The One Thing

There's so much in life, I find, that needs fixing. It seems like every day, there are things that just don't go the way they should. Things break. Plans fail. People disappoint. Life is full of bumps and bruises, pains and problems.

Some of us are problem-solvers. We take joy in fixing these things, both for ourselves and others. Our fix-it impulses pull us into situations all the way from small appliance repair to major life crises, all with the same motivation--to make everything all right. I guarantee you, though, that even those of us who are problem solvers--maybe especially us--also need fixing. And beyond fixing, we need healing, mending. Always, for everyone, the journey of simply being alive in the world has brought hurts, shame, and pain to us in ways that are deep and shaping. Who or what can help us mend?

In most cases, I believe that significant relationships are where we find healing and wholeness, relief from the pains and brokenness of our past. And in my life, Rick was the fixer. He knew how to fix a sump pump, reboot the wifi, unclog a toilet. He could help think through difficult decisions, bring clarity to hard conversations, find guidance in confusing situations. He was always willing to offer his own hard work, practical help, and reflective wisdom. He could stop a whole evening of family fighting in my house, just by showing up. Wherever he went, he brought with him an aura of calm, and left behind a wake of peace.

For me, he not only smoothed the rough edges of daily living, but his healing touch sank deeply into my past, into hurts and griefs and false beliefs that have shaped me in painful and destructive ways since childhood. Listening to him preach every Sunday, listening to him talk in our everyday conversations, just seeing him live in a way that brought lofty truths to intimate life, helped me shape a new understanding of beliefs that have always been a part of me. I learned from him to see grace and love in new ways. Always, I've labored to meet the standards of my own faith, to do well at doing right. But Rick's faith was not about being right or doing right; it had room for failure, room for weakness, room for doubt. The grace I've offered myself has been dispensed sparingly, as a necessity. The grace Rick spoke of and lived out was never grudging, never stingy--it was generous, joyful, more than enough. Love, in the pictures Rick painted, was about others. It was never about how to change anyone, fix anyone. It was only about extending itself out, inviting others in. And most of all, love was for everyone, the ultimate truth. It was lavish and unconditional, welcoming and complete. It was the core truth of our existence, for ourselves, for others, and as the foundation for a community of the Beloved. It was for me.

In my adult life, love and I had not done well together. Love had meant revolving in orbit around someone else and their needs, always in the shadow; Rick showed me that it meant emerging into the light, having someone else rejoice in my happiness and success. All the love I had to give had fallen into a black hole, a chasm that could not be filled, absorbed like tiny pinpricks of light being consumed by the darkness; and so, no matter how much, it had never been enough. I learned now that love can be received with joy and returned; and when it is, it is multiplied many times over, making love increase for both the giver and the receiver, until giving and receiving are indistinguishable acts and there is nothing but more, hundreds and thousands of times more love. In all the broken places where I had lost sight of my own beauty, he found it and gave it back to me, reflecting it back in a thousand truthful glimpses with the simplest of daily interactions. Before, love in my life was like a cactus, its sparse beauty surviving and even thriving sometimes on the tiny streams of water buried deeply in the sand, perhaps able even to burst into flower with the faintest sprinkling of rain, yet with pain and danger always present. Love with Rick was like a lush and spreading old-growth apple tree, green and inviting, fragrant with blossoms, cool and shady, heavy with fruit, bursting with fire. Its peaceful beauty nourished the soul in every season.

And now, I suppose, comes winter, when it lies sleeping, bare and silent in the cold.

Once, after a tearful outburst over some hurt or frustration, with my face buried in his shoulder and his arms around me, I asked plaintively, "Is there anything you can't make better?" With that slow, self-deprecating chuckle, he said drily, "Oh, I imagine there's a thing or two."

I didn't believe you then, my dear. After all, you mended everything in me that was broken. As always, though, I know now that you were right. I've found the one thing that you can't fix. I don't blame you; even your powers had to have their limit. But even though you cannot come this time and make everything all right, rest assured, rick champ--you are still the only one.

How I love you.

New Every Morning

I'm writing this at 9:00 on a Wednesday night. Wrapped up in a cozy blanket on my couch, drink at hand, with the cold wind blowing outside, I feel able to sit in my quiet house and think, reflect, pray, even write. I am able to have everyday conversations about trivial matters with my son as he wanders by. In fact, I feel as if I might be OK. Tomorrow's tasks seem surmountable. I make plans for the day. They start, obviously, with getting out of bed, which seems, at the moment, so easy.

 And then I go to bed, and sleep.

Sleep is what I need right now, everyone tells me, and I'm certainly doing enough of it. I know it's good for both my body and soul, and it is a blessed reprieve from consciousness, if I can say it that way. The trouble with sleep is, it comes to an end with the morning. And in the morning, it's a whole new ball game.

On that first terrible day, when I took to my bed for the first time, I explained to Laura why I needed to re-read Option B, the book on resilience that Sheryl Sandberg wrote after the sudden death of her husband. "I don't remember anything she said!" I wailed, sobbing, "Not any of it! I don't know how to be resilient!" And Laura, always wise, said calmly, "She wasn't resilient on Day Zero. You don't have to do that now."

How comforting--what a relief it was--to know that I didn't need to be resilient, didn't need to be strong, didn't need to be able to get up and start again, there on that first day in the heart of my grief. And Laura was right. It's no longer Day Zero. But still, every morning, I wake up to realize my loss in some ways as if it's the first time. I find that whatever gains, whatever strength, I seem to have acquired the day before have disappeared. I am starting again at square one. It's as if I am caught in a bizarre cross between the movies Groundhog Day and 50 First Dates, where each day repeats itself just like the one before, and on each day there is a terrible truth that I must learn. The pain is new every morning, and every morning, it's just as hard to get out of bed as it was the day before.

Some days I don't make it.

In some part of my brain, none of this makes sense. I grow impatient with myself, uncomprehending of what could possibly be so difficult. Always, I have been a person who kept moving in the face of hardship, who fulfilled my responsibilities no matter the obstacle, and this is what I have come to expect from myself. But always in the past, I have faced an enemy who remains known over time, who doesn't change from moment to moment--never one like this that is fresh with each new look, each new thought, each new day.

In the actual movie 50 First Dates, Lucy does start to adjust more quickly every day. It's not that the terrible truth isn't still there to learn, but learning it becomes easier, little by little, and there's room for it to be seen alongside the joy and meaning that is also present in life. Faithful friends tell me that this is how it will be for me also, in some ways--that loss doesn't change, but it somehow gets easier, makes room for other things. That when I'm ready, getting out of bed won't be so hard.

I'm grateful for people around me who understand this better than I do. I'm grateful for those who have assured me that time will heal, even though from my vantage point that time seems far away. I'm grateful for the prayers offered by friends, acquaintances, and even strangers on my behalf. And I'm hopeful that as grief continues to be new every morning, there will be new grace to meet it.

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
(Lamentations 3:22–23 NIV)

All Things New

Come broken and weary
Come battered and bruised
My Jesus makes all things new
All things new

Come lost and abandoned
Come blown by the wind
He'll bring you back home again
Home again

Rise up, oh you sleeper, awake

The light of the dawn is upon you
Rise up, oh you sleeper, awake

He makes all things new
All things new

Recently, at Salt & Light, we had something new happen. Someone who was a part of our community left us. By itself, this isn't unusual. We are creating a motley, beautiful, strangely assorted family here, and it's messy. People often leave for various reasons--some exciting, such as a great move or a new job, and some a little less joyous, such as incarceration, hospitalization, or job termination. This time, though, one of our community departed through death. We lost our longtime volunteer and receptionist, Donna.

Donna was on my reception team, and she and I got to know each other well over the years we have worked together. There is pain in her story, as with many who come to Salt & Light. (If you are interested in hearing more about her journey, the first two minutes of this video will paint a better picture, but I'll warn you, I need the tissues at 1:47 every. Single. Time.)  Her unique experience equipped her with a few of what her son, at her funeral service, lovingly described to me as her "quirks".

It would be easy, if you didn't know the whole story, to see some of these quirks of Donna's as flaws, instead of the remarkable gifts that they were. For example, at first glance, she may have seemed like a fragile person. Even she felt that way sometimes, I think, as we all do. But in her life, the things she had overcome seem nearly insurmountable. She had carried a heavier load than I can imagine bearing. She had endured things that might have ended me. Even now, her own medical issues were overwhelming, and every day, her body tried to betray her in some new way, but no matter how exhausting or difficult her circumstance became, she continued to find new ways to work around, to accommodate, to overcome and keep going. Her strength amazed me--I wish I could aspire to a fraction of it.

She also seemed to be easily frightened, sometimes by small things--it was easy to startle her by appearing too suddenly in the doorway behind her. But in reality, her bravery was astonishing. She had faced terror and death in her own experience; she had taken enormous risks to save her life, herself, her children. She was intimately aware of every way, every day, that danger and harm lurk just out of sight. And yet she faced those odds, on her own, unblinking, every day that she went out to face the world.

Sometimes Donna seemed to say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time, in just the wrong way. But in my office, next to the reception desk, I can overhear the conversations with callers and people who walk in to the front desk, and I know how many times Donna's "wrong thing" was just the right thing for someone. She spoke to everyone with a response she thought would be right for someone who was hurting or afraid; she assumed that was true of everyone she spoke to. And isn't it, really? I have heard her throw that lifeline out to so many, and many times she has thrown it out to me, by making that assumption. I envied her the wisdom, sometimes, to have the right words for people who are barely hanging on.

Donna saw the darkness but looked for the light. Every day I saw her we laughed. She knew how to find happiness and gratitude in the smallest things. I believe this is not in spite of, but because she was so well-acquainted with all the ways that pain and loss can come to us in this life. Heartache sharpens your senses for joy. It's a heavy burden to carry, however--this load of suffering that is not only your own, but belongs to others, belongs to the world. That wisdom in grief comes at a cost. Your spirit, however content, grows weary.

I was on a six-week medical leave when I got the call, and hadn't seen Donna in person for more than a month. I didn't get to say goodbye. I miss her. I take some comfort, though, in her last words to me, a text that said, "I know, because you always tell me, that I am so strong." I hope that this small gift I seem to have given her was even a small bit of what she gave to me in the time we knew each other.  She had begun to talk, recently, of moving to Florida, a place she had only visited once, but she spoke with such longing of being somewhere that her soul felt at peace. Donna was not afraid to die, and I admit, my grief at her passing is not sadness for her, but selfishly, is simple pain at my own loss.

I realize that since the moment I heard that she had left, had gone to sleep and kept on sleeping, I have been thinking of this Andrew Peterson song, All Things New, as "Donna's song." I think it would speak to her, my friend who knew so intimately about brokenness, pain, and loss, and who nevertheless celebrated each small joy in the world.  Every day, Donna got up again, no matter how huge the obstacles or how great the cost, to face the darkness and to try, once again, with all her might, to make things a little brighter. And now at last, there is nothing left to do but rise up--wake up to what she hoped and longed for.

My Jesus makes all things new.

White on White

In an earlier post, I wrote about a thread on Facebook, on the page of a popular black blogger, in which she prompted her black readers to ask white readers one question that they'd always wanted to know. In that previous post, I described how, while the thread contained a great deal of good discussion and what seemed to be real discovery for many people, there was also a theme that kept popping up among white respondents who did not find themselves identifying with some of the questions that were asked. Time after time, commenters who were white, but did not recognize themselves in some particular aspect of a question, responded by giving some version of the answer "I guess I must not really be white," or even, "I guess I must be black."

This joke, I wrote, can be a joke for people who have the option of seeing their race as inconsequential. Like other serious subjects, it is easy to joke about if it has not touched you in ways that are painful or difficult. If it is not a matter of life or death.

Today, however, I'd like to pose a different question. And that is, when is a joke not a joke?

I think that most of us haven't reached adulthood without realizing that at the root of all jokes is some kernel of truth, or at least the intention of one. All of us, I imagine, have at some point been on the receiving end of a "joking" statement that hit too close to home, or was knowingly meant to hurt. That's a negative example, but there are positive ones also--in fact, I'd guess that most of the jokes that the majority of us encounter in our lives are well-meaning, and often occur without any conscious intentional subtext. Nevertheless, it's the truth behind the joke that makes it funny, and I also think that can tell us something important about what the speaker is really saying, even if it's not something they are conscious of trying to communicate.

In all these responses where white people joked about not being white, I believe there was an intended kernel of truth that is important to see and name. Despite all the protests admonishing me to lighten up, enjoy the fun, and appreciate the joke when I suggested that maybe the joke wasn't appropriate, I believe that at some level, the joke wasn't really even a joke.

What I heard, over and over, was a striving to separate from whiteness--to say, "I'm not THAT kind of white." Some people even went farther in putting this into words. I saw responses that said, "There is Florida person white and other person white." More than one person adopted, "I am invited-to-the-cookout white and you are I-want-to-see-the-manager white." As a white person, I heard other white people working hard to say two things. First, "I am one of the good white people. No, really. I'm a good one." And second, "I'm like you. We think alike. I know just what you're talking about. All those other white people might be clueless as hell, but I get it."

I believe I can hear these things being said because I can identify with the impulse to say them. I think our shared history in this country, a history of racism and oppression, acknowledged by all, not only has deep roots on which we are all drawing, but casts long shadows in which we are all still living. Racial discrimination and inequality in this country are not things of the past. And while both the marginalized and the privileged may wish it were so, we are coming to that wish with different motivations, and often with different understandings of how to make that reality.

People and communities of color understand that the only way to overcome and move forward from our past is to face it head on. Our legacy of racism and injustice must be acknowledged honestly in order to be reckoned with. But for those of us whose white skin has afforded us generations of privilege at the expense of people of color, there can be a deep desire to move away from the shameful heritage of oppression in our past by a process of disassociation--to say, "I am not one of the people who caused this, I am not one who perpetuates it, I have no desire to prolong it." We feel the need to distinguish ourselves from the bad actors of both the past and the present. This is not only because it is painful to connect ourselves to unjustifiable wrongdoing, but because it is difficult to admit that our connection to it could create feelings of anger, resentment, and animosity, and that it's reasonable and appropriate if those feelings are directed toward us, even if we aren't personally, intentionally, individually responsible for specific instances of this wrongdoing. It would be much easier, much more pleasant, to put all that behind us--not only to expect to be already forgiven, but to expect it to be understood that we don't need to be forgiven, that we have nothing to be forgiven for--and to move on to being friends. We would like to focus on being accepted by each other, on being liked by each other, on being like each other. Instead of doing the hard work of listening, hearing, understanding, we would like people of color to know that we already understand. That we never would have made those mistakes in the first place like our ancestors did, like those other people did. Because we are the cool white people, the woke white people, the nice white people, the innocent white people. We get it. And we hope this will make everything OK again.

The problem with all this is that, of course, it can never make everything OK. Racism and discrimination continue to exist. White privilege is still real. And one of the things that allows these injustices to endure is a persistent refusal by those of us who benefit from them to allow ourselves to be made uncomfortable by acknowledging that benefit, which is the bright dividing line between us, and in which we are complicit. But the line is still there--our refusal to acknowledge it, as with so many things, makes it no less true. Paradoxically, our refusal only highlights the reality of the distance between our experience and the experience of those on the other side of the line. We don't get it. We can't get it, and we won't get it. And the worst thing we could do, under these circumstances, is insist on acting as though we do.

I know all this is difficult to swallow, but if we can make it past the worst of it, there is good news. The good news is, fellow white people, we don't have to get it, we just have to receive it. We need to listen--humbly, and without defensiveness; we need to make our best efforts to understand how our actions have impacted others and continue to do so; we need to take the initiative in finding out how we can be an ally; we need to be open to hearing about our own mistakes. But we cannot gloss over or seek to eradicate our differences by distancing ourselves from our white experience. It's important that we respect the dignity and make room for the voices of people of color, but it is equally important that we own the responsibility and the power of our whiteness. We must be able to see ourselves clearly and come to terms with that truth in order to move forward together honestly and with real humility, not just shame or guilt. The barriers between us can never come down until we learn to accept and appreciate both ourselves and others, just as we are.

White Noise

Yesterday, on Facebook, the source of much of the world's troubles, a popular black blogger posted this query:

Okay black people...

ask white people one

question you always

wanted to know 🤣

The resulting thread was fascinating. Responses were funny, touching, wise, and real. I learned a LOT. Some themes just kept recurring. For example, white people, if you, like me, were under the impression that mac and cheese can be a main dish, we have all apparently made a grave error. Discussions ranged from the absurd--"What is a Hooting Nanny?? Did I spell that right?"--to the sublime--"You do know Jesus wasn't white, right?" 

Soon, though, another theme began to make itself apparent. Not all white people recognized themselves in all the questions. And when that happened, white people who don't let their dogs lick their mouths, or who don't put raisins in their potato salad (WHO DOES THIS, I MEAN IT), or who always use a washcloth when they shower, began responding with a similar comment--"I guess I must not be white!"  White person after white person responded to questions by saying, "I sure don't say, 'I'm just going to sneak by you', and I don't know anyone who does--I guess I must be black!"

At some point, one of the commenters called this out. "What a white person response," she said.  I was relieved, honestly, that someone else brought it up, because I was feeling uneasy. Which is what I said in my own comment of agreement. Maybe, instead, we could say, "This one doesn't apply to me," or "I don't do any of these things," I suggested. But it seemed to me like maybe it's a bit disingenuous to answer by distancing ourselves from our white experience, when the whole point of the post is to elicit honest discussion about it. After all, even if we can't relate to the specific question, we are white. We're not black. So maybe, although it is important to acknowledge what we have in common, it's not respectful to act like we're the same.

You might be able to guess what happened next.

Replies started rolling in to my comment. I was being too serious, they informed me.  People were just joking. Couldn't I keep things light, funny? Why did I have to ruin everything? It's all in good fun, there is no harm done. Why did I, one person asked me, have to make everything about skin color, when we are all just humans? 

Now, I think it's pretty obvious that the entire point of the original post was to spark discussion between people of different skin colors, so this was hardly a difference being raised by me. Also, on this post, questions have been asked such as, "If you're not a racist, why don't you speak up when you see racism?" So I also don't believe I was personally bringing down all 800K+ commenters with my seriousness. However, if you guessed that all the people who immediately chimed in to tell me that it is fine for white people to make this joke, and I am wrong for suggesting that it might not be OK, are, in fact, white people, you would be correct.

I will be the first to admit that I know nothing about this, and I might be wrong and all those other white people might be right. However, here's what I do know. I'm a single mom. I haven't always been one, just for the last six years. Just while my kids went through adolescence, so no big deal. 🙄  Sometimes, I will hear a married mom, when her husband is out of town on a trip, or is working long hours, or is temporarily physically separated from her for some reason, jokingly talk about how she is a "single mom for the weekend", or some other similar phrase. And I know this. You can't be a single mom for the weekend. Not for the day, not for a month, not for a while. If you have a partner in life, in responsibility, in investment in your children, with an equal share of hope and dread and fear and joy in everything that you carry together, you are not a single mom. 

Before anyone gets all upset (as if that didn't already happen back there when I started talking about white people), I'm not trying to say that every mom's job isn't a hard one. We are all just slugging it out the best we can. But the experience of a single parent is a different kind of hard. And it's a kind that is difficult to understand unless that experience has been yours. It's OK. There's no blame and there's no shame. But it's not all right for you to invoke it so casually. It's an unintended, well-meaning blow to those of us who are just white-knuckling it through the real thing. 

I'm not the first to point this out. There are hundreds of articles, blog posts, and online discussions about it--Google it and you'll see. And it's not the only thing of its kind. Many of you may have just recently seen all the social media posts around April Fool's Day, asking people to realize that it's not a funny joke to read your fake pregnancy announcement for someone who has just experienced their third miscarriage. Another example is the conversation I had with my teenage son about why some girl was "overreacting" to a joke someone (thankfully not him) made, that she called sexual harassment. To you, I told him, it was just a dick joke, because to you, it can be. It can be that way to everyone who never had to hear an unwanted dick joke when they were just being a professional, respectfully doing their job. Those of us who are parenting together can be unaware of the challenges of parenting alone, and those of us who haven't battled infertility can be cavalier about surprise pregnancies, and those who don't feel sexually endangered (largely men) are often unconscious of the constant vigilance that is routinely experienced by women.

We all have some area in which we have been untouched by pain or struggle, and this can make us not only insensitive, but unseeing, to the difference between our experience and that of others. For those of us who are white, our race has often been an invisible experience, seen only by those who don't share it with us. Our whiteness is so taken for granted that it is simply part of the backdrop of our lives, real white noise--constant yet unheard, blocking out all other sound. It seems harmless to us to set it aside, to say, lightheartedly, "Well I guess I'm really a black person!" But when I listen to my non-white friends, race is not something they can jokingly set aside. They cannot un-see their own skin color, cannot, as one of my scolding commenters on the Facebook thread told me, feel free to "identify" with whatever race they choose, black or white. In many ways, blackness defines their experience of the world, and it is a vastly different experience than anything myself and my white friends can identify with just because we might think we share an equal knowledge of how to correctly season chicken or discipline our children.

The bottom line is that jokes are made by people who can afford them--the people who have power, or safety, or resources. But if you feel unsafe, the constant recipient of unwanted attention that invades your space and violates your bodily autonomy; if you are in pain and grieving the loss of something deeply wanted and longed for; if you are struggling just to make it through the day, deeply convinced that you are never doing enough, can never be enough; if you continuously experience a deck stacked against you and the constant invalidation of your dignity, your personhood--it's hard for the joke to sit lightly. As a result, when we are in the power position, the position to joke, we can instead unknowingly hurt, and I think that means we have a responsibility to be more careful. All I'm saying is maybe we should consider it. I'd like to try.