Living Outside the Chaos

I’m really quite good at managing chaos. I’ve had lots of practice, and have become a warrior of survival. I’m proud of this, and have learned not to fear much as the confidence in my ability to weather massive storms keeps me in peace.
But.

I’m not good at managing the manageable.

I’ve written about my oldest son and his battle with mental illness. He’s 15 now, and the ebb and flow of his sickness has lasted for more than 13 of those years. I have 3 other children, all younger than him. We have lived in the shadow of his illness for the entirety of their lives. 

Things are better now. While we still have situations that knock the wind out of me (as recently as earlier this week), the violent chaos that was normal in our home for more than a decade has waned. With his maturity has come some ability to push back against coping skills of aggression and destruction. I’ve come to a place of trusting my ability to parent him well, and rather than lean into the storm and exacerbate it with my own fear and anger, I’ve learned to utilize authority and boundaries in a healthier way. The last nine months has been the longest peaceful stretch of my parenting career. Even during this most recent drama, there has been no violence or aggression. 

Yet, I’m struggling.

I’ve been dating a man for the last two years who has seen the dynamics of my family, who has seen the shocking aggression that can pour out of my beautiful first born, who has seen the fear in the faces of my other three, the sometimes unhealthy attachment that has been forged between me and my kids, and who has seen me cry and work and do everything I can to help my family. He’s bided his time, and occasionally he’s spoken up- asking questions and exposing what I already know: I am not good at managing the manageable. Over the last year there have been conversations that he’s initiated that have left me angry, sullen and sobbing. (Never his intention, and always a direct result of the wounds it picks at.) They say that the truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.
Last night was the second time we had a conversation where the things coming from his mouth seemed to be directly from the heart of God- piercing my soul, shredding my heart in the knowing, and rendering me silent as I knew it was sacred. My flesh wanted to rise up and scream in defense, but my soul knew it was everything I needed to face; and I was grateful to have someone willing to face it with me in love. Beauty doesn’t equal pain-free. Love doesn’t mean avoiding hard places. I ached. I sobbed. I heaved with grief and fear and disappointment.

The difficulty now is that while living in a constant state of chaos, I have never learned how to live in the normal. I did everything around the house while trying to keep my kids safe. I never had breathing space to teach them simple chores or provide a structured schedule. And now, I’m exhausted. My children rely on me to do everything. They don’t pick up after themselves, or only do so with my prodding and their attitudes. There isn’t much structure, and what is there, revolves entirely around me. It’s not healthy for any of us, and it’s not feasible for me to keep this up. But the reality is this: I have no idea how to do it. I didn’t start small, with toddlers who were pulling chairs up to the sink beside me to learn how to do dishes. I didn’t have homework time at the kitchen table in the evenings because many evenings were spent fighting darkness and aggression, and sending children into my room to stay out of the path of their brother. I don’t have a family-known set of rules, expectations and consequences because my oldest (who, by default, sets the example for the others) is not motivated by either reward or consequence. Parenting him has been a continual shifting of what might work for this day, this situation, this mood. It’s left the others wondering what the constants are… and, to my grief, they come up empty.

I look at our dynamics, the lack of maturity and skill in my children, and I feel despair. JJ spoke these things- things I’ve already known- things I would rather run from- and called me to action. Part of me wanted to launch myself across the table to shove him to the floor, and part of me wanted to run away and leave the work to someone else, and part of me was broken… but part of me was grateful. His delivery was kind and raw. He reminded me of my strength and ability and asked why I didn’t infuse this situation with those characteristics. I dropped my head into my hands and sobbed. I could barely speak and he had to ask me to repeat myself several times. I don’t know how to fix it. I know the way things are right now is not good for anyone. I know that you telling me I work too hard at home doing things the kids should be doing is true- but I’m telling you I’m afraid, lost, and honestly, I am not sure I believe in myself as much as you do.

I have allowed things spoken to me when I was younger to take deep root and affect my ability to parent the children God gave to me- with my personality, skill set, strength and energy. I can tell you that logically, I know I have been paired with these children for a reason. That they have things to teach me, and I them, but the strangling vines grown from words once thrown into my soul have siphoned off the nutrients meant for healthy growth. I hear Failure. Flaky. Impulsive. Flighty. Unable to finish anything. Easily Bored. Lazy.

My love language is words of affirmation, and I haven’t loved myself well as I’ve given head space to words of destruction instead.
 

So next week, I return to counseling. I’ve given years to stabilize my son, while waiting for the right time to seek stabilization for myself. I can no longer delay that process. His well being and the well being of the others depends on my health. I can see where the cracks are and need help processing the junk that is preventing me from doing what needs to be done. I need someone to help me pull out the vines and learn how to live in the space between chaotic events.
I’m nervous at the level of emotional energy this will take, but I’m ready to move into it and out of it in order to live well the life I’ve been given.

We are all 'One Anothers'

I’m at a loss. Why are so many of the white people in my community silent?
I have no idea what to do, what to say, how to help. I want to believe that love is enough. I DO believe it. It’s the very essence of God. It’s what we are created from. Love. It is written that love covers a multitude of sins (wrongs, faults, hurts, evil). It’s written that perfect love drives out fear. It’s written that we are made in the image of God. Male. Female. Those are the only distinguishing characteristics listed. Male. Female. No other distinction. No color, size, age, title. Simply man and woman.
So why are those of us who believe all of these ‘it is writtens’ being silent?!
On one hand, I guess I get it.
When something, no matter how terrible, doesn’t directly affect you and your life circle, it is easy to look away and focus attention elsewhere. None of us enjoy pain and suffering, and we spend copious amounts of energy trying to avoid it. If you’ve never experienced poverty, it’s easy to continue living without thought to those who live in financial desperation. There may be moments that move you, moments you give to those who need help, or offer other assistance, but for most of us not living in poverty, they remain moments. If you’ve never loved someone with mental illness, it is easy to offer simple fixes. Dismiss the complexity of the struggle. Look away with callousness or disdain when forced to bump up next to someone whose behavior or processing seems abnormal. You may have moments where you offer compassion, encouragement, a listening ear. But ultimately they sit separated. A series of disconnected, often forced, moments.

Most of us work hard to push pain far from our cultivated comfort, our fortresses of protection designed to buffer us against the ugly, dirty reality that comes with earthly struggle. Each of us have our own ugly, dirty reality in some form, and we work to manage those places while adding pitch to the cracks in our walls to keep out the ugly and dirty of things we’d rather not have to deal with. The ugly and dirty that exists outside of Us. Our lives. Our tightened circle.
So, is that it? Is this why, as white people, we can shake our heads in sadness when another black man is killed because of suspicion we hold inside of our walls that won’t allow us to separate villain from ‘other’, yet not be moved enough to speak? Is this why we can turn off the news feeling troubled but still able to sleep well knowing the epidemic of murdered black men isn’t able to breach our walls?  It is also written that we are to ‘bear one another’s burdens, which fulfills the law of Christ’. (The simple law that states- Love one another.)  That means to shoulder the hurt and fear and anger of others. Others. Not meant to be a separating word as we have made it, but simply: those not in our own personal skin. Every person outside of ourselves. All others. All. Others.
I’m so disappointed by the lack of response I see by the white community. Many people I love live inside of bodies just like mine; bodies that create babies, work hard, love passionately, ache with pain and weariness, battle disease, wrestle with faith, celebrate loved ones. Bodies just like mine simply shaded more heavily with God’s incredibly creative paintbrush. Where is the outcry from the lighter shaded people? Why are we so quick to dismiss what they are saying and gloss over it each time with responses such as “well, we don’t know the whole story”, “Maybe he was reaching into his car for a gun”, “he had other charges, so I’m sure they were afraid of him”, “his music was too loud, his clothes too ‘gang-y’ “. If this was happening to our husbands, sons, brothers and fathers, we would fill the streets and demand justice. Yet. Silence. What are we afraid of? Rejection? Misunderstanding? Hurt? Getting too close to those who weep and wail and grieve and watch us through saddened eyes waiting for our support, understanding and help? Those who we have made ‘others’ instead of seeing the reality that all of us are ‘one anothers’? Those we place in a category we do not list ourselves in.  Why is this even an issue? How can we bear the image of God in our very existence and yet not honor His image in those with shaded skin? I believe the act of acknowledgment by those of us living in lighter skin, the response of- ‘I see this. I see you. I’m not looking away. This is not ok. Where is justice?! We are one. We will work with you as one anothers to stop the suffocating blanket of fear and danger to you and your loved ones.’ There is no script here. There is no perfect word that will alleviate their hurt, sadness and fear.

But love.

Love says, I’ve never done this before. I have no explanation as to why I’ve never entered into your world as friend. Neighbor. Church family. Community member. I have no explanation to offer for why I’ve put walls up between us. But I’m here now. I see you. I see your pain. I don’t understand how it feels to worry your husband or son, brother or father may not come home tonight. But because I bear the image of God, and you bear the image of God, I am here with you to listen. I want to hear what you have to say. I want to hear all of it because we are all ‘one anothers’.
Then? We do just that. We listen. We hold their babies like our own. We sit together at tables and play games and break bread. We share stories of laughter and hurt. We invite them into our lives and ask to be allowed into theirs. We don’t look away from their pain filled eyes to avoid the ache it elicits in us. That pain? The ache we are trying to avoid? That is exactly where we are connected. When your heart jumps at their hurt and senses the weary agony of not being heard or seen… that jump is God saying YES! Right here. This is the bearing of one anothers burdens. Don’t look away. Honor this space. Let it move you. Let it affect you. Let it sear you. Don’t pass up the gift of bearing this burden. It sounds simple. And it is simple. But it isn’t easy. Loving and honoring and bearing and weeping and listening and sitting and being moved to action will never be easy. It will take God sized strength and ability. It will require us to hurt as our one anothers hurt. Yet the incredible thing is this; we bear the image of God, and He is more than capable of sustaining us as we bear our one anothers burdens. Lean into the reality of image bearer in you replicated exactly the same in every single one another.

I'm Not an Enlightened White Woman

I'm the daughter of a preacher-man. One who had congregations made up of people from every class and creed. My parents taught me early on that people are worth loving. Worth hearing. Worth our time and love. That all people are the same, and created in the image of God. They probably didn't teach me this lesson intentionally, however growing up in a home where our dinner table was often shared with people who weren't the same color as us, it's a lesson I learned easily.

Some of my parents' closest friends are a black couple who began their family and careers in the growing of our church. Their family quickly became part of ours; and dinners, birthday celebrations, weddings, graduations- we did all of them together.  He was a quiet and kind man in med school, and she was a plucky lawyer with a loud laugh, sparkly dancing eyes and welcoming arms. I remember my dad telling me that Thomas and he had had many conversations about race and oppression. Thomas was working as a resident in the hospital in our town and he had an ocean of student loan debt. He drove an old, beat up car, as the purchase of a new one was beyond his means. Like most med students, he was living the frugal life with the hope to one day live the 'good life'. He told my dad that after he had been pulled over and ripped out of his car and thrown against the side of it to be patted down and treated with suspicion, that he vowed to never again go out in sweats. He knew that his wardrobe alone could possibly change the perception of who he was- a black man in an old car. As a young girl, I was appalled. Thomas and Dayna were part of our family! Who would ever think that they would be a threat?!
We rejoiced with them as he moved up in his career, and she did the same. When Dayna became the first black woman to be published in the Harvard Law Review, my parents were just as proud of her as her own blood connected family. She is now actively working towards the time when it is expected she will sit on the Supreme Court. When Thomas was named one of the best cardiologists in the country, and his ad for UCHealth was published complete with Thomas in his surgical scrubs standing beside Peyton Manning in his uniform, we all stood a little taller, knowing he was worthy of the title. And I wonder... if he were gunned down and later his incredible story was revealed- would we as white americans then mourn because we would see his accomplishments rather than his humanity?! I know. None of us want to go there.

We hosted an Indian chief for dinner when I was in the 3rd grade. He came to our house in full regalia and allowed us kids to try on his headdress while he told us stories of his tribe and his ancestry. My mom made many meals for international students visiting our country, and many more for missionaries who were visiting home before heading back into the field.
I remember crouching on the stairs listening to the hushed voices in the kitchen when a couple in our church had miscarried the baby they had tried so many years to conceive. My dad was headed over to their house (one we had all been in many times as family) to offer comfort. Side note- He, a black man- an artist of epic proportions; my family had his paintings in our living room; she, a successful, professional white woman. Broken. Hurting. Grieving. (Romans 12:15  Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.)
My childhood was deeply marked by my parents' active love and friendships with people who looked nothing like us, and yet were exactly like us.

I attended junior high school in downtown Charlotte, NC. As a pastor, my father made meager earnings, and our parsonage was located in a rough area. Sadly, in America, poverty and race run neck and neck, and I was one of a small handful of white students. The only white girl who made the step team ( I actually have a little bit of rhythm!). Never once did I feel excluded, or thought it odd.

My church today is incredibly diverse. We have two campuses and one has a white pastor, and the other, a black pastor. My circle of friends is balanced with white, black, Hispanic and Asian loves. The man I have been dating for more than a year and a half is a friend from high school, a black man with brown children. My office is filled with people of all color and backgrounds and the company is owned by a black man. My son's mentor and counselor is an incredible black man whom Samuel adores.

My point is this. I'm not an 'enlightened' white woman. I don't believe there is any such thing. I'm a white woman who was given the gift of the love of all of humanity by two white parents who walked it out in daily moments. My mom is from the deep south, and while her childhood certainly was laced with the ever-present stereotypical southern racism mentality, her life experience with individual people carved out any of that inside of her. Her family (who all still reside in the deep south) have also come far from that pathology. The reason simply being- when you have a real encounter with the living God- the one we proclaim created heaven and earth- you can no longer look at any of humanity and believe that somehow some of humanity was declared good, and others declared subhuman. And when you have a real encounter with others who have brown skin, and know them as a person instead of as a color, you can no longer maintain a hateful mentality.  A creating, loving, imaginative God designed each of us in His image- and that realization cannot leave room for anything less than love. (Genesis 1:27 God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.)


So what do we do? I think part of the answer lies in my history. I was mercifully given this gift of the example to love all people, and so it has become my life- but so many white people do not share my experience. I am continually blown away by the lack of black friends in the lives of so many white people. It's foreign to me to know many white people have never sat across a table and shared a meal and personal stories with anyone other than other white people. I cannot comprehend how so many of us as white people can express empathy for the trauma being experienced by our black brothers and sisters and yet never work to have a personal conversation with anyone of color. It becomes an over-arcing 'out there' and in order to bring any level of change, we have to bring it 'down here'. Into our personal lives. We have to be intentional. Nothing will ever change as long as we are 'us' and 'them'. But in order to collapse that divide, we have to dig deep into our humanity and get our hands dirty. We must be open and available to listen. Not listening with the intent to reply or somehow 'educate' black people on their experience, but to listen with the hopes of learning something. To listen to awful, horrible stories they've held close and not given over to us, out of fear of our continual minimizing or rejection. To listen to stories that might make us feel bad, guilty, embarrassed, helpless. And yet, listen anyway. Without running from the ugly feelings, or trying to brush them off of ourselves and onto a broken ideology that we purport not to accept. The greatest gift we have to offer one another is to listen to hear. To be willing to sit and hear the anger and grief and fear and not defend ourselves or try and explain away white privilege. To recognize that our experience has been blanketed by inherent protection- and we did nothing to earn it. To give space to the stories of pain that our black brothers and sisters have been longing to purge. It starts with us. Individually. Corporately. In our church families. In our work spaces. The black community does not need or want our pity, they want us to hear them. In hearing them, they are given back the mantle of humanity they have been stripped of. In hearing them, they are affirmed as worthy and seen. As people just like us; for that is who they are. Every one of us wants that. The black community has to scrape and claw and fight for it daily. How exhausted they must be. May it not always be so. We need to be a soft place to fall. We need to be willing to admit we don't understand, but are willing to listen. We must acknowledge our experience is not their experience- and that therein lies the struggle.

Nothing this horrific will ever be solved easily or quickly. But following the lead of God, and as it is written in John 15:13  Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't always in reference to death- but refers to laying down the life we know and take for granted in order to truly love and stand in solidarity with our friends.

To all the girls I've loved before....

To all the women I love and have loved. To all of the women who have loved and still love me... I wasn't leading you on. I never meant to hurt you. I wasn't being fake in the moment, or tolerating your presence. I truly love you, and the heart connection you felt is real.
It's not you, it's me, and I can explain. 

I love people. I love women. I love hearing their stories, and standing in wonder at the trauma and hurt women suffer through and yet pull themselves up to march on.. maintaining a strong softness that often belies the intimate stories of disappointment they work at healing. I find it easy to connect with people. I often find myself listening to women pour out their hearts in the grocery store line, waiting outside kids' classrooms before conferences, and sitting on the beach during family vacations. I love to talk and to listen. I love sharing ideas and experiences. I have had multiple connections with women that lasted only for a weekend retreat, or three month bible study. Women with whom I feel deep chemistry with; a sisterhood and joint heart understanding. Women who, given different circumstances, would imprint themselves upon my daily life and bring new ideas and adventure. I have experienced the feeling of finding a soul sister only to know the timing was off, or the gift was meant for that moment only.

Collages are small representation of women I love!!

I've been more than blessed with women who have loved me well. I've had good friends since as far back as I can remember and have been mostly protected from the wounding that comes from actions of a girl I considered a friend. I can recall the feelings of awe I had sitting on the front row of church holding my mom's slender, manicured fingers in my own childish hands. I watched my grandma snap peas and laugh over the pitcher of her too-sweet southern tea. I can still hear her raspy soprano melt into my grandpa's bass as they sang Bringing in the Sheaves inside the musty, brick church. I've stood in the mirrored paneled living room of my aunt's house and watched her and her sisters argue with great passion. I've giggled until my stomach hurt in the dark bedrooms of friends when I spent the night. I've crouched at the top of the stairs straining to make out the hushed, somber voices after a woman in our community had miscarried the baby she had longed for for so many years. I've cried on early morning walks when my sister friend told me she knew something was wrong with my son. Women have impacted every facet of my life and I have breathed it in with full, deep draws.

But as well as I have been loved, as intensely as I have been protected and cared for, I have struggled to be a good friend in return.

In my adult life, I have lived in a place of chaos and need. When I became a mother, I was thrust into a world of violence and fear and struggle I hadn't known existed. I went to doctor after doctor trying in vain to get my son help for his raging tantrums and violent behavior. I lived on a military base and was surrounded with women who loved me. I had a friend who lived down the street who would run to my house and take my baby for hours while I turned my attention to my screaming toddler. She would keep my second born safe along with her own growing family while I struggled to survive the terrifying life I had found myself in. For the years we were neighbors, she served my family in ways I've never been able to repay.
Years later when my marriage imploded, I was left with the immediate need for housing, as we had to leave the military base we had called home. I had no job, precious little savings, and no renting history to help me secure housing for my family. I was given the chance to rent a tiny bungalow owned by a woman and her husband I was connected to in my church. When the time came to move on from the cozy dwelling, I was offered the basement of another woman and her family. She only asked me to watch her lively toddler as she pursued her career. We settled in and began to live the reality of being a severed family on that beautiful property. When they moved on a year later, I was permitted to rent the entire house and I began to feel some semblance of normalcy. In the years since I was thrust into single motherhood, I have hustled in every way possible to provide for four kids. I have cleaned houses, mowed yards, babysat, used my photography skills, bartered, sold things I never dreamed I'd have to sell, written articles, applied for more than 60 jobs, worked multiple part time jobs at a time, and walked into the social services office to ask for help. I've been on welfare, cashed out CDs my grandmother had given me as a child and humbly been helped by my parents and various friends. I've spent nights lying awake in bed wondering how I was going to pay my rent, afford the kids medications, and watched several medical bills go into collections. I've prayed and cried, and experienced the miraculous when a check or package appeared unexpectedly just when I thought we would never make it.

I'm proud of how far I've come. I was given a wonderful job by a woman who has lived her own pain. She looked into my eyes and saw me as more than a liability. She saw who I could be, and took a risk in hiring me to assist her. Because of her belief in me, I've been able to work myself off of welfare, pay off the bills that were held captive by bill collectors, and now sleep soundly knowing I am able to take care of my family.

But while things are so much better than they've been, I still hustle. I work full time and part time - 7 days a week. I have four kids who all need specialists and three of them have some level of special education. My time is spent juggling work, and kids and doctor appointments, teacher conferences, my house and trying to hold it all together. There is no down time, rarely time for fun or evenings out or phone calls, and always a fire needing my attention. What that means is my friends still don't get my friendship in the way they deserve. Calls go unanswered, texts flash across my phone waiting for my response, and plans get cancelled. I know I've hurt women. I know I've let down my friends. I know there are women who think I lead them on and think only of myself. I know there are women who mistook my silence for ambivalence. I have seen hurt in the eyes of women who think that my scarcity in their lives is a reflection of my feelings towards them. To those women I want to say- it's not you. It's me.
I don't often share the struggle of my everyday life- not because I'm ashamed of it but because it's not necessary. I don't want pity, I don't like to linger in the hard places, and I would rather spend the precious little time I have with friends talking about other things. But I need you to hear me- if you have felt my love- please don't doubt it. Please don't take my silence personally. I used to talk to my mom almost daily, and now it's a good week if we manage one phone call. I am trying hard to figure out how to do it all, but the truth is, I can't. And what often falls is my active engagement with my relationships. I have days when my energy level soars, and the stars seem to align and I am able to reach out to let you know I think about you always, but there are also times where the chaos in my home reaches insane levels, and the only thing I manage to do is keep everyone safe. I desperately love and need the women in my life- and am so grateful for your presence, and I know that I haven't been the friend to you that you deserve. If I had it to give, I would in a heartbeat. I don't have answers and I don't know how to make it better in this moment, but I want you to know that I am not unaware. And while you may feel it, I don't take you for granted.