5 Things I Will Never Do Again

 I will never again accept love that doesn't honor and cherish.

I was raised to believe that love doesn't keep score--doesn't look out for its own interests, doesn't draw the line at giving 50%, doesn't count the cost. And these things are true, when love is healthy and reciprocal and safe. However, my commitment to them in the absence of any other concerns has led me to put my own needs and well-being, not just on the back burner, but completely off the stove.

I was lucky enough to get a second chance, with a love that gave and gave and gave. I got something that many people never get, the opportunity to be loved by someone who wanted my best above all else, who rejoiced over my success, who gave me a safe space to live and learn and grow. The fact of the matter is, I'm not looking for love again at all. I've been so fortunate, I've had love like so many people only dream of, and I couldn't ask for anything more. But one thing I can say without hesitation is that if love ever comes into my life again, I will never, ever again settle for less than I've had.

 I will never again fail to stand up for my kids. 

There were a lot of years during which my top priority was to make my family work. In order to do this, I believed, it was necessary for everyone to give and to forgive. I still believe that, and in healthy relationships this dynamic of reciprocal grace is a key foundation. However, like most wise principles for working relationships, this can morph into something dysfunctional and damaging if it doesn't exist within healthy and appropriate limits.

I expected my kids to give and forgive in ways that were harmful to them. I allowed them to experience mistreatment as part of a relationship, when they had no ability or power to knowingly consent to a sacrifice like that. They were too young to understand how or where to set their own boundaries, and it was my responsibility to teach this to them, model it for them, and set healthy and protective boundaries for them in the meantime, and I failed at this. 

One time--once--and only when I felt there was nothing left to lose, I gathered my resolve and stood between my child and his attacker, not caring about the consequences. It was good, and scary, and I felt brave and dangerous and right. But it was long overdue. My kids deserved better from me, and there won't be another time when they don't get it.

 I will never again consider my mental and emotional well-being an unnecessary luxury.

I used to evaluate everything in life based on one simple question--"Do I need it?" By this I meant, can I live without this thing? If whatever was in question was not something I needed to physically live, it pretty much failed the test. I would not invest time and energy, or especially spend money, on anything that wasn't necessary. I wouldn't grant myself margin or give myself any slack for any needs that weren't unavoidable.

A lot of things have changed my perspective on this. For one thing, as a parent, I realized I regarded my children's needs completely differently than my own. This raised the question of why my own wellness would be of less value than theirs. On top of that, being loved by someone who cares for your total well-being makes you start to suspect that your well-being is worth caring for. Having cancer also makes you take a look at your life with a different perspective. And frankly, some of the shift is probably just getting old, and hopefully gaining some wisdom to go with it.

So the older I get, the more I've changed my idea of what it means to need something. If my kids asked for a mental health day off school, they got it, and if I needed one, I took it. I've re-evaluated my priorities. I do cut myself some slack. I work a lot harder to take care of myself and the people around me in ways that are about more than survival, and I'll never go back.

I will never again judge my body by toxic cultural standards around weight and attractiveness.

Wow, guys. This is a big one. And to be honest, it's hard. I haven't mastered it. I still slip. But it is so, so important.

Something major had to happen for me to get to this place. The messages of fat-shaming and the cultural pressures around women's standards of attractiveness came home to live with me. And in order to survive this, I had to completely detox myself from any form of buy-in. So here's where I'm at today. I don't shame myself around food. I don't ever eat anything because of feelings of guilt or obligation. I choose food that's good for my body, that tastes good, that makes me feel good. I eat in ways that support my relationships and my larger life priorities. I participate and I celebrate and I nourish myself. I'm not afraid of the scale--I weigh myself. I'm not afraid to lose weight if there's a reason--I had a medical issue this last year that I knew I could improve by taking off a little, so I lost 15 pounds. But I reject the idea that losing weight is automatically good and something to be congratulated about. Losing weight is neutral. Gaining weight is neutral. Weight is morally neutral. No matter what that number says on the scale, I can be healthy, happy, beautiful, and worthy of love. And I'll remind myself of that as many times as I need to.

I will never again measure my worth by my productivity.

OK, well, that's a lie. I totally will. But this one is aspirational.

Several years ago, in a blazing hot early September, while camping on my parents' property, my mom asked the group of us if we would pick one of my parents' apple trees. She'd done it herself the year before, she said, but just wasn't feeling into it this year. We quickly agreed and set to it. I will readily admit that I was the first one to quit and go inside for a few minutes' break in the air conditioning. I came back out to find the rest of the crew dropping off as well. Rick was the only one who worked the whole time, completely harvesting every usable apple on the tree. Understand, my mother, in her 70's, had previously done this task herself.

If you know my parents, this doesn't surprise you, because you already know that they're an unstoppable machine. Both in their late 70's now, they are starting to slow down, but the two of them can still outwork people half their age. All my life, I've planned for their visits by compiling a task list of things that would take me weeks to accomplish, because they come, they see, and they conquer. They are really a marvel.

What has also taken me all my life, though, is to learn to view this as my parents' unique gift, rather than the basic standard for all human life. It was great to grow up in a family that attacked life like the Incredibles every day and always came out on top. And to be honest, most of my life I've had a pretty high capacity myself, at least compared to most people, if not to my mom and dad. But since 2019, I've slowed down a lot, and that's brought on a lot of uncomfortable confrontations with guilt, shame, depression, inadequacy, and all the feelings associated with not living up to my own expectations (and what I imagine the expectations of others to be).

I don't know what the future holds for me in this area. Maybe I'll go back to kicking life's ass, and maybe I won't. But either way, I hope I'll make peace with the fact that I don't have to in order to be a worthwhile human, and maybe even be able to know that I'm actually still doing a good job.

Amy Cooper and the Gaslighting of Racism in America

Comedian Ray Romano highlighted many of the events and relationship foibles of marriage and family life in his sitcom Everybody Loves Raymond. In one episode that I always found particularly thought-provoking, Ray and his father try to teach his newly-engaged brother how to pretend incompetence at a task, so that he won't have to complete a job his fiance has asked him to do. In predictable sitcom fashion, everything goes wrong, the men get exposed for their pretend incompetence, and a battle between men and wives breaks out. In the end, though, the women lose their upper hand when the men figure out that perhaps their wives have been pretending incompetence at tasks they don't want to do as well. The thing that sticks most in my memory about this entire episode is the dawning look of outrage and vindication on Ray's face when he experiences the sudden realization that Debra actually could learn how to set the VCR.

Everyone's reason for pretending in this episode, of course, is to avoid taking responsibility. If you can't understand what needs to be done, you obviously can't be expected to do anything about it. Both sides in this story rationalize their behavior differently--the men claim that the women "really want to do everything themselves anyway", and the women say they "already do everything else", so both feel justified in their pretense. But then why pretend? Well, that's simple. If everyone admitted that they could understand the needs and were capable of meeting them, they would also have had to admit that they just didn't want to do what was needed.

Racism in America is a longstanding, complex problem that is deeply rooted in our emotions, our identities, our beliefs about and experiences of ourselves and others. Facing it and making attempts to address it can seem overwhelming, especially for white Americans on whom the bulk of this burden must rest. It can require us to see things that are very hurtful and upsetting, about our world, others who we care about, and ourselves. It can cause us to make some painful recalculations about the way we have understood people, events, and stories in the past. It can necessitate that we change our thoughts, ideas, language, and many aspects of our behavior. It is our job, but there is no question--it will make us uncomfortable, and it will give us difficult work to do. It has been far easier, I am afraid, to simply say, "Oh, you know I can never figure out that VCR."

Our black friends, co-workers, and community members have been trying for time long remembered to make us see the need, but as white people, we have been very convincing in our inability to see or understand. We have been so convincing that I believe at times we have convinced ourselves; some of us really do believe that we think the issue is about respect for the flag, or that we are hurt on behalf of other lives that should also matter. No matter how many statistic are cited, no matter how many stories are told, no matter how many videos surface, we have still responded in numbers too large by saying that we just don't see the problem that black people are talking about, or that we can't understand the issues being raised as ones of racism. In a recent survey on race issues, 77% of Republican participants said that this country's biggest racial problem was "seeing discrimination where it does not exist." (I'm not picking on Republicans at all; the survey data is reported this way for several reasons, one of which is to account for the factor of race.)

It has been easier, white friends, to not see the problem. By which I mean it has been easier for us. Our insisted-upon lack of understanding and racial incompetence has allowed us to excuse ourselves from responsibility; it has left our friends of color to bear the consequences and do the work;  it has created the illusion that they are the ones "being crazy", being unreasonable, creating problems.  This is gaslighting at its finest. After all, if we acknowledged to our black brothers and sisters that we could see and understand the problem--if we acknowledged this even to ourselves--we would have to admit that we have simply chosen to do nothing, that we do not want to do what is needed. But Amy Cooper has changed all that.

When Amy Cooper encountered Christian Cooper in Central Park's Ramble this Memorial Day, as the confrontation escalated, most of us have seen that moment on video when she pointed her finger at him and announced she intended to call the police and tell them that "an African-American man is threatening my life." I cannot know what that moment was like for people of color. But I know what I imagined it might be like. I imagined Ray Romano's face, learning that Debra knew how to set the VCR. Amy Cooper's mask came off, both literally and figuratively as that threat was made, and with it, the mask of all white America. It is impossible not to see that she knew her threat was meaningful precisely because of racism. Without meaning to, she stripped the facade from our pretense of incompetence and incomprehension. Amy Cooper pulls back the curtain, and we can no longer escape the discomfort, the work, or the pain by pretending not to see. Amy Cooper proves we have had the ability to see all along.

Saturday

All great stories have a moment when all is lost.

We're drawn to these stories, these tales of narrow victory over defeat, the last-minute success of the rebels just when things are at their blackest and it looks like the Empire has won. Something in them speaks to our soul, I think. There is a reason why we feel ourselves drawn to the underdog, that unlikely champion, who proves in the end that love and truth are more powerful than whatever seemingly inconquerable forces have been amassed against him. The more impossible his triumph appears, the more joyful, the more just it seems.

This Passion week is no exception. As we commemorate that Greatest Story, we remember not just the joy, but that the champion falls, the lion dies, the messiah is in the tomb. Salvation is not just snatched from the jaws of loss at the last moment--it is actually swallowed up in defeat. Death has the victory. There are three days of mourning.

We understand that it had to happen this way because you cannot truly, fully defeat something until it first defeats you. Otherwise, your victory is hollow; there is always the chance that it might be overthrown, should some greater challenge arise. Every true champion must defeat the strongest enemy, must neutralize the greatest threat, must do so at the height of its power. Death must do its worst.

In this Easter season, I sometimes hear it said or preached, "It's Friday, but Sunday's coming!' We hold out the promise that just when things seem darkest, the greatest of victories is just around the corner. How easy it is to see, for all of us Monday morning quarterbacks. As we celebrate now, so far in the future, we have the advantage of hindsight that removes any element of suspense or doubt. We know the end of the story. Even though the battle is lost, the war is not over--the enemy trembles, the table cracks, the King rises up. From our vantage point, where, then, is death's sting? But truly, in that interval of defeat, hindsight is not present. Death has triumphed, and it is the ultimate power in the universe. All is lost. In that time of mourning, between Friday and Sunday, the future is uncertain. We do not know what will happen next--all we know is what has happened now.

The only hope of victory must come by faith--it cannot come by sight. And right now, I find that I can't muster the confidence to be so certain. The immediate truth of loss is so present, so powerful. I have lost my sense of the ancient magic. Sunday may come, with its promise of resurrection, of restoration, of life; but I am stuck in Saturday, and today, I've seen with my own eyes that death has the victory. I wait in the dark, which is always where hope comes. I do not know what will happen next.

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.