Facebook, Friendship and the Trials of Seventh Grade

Her text came through at a moment that I wasn't ready to read it.

"You are isolating yourself again," it read. I glanced at it, ignored it, and moved on with my day. It's a pandemic, for goodness' sake. EVERYONE is isolating him or herself. There's no problem here.

Except, there was. There IS, really.

About two weeks ago, I decided to get the heck off facebook, for the most part. I found that watching people call each other names, watching bullying, watching the extreme ways in which we are willing to be keyboard warriors that shout and rant from the privacy and seclusion of our homes was taking a huge toll on me. Particularly on top of all the uncertainties with the pandemic. It was affecting the way I parent, how I do my job, which thoughts and voices I let set up shop in my head during the day. It was sucking time from my day and energy from my soul. It was distracting, disheartening and, most of all, paralyzing. 

But why? 

As I have slowly detoxed from that world, God has brought something sharply into focus for me: Seventh grade is still a big part of how I do life.

Seventh grade was 30 years ago. I really only remember small details of that period in my life. A lot of what I know about it is what my mom has told me. Apparently I cried. A lot. Probably more in that year than I have total in the 30 years since. I dreaded school.  I isolated myself because the risk of friendship became too painful. I had very few friends and basically none at school.That was the only year of my life where that was true. I have mostly loved school, craved learning. I was mocked for being smart, left to sit alone at lunchtimes. In recent days, I've started to remember how closely I watched the clock on the wall in the cafeteria, begging for free time to finish. It's made me wonder if my inability to sit peacefully in the now, to practice mindfulness and presence, is rooted in that wish for time to hurry up and finish then. I started my struggle with insomnia, a struggle I deal with to this day. I started running to dissipate the anger and sadness, a practice that has served me well, but has also sometimes taken the place of the hard work of lament and healing. 

Mostly, though, in this past week, it has become clear to me that the way I view female friendships, the way I retreat and isolate and keep to myself, is largely a product of that time. I don't trust women. I don't trust that they aren't gossiping. That they don't have nasty things to say behind my back or, honestly, straight to my face. Have I had some truly amazing friendships with women since 7th grade? Absolutely. However, do I assume those women are rare and unusual? I do. Do I avoid all women's ministry events at church? 100%. 

As I think about how I feel after I spend time scrolling or commenting, I recognize that facebook doesn't bring out the best in me. Nor in many of us, if we are honest. It reinforces my assumptions. It tightens and defines the boxes I have built. It allows me to villify and "other" people and it drives me inward. Bottom line, it usually makes me worship and focus on what I can do or say or believe much more clearly than who God is or what He is doing or saying. 

And that's a dangerous place for me to linger. 

Seventh grade still has power. But I don't want it to. I have never really sat down and hashed it out. I've never truly asked God to heal me of those deep wounds. To show me the ways I have let the pain of that year drive my relationships for 30 years now. So while I am grateful to facebook for unearthing how clearly that period still has power, I also know that it's time for a real and true break so I can lot God do the deep work of healing that He is clearly in the business of doing.

If you have been a friend I have pushed away, I truly apologize. If you have been a friend I have othered or vilified, may God reveal that to me so I can ask for forgiveness. If you have been a woman who has pursued me and tried to love me and been met with rejection, please know that I am working on this. I truly am. Part of what God has been showing me during this pandemic is who I truly am, in all the areas that are good and beautiful but also all the areas that still need growth.   

In the meantime, I'm going to sit back and breathe. Journal. Paint. Run. Speak with humans face to face. Stay pretty much off of social media. Garden. Try to find my laughter and smile. Love and serve the heck out of humans on my ambulance. Pursue my husband. Use my punching bag. Pull out the guitar. Have amazing conversations about justice and shalom and grace because those things give me life. And just ask God to heal. To reveal. To redeem. And to infuse my soul with hope that this pandemic WILL one day end and that I will come out of it stronger, kinder and a better friend. 

On Boxes and Murder in the Church

Just a few days ago, a good friend of mine called me out. In that, "I-kinda-wanna-crawl-under-a-rock-and-lick-my-wounds-but-I-know-she's-right" kind of way.

We had been talking about a news item and I said something uncharitable about the protagonist of the story. Something rude. Something I have no business saying as a follower of Jesus.

She wrote back to me and said this: "There is more than meets the eye to most people."

She's right.

But oh, do I prefer to put people en masse into boxes. Groups. To places I can easily dismiss or self-righteously join.

I saw a man with whom I disagreed and easily vilified him.

I chose not to see him as made in the image of God. And because of that, I sinned against him.

Shame on me. And, to be honest, shame on many of us.

Instead of being light and salt to a broken, messy world, so many of us sit around name-calling and whining like we are stuck in some never-ending middle school recess of a nightmare. Facebook looks like a war zone. Between Christians, no less.

My heart, this week, has brought me back to a verse from college that changed my life.

21 “You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, ‘You shall not murder,[a] and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.’ 22 But I tell you that anyone who is angry with a brother or sister[b][c] will be subject to judgment. Again, anyone who says to a brother or sister, ‘Raca,’[d] is answerable to the court. And anyone who says, ‘You fool!’ will be in danger of the fire of hell.
²³ “Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother or sister has something against you, , 24 leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to them; then come and offer your gift.  

Matthew 5:21-24

Perhaps you were expecting some inspirational verse about trust or faith or hope or love. Seems a little morbid to ruminate on a verse about murder. But I remember the moment this verse became a way to live my life. I had been at a retreat with my InterVarsity group and our staff worker had made us really, truly think about what this was asking of us as followers of Jesus. 

It was saying that if we are coming to worship our God and realize that someone is angry with us (and, it seems likely to add, someone with whom we are angry), to stop. Ask for forgiveness. Apologize. Forgive. Do whatever it takes. But be reconciled to your brother or sister BEFORE you have the audacity to come before God in worship. It was saying that our unwillingness to do so, our holding on to unhealthy or judgmental anger, our calling others "fool" is actually just like murdering them.

That's pretty serious, guys.

That night, we were able to go around the room, look people in the eye and create space for forgiveness and reconciliation. Since then, I have tried to live my life in a way that doesn't let resentment fester, that confronts and repents and changes when disagreements or hurts happen.

But I haven't done a very good job of it recently.

You know what's easy? Complaining and cynicism and blame and name-calling.

You know what's not? Actually following Jesus into the hardest, most broken, dark places and letting him develop empathy and lament and hope and self-awareness and forgiveness and action that seeks to reconcile. THAT is the hard work of living out the gospel.

A few months ago one of my pastor's charged us with this: Until "we love we"(meaning Christians being able to truly love one another), no one is going to give a rip about what else we have to say and one way to love is to stop, listen and learn. (Paraphrased)

But what do I see instead of "we loving we?" What do I see (yes, in myself) instead of stopping, listening, learning and therefore seeing each other as beautiful people made in God's images?

I see Christians hurling epithets at one another. Calling each other liberals and snowflakes and conservatives(and never in a descriptive way, but a disdainful way), boxing each other up, taping it shut and then finding like-minded believers to mock and laugh and smugly pat each other on the back.

Brothers and sisters, this is not what it's supposed to look like. What in the world are we doing? Becoming?

As I have been pondering this post, I finally sat down and made a list of all the people in my feed that have made me angry. That post things that make me feel like I have been placed in a box. And I asked God to help me forgive them.

But you know what else I did? I made a list of people who I know have not always liked what I had to say. Who likely have something against me. And I asked God's forgiveness for ways that I have "othered," ways that I have "boxed," ways that I have spewed hate in my heart, instead of offering grace across discord.

Look, Facebook is complicated. It's not "face to face" like people used to be able to argue. I can't get everyone in my feed in a room and walk around and offer apologies and hugs.

But I can get my own act together.

I can remember that while there is space in my following of Jesus for righteous anger, for conviction, for passion, that if I worship my cause more than my God, I will most likely end up being an agent of hate.

So, today, I ask us all to pause. To look at what we've written and what we've pondered in our hearts towards people over these last few crazy years.

Is it the fruit of rage and fear and murderous hearts or is it the fruit of following Jesus into the hard places?

One thing I plan to do is this: before I say anything, I am going to pause, try to hear what that person is saying, remind myself that he or she is just as precious in God's sight as those with whom I agree and then figure out if what I have to say is helpful to the conversation. If it is a truth that points them to a God who loves them and pursues justice and reconciliation. If it's not, I'm going to keep quiet.

As my pastor put it this past Sunday, I am going to do my best to set more tables, not make more labels.

Who is with me?  

Beautiful Church

This morning I led my final song as interim worship director at our current church. As I drove home, companionably chatting with my two-year-old , I felt an up-welling of joy and gratitude.

I have been in a LOT of churches in my life. I grew up in an amazing, non-denominational, small church family in NY where church lunches were full of lasagna, holy kisses and boisterous laughter. In college, I flitted around a bit- from a Presbyterian church to an Assemblies of God to an international church in London, finally landing on a semi-Pentecostal church in inner city Richmond where I was one of very few white people with a LOT to learn. That's where I was first trained to be a worship leader and when I really started to think about race in the church. From a country church in North Carolina to helping plant an urban church to a few more wonderful places in my early 30's, it's been an adventure.

And with all our moving around, I've had a lot of chances to be ON worship teams.

This was the first time I've really led one for more than a Sunday or two.

A number of people over the last few months asked me if this job was stressful with raising 3 boys, preparing for a move across the country and dealing with the special challenges of our middle one.

I never had to hesitate when I answered.

Friends, this job was life-giving. It was like a long sip of water after a brutal trek across a dry land. The chance to come together with other rational adults two times a week doing one of the things I love to do best? Well, it was magical for me. The laughter, the camaraderie, the moments we truly were able to worship together as we led (and those who lead worship KNOW what I mean)...well, it's making it even harder to leave, to say the least. The opportunity to work more closely with our pastors, to see their heart for our congregation and our city, the chance to see myself and those around me grow in our gifts and take risks together has truly helped me see again WHY the church is so good and so necessary even in all it's messed up beauty.

And as I sat in the pew this morning, having just participated in my youngest son's baptism with my church family, listening to my pastor preach about being at peace with one another, listening to his stories about the Rodney King trial, white privilege and racism, I realized again just how unique this place is. It's not the first time I've heard things like this from our pulpit. In fact, justice is woven into the gospel effortlessly around here all the time. It would be strange NOT to hear words about God's call for reconciliation and healing in our world. To be blunt, that is not true of most of the churches of which I've been a part.

I am really going to miss this place. Like all the ones that have come before, it has shaped me in new ways, challenged me in others and helped me to give of my gifts.

Have I been hurt by churches? Sure. Pretty badly. Have I been loved by churches? Yep, more than I deserved. Is it easy to be a part of one? Nope.

But here's the thing. There is no perfect church because there are no perfect people.  You can't put a bunch of broken people into community with each other and expect things to go beautifully. We are defensive. We are passive-aggressive or, some of us, just plain aggressive for no good reason. We avoid conflict. We seek it out unnecessarily. We thrive on and create drama. We keep to ourselves and don't let anyone really know us. We mess up all the time.

So, we hurt each other. It's just going to happen.

But after 33 years of doing this church thing (my mom started bringing me when I was 4 years old) I can honestly say this: church is good. NOT because it has all the answers. NOT because it is always a safe place. NOT because I can show up and consume things that might make me feel good for awhile. NOT because we sit around and sing Kum-Ba-Yah all the time while holding hands and throwing wildflowers around.

Church is good because it can be people, created in the image of God, struggling to figure out what that looks like together...learning what grace means, steeped in forgiveness of self and one another, rejoicing and mourning with one another, breaking bread together, pushing ourselves to be able to truly become the person God has made us to be.

That, my friends, is a beautiful mess.

So, as we say goodbye again, I pause to thank God for this current body of people, for one more Sunday to worship with them, for the relationships I know will continue and for the ways they have prepared us to take this next step of faith as a family.

Thank you to this family for letting us be our crazy family, for letting us be who we are, for being family when we have been far away from our other family for three years. I couldn't be more thankful.

Untangling RVA

In just a few short months we'll head south again to Richmond. Back to where our family began. We met there, married there, bought our first home there, got our first pet there, had our first child there. You know, became adults. Or at least we looked like adults. When do you really start feeling like an adult, anyway?

Richmond was not first on our list to return to. In fact, in some ways, it was probably last. It was a place we never planned to return. A place that, for me at least, represented pain. Represented exhaustion and chaos and all the ways I didn't want our family to function. When we left it for NC seven years ago, we left it with a big sigh of relief.

It was a chance to start over. Fresh. New.

I still remember those first few months after we moved. The days were calm and joyful, filled with house projects and playing and attempting not to melt in the Durham humidity as we met our awesome neighbors. The evenings were filled with family dinners and twilight walks and long conversations with my husband after our son, then only 2, went to sleep for the night.

It was peace.

And in the midst of that peace, I blamed all of what I had felt IN Richmond ON Richmond.

The overwhelmed. The exhausted. The angry. The alone. The sadness.

It was Richmond's fault.

Even those first few years in NC, if I drove through RVA on the way north, I would tense up. I couldn't stop for a fill-up or a coffee. I drove through it as quickly as possible and kept my eyes facing forward.

It was in NC that I started blogging. Made the attempt to move from unable to even articulate a feeling to myself from occasionally being brave enough to share a feeling with the public. I shared about our miscarriage. Our infertility. Our adoption process. Parenting. Friendships. Marriage.

But never once did I write about Richmond.

It was, until a few months ago, a place I kept closed off. Until we got that call from VCU. And began to ask God if it was maybe, just maybe, a chance for a do-over. An adventure in redemption.

Friends, I had to get down on my knees. I had to surrender my anger. Surrender my fear.

And in so doing, I began to see that it wasn't Richmond's fault at all.

It was me, and me alone.

Those who know me now, know that I share about the hard places. I blog, I write, I try to find funny things to say in the midst of the hard moments. I work at being open.

But back then, I was one big secret. I was fine. All the time.

So much so that I was actually going through a miscarriage in the middle of a church leadership meeting, chose to stay there, not tell anyone it was happening and just occasionally rush off to the bathroom to panic and breathe and come back as if nothing was wrong.

So much so that I went away on a retreat with my colleagues during that same time and only told the woman I roomed with. 3 whole days away togther in a beach house and no one knew a thing was wrong. They just thought I was tired.

So much so that during that drawn-out month in which we lost our daughter, when a good friend called and asked if she could bring us a meal(because clearly she knew something was wrong), I chose to pretend that nothing was wrong at all and didn't tell her what was going on. And refused the meal.

So much so that I began to avoid our friends because I didn't want to answer any questions about why I was sad or distant. I focused on packing. I focused on thinking ahead and ignoring the now.

So much so that my marriage was basically a setup of excellent roommates who were over-committed and exhausted. Ships passing in the night who traded off childcare. Because to interact was to deal with pain that we weren't sharing with anyone else. And who had the time to interact, anyway, with all the ways we were involved in life around us?

Ironically, we were a part of a very intentional community of people at that time. A new church plant, people who had moved into the city to be in each other's lives. We were on church committees, worship teams, small groups. We had friends nearby.

But we had put our community BEFORE our marriage rather than inviting our community INTO our marriage.

There is a big difference, friends.

One way allows me to present the illusion of service and love and the other let's me actually LIVE a life of service and love.

I chose the wrong way.

I am a long way away from untangling all this. I know that almost 10 years later, I am no longer a walking secret. I have talked about the miscarriage. I have adopted two beautiful sons. I have dealt, as best one can, with the infertility. I have a good marriage that is way more than a roommate situation. I keep a feelings chart handy because, on top of trying to figure out what I am feeling at any given moment, I am trying to teach my children how to identify what they feel. I am clearly not equipped for that particular quirk of parenting but I soldier on and we learn together.

But as I look forward, there are things I need to do.

I have never apologized to the friends I shut out. I hope to do that.

I have never driven by our home in Church Hill on my trips through Richmond. I want to do that.

I have only once been back to our church community there and, at the time, all it did was dredge up the pain. I have to visit and let the Lord practice his work of redemption.

Most of all, I hope as I continue to untangle and forgive myself and move forward, that we can start fresh as a family. 10 years later. 2 more pets. 2 more children. 2 more sets of goodbyes under our belts. We have changed and so has RVA.

Ready or not, here we come.

Who Are Your Sons?

They were standing in front of me. I'm not sure they knew I was there or that I could hear them. Even if they knew, I don't know if they would have cared.

They had their faces pressed to the glass, pointing, laughing.

Mocking.

I watched the ice, where young kids from ages 4 to 9 skated. For most, this is their first season of hockey. Some just learned to skate. A few, like my son, tower above the rest, looking out of place, but needing to be there because they, too, are beginners.

They skate by these four kids who are watching. The younger ones don't seem to notice. Their heads are down, tongues out in concentration, desperate to stay on their feet, determined to try to get the puck this time.

But the older ones, like my son?

They see.

They see the fingers, the open mouths in silent laughter that they can't hear through the glass. They know that fun is being made. And that they, the larger ones, are the likely targets.

I glance around, bouncing my infant in my lap, wondering if their parents are here. I guess their ages to be maybe 12, 13 years. Probably they're here early for their own practice or possibly to watch the high school game that will be starting on the next rink over in a few minutes.

And I sigh.

I have learned the hard way that attempting to engage pre-teens in meaningful dialogue without any relationship is a recipe for disaster. For being called the F-word or worse, for being mocked myself. And right now I am surrounded by young children watching their older siblings play hockey, my own infant playing in my lap and trying desperately to get out of my arms and crawl on the bleachers. The last thing I want to do is invite these young children to be a witness to vitriol or, let's be honest, violence if I confront these kids. If I were alone, I would say something.

But today, I stay silent. They don't know me. They won't listen to what I have to say. And, honestly, their parents COULD be sitting right next to me. And as many of us attempting to raise respectful children know, parents may not take kindly to watching their kids be reprimanded, even when it is absolutely certain their kids need intervention.

So I sit there, sadly, wondering about authority and where it has gone, hoping my son doesn't totally understand what's going on, that this won't dampen his enthusiasm for hockey.

When I was their age, if ANY adult had called out my behavior, I wouldn't have dared called him or her a foul name in response. Most likely, I would have hung my head in shame and endured the certain discipline of my own parents when they found out about it later.  As most certainly they would have.

Have I mentioned these were boys? White boys? (Just in case you are making any assumptions.)

We hear a lot about so called "mean girls." About the bullying, the horrible treatment, about girls as young as preschool forming cliques and saying awful (and even racist) things to the little girls around them. I, myself, have still not recovered from middle school and the treatment I received there from girls who could have been friends, allies, teammates but instead chose power and pettiness and sent a girl to her bed sobbing every night.

But these boys. Mocking, laughing, taunting. Seeping privilege and meanness from their pores. Boys can be mean, too.

If this were an isolated incident, I would have written it off.

But it seems like there is just so much meanness, so many kids cursing out adults and parents, so many kids lost in a world without boundaries.

Parents, what are we doing? Are we giving up our parental authority and firm boundaries in the name of raising kids with "minds of their own," producing unkind, entitled children who don't have a freaking clue what the difference is between healthy independence (which is what I'm shooting for) and premature abusive power?

I for one would want to know three things if my sons were perpetrators of this type of shenanigan:

(1) That my son at least KNOWS this is terrible behavior.
(2) That if another adult were to approach him and point this out he would respond with respect and repentance.
(3) That said adult would feel comfortable telling me about my child's behavior and being confident that there would be discipline involved.

And let me make something clear. I don't propose to be any kind of child development expert. I don't read a ton of how-to books about parenting. I don't propose that I am perfect or that I don't mess up all the time or that my kids never do anything wrong or hurtful to others.

But, gosh darn it, I am trying. Trying to raise my boys with an understanding of right and wrong, with a bent towards kindness and justice and respect, with a love for God and his children. Sons that would be able to withstand this type of treatment with their confidence and joy intact and would, if being mean themselves, be able to receive chastisement, repent of the behavior, accept forgiveness, change in a positive way and move forward in new understanding of how their words DO have power.

So, parents, take a look.

Who are your sons becoming? The mocking, cruel boys on one side of the glass? Or the type of boy who might intervene and say "Hey, those kids are just learning...let's stop laughing at them and help them out!"