The Power of Story (pt 1?)

I know I've written some true-to-life stories in part of a series I wrote on this very blog. But tonight I'm in a place where I find it imperative to share why Story is important.

Honestly right now, in this moment today, I have been planning to drink a beer or two, watch some episodes of Friends, and go to bed really early. But here I am. Because somehow this seized me today. Today it started with a youtube video. A powerful spoken-word performance. It moved to me youtubing a man who I had the pleasure of meeting once. He heads up a few prominent storytelling groups in Chicago. His name is Scott Whitehair (I recommend you youtube him, and if you're in Chicago, please google him and please take the opportunity to see him in person). This man illustrated to me in an incredible way, the power of Story.

For myself as a Christian, this should be an easy concept to grasp. Isn't my entire faith founded on the concept of a Grand Narrative? A Story?

I youtubed Scott and watched his most recent performance. One I hadn't yet seen. As usual, his performance was mesmerizing. For those who don't know about the storytelling community, it is a community that is bustling in Chicago and probably other big cities I don't have as much invested in. I stumbled upon it shortly before I left Chicago. Had I stumbled upon it sooner, I might yet be in Chicago. But my story brought me here.

The storytelling community is a group of people that gather at venues (usually bars), to hear 5-6 people tell 10ish minute true stories from their lives. I had the opportunity and delight to go to three events. I think that in all three I was moved to tears by the tragedy. I also think that in all three I cried because I was laughing so hard. I have never witnessed something so beautiful.

People gathering as strangers and sharing their most vulnerable, most self-deprecating stories. It was the most sincere affirmation of "this is what it is to be human". Everyone connected with each story. Each one of us felt connected with another. Each one of us felt our own humanity and vulnerabilities laid bare to one another. And we were compelled to share in that with one another. I'm sure the alcohol didn't hurt in that realm. But even so, the connections weren't forged. They were real. Even if connections weren't made with another individual there, something in the heart changed just for hearing and witnessing to others' stories.

I could use this to talk about the story of Jesus. I could. And if I write a part 2, that will be the focus, because I believe it is astoundingly important. But this is part 1. My focus here is just this:

Your story is valuable. Your collection of stories is a treasury, useful for connecting to, disarming, loving, suffering with, and consoling others. I believe in creating space to tell stories. I believe in a place to share without expectation, without fear, without ramifications, who you are. I believe in telling the truth when it means risking everything. I believe in sharing who you are, hoping for acceptance, but knowing that whether or not it's extended, people relate. People relating to your story may cause defensiveness, fear, acceptance, denial, rejection, love, sorrow, woundedness, healing, restoration... It has power. If we all share our stories, I think the defensiveness, fear, rejection, and woundedness fall away.

I think what remains is love and its effects. I hope for transformation of communities through Story. Some part of me feels that such transformation is impossible without Story. It requires commitment. It requires a willingness to listen. It requires a willingness to share intimate, vulnerable parts of yourself. It requires a sometimes-naive belief that your story is worth sharing even if no one has seemed to value it before. It requires laying aside your judgements in order to see, truly see, the person standing before you.

I yearn for the church to be such a place. I think by definition, when this happens, it is the Church. Whether it happens in the church or not, among people that follow Jesus or not, I want to be a part of it. I want to foster that community. I want that to be a place of hope and transformation, of healing and acceptance. I want to see this come to pass. I want to be a leader in this movement here.

I don't know what that means. But I want to be in it.

Scott took the time to meet with me one day at a nice Mediterranean restaurant. He shared with me his passion for storytelling. I echoed it and echoed the hopes of starting one someday. I hope this still happens. I feel a growing desire to initiate this, now that I've lived here in this place for almost a year. I want this to come to fruition. Do others believe in this too? Do others value this? Are others willing to join in and be a part?

You don't need a stage to tell your story. You don't need a venue. I encourage this in day-to-day life. I, personally, am more apt to share my stories from a stage. But I want to see this everywhere. For those living here, I hope that this is something you can buy into. Even a group that meets bi-weekly or monthly. I hope this is something you'd be willing to join with me on. I might change my mind tomorrow, but this is something I want to move forward on.Right now, tonight, it feels valuable, urgent, and worth investing the little free time I have left into.

If you live elsewhere, I hope the idea touches you deeply. Whether there is a group or not, I hope some part of you recognizes the value of story.

I hope this blog encourages you to share more openly and listen more intently. That is the kind of love that changes the world.

The Other Me

Somehow I have managed to write this blog without disclosing my name, and I will continue to do so. My first name is Emily. That's probably pretty common. My last name, however, is not. Which I take great pride in. My last name somehow means a lot to me. Weird in this day and age, I know.

In any case, there is one other girl in the U.S. that has my same first and last name. Just one. She's a handful of years younger than me. I think 7 years younger. A few years ago I was in a volunteer program (Mission Year: missionyear.org), which I am almost certain I have mentioned multiple times. During that time, we were encouraged to blog. Ironically back then, I hated blogging and it felt forced and unnatural. Regardless, I posted a few blogs - and by a few I probably mean 3 over the course of one long year that certainly warranted many more.

Anyway, the ONE other girl in the U.S. who shares my name commented on my Mission Year blog. She told me that she was 11, that her name was my name too, and that she was also a Christian. It was cute and sweet. At 11, I totally would have posted the same thing on someone's blog. Or now. Shoot, my name is THAT freaking uncommon. I can't say I have thought a lot about her. But I also can't say I haven't thought about her at all.

A few months ago, I watched this documentary called "Google Me". Self-centered though it (and possibly my own very blog entry) may be, I was hooked. The concept of identity grabs hold of my deepest, pondering self. Yes Shakespeare, what is in a name? And what is in the name you create for yourself? And the name others create for you?

That's another blog for another time (thank goodness - my mental capacities are not quite there right now), but this girl reached out to me. And I haven't forgotten, even as it has been on the backburner of my mind. Of course, there is this realization that there is literally no one in the U.S. with my last name that is not related to me distantly somehorw. I recognize this isn't the case for the Smiths and the Johnsons... But it is so true for me, for us, for my "clan". And being the secret neo-post-modernist that I am, I cling to that.

So I googled myself today. I've done it before. But this time something new came up. Of course I went through the list. Art stuff? Me. Mission Year? Me. Athletic league? Yeah, that other girl that shares my name. Debate team? Me. Youtube videos? Pamela? Who is that?

I am 7 or 8 years older than my "other me". I am familiar with her existence. I know what high school she went to, because Google is not so good at the whole "let's be discrete" thing. Tonight I found out a lot more that I wasn't prepared for. And because I am who I am, caused me distress.

Emily. Pamela. In the other me's life, Pamela is her mother. Emily is 15. Or possibly 16 by now, I'm not a total stalker. Youtube videos came up with Pamela, her mother. Her mother was diagnosed with cancer. Melanoma. Which is something that I see at my work as a medical assistant in a dermatology office. She was giving her testimony at church about God's healing and miraculous touch. This was in March of 2013. Just 5 months ago. How she had asked for prayers and God answered them.

I honestly didn't watch the video. I am skeptical about God's healing, how God interacts with the world, and how He works through us. I think he works through us primarily. I don't believe that miracles don't happen. But I know that there a huge risk in ascribing anything to God. Not to Him. But to us. To what it does to us (again, possibly another blog coming up in the future, dare I be so bold). In any case, I watched 2 minutes. Just long enough for Pamela to introduce herself. Just long enough to hear her say my last name and her last name correctly. And to hear her speak with a Minnesotan accent (because I miss those). She must be one of us, because only one of us says my last name the way she did, and she did it beautifully.

She spoke about her miraculous healing. I didn't watch it. I watch her say her name. I wondered about Emily. I pondered the words "melanoma" and "miracle". And I shuddered when I saw a video linked under youtube's "related videos". It had Pamela's name and church listed. It was the video for her memorial service. A mere 2 months after her supposed miracle.

Me being who I am, I watched a few minutes of the hour-long memorial, and tried to skip around, hoping that her daughter Emily said something. Desperately hoping for some connection other than the name. But she never came up. However, in the memorial service, a song I heard once was played as one of "Pamela's favorite songs". It has emotional ramifications for me too. Not ones of peace, but ones of wrestling with my deepest doubts. And not knowing whether I was winning or losing.

It's not a common song. It's straight up a Christian song. And it's a "charismatic" Christian song. By Misty Edwards. You do not know it if you have not been a part of that circle at one point. But I know. And I saw Misty sing it herself. In person. 2011? 2012? One of those years, in a deep place of doubt and pain.

What does it mean? I don't have a clue. Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it means my family is unilaterally messed up, questioning, confused, and hurt. Maybe it means we are human. Maybe it means we are all connected.

Whatever the case, a 15 year old girl with my name, who has grown up Christian (as I did for many years), lost her mother to a stroke while she was winning the battle of melanoma. Which I am certain feels like a divine scam or trick. How can it feel like anything but that? I felt that and I only watched part of each video after Pamela had passed. It feels cruel, bitter and painful. The one girl that shares my name, has experienced an incredible loss. And for some weird reason, I am connected to her by name, to her mother by song and faith...

Emily is "another me" by name. But I am so struck by how deeply each of us are connected. It kills me that we fight so hard to prove how we are SO damn different from other people. It seems to justify hatred, judgement, and all the things that the Jesus I follow stood so actively against. 

The things this Emily and I have in common? We both grew up (more or less) in the same faith. Her mom and I both loved the same rare song. I now work in the field that studies the condition that seemed most life-threatening to her mother. I understand loss to some degree (though a lesser degree than this Emily does). I understand situations that feel like a divine joke for a sadistic deity. I get that.

We probably don't have much actually in common. But I see her as "another me". Maybe it doesn't make sense. Maybe it causes us to justify things for people that we always felt so noble about judging them for. Maybe it means letting things go. Maybe it means holding painful and "arbitrary" things close to our hearts. But... I think that loving God means seeing people as "another me".

Adam was called "ish". Eve was "isha".  "One like me, but different". God, how I wish we saw each other that way. How much suffering would be understood, sorrow shared, love actualized, forgiveness actually given, and freedom finally granted. How the Kingdom would finally be lived out.

I want to be a part of that dream. I truly believe that is how Jesus treats us, how God has regarded us, how God bestows love upon us, and how God makes his love visible through us to people who have never known love. Stop trying to see how people "aren't like you" because of A, B, and C. Who are you? Who am I? Why do I feel entitled to that distinction when my God didn't take that distinction upon himself, not seeking equality with God as something to be grasped? God, forgive us for lording ourselves over other that are just life us, but different.

I hope and pray that we would regard others in that way.

1 Corinthians 5:16 - So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view. Though we once regarded Christ in this way, we do so no longer.

May we no longer do so for Christ or for the ones He loves. Which, by the way, is everyone.

The Cloak of Invisibility

I had this awesome opportunity recently to go to this really upscale restaurant this evening for a work event. By upscale I mean, multiple courses were served, wine, beer, the works, and yes. They even came in with a “crumb swiper” (what I cleverly named this particular device I never knew even existed) between each course.

I’d been looking forward to it all week and I was not let down. I knew that it’d be better than I imagined, and boy, was it! There was a point though, when I realized that even more than most waiters and waitresses, the jobs of these waiters and waitresses was to be invisible. They attempted to disappear. The effect that we were supposed to notice was glasses never being empty, food magically appearing before us, and wow – crumbs from our own sloppiness suddenly being gone. The sign that the job was well done was people not noticing you and not  thanking you.

I can see the appeal. It feeds an illusion that “I am the center of everything”, which most people appreciate once and again, especially if they don’t feel they matter in the rest of their lives. But for the people whose job it is to be invisible, I felt sorrow.

As I thought on it more, I recognized how much similarity that bore to my experience in the faith. Being invisible was a good thing. I thought being “emptied of myself” was necessary to being “filled with God”. I thought being myself was inherently sinful because if I lived for God, I no longer existed. I mourn for my grave misinterpretation here. But I feel like that idea is bolstered through faith communities. And even moreso for women. That issue aside, invisibility itself seemed virtuous. In fact, it sounded a lot like humility.

What is humility? Humility, to me at one time, was: not drawing attention to yourself, not accepting compliments, not allowing others to see you shine, not shining. Not standing out. I heard lessons on it. People often described me as humble. I wonder sometimes if they were praising a wrong attribute.

At the time I equally despised and embraced invisibility, thinking it was humility. Thinking it was noble and virtuous, all while demeaning myself, God’s creation. Acting as though I was embarrassed by it. Perhaps even being embarrassed by it.

Philippians talks about humility. About Jesus not seeing equality with God as something to be “grasped” or “used to his advantage”, or whatever your translation says. If Jesus is the image of humility, holy crap, we have got to redefine it. I can’t think of many people more visible than Jesus. He did things that were weird, that brought attention to himself, that would naturally lead people to praise him. Did he do it for the attention and praise? That’s debatable, I suppose, depending of definitions and interpretations; regardless he didn’t shy away from doing things that brought attention to himself or caused himself to stand out.

Likewise, we are God’s creation. Don’t we think that what he creates is good? Don’t we think that if Jesus was so visible that we can be too? This isn’t justification for us to act as though we have all the answers. But it is reason to question why we so seek invisibility.

I think we seek invisibility for one reason. We are ashamed. We are ashamed of what God created when he made us. We are ashamed of what we have become. And we are afraid others will see us and think the same awful things of us that we think of ourselves.

That’s why our culture is obsessed with anonymity. The internet seems to have been invented for crap like that. We love to hide behind our usernames and say things we wouldn’t have the boldness to say elsewhere. Even “in person”, we love the freedom of interacting with people we know we will never ever see again, knowing that they probably won’t judge us and that even if they do, it won’t have the power to affect us the next day. We love anonymity. We love things that isolate us, all while simultaneously hating to be lonely. We love the mystery that we are while fearing that no one would love us if they truly knew us and fearing that we will never be known (ultimately my biggest fear).

Or we embrace the spotlight… At least insofar as we are projecting the values we admire and think others might too. I have received a handful of awards in my lifetime. I am simultaneously ashamed and proud of them. I don’t want people to know because I don’t want to be reduced to what the awards say about me. But I want people to know because, man, I want people to recognize that I am officially worth something, not just subjectively. I am a huge words-of-affirmation person. I need it to feel like I matter, to feel like life is worth living. Yet, I’m terrified of standing out because I feel it is ungodly.

Ironically, I don’t think standing out is. Being recognized isn’t. Being blessed by it isn’t. Yet, embracing the spotlight as affirmation of where I stand because of shame I inherently feel? Embracing anonymity because of the shame I inherently feel? That demonstrates a lack of security in my understanding of God’s love for me. That’s not meant to bring on more shame or more expectations. It’s meant to bring further reason to rest in God and to seek his vision and his love for us.

Over the past several months, prayer has become terrifying to me. Because more than ever I have desired anonymity, even with God. Sometimes it’s hard to serve a God who “knows my name”, as the song says. It’s easier to serve a faceless God who doesn’t care about names. I get that. It’s how I think. It’s how the world operates. More risk is involved when it includes me. All of me. And prayer is impossible when anonymity is involved. Prayer is the central place where the cloak of invisibility is removed and where I am forced to come to grips with who I am truly. With all my good traits and bad. And to know that all of me is accepted by God. Or to trust it, even when my fear doesn’t allow for that sort of love to even be imaginable.

I pray to be a presence that doesn’t drive people to seek anonymity or the spotlight. I pray to be a presence that truly sees people and affirms who they are. Man, forget that. Even my language shows my strive for anonymity. I don’t pray to be a “presence”. I pray to be a person, man. I pray to be that kind of person. One that accepts fully in a way that doesn’t cause people to pull back in fear or shame of revealing themselves and one that accepts so fully that people don’t feel the need to exonerate their best qualities to make up for where they lack. And God, I hope one day I trust that I’m accepted fully and that maybe, just maybe, I can appreciate myself in the same way.

EDIT: Totally meant to close with this quote from Marianne Williamson. I know many people who take offense to it and think it's a horrible, self-exalting stance. But given the thrust of this blog entry, I hope we can all appreciate this quote in a new way (even if, like me, you already loved it):

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

The Master Switchboard

Yes, I have been posting a whole lot lately. I feel like I'm finally in a place where I feel "safe" to explore things freely again. Life seems to happen in phases, and freedom happens in different ways at different times. In fact, that's more or less what this entry is about.

I guess you could say that stability is not a thing I am well-accustomed to. I grew up in a military family. It had plenty of benefits and I am so grateful for the weird, unique scenario I grew up in. I am grateful that I thought it was normal. And I am grateful for the experiences I had that were unique to "military brats". I would not re-do it another way. That said, growing up military always introduces some level of inherent/expected instability. I remember people saying, "You can only expect the unexpected" or "The only unchanging thing in your life is change itself". They were nice little aphorisms that seemed to apply deep meaning to my experience. At this point, I don't think they hold deep meaning at all. I think that they express reality as I and others like me knew it. It was no better, it was no worse, it was just reality.

Things in my life have always had a level of inconsistency or uncertainty. I became accustomed to moving every three years, but I was homeschooled so the moves never affected my academic life. But... I mean, I was homeschooled. That doesn't make for a life that is consistent with what the "majority" experienced. I grew up going to church, but by the age of 14, I was the only person in my family pursuing that sort of community at that time. I went to public school for high school after having been homeschooled for my whole life (more or less) previously. That didn't make for an easy transition. I was part of the Church of Christ. A tradition I admire for certain things, but one that I think lacks in many other areas (as all church "traditions" do - thank God for community that supersedes differences in perspective).

Perhaps the most interesting transitions in my life, a life set up for inconsistency, took place when I was able to make my own decisions. At 18 I moved to the inner city of Chicago to be a part of a volunteer program that emphasized social justice, intentional Christian community, and service. That year I was exposed to social justice for the first time. Growing up military, strangely, justice is somewhat presupposed. I'm sure it's not as equal as I imagined it as a kid, but I remember growing up in racially diverse military bases where all peoples were affirmed as they worked to a common purpose. Whether that reflected reality or not, I am not sure. But it sure represented what I perceived. But Mission Year (the volunteer program: www.missionyear.org) exposed me to realities I had never seen nor experienced.

For the first time, words like "justice", "community", and "solitude" had meanings much deeper than words could convey.  By this point I had been deeply a part of the "Church of Christ" tradition. Mission Year led me to a gospel Missionary Baptist Church, unlike any other church I had been a part of, though I cared for it and many of its members very deeply. The following year I entered a "Swedish Covenant" school. It was more liberal than any church I had been to before. I mean, our campus minister was a woman.

Those years at North Park University, I struggled to reconcile ideas of gender as in Mission Year I struggled to reconcile ideas of race. My concept of my own identity was fluid. I no longer knew what to feel or expect.

Throughout my time as a thinking adult on my own, I moved away from the traditional Church of Christ and became part of a Calvary Chapel church. Then I moved to the inner-city of Chicago and learned about ideas like "white privilege" which I had previously never heard of and inherently took for granted. I became part of a Missionary Baptist Church. Then a Swedish Covenant school. Then a Reformed Church. Then a Pentecostal Church. Then a Greek Orthodox Church.

My concept of myself has changed radically as a result of being a military brat. Where I live doesn't determine who I am, but where I live has significant effect on how I live, who I live among, and how I live among them. The various Church experiences. Oh my gosh, don't get me started.

Theology is so fiercely debated. I don't feel like I have a monopoly on truth simply as a result of having been exposed to multiple "traditions" and "truths". But as a result of such, I absolutely believe that God is so much bigger than any of us imagined and that no church "tradition" has a monopoly on truth. I am more likely to affirm that people outside the church have views on the ultimate Truth that are just as valid as those inside the Church. I am less likely to be quote-unquote "orthodox", and I am less concerned about many "unorthodox" beliefs.

I feel like as a result of my many experiences in different places: physically, spiritually, and emotionally, that I have a main switchboard containing all of my experiences. I can see the good and bad of each tradition so far as my limited view of Truth allows me. For each tradition I become a part of, I feel as though I have to turn off a main part of the master switchboard - the accumulation of my experiences. Each place I become a part of, which PART I have to shut off changes, but it is inevitable that not every part of my "switchboard" will be accepted and included as worthwhile or valuable.

It gives me a mini-crisis of identity. Of my place among fellow believers. Or my place among those that don't believe. I don't know who or where I connect with more. I connect differently on different things that I don't feel at home anywhere that I am. Maybe growing up military has prepared me for such a life.

I just can't for the life of me grasp how anybody can claim to have the monopoly on Truth or on God when so many different truths are revealed more clearly among different communities. As someone who has lived as an "alien" among so many unfamiliar i, I plead with everyone to consider another point of view. Cast off what you previously thought you "knew". Maybe it is true. Maybe it's not. If it is, return to it after exercising faith in an unfamiliar context. In the end, we don't know the Truth. We have ideas about what it could be, or what it would be if we were the ones commanding it. But we are to love unconditionally. That keeps us humble. Servitude keeps us humble when our exultation of what we perceive to be truth has a tendency to puff us up and make us arrogant.

I pray that we would pursue truth. That we would pursue unity. And that we would pursue humility - even when it necessarily means that we accept our wrongness of multiple topics which we have stood by so passionately for so long. I pray that we would be open to the possibility that we don't hold Truth perfectly in our hands, that we would be in conversation with others that rub us the wrong way, and that we would be transformed into more loving people. I pray that we would not have to turn off any parts of the "Master Switchboard" our confused little lives have become. I pray that our "confused, little lives" would lead us to greater humility and greater unity as we pursue Truth as a community.

Decisions and Doors.

Decision-making has always been incredibly stressful to me, at least so far as memory serves. I'm sure I made decisions in my childhood, but I don't recall making any decisions that were branded as "life altering" until I was in high school. That said, at that age, many decisions felt life-altering.

I remember in particular picking my classes for my Sophomore year of high school. It was my first time actually picking classes. I don't know if that's typical or not, I was homeschooled from 1st grade on, but for me it was a big deal. Somehow I had gotten it in my head that if I didn't take honors classes that I would never get into college and that if I didn't get into college, I would never get a stable job. I don't know if I had a concept of a stable job or if I have one now. From what I understand it is common for individuals to change careers an average of 7 times in their working life. Of course, guidance counselors never emphasized that statistic.

I recently reread my journal from that time and what I found both amused and disturbed me. I had written something to this effect: I am terrified I am going to choose the wrong classes and ruin my life.

Ironically I chose the "wrong" classes in my Junior year and ended up having to drop two AP classes for which no Honors classes were available, meaning I was in the "regular" classes I feared would ruin me. And they didn't.

Consistently I am met by choice after choice, decision after decision. When I graduated high school I had three paths laid before me: an academically rigorous college on a full-ride scholarship in-state, a really good school in my favorite state near family, or delaying school to do a volunteer program called Mission Year (www.missionyear.org - accepting applications till July 15!). I chose Mission Year - and yes, my life was significantly altered, though I trust it is for the better.

I chose to stay in Chicago. I applied to an academically rigorous school and was even accepted into the honors program. I also applied to North Park University. I chose North Park, and my life was changed in ways I never would have imagined.

I've discovered that the metaphor of Doors absolutely terrifies me. I'm cool with God closing doors. If God would swoop in every time and be like, "Oh, Emily, let me get that for you. It's not the way." Maybe at some point I might resent it. But I have no way of knowing because God has never worked that way in my life, not yet, not that I've noticed anyway.

I don't close doors well. I like to leave them ajar. I like to have access permanently granted. I also struggle intensely when multiple doors are open, even moreso if it necessitates that I close all the other doors.

There's such a pressure present with choosing that brings back that insane and pathetically amusing high school fear, "What if I make the wrong choice and ruin my life?"

I have tried philosophizing it, thinking, "Well, maybe in each person's life there are some things that are inevitable if you follow a positive trajectory. If I was supposed to start some amazing social service or ministry or become an artist or writer, it would inevitably happen if I live on a positive trajectory - it would just be a matter of timing."

I have also imagined that maybe each choice really does branch out into multiple possible worlds that lead entirely different places: different "callings", different spouses, different children, different convictions of faith and how it is lived out.

In the end, I don't know. And it drives me crazy. It can be paralyzing sometimes to be faced with multiple decisions. It can be paralyzing to know that moving on sometimes means permanently turning back from something you were holding out for. 

To some extent we live in a world that our decisions create. I no longer think that God dictates what he wants us to do in each situation. In my childhood I was convinced that God had this "best world" that was only possible through me listening to him and doing everything he told me to do. Even choosing my outfit each day seemed to have eternal ramifications.

Guess what? God's not a dictator. The Creator God who made us in his image desires to see us create, explore, imagine. If what we do contributes to the Kingdom, God will be pleased. Is there a best possible world? I don't know. But I trust that God prefers me to rejoice in my freedom to bless him and bless others by moving forward rather than to stagnate.

In the past 12 months I moved to a brand new state (well, the state itself isn't new), became part of a church that I moved here more or less to be a part of, joined the praise team/worship band at the church, started a job that ended very painfully, started another job and discovered a latent passion for art, quit that job, started another job that unexpectedly has been just what I needed for this particular stage in my life, made great friendships, and have begun to figure out plans for the upcoming year.

This year has been a struggle in many senses, particularly relating to identity. Who I am is not what I do, but what I do is an outpouring of who I am. Whether that expression result from a job or a hobby or a service. Each decision leads me closer to discovering myself, expression myself, and hopefully falling more in line with how God created me to be.

At times I have felt paralyzed, but this year I can see that I put myself out there time and time again, despite the uncertainty. I was willing to try something and willing to accept that like my Junior year, at times I will make the wrong decisions. But even those guide me forward and onward.

It can be a painful journey, but I am learning to have less fear. I hope and pray that I am learning to trust God more, no longer needing to rely on philosophization of how decisions and doors work. Maybe God doesn't close doors for me because he wants me to learn freedom. And that is a lesson worth learning and living into. I can walk through doors for that. I might even be able to close some. :)

Story 5: The time I got yelled at by a judge

After an extended hiatus, I am back to the story series for some undetermined amount of time. Like many of my stories, this one took place in Chicago. The names of my friends have been changed, as I would hope mine would be changed if they wrote a personal story about me. With any "story" like this, true, gritty, and personal, it's important to tread carefully. I hope to write in a way that is respectful to the personal nature of this story. Coming from a consumerist culture, I also want to be careful that storytelling does not become an outlet for me to consume, process, and re-merchandise others' lives. Please, readers, hold me accountable to this, even with my hyper-awareness of the potential for this type of effect.

This story starts with my friend "Keisha". Keisha lived down the street from where I and my flat-mates lived in Chicago. Over the course a several months many of us were very close to her and her family. Keisha was a five-foot-two 38 year-old woman with enough energy and life to light up the entire block. She was feisty and she had a lot of street smarts. She wasn't scared of many things, though she'd seen and encountered plenty. Guns didn't scare her, but butterflies sent her running the opposite direction.

Keisha had a few brothers, 3 that shared a home with her, her daughter, and her grandmother (her mother had passed away many years before). Her grandmother had raised her and her brothers. In her 70s, she was still working a full-time job, despite her deteriorating health. She was a determined woman with incredible strength, but with enough love that my flat-mates and I were welcomed as a part of her family, and were immediately told to call her Grandma.

Of Keisha's siblings, two of her younger brothers were arrested in the year that we knew them. One of them was in for a longer-haul, but the other tended to be in-and-out with minor offenses. Her youngest brother, "Jared", was a good friend of mine. He was just a year younger than me and he might well be one of the most upbeat, fun people to be around that I know. He had such a natural charisma and positive demeanor. Everyone loved to be around him.

But things started to spiral. After some time had passed, Jared was also arrested on multiple offenses. My flat-mates and I visited him in jail a few times. It tore me apart to see him in there for the first time. His front two teeth were missing; he told us the cop bashed them in with a flashlight when he was arrested. Despite his missing teeth, Jared still had a warming smile that offered hope.

More and more time passed. My flat-mates and I went to all of his trials at court that we could make. His public defender almost never showed up to the trials, which led to continuance after continuance. Each time we saw him, his eyes seemed dimmer. He no longer seemed comforted by our presence at the trials. His letters to us became more desperate. When we visited him in jail, he tried to keep the conversation light by talking about the last Bulls vs Heat game, but his eyes told us of things that he kept from us, probably thinking we shouldn't waste our time worrying about him.

On one particular trial, we went with Keisha up to the courthouse. She wasn't doing well. By this point, all three of her brothers were in jail, Grandma was very sick and Keisha was struggling just to maintain her way of life. My friends and I had watched the previous 3 trials and the judge was coming down hard on each of the offenders. The judge was sick and in a horrendous mood - and she didn't seem to try to keep that from affecting her judgements.

Finally it was time for Jared's trial. He shuffled out in his jumper. The judge called Keisha to the front and asked her some questions. I don't remember exactly how it went down, but Keisha seemed nervous. She tried to interact cordially with the judge, but the judge was put off by it and told her to stop talking. The judge then asked her a question which confused Keisha. She tried to answer but she was having difficulty comprehending what was being asked. In response, the judge said something to insult Keisha's intelligence.

From my bench looking on, I was very upset. Who was this judge to treat this incredible, strong, beautiful woman in such a way? The judge was casting judgment not just on Jared, but on his family, on his friends, on anyone who rubbed her the wrong way, and on anyone with less power than her, which happened to be everyone in that courtroom. The trial was postponed yet again, and as Keisha returned to our bench, I was compelled to hug her.

I'm not typically one to initiate physical affection. I know people feel very differently about physical contact and I am cautious not to transgress any boundaries. For Keisha and I, hugging just wasn't something we did. Until that moment. I can't explain it, but for a second I felt what she was experiencing and it was devastating. So I hugged her. And she cried - something I had never seen her do before or since, even though she had more reason to than many.

Suddenly, she pulled back, apologizing profusely. I was confused for a second, until I regained awareness outside of that moment. I heard the judge's voice and I turned to her seat. She was yelling, "No, I'm talking to that young lady!" And she was pointing at me. I was so confused. I said, "What?" She replied hotly (and just as loudly), "You do not hug in my courtroom! You do that at home! You don't do that in my courtroom!"

I was taken aback. My face flushed with rage. I have only been that angry maybe a total of 5 times in my life. Stunned and angry, I said, "Sorry." But I clearly didn't mean it. My heart beat faster, I was shaking with adrenaline, and I could feel the blood pumping in my ears. Two thoughts ran through my head of what to do. In the best wisdom I could muster in my anger, I opted to storm out of the courtroom rather than to turn and flip her off. Clearly that was the better way to go, though I suppose she could have held me in contempt for storming out too.

The whole ride back to our place, about an hour to an hour and half commute, I was shaken. My friends who were there asked me if I was okay. They know I cry at a moment's notice and tend to be sensitive. But I was just livid.

Yet Keisha didn't seem phased at all.

I realize that because of my position in the story, because of white privilege, because of my class, because of a flurry of factors, this story was significant to me. Anger was the only natural reaction to have. I felt like I could storm out of the courtroom. I didn't feel the need to make a heartfelt apology to the judge. Whereas Keisha, who is much stronger than me, does not have white privilege, comes from a rough socioeconomic background had been submissive to the powers that be. Not out of acquiescence, but out of wisdom. For little old me, this was one of my first big realizations that justice doesn't necessarily always have a place in the courtroom. Keisha knew. It's the life that she's seen and the life that she's lived. I learned a lot that day.

I am glad I was open to loving her shamelessly. If I regret anything, it is that I apologized to the judge and stormed out. Though I have played out the other option I considered in my mind multiple times, I think I wish I would have calmly nodded and said "Ok." Not apologizing, but not allowing my anger to fight against the beauty of what I felt happened there.

I am so grateful for Keisha. And I am grateful for the ways this story changed me. I wish I could put it into words. But for now, this will have to do. 

I'll close with a poem I encountered a few years later, which seemed to resonate with me after this experience (and others like it).

Justice    by: Langston Hughes

That Justice is a blind goddess
Is a thing to which we black are wise:
Her bandage hides two festering sores
That once perhaps were eyes.

Communion of the Tangible and Intangible.

I am a very sentimental person. Physical objects very quickly become like the physical presence of the one they represent.

At 18 years old, I felt like my high school Senior Prom was a significant event. I coordinated my jewelry appropriately - one piece of jewelry from my mom, one from my dad, and one from my grandparents. And that's how it went. My family doesn't even know I did that. Even if they did, it may not mean as much to them as it did for me. I did the same jewelry-combo for college graduation (and probably high school graduation). I still do this for events I consider significant, to some degree. On job interviews, I might wear a necklace my mom gave me, or a ring my dad gave me, or a bracelet my grandmother gave me. It varies.

At my current job, on the days I assist in surgeries, I wear my dinosaur socks. Because of our weird affinity for dinosaurs and what that insider joke has meant for my friendship with one of my very best friends, these socks (which were a 6-pack that we split between us) have come to mean something to me. They remind myself to not take myself so seriously and to enjoy life. This is especially important at my job since we switched to a new computer system; surgery days scare me because I am still trying to figure out how to input all the surgical information).

I had a sweatshirt from my dad that was even dearer to me. One of the things that bothers me any time I think about it is that I once loaned out the sweatshirt to a friend on a cold night in Chicago and I never got back. This my dad's Squadron sweatshirt from the Air Force. It was so special to me. I have tried to retrieve it, but I no longer have it and my friend doesn't remember borrowing it. When he gave it to me, I remember him saying that he was just going to get rid of it and thought I might want it. My having lost it probably doesn't bother him much or at all, but it bothers me any time I think about it because of what it represented to me.

Among other things, I have flowers preserved from two of my close friends' weddings and corresponding wedding invitations. I have a decorative prop from my high school Freshman year Homecoming dance which was particularly memorable given that I had been homeschooled before that point. I have movie ticket stubs from my 16th birthday, which would have been my worst birthday yet, had my best friends at the time not intervened. I learned then that I could trust even people outside of my own family to have my back.

Each of these sentimental objects (and vast arrays of others I didn't mention) hold meaning. They remind me who I am, what life is truly about, who my close friends/family are, and they remind me of worlds that are created through love. They remind me to be present to physical realities while being aware of existence that reaches beyond what is presently physical - and that awareness somehow reminds me how to be present fully. It's like something intangible is beckoning me to live well in the life that is immediately tangible and present. I don't know if I am being clear, but I'm not sure it can be stated too clearly unless you have ever experienced anything similar.

Because this is how I am wired, I connect easily with what are called "sacraments" in my faith. Baptism and communion being of particular importance in my faith tradition and to me personally.

I understand and accept that what follows may bother some folks. I hope that what I write brings life and a different perspective to those who are not wired similarly to me, to those who don't share my faith, and to those who disagree with my views. I also hope that it brings affirmation and joy to those who do share those things with me.

Two days from now is the "anniversary" of my baptism. June 14, 2002. Ironically, since my baptism, I have given up on many of the beliefs that I held then. I do not believe that it was at the moment of baptism that I received forgiveness for my sins. I do not believe that I "received the Holy Spirit" when I was raised from the waters. I do not believe that if I had died without baptism that I would go to hell - at least not as a result of my not having been baptized. The three things that at the time I thought were the most important... Now I find it laughable to think that I was as rigid in those beliefs as I was, given that the Bible itself has a more varied approach to baptism, less clear reasoning for it and less description of the results of it.

One of the things I was most excited about after baptism was communion. I was finally allowed to share in the life of Christ through Memory and through Sentiment with other believers. My thoughts about communion have also radically shifted since then. I don't think communion (in the way churches practice it) is necessary. I don't think it tends to reflect the idea or practice of communion in the Bible. I think the preparation to take communion in many churches is harmful rather than life-giving.

All that said, both practices are meaningful to me. I cherish them. I saw a baptism of a friend of mine a week ago. It was the second baptism I think I've seen since my own. And it caused such an emotional stir in me that I cried (admittedly, that's not hard to do). I still remember my baptism very fondly and hold it dearly. I remember the night I decided to be baptized. I remember the storm, I remember the worship, I remember some of the specific songs that we sang... I don't remember the first communion I had, but I know I remember feeling like once I could take it, I knew my identity in a new way. Did the water cause that? Did the crackers and grape juice cause it? No. But they were physical, tangible symbols that reached beyond my present reality, teaching me how to be present in a fulfilled, life-giving way in my physical reality.

Are these sacraments "special"? Yes! And no... "No" in that I think that the life lived in Christ (whether by nominal Christians or not) are lives that recognize the so-called "sacramental" nature of life itself and of each moment as it comes. "Yes" in that for me, these regular physical symbols ground me, reminding me who I am, what life is truly about, who my close friends and family are, and they remind me of worlds that are created through love. They teach me how to live a "sacramental" life.

That, I believe, is a goal of all humans everywhere. I hope and pray to be more united to those living in this way, regardless of faith, age, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity, location, addictions, etc. This is my journey and the journey of countless others. I hope that each of us can commune with others who have different stories, different hopes, and different understandings, that each of use would be the better for it individually, and that we would be shaped into a more whole and fully-functioning community.