Why I Have Hope, Part 1

It was a big deal when my brother started to come to school with me. We could walk together, to and from, and I felt like such the big sister. I was very proud of my position.

 

I don't remember the first time it happened, someone pointing out that my brother did not have the same color skin as me. I do remember the day I decided I wasn't going to take it anymore, though.

This kid, I still remember his name, called my little brother a 'gook'. I had learned from a family member the nastiness of that word and it brought up all kinds of pent up, never-used feelings. I wasn't having it.

I had my little brother's hand in mine as I tried to punch this kid. The boy and his friends laughed at my inexperience with violence. The rage launched me forward onto him while the kid's big brother watched, his companions cheering us on. I feel like he was shocked. He didn't know I was that mad. I remember him saying, "Kara, Kara. Stop."

But I couldn't stop - the thing propelling me forward was bigger than me.

I was incensed on behalf of my very small brother. My brother  with his beautiful dark eyes and dark hair and coffee colored skin. I loved our differences. I was proud that my brother was Korean, that he was different. He was so beautiful to me.

I don't remember a lot except that I was screaming hysterically as I ran home. I raced to my garage, where I grabbed a hammer. I wanted to inflict the worst kind of pain on those boys.

It didn't matter that they had not made Todd bleed. His wounds were invisible but deep. You could see the wariness in his eyes. After all, some of our own family members had no problem making fun of his race.

Why should he be surprised by the kids at school using mean words on him?

Why should he be surprised at the teachers who pretended not to overhear?

Why should he be surprised at the adults who asked idiotic questions of him?

Back to that day, the day when violence came into my heart. I chased that boy for two blocks, anger growing with every pump of my legs. The boy was faster than me and reached his house before I could reach him. His mother was sitting on the front porch.

He ran up the two concrete stairs and stood behind his mother. I stood gasping for air, grasping a hammer tightly in one hand, sweat rolling down my forehead. It was the voice of his mother that calmed the fire in my heart.

Thinking back on it, I believe it was her understanding that acted like cool waters.

I thought, "She gets it." 

His mother didn't look like the other mothers at my elementary school. Her clothes were different, her accent not the same. Maybe she understood being on the outside. Maybe she recognized the flames engulfing my heart.

She listened to my tearful story, words coming between hiccups, snot and tears running down my face. She nodded her head and took her son's hand and told him to apologize. 

I went home exhausted, defeated, and scared.

For the first time I saw that the thing my little brother was up against was an indomitable foe.

I was also frightened by the monster inside myself.

Racism is raised generation by generation on hate. Racism is fed small children to keep it growing into a proper big monster. How would I ever beat that?

 

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For me, the day I chased that boy home with a hammer in my hand, I realized something new: knowing the person at school wasn't the same as knowing the person.

When I saw that boy's mama was waiting on the front porch I had clarity about his life. For one, he had a mother. I don't think I'd ever considered that.

For another, he had a mother who was different. Lastly, I could see that his life was not the same as mine. There was something about the way his yard looked that suggested that what happened in my home was not the same as what happened in his home.

Suddenly his chipped front tooth didn't add to his malice; it was just a chipped tooth.

I think he learned something new that day, too. I think he learned that someone can be pushed too far, that they can lose the ability to choose reason. Sadly, I think he learned to like that feeling, at least while he was at school.

That was not the last run in this boy and I would have. He and I would have words again on a school bus in high school. He didn't grow out of bullying even in high school. One afternoon, I would sit back and watch as someone pummeled him, after months and months of taking mean words, and think, "Yeah, I remember that feeling."

By the way, it isn't a good feeling that you're left with after you do violence. It's a lonely feeling.

Doing violence leaves you feeling separate from everyone.

I need you to know that I wasn't always the champion of the underdog. There were times that I did the bullying, a fact that still fills me with regret.

It seems that learning to do the right thing is an ongoing process. The pendulum is always swinging between reaction and inaction.

It's the middle where it's good. That's where we can make some progress.



 

 

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We need to accept that there are race issues in the U.S. My experience in America, as a person with pale skin, versus the experience of someone with darker skin, or a different accent, differ greatly. 

We appear polarized as a country, and I know there's truth to that.

I'm not buying it completely, though. No photograph or video can ever fully encapsulate the complexities of our lives.

Those of us in the middle are a little confused. But here in the middle we can see both sides a little more clearly than if we were swung over to the far left or the far right.

Still, I want to make sure that I'm not falling into the white moderate default of inaction. Neither do I want to run home for my hammer, a reaction that is not helpful.

 

"First, I must confess that over the last few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Council-er or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate who is more devoted to "order" than to justice..." ~Martin Luther King, Jr.

 

So what do we do? 

We know that hammers don't work. We also know that apathy will not move us forward.

As always, I believe the answer is community. I believe it's about inviting people into our lives and into our homes and having (potentially uncomfortable) conversations. Be willing to know people in your home and in theirs.

And this is why I have hope: it's never too late to move forward.

 I'd like to point out that racism does not always wear a white robe and march with tiki torches. Racism uses words like 'they' rather than 'us'. Racism, like all -isms excludes rather than includes.

Most often racism is silent, pretending not to see inequalities or hateful behavior.

 

Be brave, misfits, not silent. It's okay to shake up the order of things.

Just leave your hammer at home.

 

Also, for further reading on the issues of racism:

Is there a Neo-Nazi storm brewing in Trump country?

A Reformed White Nationalist Speaks Out on Charlottesville

The White Flight of Derek Black

ShannanMartinWrites

I'm Racist (and So Are You)

 

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Now it is Sunday

Now it is Sunday.

The day given over to rest in the presence of God.

We've been doing Sundays the new way for so long that it doesn't seem like the new way any more. Still, some mornings I find myself thinking back on the old way, the way Sunday used to go for us. Those memories are taking on the lovely haze of the good ole days.

That's not true every day, though.

There are times that I look back on the old way of our Sundays when a feeling of despair clouded our mornings.  There are times when reading  a favorite author's call to 'be the church' that I feel the sting of failure.  There are times when I look back on our days in ministry and feel a weight tied to my heart.

I can run a roll-call of people we considered friends and attach a hurtful action to each of them. Worse are the times that I recount the failures of church leaders that we shared in ministry with. The feeling of abandonment and betrayal is as fresh as when it first happened, even though more than ten years has gone by in some cases.

I've been reading 7 Principles for a Successful Marriage, a great read, by the way. One of the points that Gottman makes is that individuals can re-write their relationship by focusing on bad memories. Meaning that when your relationship with your spouse is healthy you will look back on hard times not with bitterness and resentment but with understanding. Basically, you will remember more good than bad.

I think my marriage to the church became an unhappy one.

It began in a romantic way, as love often does. I could see none of the warts. When the wounds came I was unprepared. I had no idea that there was an ugly side to church. My husband became a church employee soon after we became church members so we didn't have a lot of time to assimilate before pain was inflicted.

His salary was low but we didn't care because we were fulfilling our purpose. After a year he was told he wouldn't be getting a raise because I could work, but because I chose to stay home with our children his salary did not increase. That happened more than once, in more than one church. That is an ugly side of church. 

I could fill a book with the ugly side of church. Maybe two.

I do not want those memories in my heart any longer. Sometimes I think that telling everyone how much it hurt will get rid of the shame that is there, too. I don't know.

 



 

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There was much good, also. I cannot forget that. So much. Enough to fill four books.

The generosity of those we shared life with was amazing.

Early in our ministry (and marriage) when money was tight $500 appeared in our mailbox. That money was a miracle.  We were a able to do a car repair AND buy Christmas gifts.

In another city in another church a grill showed up on our front porch one Sunday a few years later.  At another a  new friend bought all four of our children brand new winter coats. I could go on and on.

Stepping away from church is giving me time to heal my relationship with it, to put back some good memories. It's doing the same for my kids. I think it's doing the same for Lee, but he still misses it so much.

Church hurt is not comfortable for me to talk about. I don't want anyone to feel responsible but not all of my hurt was internally generated. I think we can do better.

I didn't realize how much I needed time away from the place we fell in love with Jesus at. Stepping back has allowed me to see it all, though. The good, the bad, and the ugly. My part, their part, and our part.

Yesterday was Saturday, a day that I often feel is capable of anything.

 

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Now it is Sunday.

The day I used to give away grudgingly, reluctantly, and with a little bit of resentment.

The day starts quiet. I read some. Lee sleeps some or finds a church to worship at alone. I find my way to my book of prayers, to my bible, to my worship play list on Spotify. There is no hurry up and get there, no have-to's or shoulds forcing us to swallow faster than we'd like. No expectations hanging over our heads.

Sunday belongs to us, which means we are free to give it to God, because every good and perfect is from above, anyway.

Am I giving what has already been given or am I choosing to share? 

I am sometimes tempted to think that the new way is too slow, is not filled with enough stuff. I can begin filling in shoulds and have-to's but that is not the rhythm God has for us. Sunday is for resting in His presence and reveling in His companionship. 

Taking my morning walk I watch people as they go to their cars, dress shoes clip-clopping on the sidewalk. They don't look at me and I wonder if they're judging me for not going to church.

I think I used to do that.

Internally I would shake my head and wonder at how others got along without the church.

When we first left the ministry I worried that Sunday would feel like Saturday in our new life. That it would lose its specialness. 

There were some Sundays that did feel that way. Some Sunday mornings found me binge watching Gilmore Girls and feeding everyone peanut butter an jellies. I am learning  even that can be an offering. 

I  choose to make Sunday important. A special lunch, private prayer, and just generally being more aware of God's active role in my life, and in the life of my family, are a few things that set Sunday apart from the other days of the week. It's all up to me. Nothing is mandatory. Unless I begin forcing things. 

Wherever you choose to spend your sabbath the only thing that's important is that you're choosing to share it; that you're not putting shoulds and have-to's on the sacrament of worship, and that you recognize it for the gift it is.

When the hurt got too big my instinct was to pull away from church. It's counterintuitive but it's my church community that has been the catalyst for healing for me. 

I find solace in house church these days, but I still love churches in buildings, too. Church is where I learned hymns and the story of Passover - how can I not love that place? Sitting in a small group, outside in lawn chairs, singing songs to my Creator has helped to close up some old wounds.

Jesus came for relationship, so of course it is relationship that rescues us from hurt.

What I'm trying to say with all of these words is this: Sundays don't have to hurt. If they do talk to your pastor, talk to friends, figure it out but don't keep letting the hurt stack up. You can talk to me, too.

Happy Sunday, friends.

 



 

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The Process of Pain

I am a denier.

Or at least I used to be.

I'm one of those people who others  always thought was just fine, maybe even more than fine. I'd smile real big and say, "I'm great!" and quickly move the conversation to how they were doing.

I thought that was my job. I thought that I was supposed to do that. As an encourager I enjoy making others feel good, better. I love to make people laugh. That's how God made me.

He never meant for it to cost me, though.

That was all me and perfectionism working really well together. I read a quote recently that washed all over me.

 

 

I had this idea of what people needed from me and it cost me a lot. In order to be the happy person all of the time you have to deny your feelings of sadness, anger - anything that gets in the way of being perceived as happy. Some of it was a coping mechanism to get through really Hard Times. Sometimes faking it is all you can do.

I had given myself the wrong idea that believers don't struggle, and that if they do it was in private. One of the biggest things counseling did for me was teach me to mourn.  While I have not had major losses of people I have suffered pain at the hand of the church, had to say goodbye to friends, watch my kids go through serious loneliness, observe my husband's family relationships unravel, stand by as he leaves a career that he loves and navigate the difficult waters of finding a new one, put all of my most beloved possessions in a storage unit...you get the picture.

It's a lot.

Life is a lot.

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I was shocked at the depth of my sadness and I will tell you that giving myself room to be sad was uncomfortable. It hurt. I'd spent YEARS pushing that crap down and allowing it to come up to the surface was painful. That's the thing about pain, though, isn't it?

Pain will demand the spotlight. In the moment, or years later, it must be dealt with. Denying only delays the inevitable.

While acknowledging the difficult junctures was distressing  it all it was also refining. I felt myself becoming a new thing, being transformed.

That's the beauty of struggle, isn't it? You do not come out of it unchanged.

He makes all things new.

Suffering leads to  endurance, which leads to character which creates HOPE.

Hope does not disappoint.

Hope is the thing with feathers, the thing that reassures us that it will all be okay.

Without suffering, can we even have hope?

 

I don't think so.



 

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Pain is a process that has to take place in order to make us new. It's how we get stronger, it's how we become usable. Without going into the kiln pottery won't hold their shape, won't hold water, and won't look as pretty. 

Pain is not a thing to be avoided OR embraced. It's to be accepted and allowed. It's not our job to do anything with the pain.

After my Dad's open heart surgery a couple of years ago he was uncomfortable. He told me there was a pain in his ribs. I didn't tell him it was the huge chest tube. We made the unfortunate discovery that his i.v. pain meds had run out. I remember looking into his ICU room and thinking, "Well, crap."

I couldn't tel him that the pain wasn't there. I couldn't tell him that it would never go away. Neither of those things were true.

I could only tell him the truth: the pain was going to be there for a while, and that it would get better. Eventually.

Dad could only breathe through the pain and accept that it would be there for a while. Consenting to the pain it seemed to help ease it up a little. After breathing for  an hour or so he was able to sleep. If he had fought the pain the distress would have only increased. If he had tried to ignore it, pretend it wasn't there for my sake or his, the torment would have driven him mad.

Acceptance of any type of struggle, physical, spiritual, or mental gives you permission to deal with it.

I don't know why we have pain, why we have to have struggle to have hope.

What I do know is this: Jesus will call to you even in the struggle.

He will call you out of that pain.

Every day.

Again and again, for as long as it takes.

It's not a one time get-of-jail-free card with Jesus. It's an every time, all the time kind of love.

It's a my-life-for-yours, resuscitating, rescuing love.

Perfection and paralysis don't have to be your companions.

Accept the things you cannot change. Allow Him to change you. 

There is no end of the story.

Be brave misfits, even in the process of pain. Especially in the process of pain.

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Love Your Now

Our youngest is seven and the next oldest kid is 13, then 17, and 19. Liam is a child of the Big Gap. 

I jokingly tell people that it's like he's been raised by a pack of wolves.

 I'm only half joking.

Liam doesn't talk like some seven year olds. He's picked up on his older sibling's speech patterns and says charming things like, "What the crap?" and "What up, boieeee?" He refers to all people as dudes, knows what twerking is, and hands out sarcasm like a pro.

The sarcasm thing may not be the fault of the teenagers.

This sweet little boy of mine enjoys Curious George, yes, but when he was three Gollum was his favorite character.  When we're doing our annual once a year family photo Liam yells "photobomb" just before the shutter clicks.  No matter how many takes we do he is always caught  jumping Superman style in front of everyone, tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth,  eyes crossed.

Most last-borns tend to have big personalities.

Our Liam definitely has charisma.

[caption id="attachment_1295" align="alignnone" width="604"] See? Charisma.[/caption]

That Big Gap means that I sometimes scoot him along with the others, forgetting that he is not just small but also young. I kid that he never got to nap in his own bed, but it's not much of a joke. He learned to sleep anywhere as a baby.

Now that he's older I have to put effort into providing him similar childhood memories as his siblings. My three older ones played with each other constantly, always outside. 

Liam has no close-in-age sibling to pal around with in the back yard, though. I will say he's extremely adept at playing alone. As long as one of us is close he's pretty content to do his own thing.

One thing I've noticed about him, though, is that he loves one on one time with each of us. He'll take time each week to visit his sisters in their room, hanging out and chatting about Minecraft.

Always Minecraft, endless conversations about Minecraft.

He and I go on a walk every morning and we just talk. I love talking to this kid. It reminds me of when the others were young, when we spent our days talking with each other.  He has a thing he likes to do with each family member, too. Liam and Kiley watch movies together. Liam and Laurel go to the park. Liam and Spencer wrestle (then fight). Liam and Dad do things that Mom says no to. Liam and Mimi find stuff on YouTube. Liam and Grandad go to stores together. Liam and Mom do all the things.

 

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Sometimes Liam asks me for a brother who is his age. Actually, he asks me for a twin and doesn't get it when I tell him it's too late for that.

I feel kind of bad when he asks for a sibling.

Our family looks the way it looks, though, and there's no changing it. Plus, I love getting him all to myself.  When the older kids are out doing their young adult thing he and I get to do 7 year old stuff. 

The feel of his still-small hand in mine, the weight of his body on my lap, and the grassy smell of his hair anchor me in the present. He reminds me not to take parenting teenagers too seriously. Liam makes me realize how little my others were at that age. I didn't know that then.

I thought they were so big.

To the mom that I was then, they were. The mom that I am now, though, sees 7 as very little. Perspective literally makes you a different parent, a different person. 

That's okay.

Sometimes I feel badly that my older two didn't get this chilled out version of me. The me that let Liam dye his hair green this summer. The me that  doesn't care that some of my people  (boy people) wear the same clothes for more days than I think is healthy.  The me that's okay with where we're at in life tells the ghost of my past self to pipe down.

Her days are done.

I can honestly say that each of my kids got the best version of me that I could offer.

That's all we can each do.

I find that I love having a big gap between my three kids and my last born. I will admit that every now and then I find myself wondering what it would be like if Liam had a sibling close in age to him.

But he doesn't, so there.

What he does have, though, is a family that loves him very, very much. My older kids share stories with Liam of tickling his belly during diaper changes, rocking him to sleep, watching him learn how to walk, and seeing him fall asleep in his highchair. He loves hearing those stories. 

Those stories remind him that he's always been ours.

Now that they're all getting older I'm finally experiencing Liam as all mine, just a little.

I love that dabbing, pop-culture savvy Big Gap Child of mine. He reminds me that everything turns out the way that it's supposed to be. Liam reminds me to love right now.

[caption id="attachment_1298" align="alignnone" width="604"] I asked for a serious face. I sure got one.[/caption]

 

Every day I seem to be learning the lesson of loving where I've landed. Every day I seem to be learning to let go of plans and pictures. Every day I get a chance to embrace the amazingness of now, with  my big (semi-adult) kids and my big gap child, my hubby, my parents, my brothers, the sky that always astounds me, and the grass that feels wonderful beneath my bare feet.

Be brave, misfits, and love your now.

 

 

 

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