divisive. But, that's how I read the Gospel as Good News. There is hope for anyone because there is grace for everyone.

on being "pro-life"

Some background
I've struggled a lot this year with the concept of sanctity of life. This week, I had my third miscarriage of the year. In a search for answers about the souls of my unborn children, I've been forced to rethink my own deep beliefs about life and death. I've wept and screamed and pored over the Psalms like a teenager listening to sad music after a first break-up. Much of my theology about life and death, specifically my theology about pregnancy, came from evangelical traditions instead of actual Scripture. This post has been a long time coming, and I'm sure it's still a work in progress.

Christians who identify themselves as "Pro-Life" are usually referring to the idea that abortion needs to be made illegal. I disagree with that for some reasons listed on my other blog. Instead, I'd like to propose a larger, Scriptural argument for Christians to adopt a fully "pro-life" applied theology. (I'm realizing that some of this is influenced by Russell Moore and his 2015 book Onward that my friend Randy let me borrow a few months ago.)

The Creation account and the Imago Dei
Life itself is a gift from God. The first book of the Bible describes this through multiple poems, stories and genealogies. The first five chapters provide a framework for humanity to understand our place with God. (Our local church had a long series on the first five chapters of Genesis in February-April 2019, that influences this section.)

The Creation poem of Genesis 1 describes God as the Creator of all life, declaring life good. Human life, in particular, is declared "very good" by our very good God. So much so, that the creation story of humans is re-told with great details immediately in the next chapter. God confers within the community relationship of the Trinity to "make man in our own image," a phrase that missional, evangelical and woke churches all like to evoke: imago Dei. Taken literally, this means that every human reflects the image of God in some way.

The detailed account of Genesis 2 has Adam, the prototypical ancestor, formed of dust. Then, God breathes life into Adam. Next, God forms a counterpart, Eve from Adam's very self. This sets two precedents: #1) God is able to create humans independently. #2) God uses humans to create other humans. Subsequently, every human is directly connected to another human, while still retaining God's image (including Jesus). None of this is about abortion, but it's really important to start with this fundamental understanding of humanity reflecting God.

The Bible focuses multiple chapters on birth and death. Eve is promised "pain in childbirth" as a tangible consequence of the Curse of sin (Genesis 3:16). Then, her firstborn son goes on to murder her second-born out of jealousy. In this story and many others, the Bible recounts a human proclivity to weaponize life. After the stories of the first fallen family, we move into a genealogy (Genesis 4:17-25). This continues to show how important individual life is, reflecting God's image but now also exhibiting a fallen, sin nature. Lamech (the first recorded polygamist) brags about the curse of his ancestor, Cain, and pridefully claims that God will avenge any wrongdoing done to him. Sadly, this misguided entitlement reverberates throughout humanity and Christendom, living on in our current American Christian ideals. Genesis 5 focuses on the lineage of Adam, describing each subsequent family in terms of the years before fatherhood passed to the next generation and years until each ancestor met death. More than a trivial history, this chapter proclaims the importance of individual lives recognized by the Creator.

There are 1,189 chapters in the Bible. I would argue that every single chapter proclaims that God celebrates human life. But instead of writing a paragraph for each of the remaining 1,184 chapters, I'd like to shift to the applied theology of being a pro-life Christian in the USA in 2020. The passages highlighted for the following points come from all parts of the Bible because this issue of LIFE is an overarching theme throughout the canon, drawn from all sections of the narrative.

Being pro-life means you have a LOT of neighbors
Jesus used the story of the Good Samaritan to illustrate the point that everyone is made in God's image. This well-known story of the outcast defying stereotypes to be compassionate to a stranger is the way that Jesus answered a scholar's question: "And who is my neighbor?" Jesus expands the scholar's understanding of Leviticus 19:18, the Hebrew directive to not only love your neighbor as yourself, but also to forgive and stop multi-generational grudges and wrongs. Jesus told a story about a Samaritan on purpose.

As Christians, our view of our neighbors needs to extend beyond the walls of our Church. Our neighbors are the people sleeping on streets, not just the ones in our subdivision. Our neighbors are the immigrants risking everything for asylum. Our neighbors worship other gods, but we still love them. Our neighbors have different sexual identities and we still love them. Our neighbors share the same reflection of God's image and the same curse of sin. Through our love, they get to see God's goodness and salvation (John 13:35).

Being pro-life means you take care of those without family and you take care of family
James 1 is a clear description of spiritual discipline, concluding with the call to take care of widows and orphans. This is a reflection of God's very character, described in Psalm 68. God is described as a "father to the fatherless" and "an advocate for the widow." God is credited with "settling the deserted in their own homes" and "freeing the prisoners." This means finding forever homes for homeless people, migrants, single parents, and children in foster care. This means getting involved in legal issues. This means sharing a message of hope and forgiveness such that you oppose slavery and trafficking in all forms. This means providing help for those with mental illness, and resources to free people from addictions, no matter how taboo. These ideas should not be extreme in the Church, since  they are scripturally attributed to God.

Now, the Bible does get incredibly specific about how we need to care for the family of the Church in 1 Timothy 5. It is incredibly important for us to care for our "flesh and blood" household and our spiritual household. Being pro-life means I do not sacrifice my literal family for a mission or ministry. It's not more spiritual; Paul describes this ministry over family choice as "denying the faith" in 1 Timothy 5:8. Or worse, choosing self over family. The pro-life Church reflects the healthy community within the Trinity. There is no room for physical or sexual abuse to be tolerated in the Church.

Being pro-life means you advocate for humane treatment of all people
Growing up as a girl in an evangelical church, I read Proverbs 31 a lot of times. So many stories in the Bible were about men. This chapter, though, was a poem passed down from a mother.

The directive portion from a mother to her kingly Son concludes: "Open your mouth on behalf of those unable to speak, for the legal rights of all the dying. Open your mouth, judge in righteousness, and plead the cause of the poor and the needy." (Proverbs 31:8-9) I know a few women with this reference tattooed as a reminder to be pro-life at all times. Pay attention to this: these verses remind a son to use the voice he has. The poor and needy are always oppressed. This is not a situation unique to 2020, rather a situation revealed.

This chapter of maternal wisdom continues. She describes a woman who "extends her arms to the poor and needy" (Proverbs 31:21) foreshadowing the outstretched arms of Christ on the Cross. It's no surprise that this woman cares for those beyond her household. That's the rallying theme of family in the Bible narrative. The idea of using power for the powerless is a reflection of the Savior's willing submission, described in a passage known as the Christ Hymn. Jesus "humbled himself to the point of death" to restore life for all who seek restoration (Philippians 2:8). As we follow God, we too will "defend the cause of the poor and fatherless" and "vindicate the oppressed and needy". (Psalm 82:3)

Jesus made a point to spend time with the disabled. Jesus made a point to spend time with the despised. Jesus made a point to spend time with those of no influence. Jesus made a point to spend time with the unwell. Jesus told a story to illustrate to his disciples and others in the crowd why it's so important to treat others well (John 10). The parable of the Lost Sheep is a pro-life parable.

One story that illustrates this perfectly is Jesus revealing his holy identity to the Samaritan woman (John 4). Jesus breaks multiple cultural rules to talk with her about real worship. He describes Himself as "living water." He knows the woman's story and welcomes her to repentance instead of punishment. Oh, we have so much to learn!

Being pro-life means you forgive
Most have heard the Alexander Pope couplet: "to err is human, to forgive divine." It's cute but inaccurate. Even before the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, the Jews had a practice of forgiveness for situations of manslaughter (Deuteronomy 19). People can forgive people, it is a very human action. While Jesus was talking about forgiveness to his disciples, Peter ventured that he may "forgive his brother seven times." Jesus counters, "no, seventy times seven." (Matthew 18:15-22). This tireless forgiveness should be a trademark of Christianity, a refreshing counteraction to human culture.

Jesus further explains his controversial statement  (seventy times seven) with another story (Matthew 18:23- 33). Living on this side of history from the Cross, we claim forgiveness of all sins by Jesus' blood. When we do not forgive others, we deny the power of His death and resurrection. Therefore, a pro-life posture is one of forgiveness. We must forgive as we have been forgiven. Recognizing our oppressors or transgressors as fellow fallen image-bearers helps us forgive like Jesus was willing to forgive us for everything.

Being pro-life, I forgive those who hurt me today. I forgive those who attacked me with words, with letters, and with physical actions. By forgiving, I don't excuse them from hurting me; I acknowledge the hurt they cause and boldly proclaim it has no power over me any longer.

Being pro-life means you let God judge
My experience with the Church has been positive and I continue to fellowship with believers of many creeds. Many of my dear friends have left a church or the Church entirely because of issues regarding judgment. When we judge others, we question God's ability to bring justice. There are very clear Scriptural directives about judgment in the Church:

• "Do not judge so that you will not be judged" (Jesus giving the sermon on the Mount, Matthew 7:1-5)
• "Therefore we must not pass judgment on one another, but rather determine to never place an obstacle or a trap before a brother or sister." (Romans 14:13)
• "So then, do not judge anything before the time. Wait until the Lord comes. He will bring light  the hidden things of darkness and reveal the motives of hearts. Then each will receive recognition from God." (1 Corinthians 4:5)

I believe that the Holy Spirit is big enough to convict anyone of their own sin (John 16:8). I can offer advice if a friend or student asks me about sin in their life, but it's not my job to call out their sin. When we single out specific sins as being "worse" (Romans 3:23) or specific gifts as "required" (1 Corinthians 14) we create an artificial hierarchy amongst humans created in God's image.

In this regard, I will share meals with "known sinners." I listen to sermons from male and female leaders, heterosexual and homosexual, from those who look like me and those who don't. I will help neighbors in need, regardless of the righteousness of the choices I can see. I wonder how our evangelism would change if we stepped back from the role of judge and into the role of worshipper?

Being pro-life means you repent
I was coming home from a quick trip to Malawi in November 2016. I had five connecting flights on Ethiopian Air that took a total of 47 hours. Between flights 2 and 3, I had a two hour layover in Addis Ababa. A middle aged man sat down next to me for some small talk.

He asked me a lot of questions about my traveling, particularly about the Malawian teachers I worked alongside while on my trip. Then, he told me he was from Nigeria. Instantly and subconsciously, I grabbed my purse and held it close to my lap. I'd picked up generational bias against Nigerians while I lived in Burkina Faso years earlier. I identified this man with the Samaritan stereotype, just like the scholar from Luke 10. It didn't matter that I had partnered with women in Malawi as equals. I still thought that some people groups were better (me) and some were not to be trusted (this man).

I'm sharing this personal anecdote because repentance must be personal, first. When I grabbed my purse in that airport, I was not seeing God's image in the man from Nigeria. I was seeing my own prejudice and projecting the stereotypes I had learned as a white girl in the US and a white woman in Western Africa. When we see people through our prejudice, we discredit God's creation. We dishonor God. I dishonored God in that moment.

The beauty of repentance is choosing the better path. Acknowledging sin is the first step in living a right life with Jesus. It's what Peter told the new Church to do at Pentecost (Acts 2). The practice is larger than a single moment at the birth of the Church: promised to Solomon (2 Chronicles 7:14), reminded by John (1 John 1:5-10), and preached by Jesus in person (Matthew 4:17).

If you're feeling uncomfortable with this call to repentance, consider this interchange in Matthew 3. John the Baptist calls out religious leaders for their inherited religion, without evidence of following God. I find that the times I am most uncomfortable are the situations where I need to repent. Repentance is part of restoration of the life God intends for all. That's why I see repentance as a pro-life practice.

Being pro-life means you mourn
Death by police brutality calls for mourning. Death by preventable disease calls for mourning. Death by child abuse, domestic violence or elder abuse calls for mourning. Death by miscarriage calls for mourning. Death by abortion calls for mourning. Death by car accident calls for mourning. Death by cancer calls for mourning. Death by suicide calls for mourning. Death by gang violence calls for mourning. Death by internment center conditions calls for mourning. Death by mass-shooting calls for mourning. Death by lethal injection calls for mourning. Every death is a loss of life, worthy of mourning. Full stop.

In college, my favorite chapter to read was Romans 12. This year, I've appreciated even more the call to "mourn with those who mourn." The entire chapter is relevant to the mourning we collectively experience during 2020. The virus that causes death and poverty is bringing us within the Church back to our knees. Living in harmony with one another is counter-cultural in a sharply divided partisan time, like this American election year. All American Christians need to learn to mourn. We grieve loss of life because each life reflects God.

As an angel revealed to the apostle John, mourning is irrelevant in Heaven (Revelation 21) In a year filled with mourning, this vision is beautiful hope. It doesn't remove the deep heartache of the moment. Instead, my soul is filled with an unshakeable confidence that eternity with God is a deeper joy than any pain I can experience on Earth. Eternity with God includes my past and this very moment; yet, when "the former things cease to exist" I will be gratefully worshipping God without tears.

Being pro-life means you surrender your right to comfort
I saved this for last because it's the most offensive to American Christians. In my home state, our churches were asked to stop meeting in person in March so that the spread of a deadly virus could be stopped. Suddenly, the cracks of our American society began to show. I wept as I watched people I respect equate their inconvenience to persecution. We are promised suffering, troubles and sorrows (John 16:32-33). Jesus explicitly promises that we would be scattered out in our own homes, a point of note for the Church of 2020. We are also promised to be disciplined (Hebrews 12:6, quoting Proverbs 3:10)

Or consider the Hall of Faith of Hebrews 11:36-40 depict a life of discipline and devotion on a far greater level than quarantine with live-streamed church. I have never been tortured. I have never been flogged or sawn in two. I have never been imprisoned for my faith. However, in my lifetime and still today, there are brave followers of Christ experiencing these atrocities. Using the word persecution to describe our discomfort cheapens the sacrifice our sisters and brothers in Christ are making world-wide.

This also applies to the voices I choose to seek out. If I am only hearing about God's word and God's love from people with my subculture, I cannot view my suffering in a heavenly context. My brothers and sisters in other countries struggle to understand my teacher heart grieving remote schooling. Similarly, I cannot imagine how my sister Viviane endured miscarriages in Burkina Faso. We learn from the cloud of witnesses, too, reading stories in the Bible and Church history of those who have walked with Jesus on earth before our time (Hebrews 12:1).

The recent resurgence of calls for justice for black men and women who died in police custody is causing every American to re-examine their heart. The Church has a complicated history with the American Civil Rights movement, with some denominations finding their history with abolitionists, some with slaveholders, and some as former slaves. I have been challenged by friends in churches around our country and in our own community to examine my own attitude first, but then move to action. Being pro-life, we need to listen to those in pain. Many black men, women and especially children are in pain right now. Some pain is immediate, like those experiencing loss this year. Some pain is generational, the result of a system designed to suppress. The beauty of the Gospel is that all can be free; none are unclean (Acts 10:28).

Celebrating the Creator through all people is bigger than the current "Black Lives Matter" movement. In my local community, multiple native tribes experience judgment and hostility from people who look like me, and some who claim similar beliefs about God. Again, the Gospel is big enough for everyone (Romans 1:16). This idea of a Gospel first intended for someone else (the Jews) compels me to love those different from me, even when it's awkward or humbling.

Conclusion
I've had two abortion procedures in the last year. Both times, my baby stopped developing before eight weeks. Before that, I had a healthy son born by cesarean-section surgery. In a different time or a different country, I could have died during childbirth. I learned during my first pregnancy that women of color (particularly black and native women) are up to 3 times more likely to die in childbirth than their white counterparts, like myself. (CDC, 2019) Racial disparities continue in the US even though most maternal deaths are medically preventable, according to the same publication from the CDC last year.

Furthermore, women of color are less likely to have equal access to prenatal or postnatal care, including mental health care. Those of you who know my story know about my struggles this year with OCD, depression, anxiety and suicidal ideation as my body has moved in and out of pregnancy three separate times. My struggle has been transparent so that others in my situation don't feel alone during this global season of isolation, and so that God can get credit for the redemption and restoration as it happens. (Pugh, 2019 and Pugh, 2020)

I first saw sanctity of life as a worship issue after I contemplated suicide during the hormone swings of my second miscarriage. My family and Church surrounded me with prayer and support, battling for my sacred life even though my child was no longer alive.

I was reminded of a news story from 2017, when I was carrying my firstborn. Charleena Lyles was a pregnant mama of four who called the police during a now-suspected mental episode. The police shot her and she died in front of her children. ( Levin, 2017, Seattle Times, 2020, Pugh, 2020). I've been going to rallies in my community with a sign that says "Charleena Lyles + unborn son" in her memory.

Who is my neighbor? Every Charleena in my community. Every baby fighting to be born. Every mother scared of the unplanned life within her. Every stranger battling demons of depression, anxiety and suicide. Every smelly kid. Every family separated in political custody. Every angry meme-sharing Facebook friend. Every police officer, teacher and even every politician. Every Republican, Democrat and Libertarian. Every person, made in God's image.

Being pro-life means I believe the Gospel is for everyone who believes.

no justice in their paths

"No Justice. No Peace."

It's a rallying cry from thousands of years ago. God's word to God's people through the prophet Isaiah.

In chapter 58, the LORD tells Isaiah exactly how His people are missing the mark. He explains how their religion is insufficient because they've focused on the wrong requirements. His people have constructed a system that promotes and celebrates oppression. But, it's not too late! I heard a pastor friend share this week that "the flipside of sin is glory." That seemed out of place for me. I think of holiness as the opposite for sin. But look, it's here in the scroll, too.

"Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness (or righteous One) will go before you,
and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard." -Isaiah 58:8 NIV

Jesus Himself goes before us, God's glory behind us, enveloped entirely. God promises restoration follows repentance. His people can claim new names:

Repairer of Broken Walls

Restorer of Streets with Dwellings
(Isaiah 58:12, NIV)

But it gets even better. In chapter 59, the LORD explains through Isaiah that confession and repentance are tools and a Redeemer is coming.

This hits me very personally. Yesterday, I joined five teenagers and the 40+ others they recruited on Facebook to hold a rally to honor Black and Native women who have died because of violence in the United States of America. Paul encourages the Church to "mourn with those who mourn" (Romans 12:15), a command I am far too familiar with this year. Mourning these lost women, made in God's image, brought me to this passage in Isaiah:

"The way of peace they do not know; there is no justice in their paths. They have turned them into crooked roads; no one who walks in them will know peace." (Isaiah 59:8)

Protests can't save Americans; only Jesus can. Hundreds of years before Jesus' arrival, this section of Isaiah reinforces the Truth that only Jesus saves people. But the same scrolls call out sin within the Church. The same scrolls urge us to run from quarreling and strife, from ignoring the needy. The same scrolls demand the Church speak out for justice and act out for peace.

I know that attending a protest isn't everyone's way to loose the chains of justice. Some within the Church may be in a position of power to change laws or business practices, especially those actively benefiting from the oppression of others (Isaiah 58:3). Some may untie the cords of the yoke through debt forgiveness or "passing the mic" (Isaiah 58:6). Some within the Church can open their homes for a meal or a boarder, maybe even someone in your own family (Isaiah 58:7). But the Church cannot do nothing. The Church cannot say nothing.

The children in our community are literally taking to the streets with the words of the prophets. We must humble ourselves before God and listen.

who we hear

I woke up to my son announcing he had a poopy diaper. It's a rainy quarantine morning, and I'm still tired from camping at a state park the night before. In the early waking moments, I don't want to be an American toddler mom this morning.

Freshly changed, I tag my husband for the next few minutes of parenting. Doesn't work. My son only wants Mama to sit with him. He hits his Dad. He hits the dog. He cries for Mama attention. I don't want to be an American toddler mom this morning.

It takes three tries to get my Keurig to brew a cup of coffee. I swallow my morning meds to have a chance at managing anxiety through whatever 2020 imagines for today. My husband continues to read whatever shows up on his phone.

"Can we read the morning Psalm together?" I ask, as we converge on the playroom couch.

Psalm 116: 
https://netbible.org/bible/Psalms+116
Promises of rescue. Freedom from oppression. Celebrating God's faithfulness in the Land of the Living.

So distant from my social media window into the world.


I look at friends complaining or campaigning: "Wear your mask!" "Protect your rights!" "Speak up for the unborn!" "Black lives matter!" "Vote for God's man!"
This is not the struggle described by the Psalmist.

The world continues to deal in death. Americans continue to pay for COVID with their lives. But larger genocide continues undiscussed in my American toddler mom circles. I think about the asylum-seeking mother, separated from her babies within the borders of my own nation. I think about the Uighur creating the clothes my son wears. I think about the Rohingya, still running away from burned livelihoods. I think about the Syrian teacher, persevering to care for children as years of war have threatened every semblance of humanity. I think about the families in Yemen, a nation in crisis my entire adulthood.

But to think is only the start. I pray, like my soul is in the dirt there. Because, that's the transcendence of the Church: my soul is united with these grieving sisters and brothers.

"Anyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved." It's the promise Paul and Silas shared with their jailer, an invitation into God's peace and family. Each oppressed Muslim mama is made in God's image. Each trembling Yazidi reflects the LORD who will return. Salvation is accessible for the silenced and solitary in prison camps, work camps, and detention center alike. My spirit groans with the Spirit for restoration in this life.

Right now, my toddler is hosting a car show for his grandma over the Internet. He has no idea that 1,000 prisoners were reclaimed from Boko Haram the month he was born. He doesn't consider the Uighur when a well-meaning friend or family member gifts him another cheap, plastic toy. He cannot imagine a day without food, because no one in our family has ventured to Yemen. He's unfamiliar with the phrase "Anti-Balaka" because Christians are the good side in our cultural narrative.

As an American toddler mom, I want my son to know God loves him and anyone else. We actively preach that God's love is for "those like us, not like us, and who don't like us." We pray for the healing of individuals and nations, for the reclamation of systems in our nation and beyond. We pray for a renewal within the Church of the sanctity of life, of a recognition that each person is made in God's image. We want our little toddler to grow in the knowledge of God's redemptive love.

Dig in, a little deeper. The voices of the oppressed are all around us. It's easy to just listen to what happens in our homes, but Jesus died for more than those with my last name or DNA.
Credit:
https://www.genocidewatch.com/countries-at-risk

losing confession

Trigger: sexual assault in the Bible.

I've sung different versions of Psalm 51 over the years. It's a beautiful plea for forgiveness. It's personal and rugged.

It's the song of a sex offender.

King David invaded Bathsheba's privacy, ignored the bond of her marriage, and used his power to destroy her family. Then, when Nathan spoke prophetically of his need for confession and repentance, David tried to pontificate for strict justice. Nathan reveals that David will pay for his sin with the life of his unborn bastard child.

But what about Bathsheba?

She is raped while her husband is serving God and the king (her rapist). She is carrying her attacker's baby when her husband is brought home from war. Her righteous husband refuses to go home, not knowing that his wife needs his protection and comfort. So, her attacker sends him to certain death in battle. This grieving widow then bears her attacker's son, who dies. She remains in a polygamous royal court, to continue bearing future children for the local ruler. Trauma after trauma in this story.

Can you imagine this grief?








And yet, we sing Psalm 51 still. We remember David as a great leader, a man after God's own heart. We acknowledge that he "wasn't perfect." We listen to sermons about David's grief over Jedediah, this child of rape (2 Kings 12:1-25) and see a leader ready to serve the LORD again.

So, here is my question:

When did the Church lose confession?




If David's legacy can be that of a man after God's own heart, why are faith leaders continually disposed after public sin? Why are we expecting perfect leaders instead of investing in systems that restore victims and aggressors? I'm not advocating that the abused remain with their abusers--on the contrary! Why are we not teaching confession and repentance for every sin?

A system of one strike and you're out is not the system of the Bible. It's not even how the Old Testament works, as clearly illustrated by this terrible atrocity in Bathsheba's story. The power of confession and repentance is forgiveness by God. It's larger than any human superstructure.

Stop believing you can be good enough for God.




Sing Psalm 51 like David, a convicted rapist who is grieving his son.
Sing Psalm 51 like Bathsheba, a mourning widow and mother who is pleading for her purity.
Sing Psalm 51 like Jedediah, a 7-day old infant dying for the sins of his father.
Sing Psalm 51 like the nation of Israel, following a leader caught in a lie.
Sing Psalm 51 like an American Christian, repenting of everything standing between Christ and the Church.

Common Hymnal, 2018

strong enough hope

Psalm 116 
I love the Lord because he heard my plea for mercy, and listened to me. 
As long as I live, I will call to him when I need help. 
The ropes of death tightened around me, the snares of Sheol confronted me.
I was confronted with trouble and sorrow.  
I called on the name of the Lord,“Please Lord, rescue my life!” 
The Lord is merciful and fair; our God is compassionate. 
The Lord protects the untrained; I was in serious trouble and he delivered me. 
Rest once more, my soul, for the Lord has vindicated you. 
Yes, Lord, you rescued my life from death, kept my eyes from tears and my feet from stumbling. 
I will serve the Lord in the land of the living. 
I had faith when I said,“I am severely oppressed.”  
I rashly declared, “All men are liars.” 
How can I repay the Lord for all his acts of kindness to me? 
I will celebrate my deliverance, and call on the name of the Lord. 
I will fulfill my vows to the Lord before all his people. 
The Lord values the lives of his faithful followers. 
Yes, Lord! I am indeed your servant;I am your servant, the son of your female servant. 
You saved me from death.  
I will present a thank offering to you, and call on the name of the Lord. 
I will fulfill my vows to the Lord before all his people, in the courts of the Lord’s temple, in your midst, O Jerusalem.
Praise the Lord! ©NET

I've been reading Psalm 116 this week. Over and over. Like, when you hear a new song and immediately want to listen again. Or, when you find one you haven't listened to in awhile, and then you play it over and over because there's more to learn or more to feel.

Spurgeon calls it a Paschal song, but my recent personal experience doesn't match the Passover. Sure, my firstborn son is living and well, but the blood spilled wasn't from a lamb. The ropes of death tightened, the snares of Sheol confronted, and God continues to reveal compassion.

This psalm is passionate and powerful; a reflection of God's goodness during suffering. I can claim God's mercy, fairness and protection. I can proclaim God's redemption. But, I wasn't enslaved. That's where the Paschal history transforms into hope for the future. Jacob's children spent 400 years in Egypt as slaves. Severely oppressed.

"How can I repay the Lord for all his acts of kindness to me?" The Psalmist asks a question that resonates with our American 2020 reality. Like the psalmist, I will celebrate deliverance and call on the Lord's name and fulfill my vows. Sacrifices for my oppressed neighbor, my sisters and brothers in Christ. I will value the lives of faithful followers because GOD does. I will thank the Lord and love well.

There is beauty in this ancient Israeli song. It's a remembrance in the desert. The power is revealed in deep pain. And the hope is for the faithful.

So, sisters and brothers who are tired, have hope in the LORD. The LORD is our salvation, not a king or even a chosen nation. Serve the LORD in the land of the living. Fulfill your vows. Rejoice, give thanks! There's a strong enough hope for the severely oppressed.

Innocent Lives, by CommonHymnal

Grieving as the world burns

Grief is terrible and complicated, anyways. Waves of emotions tangle into every facet of life. Grieving in a time of national mourning, pain and unrest is even harder.

We lost a baby in October, so I thought I knew what to expect for my grief this time. But there's no predicting any return to "normal." I learned our baby would never be born in early May, and am recovering from surgery last Friday.

But my news seems trivial. There's a growing death toll from a virus that damages lungs and relationship. There's a national trauma being brought to light again in an endless stream of violent images, screaming a terrible legacy of hundreds of years. There's a dehumanization of God's children wearing black and brown skin. There's animosity attempting to wedge apart the Church at every level. There's a knowing concession that schools have been inequitable and will continue to be so, leaving out or leaving behind the very most vulnerable. Our country is burning.

And into this world of brokenness and pain, my latest baby will never get to live.

Is it cruel or compassionate? I struggle with the idea that it may be better for this little one who never got to be. Darkness creeps into my mind, exhausted with grief and isolation, whispering it would be better to have never been born myself. I see the grief poets of the Bible in new light: a longing for an end to individual, family and society's suffering. "When will it end?" "When will justice return?" "Do you see us, God?"

Thank you to the Family rallying around us in this season of hurt, even as many experience greater suffering. We are encouraged and strengthened by those who refuse to put mission on hold. We are comforted by the love of God, the love that values every life.

But we're weary, too. We've stared into death and claimed victory. We stand against injustice in our own hearts and in our community. We want to love well, even through tears and weakness. Because that's one promise we can cling to as everything feels upside down: in our weakness, Christ is strong.

So, please pray with us and for us. My heart is broken and unwilling to heal, yet. There's so much pain around us that it feels selfish to ask for so much help. But that's how any of this changes: working together in grace and truth to love the most vulnerable.

I've waited a week to share this, but I know I'm not alone. Evil tries to keep us separate, isolated and without support. But our strength is our unity in Christ. So, grieving mothers and all those alone... God is with us. It doesn't quell my sadness, but it gives me hope that things can be made right. I continue to believe that love changes the world.

listening

Creation is praising God.

Every human, bearing God's image, praises God by virtue of continuing life.

I'm trying to listen more. To my neighbors. To my community. To my husband. To my toddler. To the families of my students. To the oppressed within my own nation.

When we can be quiet, God speaks.

every life matters

TRIGGERS: We lost a baby today. And I needed medical help for suicidal thoughts. And I'm grieving racially charged violence.

I've called this baby "Glimmer" since the little pink line showed up on the pregnancy test in early April. I found out over a week ago that our baby never started growing. That's when the bleeding started. Not enough to be able to get a doctor's appointment or to go to the hospital. Just enough to erode away the fragile progress of my healing psyche and my vulnerable mama heart.

In my tiny world of the people inside the four walls of my locked down house, the ugly intrusive suicidal thoughts crept back into my reality. It started when I first saw the bloody confirmation that our baby really wouldn't meet us this Christmas. Sitting on my toddler's swing set, I pictured my lifeless body  hanging from the frame, free from pain on Earth forever. I told my husband, I told my psychiatrists, I told my therapist, I told a few friends. But the thoughts didn't go away. They got stronger.

I started bleeding on Friday. There had been the tiniest hope that Glimmer would make it and test after test in Tacoma. But Friday, we knew: Glimmer had never been. Memorial weekend has never felt like such a LONG weekend as it did this year. I called the doctor's offices over and over, sending messages pleading for a surgical end to the trauma. My mind, constantly reliving the terrible labor pains of losing Whisper in October and the dark, scary season of suicidal thoughts that followed.

On Wednesday morning, we had to drive to Tacoma to see for ourselves that the "threatened miscarriage diagnosis" was a "confirmed failed pregnancy" or its uglier twin medical name: "a missed abortion." I was told that I would get a surgery scheduled and waited all day for a scheduling call that never came. When I asked again, they told me it would be scheduled some time in a week.

That was too much.

I laid on our couch, weeping. Beau went outside to build the giant deck (his grieving project that I'm grateful for). Our son played trucks on his play mat. Looking past my son, I noticed our block of kitchen knives and lucidly decided how I wanted to die. The intrusive suicidal thought tore into my mind and I wanted it, for the first time. I was mourning but deceived.

I'm so grateful that God placed my son in the room. He was right there joyfully and peacefully, between myself and the weapon that usefully belongs in my kitchen. I ran outside to get Beau and called a 24-hour helpline. Ultimately, a beautiful supportive team surrounded me with care and prayer. They battled for me and my family. I am so grateful for friends who answered urgent texts and calls, for family who came as quickly as possible, and for medical professionals who helped make miracles happen for my hurting brain.

That's how our baby Glimmer is gone, now, though. Our baby who never got to grow (inside me or outside in the world) is no longer part of my body. I had the surgery that I spent so much time pleading for this morning. Now, to grieve. Now, to mourn. Now, to heal.

Being pregnant and struggling with mental health has burdened my heart with a woman's story from a few years ago, still awaiting justice. Charleena Lyles was 14 weeks pregnant and struggling with her mental health when she called the police instead of a helpline. She didn't have a husband like Beau home with her, just her four kids under 12. Her mind told her she was being burglarized, like my mind said I should kill myself with knives. But nobody told Charleena to go to the emergency room or urgent care. A social worker didn't call her at 8 pm. A counselor didn't call to pray with her, like mine did. There wasn't time for her family to come watch her kids while she got help.

Charleena was shot 7 times, after two armed police officers say she tried to attack them with knives. Her one-year old and four-year old were reported to be in the room. Her autopsy revealed two bullets in her back. Two bullets in her uterus. Her fetus never had a chance.

My story is different from Charleena's in many ways. I've had so much more support my entire life. As my mind unravels with grief and hormones, there are societal structures that caught me.

Charleena was black, though. She lived an hour away from me, in a different world. Her unborn son would be at greater risk of police violence than my unborn baby ever could be.

I can call the police unafraid, and I have. I respect the women and men of my local police force, because I genuinely feel that they use their role to respect every life in our community. I am so grateful for the place I get to live, so grateful for the I life gifted to me. Even when my mind welcomed the thought of death, it wasn't at the hands of a service officer at my front door. My whiteness gives me a different set of outcomes.

I rode the elevator to the surgery waiting room this morning with a black couple on their way to the OB. The daddy was singing to his baby trying to make it dance. The mommy was laughing at him. Even grieving my lost baby in the moment, I laughed with them and said "Yeah, babies don't listen to what you want them to do." The mommy replied, "That's the truth". We went our separate ways, for her to hear her baby's heartbeat and me to have mine removed from my body forever.

I wonder what life is like for that mommy right now though. Does she have older kids she's worried about? Does her husband ever get to feel safe in his community? I'm praying for all of the black mommies out there, in Minnesota and Georgia, in Seattle and in Tacoma. I'm praying for my friends in "mixed race marriages" feeling silenced because of their family tree. I'm praying for the black babies trying to be born, and the black mommies carrying them, knowing that fetal and maternal outcomes are terrifyingly worse in America than the outcomes for white mommies and babies.

I'm mourning a personal loss. I'm mourning an evil in my own society. I'm repenting of benefitting from a system that let me think I earned my whiteness. I'm repenting a Savior complex that celebrated working in other nations and in "rougher" schools right here. Every life matters.

It's taken two deaths within me to see how I think God deserves to bless me.

I intend to rest in this grief for my unborn children. Not without hope, but because of hope. I intend to rest in this grief of the evil of racism in my nation. Not without hope, but because of hope. Grief is teaching us to listen. Grief is teaching us to love.

"Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us." -Romans 5:3-5 NIV

We will mourn our brothers and sisters lost to violence. We will weep for our brothers and sisters believing the lies of racism. We will battle for our brothers and sisters caught in the tyranny of suicidal ideation.

BUT WE WILL HOPE.

a different celebration

This Mother's Day is complicated. My mother and her mother are still alive and well. My mother in law, too. I'm grateful for these women who shaped my life. They're a layer removed from the celebration, though.

It's not just the COVID-19 restrictions keeping us from a "normal" Mother's Day. There's a marked shift when a woman transitions from daughter to mother. We rode that wave two years ago, when our son was born ten days before Mother's Day. We celebrated by taking him to church for the first time, then packing up the brand new stroller for a walk along the Sound at Redondo Beach. Last year, we hosted both grandmothers at our temporary vacation rental with a spectacular view.

This year feels most different because of the people we've never met. We will get to video chat our mothers and grandmother, but we will never get to hold the baby who could have been here this week. It's an interesting irony to lose a baby in "loss awareness month" and observe a missed birthday the week of Mother's Day. Then, there's the tiny sibling growing inside me that we hope to see on Tuesday's ultrasound visit.

I've never felt so defined by motherhood as I did this week. I rejoiced with the baby I can hold in my arms, as he turned two in front of an audience of friends on Facebook. I continue to mourn the baby I hold in my heart, as the due date once circled on the calendar passed quietly. I cautiously hope that the baby growing inside me now is doing just that: growing. I talked to my own mother a lot this week. I leaned heavily on friends around the country, the county and the neighborhood. I feel the weight of mothering, and am grateful to have a husband who walks hard roads by my side. I am blessed by the support of the Church (in all it's messy manifestations) and Family (messier, still), by living my mothering identity loudly and honestly.

So, however this Mother's Day finds you, please rest in the love of a Good God. I plan to cry. I plan to laugh. I plan to unload the dishwasher. I plan to love and be loved.

the powerful wind

Today might have been Whisper's birthday.

It's so windy. The clouds are racing across the sky. The fresh leaves on the Bigleaf Maples act as a hundred windsocks, proclaiming the strength of the wind. The whitecaps hustle and grow. Our little memorial garden dances.

I am projecting emotions onto the storm around me, and I realize that. But it feels like creation is joining my sad celebration today. What is the message of Spring? There is hope! There is new life! Death remains meaningful, but is no longer the final word.

So, I will mourn and rejoice simultaneously. I will stand in the powerful wind on a blustery morning. I will welcome any tears that fall, from myself or the gathering dark clouds. I will praise the God who created Whisper's life at all. I will mourn as a mother in waiting.

Eastertide

It's fitting that the liturgical calendar saves "Ordinary time" for June. Right now, the world feels to be quite extraordinary. Eastertide (or Paschaltide) is a time for saints to celebrate and remember the power of the Resurrection. That power is just as real as ever, even if we celebrated last week from the lockdown of our own homes.

Jesus appeared to so many people after death and Resurrection, but we're only appearing to one another through video chats or drive-by's. This is time to celebrate Christ's incarnational return. Jesus prompted the doubting disciple to push fingers through nail wounds, proof of tangible humanity re-entering the physical world. A virtual faith is wholly inadequate to honor an incarnate Savior.

From the lawful abiding of our own home, we reached out to our physical neighborhood first. We're still learning names and stories of the physical, incarnate neighbors that God placed together in our corner of Earth. We offer help, and swallow our pride to accept help, too. We pray privately and praise God publicly. We keep our germs to ourselves while sharing our faith in person and through the Internet. We call to check in with those we know live alone, those we know are out of work, those we know are not connected to any arm of the Church community. This is how we're trying to share the incarnational nature of Christ's love, compassion and commission.

"Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. And when they saw him they worshiped him, but some doubted. And Jesus came and said to them "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always to the end of the age."-Matthew 28:16-20

The elementary kids at our in-person church were memorizing this verse in February. It rings out like an emergency alert in my mind. The Gospel is not cancelled. The Mission is not cancelled. The Church is not cancelled. We are called to worship an incarnate, Resurrected Savior  with people.

Maybe the most you can do is sit in a lawn chair. Maybe the most you can do is log in to a device. But GO. But MAKE disciples. But BAPTIZE. But TEACH what Jesus commanded, and DO it, too. Observe authorities, sure, it's biblical. But, please, don't let that stop you from LOVING well.

instead

My heart is quite fragile. I am an extroverted empath, seeking the lonely and broken. Even when my strength is depleted, I want to help.

I long to be in the middle of the mess.

But lately, I've been the mess.

It didn't take a global health crisis for me to become messy. I was already a mess. If anything, this time is allowing our family to heal. Time to breathe.

There's a weird pressure among those with privilege, that current events should make us better. Immediately. A social media expectation that I should be learning a language, or flipping a house, or starting a non-profit in this time.

But instead of potty training my toddler, I'm relaxing the rules about screentime. Instead of writing the next great American novel, I'm texting friends and family. In this time of uncertainty, I'm leaning into the word "instead."

It's spring break for my job that now exists from home, anyways. I'm leaning in and learning how to identify and recognize these complicated feelings. There's no rush to change them. There's no need to fix them. I'm going to sit with these emotions, instead.



"I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD." Psalm 27:13 &14

unknown

In all of the swirling unknown of this year, school has been the place where I keep it together.

Then, a series of emails changed that. No students for six weeks. Details for staff coming soon. I'm not sure how my brain will react when the shock wears off.

But I know that God is good. I know that God is faithful.

In the mess of anxiety, I know that God will win. I am free to love my neighbor. I am free to show grace to myself, to my family, to my neighborhood, and to strangers. I am free to be kind. I am free to be courageous.

It's tempting to notice who's not around. That's the lie of grief. I continue noticing that Whisper isn't with us. I continue noticing who is too afraid to assemble. I continue noticing who is off doing better things. But PRAISE BE TO GOD, God is always around. Even with social distancing. Even with quarantine. Even with online church. Even with cancellations God is always around. And so are God's people. The Church is present everywhere.

Yesterday, the Church assembled for my birthday. We reclaimed a hillside from neglect, replacing Scot's broom and blackberry vines with native shrub babies. We celebrated life with life. I am overwhelmed by the love of friends and family. I am overwhelmed by the power of the Savior.

We love a good God. Let us be overwhelmed by that.

how hope wins

Every night, Beau and I talk about hope. We talk about the day, we talk about the future, and we process our past together. Lately, there's been a lot of hurt and heartbreak in our "Tribe". We pray for physical healing for friends with cancer diagnoses. We pray for emotional healing for friends suffering loss. We pray for restoration in marriages. We pray for friends and neighbors to return to a hope-filled relationship with Jesus. We celebrated the birth of our neice this Monday, but mourned our lost Whisper all over again. We've been asking each other the question, "What does hope look like?"

Tonight, we were driving to celebrate a good friend's birthday. We wanted to flip the script of sadness and weariness and celebrate. It had been a hard day for each of us, for different reasons. We knew that a lot of our friends were struggling, too. The rainy, rainy sky made all of the darkness feel heavier.

We started the car ride listening to this song.That's the beauty of hope. It's able to shine right through the darkness. Hope takes every awful circumstance and confidently declares "IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY." 

For you have been my hope, Sovereign LORD,
my confidence since my youth.
From birth I have relied on you;
you brought me forth from my mother's womb.
I will ever praise You. --Psalm 71:5-6 NIV

I think the emotions we process tonight are larger than prose. It's why my soul resonates with a song, with a psalm. This, then, is my ode to hope:

So here we stand,
claiming power in the name of the God who has always been.
We claim power in the defeat of death forever.
Beau keeps reminding me not to be afraid of the Darkness,
but stare it in the face and boldly claim my identity as a Child of the Light.
I'm struggling. I'm grieving. I'm so sad and so angry, often simultaneously.
And God can only ever be GOOD.
That's how hope wins.
God is always good.
The battles are always temporary.
The struggles will always be resolved,
for God is larger than my story
and promises
life
forever.

the sacred invitation

It snowed in some parts of our community this week and everything shut down. We never got much snow, but that doesn't seem to matter. Friends, family and neighbors cancelled plans on us for four consecutive days. At one point, I sent "last minute" invites to twelve separate families, only to be rejected by all of them. My hopes for community did not match the reality of this week.

So, in this place of feeling sorry for myself, I agreed to meet sweet Megan at the gym on Friday. I left right after dinner at our table set for more than three and told my husband he was in charge for the rest of the night. But when barre class ended fifteen minutes before bedtime, I realized something important about community. There's a toddler who invites me into every part of his life. He invites me to dance parties and Octonaut watching marathons. He wants to hear stories and say "I love yous" and snuggle as a family before getting into his crib. When I'm missing the larger community, I am still part of a beautiful community in my own home.

The LORD God said, "It is not good that man be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him." - Genesis 2:18

During all of my years as a single woman, I craved the community that waits for me at home. I worked so hard pastoring teenagers and counseling adults that in moments like Thursday, I forget how circumstances have changed. I forget that community can be those who share my last name and smile lines. And this community, little as it is, is good. This community, too, brings credit back where it's due: the original community, the family of Heaven.

dinner

We're always trying to figure things out, over here.

Our resolution for this year is to live as missionaries in our community. Practically, we're filling up our calendar with dinner invitations. I thought we would be hosting most of these dinners, but right now we're going to a lot of peoples' houses, instead. I guess that's how Jesus did it, so it's ok to swallow my pride and be served whatever our friends and acquaintances make.

I read a book about dinner churches. It stirred memories of college community, small groups in the yellow house, and friends who do such a good job of engaging community. I aspire to love and serve in a community that shares the Eucharist simply and regularly. My heart has experienced the beauty of a Maundy Thursday service in a cold park gazebo with powdered sugar donuts and Sobe (Megan, I'm talking about you, friend.) The beauty of dinner as an expression of the Church is the simplicity. It's an obedience.The Gospel is made practical over a shared meal.

But our meals so far this year aren't what I would call "religious." We've talked about sports and the weather more than theology. The PNW is not known for lingering community meals. This is the tension I bring to the literal table: is the dining enough? Maybe there's a redemption happening just by being present, by speaking with grace and truth. Maybe there's worth in the waiting, in the meals and the moments of community instead of isolation. Or maybe, there's more chicken in the seats than on the table.

We're trying to figure out how to be good neighbors. We're trying to figure out how to be family, as a whole. We're trying to figure out how the Gospel moves forward in a place where even Christians around a table together aren't talking about their faith and our good God.