Pregnant again

Yes, we are having another baby! Our new baby boy is 17 weeks old and growing! 

And yes, this is a good, good thing. 

My husband and I are blessed with three children now, two who have been born, and we couldn't be more grateful for the love and support we have found over the last couple years in starting our family. 

After the first baby, a lot of things are different, and one thing that's stuck out to me in this most recent pregnancy is the change in tone when people find out. 

I just want to say this isn't a complaint. I'm very excited to have another new baby join the club, and I don't need others to validate me because I know all new life is a gift from God. But it's weird how the negativity seeps in further with each new addition. People will be happy for you, but there's a wariness to them. A fear that maybe this time the new baby won't be a blessing but a burden.  

I'm past the point of wanting people to say different things. Everyone's going to say something, and I shouldn't expect them to shape their though process to what fits my worldview best. There's been plenty said to me by the few people I told about this pregnancy early, and all of it varied widely--even though everyone in my life we shared our news with is supportive and wonderful.

I said before I don't want to expect people to change their words to suit me, and that's true. But I do think the way we talk about things matters. It matters because our words shape our perceptions more than we'd like to admit, and the words we hear from others operate in the same way. In our society we're accustomed to labeling children as a burden. When we Christians, who should know better than anyone what a blessing a baby is, who follow a God who has never said anything but positive things about children, start to absorb this worldview, it comes out even when we are happy about a pregnancy.

That's how you end up congratulating someone on a new baby and in the same breath saying,

"Children are expensive." 

"Pregnancy is traumatic."

"When are you going to be done?" 

"They'll be so close in age, you'll be exhausted!"

"Bet your husband is planning his vasectomy already!"

"I'm just glad it's you and not me."

These are all things I've heard people say to expecting moms (most of them to me) upon their pregnancy announcement. As if they feel compelled to temper their joy with a dose of reality. And I've been guilty of the same thing myself. Why do we feel we have to do this? 

I think life so often disappoints us that we feel the need to buffer our happiness with a layer of doubt. We stop ourselves from diving in to the joy of life because we don't want to be taken by surprise when things are hard. We project our own fears or struggles onto other people because we don't want them to suffer. We fear that if we experience joy too fully, it might seem to others that we don't see their hardships. 

This kind of thing is not only unhelpful, it's dumb. I say that from experience. It's dumb not to allow yourself to appreciate blessings, for any reason. It's dumb to let your anxiety taint the joy of others. It's dumb to look at a good thing and, because it isn't easy or because we live in a world full of bruises, to say that it might actually be bad. Good things are good, and they can be good even here.

Our mindsets need to change on this. Yes, having children isn't all rainbows all the time. Nothing is. That doesn't mean every child isn't a masterpiece handcrafted by God. 

If motherhood has taught me one thing it's that I can't control everything. I actually pretty much control nothing. And any time I start feeling it's my responsibility to ensure that everything is the way it should be for my babies, God sees fit to remind me that ultimately it is He who takes care of all of us.

He's taken care of me my whole life, and He takes care of my children. 

He takes care of the children whose mothers don't. Who've been abandoned by their fathers or shunted into the system. He watches over every soul on this earth, the forgotten, the lonely, the impoverished, the enslaved. He knows their circumstances better than even their parents could. And He loves them better than anyone. Children are precious to the Lord, their Creator. So how can I see them as anything but precious, a thing to be cherished, a gift to be in awe of every day?  

Not every mother can see this, or has ever even heard this truth about her children. But we followers of Jesus are ambassadors of His truth, His light. We should take this responsibility seriously, not using our words to discourage, but to uplift. 

You're worried a mama you know is going to have a hard time--so what? It's the perfect opportunity to ask her if she needs anything. To come alongside her and let her know you love her and her baby and want the best for both of them. To not discourage her by saying something negative. 

Next time you speak to a mama, encourage her. Affirm that her baby (or babies) are loved and created for a purpose. Rejoice with her! Let God open your heart to her. If she has needs you can meet, give generously to her family. We don't have to let joy blind us to need--we should joyfully participate in the will of God to meet those needs. That way, we don't keep our joy hoarded away, not to be shown. Instead we get to share it with others, and point to the One who makes our joy complete. 

Babies are My Favorite People

Babies really are just the best. 

Pre-motherhood me did not understand how some people seemed to be enamored of every baby they met. Don't get me wrong, I'd known some cool babies before having my own, but I was never very impressed by babies in general until becoming a mother. Now I know the truth: that babies embody many of the good things we adults strive for, or feel we've lost. And they are the purest of us all. 

Our culture is way behind on this. Women nowadays fear fertility. Young people find babies gross, needy, demanding, and inconvenient. Which they are. 

But as adults, it's so easy to forget we were all babies at one point. Our society is full of evil Headmistress Trunchbulls, expounding on the toxicity of the festering pustules that are children while denying they were once, not really so long ago, a little pustule of screams, snot and tears. And in reality, we should all be grateful that someone chose to put up with us in the pustule stage, because for parents it ain't always easy.

Parents have to put up with their children. Parents have to allow their children safe harbor in their home, make food for children to throw on the floor, and find their list of favorite hobbies reduced to a single word: silence. 

Why? you may ask. Why should a fully developed, functioning adult be reduced to a servitor of someone else's needs--particularly a someone who will probably never thank them, even once they learn how to say phrases with more than one syllable?

There are a few good reasons, but all of them pretty much boil down to this: babies are innocent.

Babies have never done anything wrong. On their own, they have no concept of evil. They haven't reached the point where malice becomes interesting to them. No baby will ever want to hurt you.

They're also incredibly self-assured. My toddler waddles around like a tiny drunk, convinced that the entire world loves him. And why shouldn't they? He's a baby, not a pimply teenager or a cynical coworker. 

A baby is the least cynical of all people. They live life ready to be pleased with everything, and when something bad happens to them it's an incredible surprise. We find it odd when a baby cries inconsolably over a tiny scrape on their knee or a dropped sippy cup--but imagine if you had lived the entirety of your life without a single thing going wrong (that you were aware of), and then one day you arrived in a place where things go wrong at least once a day, maybe more. That's quite the adjustment for a little pustule brain.

And that's the other really cool thing about babies. They are dang smart.

Oh, I know, they can't pronounce the letter Q and they think lint rollers are hairbrushes. But they are absolute shamwows when it comes to learning new information. They observe and pick up on everything, then next thing you know they're showing you where they hid their shoe when you've been driving yourself crazy for half an hour looking for it. Who's smarter than who now? 

Not to mention, teaching babies stuff makes you feel smarter. My toddler can't quite get the last of the yogurt off a spoon, but I can do that without even batting an eye. Take that, babies. 

I mean it, babies are awesome. Most of us are just in denial.

Maybe one reason why we tend to be annoyed by children is because a small part of us resents them for their lack of encumbrances. A baby has no problem crying in a public space. You, on the other hand, can't even let yourself have a good cry in the mirror when you're all alone in your apartment--let alone allow another human being to witness your splotchy-faced, tearstained glory. Maybe we all wish someone would just hold us close and feed us, be responsible for our well-being so we wouldn't have to, let us sleep on them and smile at us even when we accidentally yank the hair out of their skull.

We're jealous of babies because we ourselves have lost our baby-ness as we age, and we've become aware of how messed up the world is. In adulthood we stay just as self-centered and entitled as babies, but without the impeccable purity that allows for such indulgences. When I pull your hair now, it's because I wanted to regardless of how it made you feel. When I make unreasonable demands of the cashier at a McDonald's now, it's because I don't care enough to moderate my frustration. The main difference between me and a baby is that I choose to do bad things; a baby may do bad things without knowing what he's choosing. 

In that way, the openness and dependency of babies is humanity in its ideal form. And I think the reason we become worse over time is because, for whatever reasons, our sense of security gets stolen as we age. People disappoint us and hurt us. Life makes us uncomfortable, unfulfilled. The world loses its sheen of newness and becomes bland like a plain pita chip. 

But what if we could rediscover that sense of security? Then maybe our innocence would find its way back to us. We wouldn't unlearn our knowledge of the world's brokenness, but it would be neutralized by our trust in the One taking care of us, who loves and holds us through all our human nonsense. That's why Jesus told us to become like children. 

To overcome ourselves, we have to realize that not only are we dependent on God, but we can depend on Him. And with that confidence we can begin to throw off the burdens of adulthood and become the grown-up babies we were always meant to be. 

  

All is vanity?

The past weeks in our communities seem to have been plagued by evil. Maybe it's just my childhood innocence shedding its scales, but it seems to me that the older I've gotten the heavier the weight of grief and loss in the world has become. Some days I sense a burden of things inexpressible by any language. 

Since my children were born, I've only felt this angst deepen. I know this world is passing away. I know that darkness must increase so that when the light finally banishes it, the glory of that moment will endure forever. Though this is true, I also know that even as darkness grows, hope will too. Hope will never be out-shined by darkness.

So this is my charge to you, fellow pilgrims: seek beauty, hold on to hope, have faith, be brave. Go outside in the springtime. And listen to your mom <3 

Solomon's despair, revisited

Mom said write a poem about a rose
when all I can think of is the world's
love of death.
She said,
go outside where things are still green,
somehow,
and be reminded that not all is death,
not all is lost in darkness.
There is a vivaciousness
in the vibration
of the air.
There's a residue that lingers, persistent
long after words have faded
into ink on a page.
There is life amidst this dying,
a new Spirit that brings buds to bloom.
So in the end,
a rose, or a poem, is not a frivolity.
No fleeting beauty is meaningless,
but it comes like a fragrant breeze
through a still room,
stirring whispers of long-suffering hope. 

Snow and what it teaches us

It's almost springtime, and every year as winter slowly edges out the door it leaves behind a reminder of the One who created the seasons.

Even slush is a sign from God

When snow comes down,

crystal-white and clean,

it settles in flawless formation

against the world.

Blades of grass become tiny daggers,

houses turn into gingerbread

and daylight into a galaxy of stars.

No one can say it isn't beautiful,

that first crisp crunch through the sun-hardened crust of frost.

No one can say it isn't just as delectable

as bread new-birthed from the oven

It's the crumbs we regret.

The slush on the side of the road,

the gathered leavings,

stale as the word gray.

The snow turns from glistening diamond to coal dust

blackening our lungs,

the dirt it had covered so cleverly

churned up by the movements of the world

Too soon, we say.

Too soon the snow goes sludgy,

too soon the bread goes stale.

Unthinkable, the idea of a purity

that lasts.

But

if we could have the snow washed clean again

then anything might be possible.

Another poem about washing the dishes (?)

What can I say but that monotony inspires poetry?

Prometheus

Eventually,

it all became routine.

The cliff, the eagle, the blood. 

There was a rhythm to it, a savage kind of defiance

in ceasing to struggle. 

Every day became a small eternity, 

its own cycle of destruction and reincarnation.

Every morning he blessed the sun for its renewal,

the fiery orb that both taunted and inspired him.

He blessed the sun,

the bright splash of daybreak,

the inward breath that told him he was whole once again.

He’d learned to number the clouds in their colors,

to lift his face and receive the light gratefully.

He would not blame the sun

though it was the herald of his doom, 

bearing on its rays the swift and hungry eagle.

He of all people should know,

fire brings life as well as death. 

A fearful world needs courageous people

We live in a moment of fear.

Fear is inherent in our culture; we breathe it in as we walk outside. We speak it into our relationships. We cower before it in the public spaces where we should be able to be free. 

It's part of the natural human condition to be fearful--what's unnatural is the transcendent ability to overcome fear and even defeat it. To replace our visceral, human fears with focus, with confidence, with hope. It is unnatural to believe that's even possible.

But to the Christian, it is the reality of everyday life--or at least, it should be.

And yet many of us still remain trapped in our fear. Fear of our peers. Fear of injury. Fear of failure, censure, death and sickness. We watch movies and read fairy tales about daring heroes, but none of the real life we consume seems to fit that model. What we see in our media most often reflects the basest degeneracies of human life: destructive speech, violence, addiction and anger. Babies and children are murdered, abandoned and hated by their parents. Innocent people hurt while evil people seem to flourish. 

Evil is real in our world, which is why we have always needed courage to meet it. But courage isn't a ready part of our vocabulary anymore. It's one of those lost Old English words Shakespeare used to use, but which now have no real meaning. 

What is courage, anyway? 

It's not the absence of fear. Actually, it's just the opposite--it's the presence of fear, and the defiant choice to push forward through very real danger, because what you're heading toward is worth the pain, or the ridicule, or the suffering. 

One thing fear gets right is that this world is full of danger. We need fear, in a way, to let us know when we encounter that danger--but if our fear doesn't move us toward courage, it's defeated us.

So what do you need, in order to find your courage? The kind that doesn't tarnish, that doesn't quail before hardship, that stands up boldly and says no to evil, no matter the cost?

You need to believe in SOMETHING.

You need to believe in God.

Believe that God is good, that He is active, that He is never listless or lethargic. Believe that He will help you achieve the good He has purposed for you, and for this world. Believe that He will be your courage when you need it.

Believe that God, his holiness and love and truth, the eternal hope we have in Him, is worth anything and everything. 

When you believe that, you become invincible, and everything becomes possible.

When you know in your heart that God is the ultimate good in the universe, when your soul is at peace and confident resting in His truth--the only truth that exists--you will never want to be silent, shrinking away in fearful darkness, ever again. You will take up the cause of the Kingdom with a hope that wells like the ocean inside of you.

This isn't about politics, though the more I think about politics the more I hear this message, the message of hope and courage. In reality nothing in life is about politics--politics are always about life.

And, Christian, your life is more than right or left, socialist or capitalist, individual liberty or common good. Your life is for God--the God who is above all things things and yet can be found working among them. Your life is meant to ask the question, what is God's purpose for this moment?, to seek the answer eagerly, fearlessly, hopefully. 

To find and grasp the truth of God, the truth that He whispers in lonely moments of prayer, the truth written for us in His Word, the truth He has woven into every aspect of Creation, done out of love for us and joy for a good, good thing. God's truth is love, and perfect love drives out fear.

When you know the truth, fear will find no purchase in you. Any fear that gains control over you only does so because you are holding on to it, rather than fixing your attention on God. 

Jesus said it, and I believe it. Fear of the world will destroy you--but fear of the living God will empower you to do great things.

So do not be afraid of them. For there is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, and nothing hidden that will not be made known. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the housetops.
Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Instead, fear the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.
Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.

It's that time of year...

Every summer, it seems, I feel compelled to write a lament poem for the sad reality that I do not live within strolling distance from Lake Superior. 

Through the Wardrobe

I don't live here.
Here I'm just a tourist.

I live somewhere else,
somewhere the morning emerges out of mist,
the air washed clean by crystal waves.
I live there,
crossing the blade edge between this world
and one yet discovered.
I walk in and out of time.
In my little house among the trees
life moves forward
green and warm like a cup of coffee.
But across the way, the hours dissolve into minutes
into seconds and milliseconds
mixed in with pebbles on the shoreline.
Sitting there I can almost taste eternity,
see the light just beyond the clouds,
feel its warmth, even as the chill wind stirs the waters.

God's Spirit moves over Lake Superior. 

More existential poetry

As a historian, it's both hard to believe in destiny and hard not to. 

Teleology

I feel tight somehow,

dough rolled into a spiral and no room to expand. The oven turns on.

I am compressed like a black hole. I am immeasurably tiny

and vastly inevitable. Where is all this gravity going?

and where did it come from

The universe has rules. Everything exists to do just that

and no history could have ever been any different, or else it would have happened.

If things could be different they would

but rules make the world just like they make up our bodies.

We exist in the space between ice and water,

lava and stone

the future solidifying into the past, as quickly as it passes us by

like the cows on the side of the road,

still there in our minds even after we reach our destination. 

Can destiny be applied retroactively? 

A letter to me (a know-it-all)

Not knowing everything makes me uncomfortable. 

I always want all the answers. Decisive, simple, black and white answers. I want to be able to point to something and say "this is bad" or "this is good." I want to know the right direction to go, and the right advice to give, always and everywhere, from now until the end of time.

As a mother and a writer especially, there's always a looming sense of responsibility over everything I do, and everything I learn. If I don't know it, I can't teach it, right? Can I presume to teach anyone out of the little I do know? What is my real responsibility, separate from my perception? To what degree is each of us accountable for what we accept as truth?

These are the questions that swirl around my head most days. It's pretty unfortunate, then, that I'm a fallible and shortsighted human who barely knows how old she is on any given day. Because of course, though the ultimate universal truth of everything is what I desire, I cannot contain all of it in this limited body.

There are a few things I know about this:

1) It is good to seek answers. 

In Matthew 7:7, Jesus says, "Ask and it will be given unto you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened unto you."

The deeper I go in my search for God, the more I wrestle with His vastness and my own inability to comprehend it. At times this brings me to doubt what I know. But do I give up when my questions feel too big for me? No. I keep asking, I keep seeking, I keep knocking. Doubt is a natural part of the Christian life, but in my doubt I must have faith--faith that although I may never run out of questions, God will never run out of answers. 

2) It is impossible to know everything.

Isaiah 43:10 says, "You have been chosen to know me, believe in me, and understand that I alone am God."

Plan and simple, I'm not God--but I believe in a God who is, and that is the ultimate comfort. He understands everything I do not, He knows the inner workings of every heart, and He alone is just in judgement. 

3) It is more productive to follow God's lead in each individual moment than to painstakingly work out solutions to every possible future situation. 

The salvation of others concerns me. The future of my child concerns me. How my faith interacts with the issues that accompany being alive concerns me, as I strive to walk with God, to share the truth He's given me, and to reflect Christ in all things. But all of these grand questions are secondary to what should always be my main concern: living with God in the present moment, trusting His Spirit to do the work in me that He purposes to do. 

Ezekiel 3:10-11 says "Son of man, let all my words sink deep into your own heart first. Listen to them carefully for yourself. Then go to your people in exile and say to them, 'This is what the Sovereign Lord says!'"

I am not God. It's not my job to judge rightly, to determine the state of every person's heart, to understand the precise workings of grace, sanctification, and judgement in everyone's life. It is incumbent upon me to trust the Holy Spirit to lead me well, to learn and accept the truth of God's word, to love correction, and lastly (and least importantly) to help others learn to recognize the truth when they see it. 

God help me, I'd never presume to teach where I have no knowledge and no Spiritual insight, but I believe God gives us truth when we need it, and desires for us to live it out boldly. 

If there's anything I know, it's that whatever I know, I know it because God has given me to know it. Life, wisdom, and discipleship may seem at times to be a tightrope walk between confidence and humility--but my confidence, my faith, is in God's leading, not my ability to follow. I know He is faithful to guide me, and I must be faithful in my humble desire for His guidance. Every word He gives me is like a precious seed that grows in His sunlight when planted. 

In this way life becomes simple: as each moment arrives, I am to humbly follow, and do the right thing on God's authority, not my own. 

I'm tired of expecting the worst from people

I've always been a fighter. Ever since elementary school, I considered it my duty to stick up for kids who got picked on, and to admonish my own friends to become better people. For some reason, the radio antenna of my heart has always been tuned in to truth and justice (with a brief exception in middle school, when I thought it would be cool to be cool). 

This is not a self-brag. I honestly can claim no credit for that goodness-loving quality, though I suspect my parents are to blame, and certainly God had a hand in it. 

Along with this passion in me came a big mouth, which I spent many long years learning how to master. And oddly enough, coexistent in me was a desire to keep others happy and avoid conflict. When I think about it, it does not make any sense, but here I still am, so I suppose I must be real. 

I think this conflict-averse tendency is born out of a real love for people--but also, there's a big fear component to it. In my quiet narcissism I fear that I am the only sane person left on earth, and that there's no point in reaching out for common ground in a world of monsters. 

After high school, my conflict aversion led me to avoid knowing too much about worldly matters. It was impossible for me not to have an opinion at every opportunity, so I didn't even read the news in college, because I didn't want to be angry all the time and I didn't want to fight with people I loved. And I fully expected to be angry all the time once I got back on Twitter a few months ago, angry and tired because no one is reasonable and I am alone in the universe. 

How selfish is that? 

I would rather hide than take the light I've been given into what can be the darkest of places--the scrambling crowd of social media. I'd rather sit in the shadowed corner, thinking my own thoughts, avoiding the discomfort of being heard--or worse yet, that of hearing some truth I've been ignoring, clear enough that I can no longer run from it. I'd rather assume, in judgmental cynicism, that no one else feels as I do, and that everyone who thinks differently than I must want me dead. 

But you know what, that cynicism still made me tired. Tired of expecting the worst from people, and suppressing the best in myself. 

Life and truth and conversation are indeed burdens, as Jesus said they would be. We are burdened with the responsibility, in this age of social media, of having more information available to us than any other generation of people ever living. Burdened we are, yet what a beautiful gift we've been given.

It is a gift, whether we see it as one or not. At this moment we have the ability to connect with people we may never meet in person, but with whom we share many unexpected things. We have the chance to learn so much, and grow so much, if only we don't shy away from the challenge. And most exciting, we have been given a voice to spread the Gospel to the ends of the earth, to any who will hear and believe. And they will. 

I don't believe we are meant to neglect this opportunity.

I believe we are meant to take it and run--to run toward truth, and take as many people with us as we can. To invite our fellow humans, fearful and cowardly though we are, to leap boldly into the fray with us, as we stand up shakily and try to be better than that which we hate. To hold ourselves, and each other--even the ones who should be our enemies--to a higher standard. To encourage each other to try again when we inevitably fail to meet it. 

To say boldly to those who don't yet know the truth, and may even be hostile to it: you are worth this conflict. 

Because in the end, if our cause is God's, our fight is for them too. 

The end of the world

I never saw the movie 2012. But maybe I took the trailers a little too seriously...

Noah's Neighbor

I seem to have developed a phobia
of rainstorms.
Kind of like the Benjamin Button’s disease 
of childish fears,
which somehow skipped me over
in the blur of primary colors
and rational tick- and murderer-phobias
that was gradeschool
and landed instead on the adult me,
burrowing into my meticulously tick-free head

There is no repellent for rainstorms.

Not even that nursery rhyme,

the one we learned to play on recorders in music class,

has any real magical influence

over such things as thunder clouds.

Adult me knows this

and it no longer helps to pretend

so I’m stuck in the real world

where rain is sometimes so real

it even trickles down into the basement

so real it doesn’t feel like pretending 

to imagine a pool rising around my ankles

as the wind tears the flesh from my house’s bones,

peels off the roof like an orange rind.

Would the cats survive,

riding, perhaps, on a buoyant mattress

to find a new home downriver

like fluffy waterlogged hobos?

Would my family be among the lucky ones

who got out

before our yard became a lakebed?

Would I live on

to rebuild my library

from scratch

What I've learned about my son

I keep waking up feeling like my brain has been left on all night.

A lot of people will say that as a new mom, my increased concern for the state of the world was pretty predictable. Thinking about the world your children will inherit and all that.

That may be true. I've found myself shot through with reckless bravery in some ways lately, the result of looking outside my living room bubble and constantly asking, "what am I supposed to do with these moments?" I don't want to live in a world where hope hides itself and the people of God are resigned to mediocrity. I want my son to live under the power of God, bold and steadfast. Maybe motherhood has actually shifted that into clearer focus for me.

There are a lot of things I've been told about motherhood that haven't fit my experience--like the horror stories of sleep deprivation and utter exhaustion--and some that have been spot on accurate. 

Like how normal it feels. Pregnancy and childbirth are two of the weirdest things we think are normal as humans. Those nine months carrying my little guy around inside me feel almost like a dream now, but the transition from having a preborn baby incubating in my womb to holding my newborn was like stepping through a tiny waterfall. The experience of giving birth was the event. Everything after that just makes sense in the most bizarre way. 

We stepped through the waterfall and now we're on the other side of it. Nothing else could possibly be true.

And so here we are. About five months of life this side of the womb, and Salem is almost unrecognizable--but somehow there's a glimmer inside of the same something that was there from the beginning. His soul is like a marble I found in the dirt behind my house, and time is slowly washing off the dust so I can begin to make out all the tiny details inside the glass. 

Just like I know that marble is the same one that I picked up outside, I know my son is the same little boy who inhabited the space below my ribs for the better part of a year. Only now I'm getting a clearer picture of who he is than I did from the fuzzy black-and-white sonogram screen. 

He emerges more and more each day. Eyes that were once deep blue, like the waters of Lake Superior, sparkle now with ripples of hazel. The smile that once crept across his face unknowingly as he dreamed now comes into the light when he sees the faces of people he loves. Tiny hands that used to flail like two confused birds now reach out for new adventures, like the soft fur of a curled-up cat, or the shiny rim of my glasses, or the clickety-clacking joysticks of my husband's Gamecube controller. 

The boy is curious and critical. He's generous with his smile, eager in laughter, always searching and studying and sucking his thumb, reminding me of photos of his dad. He bounces back from tears easily, as if he'd rather be happy than anything else. Like me, he always seems to have something to say.

As I watch him grow, Salem is experiencing everything for the first time. In a way I am too. 

"Babies really are amazing creatures. You can learn all there is to know about their ways in two weeks, and then after another week, they can still surprise you." -adapted from Gandalf

Conflicting ideologies: Individualism vs. Collectivism

Listen. I love freedom. 

I love liberty. I love America and its hard-working values, and it gives me no pause to call myself a patriot.

Lately I've been feeling frustrated with those who seem to hate what I love about America, especially my fellow Christians. But God has been moving me toward a place of more understanding, where I can see the faults that exist in my own thinking, the dangers that lurk in being too black-and-white. 

I am naturally inclined more toward individualism than collectivism. I love living in a society when individuals are held accountable, where anyone can overcome their circumstances if they take hold of their lives with discipline and determination. But I recognize that this tendency in me can lead me down the wrong path if I let it, and there are valuable aspects of collectivism as well.

I believe that the good Christian will be able to see the nuance in this and let himself move closer to the middle ground. When looking at Jesus' example, it's beautiful how he approaches each person with respect and gives everyone dignity. It's inspiring that Jesus chooses not to view humanity based on their common faults, but loves and knows each of us completely and uniquely. And Jesus' compassion for the least of these, his commandment of dying to self and reconciling to our fellow man, should be of equal value to us. Our individual experience and our natural connectedness with other people need to exist in this tense middle ground if we are to be more like Jesus. 

Unchecked individualism breeds egotism and legalism. If I focus only on my individual experiences, needs, and desires, I will become the center of my own universe. I will become callous toward the suffering and the needs of others. I won't care how my actions affect other people, and I will validate my perspective at the expense of others. If I refuse to see how someone's circumstances impact their actions and choices, thinking only of their individual agency, I will have no compassion for those trapped in vicious cycles. I will be reluctant to forgive and quick to condemn.

Un-moderated collectivism breeds cynicism and moral relativism. If I validate everyone else's experience to the point that I see all perspectives as relatively true, and begin to assimilate all experiences into myself, I will become lost in a sea of contradictions. I won't be able to find a firm truth to stand on. If I harbor generalizations about groups of people, I will become quick to judge based on appearances, and ready to ascribe negative qualities to individuals that make up those groups, without even knowing them. When I don't see the trees for the forest, I will place more value on the good of the many at the expense of the outliers and the most vulnerable. I will align myself with corrupt systems, if it seems that by doing so I can achieve the common good.

Jesus cares for his flock, but he also cares for the individual sheep that make up that flock. When one sheep goes astray, what does Jesus do? He leaves the flock to seek out the one that is lost. If Jesus followed collectivism to the letter, he wouldn't be concerned about the one lost sheep out of 100. He would look at the remainder of his flock and say, 99%? That's pretty alright.

Conversely, Jesus shepherds the flock as a whole and desires for us to have unity within it. If he spent no time gathering his flock in the first place, there would be no community for his sheep. There would be no safety and security, no comfort in companionship and mutual encouragement. If Jesus was a die-hard individualist, he would leave the one sheep to wander alone, thinking hey, that sheep made its choice. 

The good in collectivism considers the impact of one's actions and recognizes the shared experiences of all human beings. The good in collectivism is able to connect the seemingly unconnected and have compassion on those whose lives are different from one's own. The good in collectivism desires unity and peace, knowing that in Christ our differences can work together for His glory. 

The good in individualism encourages self-examination and self-control. The good in individualism gives agency to all people, and approaches each unique person with hope, without prejudice or bitterness. The good in individualism detaches itself from worldly systems and seeks God's solutions. The good in individualism gives people the benefit of the doubt and forgives easily, knowing that each of us is an individual created and loved by God. 

Our lives as Christians need to incorporate all of these good things, joyfully embodying this tension--the tension between self and others, between rationality and compassion. That tension is where God lives, binding everything together in His paradoxical love and justice. 

I will always prize my freedom, which is why I'm so happy to live here in America, where so many people have dedicated their lives to protecting the individual rights and dignity of each person. Anything other than this would, I believe, be wrong. In a society where every individual is seen as just that, we have more practical freedom to do good for others, more freedom, even, to choose to express the good qualities of collectivism--and that is something I will never vote to give up. 

And yet, if I am to be more like Christ, I must be willing to see outside myself and value His cause above my own. Though liberty is a beautiful gift, the gift of eternal life is more beautiful. Though my freedom to carve out my own path is a miraculous opportunity, the God-given ability to deny myself for the sake of others is more miraculous. Though peace with my fellow man is sweet, nothing is sweeter than the otherworldly truth God speaks to me. 

And when it comes to it, I must choose to die for this truth, literally and figuratively. For without this truth there would be nothing good to save.

Vladimir Lenin had questions too

Pondering today, as I have been all week, what happens when we turn away from our Source to seek answers.

A question is posed

What can I write
in a world gone mad?

The thing is to shout,
to be heard
above the roar of them shouting,

shouting anger,
shouting the lies they've come to love
again 
and again

now here, now there,
now left, now right
now asking and answering
now half-hearted listening--
does anyone want to listen?

What is to be done?
Lenin asked the world
and the world answered, fight.
But fight for what?
The clouds didn't answer.
Maybe the earth would.

The earth seemed to say,
Dig.
Dig.
Dig and make new.
So they ploughed the earth and they made it rough,
they planted in it the tears of their fight,
they hoped, in the planting, to uproot the weeds.

But the new plants that grew were stronger than weeds,
stalks thick and bristles clinging,
not soft like the seeds
dropped with heartache in the dirt,
and no one knew what to do then.
What could be done?

Nothing but to finish what they'd started.
The tears had been planted,
the ground overturned,
the questions answered 
with grim finality.

The days marched on
and the frost sank down
and the weeds broke the earth
until one day the world was full of ghosts,

their bones become seeds, 
their memory
the whisper of failure--

all somehow telling the same story
that the world has gone mad

and we can't make it right.

Things adults wonder about

If you've ever found a balloon with a message tied to it in your front yard, it might've been from my siblings and me. 

What happened to all those balloons we set free?

Balloons were a thing of childhood.
A treat from the dentist,
restitution for an hour of torment.
A stretchy-soft trophy,
tied with a ribbon on its rubbery stub tail
that squeaked when you caught it
between your freshly cleaned teeth.
It made you forget the taste of fluoride,
made your wrist feel floaty and free

It was tradition to let them go
before they turned to ethereal raisins, tied to our bedposts,
drooping sadly in the horizontal light of the morning

We'd scavenge a slip of paper
and etch a few words--
just a few, lest they add too much weight.
We'd roll them tightly so they couldn't escape
on the way to their accidental recipients.

Standing in the driveway we'd send the balloon messengers off,
watching them take to the clouds like buoys
and with them our imaginations.

Shut up and speak

"You don't always have to say everything that's true, but you do have to say the truth whenever you speak."

A friend said this to me this week and I felt at once convicted and encouraged.

Most of my life I've struggled to know when it's best to hold my tongue. I love the truth, I love justice, and I love Jesus. I want others to hear the truth that God has given me. But I haven't always been discerning in when or how to share it--and at times I've been prideful, seeking to make myself look smart at the expense of others. I admit that I have somewhat of an addiction to being right.

This has led me to believe that in many cases, it's better for me to stay silent and listen rather than speak out of a desire to convince others (doing this habitually is a challenge, and I'm very grateful to those who have put up with me while I'm learning). Knowing the truth and knowing when it needs to be spoken are two distinct things.

But recently, things have felt more complex and harder to ignore than I would like them to. I've been pulled in multiple directions, eager to put my neck on the line and damn the consequences, but convicted not to always just follow my instincts. No doubt this is partly due to my recent re-entry into the Twitter community, but I also think the Holy Spirit is to blame. Somehow I've found myself reading the books of Ezekiel, Hosea, and Isaiah all at the same time over the past months, and I do not think that's an accident. God is telling me something, something about Himself and what His vision is for my life. 

These three great prophets were proclaimers of truth. They embraced the pain of alienation from the world. God encouraged them to speak boldly and fearlessly and recklessly--but He also commanded them to wait for His signal. In Ezekiel 3, God tells Ezekiel that he will be unable to speak until God loosens his tongue to proclaim the message he's been given. Ezekiel--a fiery and, it would seem, hot-headed individual, much like myself--has no choice but to surrender to God's authority and timing. He literally can't speak unless the words he's speaking are from God.

Lately I've been anxious to speak. Anxious because the world is so desperate for truth, and because so many of us seem resigned to silence. Resigned to letting lies wash over us. Resigned to resignation.

The common refrain of Christians goes, "it's not worth it."

Not worth it to risk a fight, to alienate friends or coworkers, not worth it to get canceled or censured or silenced. So we silence ourselves, as if that's any better than someone else doing it to us. 

If you're a Christian, wondering how to make a difference in this divided world, I just want to encourage you: you don't always have to keep quiet. Shutting up has its place, but when we start shutting up to keep ourselves or others comfortable, we've left the territory of righteousness and entered the realm of cowardice.

I certainly agree, up to a certain point, that if what you have to say is motivated by pride or selfish anger or vengeance or spite or a need for attention, it isn't worth it. God calls us to self-examination and restraint more often than he calls us to battle--just look at Ezekiel. But if what you have to say is simply the truth, and someone needs to hear it, it's more than worth it. It's worth the conflict. It's even worth alienating friends. Because when a person feels assaulted by the truth, it is not the speaker's fault. And sometimes friends, neighbors, even strangers, need us to speak the uncomfortable truths they may not want to hear.

Knowing when to do this is tricky, and none of us will ever be perfect at it. You have to be steeped in God's word, drowned in prayer. You have to be attuned to His voice so that you can learn to distinguish between the words of God and the words of your own selfish heart. Before you endeavor to teach anyone, you must submit to being taught yourself.

And when the Spirit moves you, speak--and when you speak, be ready for what you say to spark a response. Be eager to engage, to listen, to respond to conviction. Be slow to rebuke, but courageous to do the will of God. Be driven by passion and tempered by grace. Be firm and fair and forgiving. 

These are God's words for you and me, right now, in every space we enter, digital or otherwise. If you're listening to God, He will often shut your mouth for you, like He did for Ezekiel. But when you do speak, your words will be all the more powerful for being spoken on God's authority. 

Say hello to my new car

That's right, I've acquired a new ride. A Honda CR-V from a bygone age (2000).

His name is Han "Storm Trooper" Solo, and we're already the best of chums.

You know that feeling when a car just seems to get you? When you look at a car and you just go, "Yes. This is a car I want to hang out with. This is the car."

That's the feeling I have about this new car. A feeling of rightness. A kind of kinship, like there's a piece of my soul shaped like this car--the piece that always wanted a Jeep Wrangler growing up. The piece that wakes up in the morning thinking "let's rearrange all the furniture." The piece that rolls down the windows on the way to the grocery store and wonders what challenges she'll rise to today.

That was how I felt about my first car, Sunny. 

Sunny was a banged up Pontiac Vibe with a sunroof and a 6-CD changer and a manual transmission and white hatchback spray-painted red (the paint eventually started to flake off like dried blood every time I closed the hatch). Sunny's muffler was no match for the Toyota engine that resided within his petite frame--that engine packed a punch, and one of my favorite things to do was to accelerate super fast so that when I shifted gears I felt it resonate in my bones. It made my unsuspecting friends nervous. They thought I was a bad driver, but I just loved the feeling of freedom. 

We had a bond, Sunny and I. The kind of bond that transcended boundaries, that endured even when the A/C went out one summer and I had to roll down all the windows on the way to work just to stay alive. Every time I see a Pontiac Vibe on the road I feel a pang for the first car that was my friend.

Between Sunny and Han, that sense of rightness seemed to wane. Two different cars came into my life in the interlude, my dad's old black Nissan Versa (nicknamed Sirius Black) and, after that car was totaled in an accident, the red Dodge Caliber (Cherry) I replaced it with. 

The summer after I graduated from college, the summer before I got married, I'd decided it was time to let Sunny go. So my dad traded him in to a car dealership for a new Honda and sold me his Versa. Sirius and I had a cordial relationship, helped by the fact that he was also a stick shift. He was a good car (probably the nicest one I've ever had, if we're being objective), but he was never my car. I figured he had at least a good ten years left in him. 

God, it seems, had other plans for Sirius. So it was that in October of 2019, I ended up with Cherry.

There were many things about my relationship with Cherry that were not ideal. First of all, I only got her as a replacement for Sirius after a slightly traumatic accident (no one was hurt, besides Sirius), so the subconscious residue of that stress came back every time I drove her anywhere. Secondly, there were a ton of little aggravating things wrong with her, and since I don't know anything about cars, I always felt incredibly reluctant to trust her. I almost feel bad for saying it, but I experienced no feelings except relief when I sold Cherry last week for a third of what I paid for her.

(No offense, Cherry--it wasn't your fault I hated you. May you find a better home.)

Since acquiring Cherry I'd been dreaming of a different car. I missed Sunny. I missed having fun driving. I missed feeling safe in my car, like I could trust it to have my back in a fight. After a long time praying and fretting about this, I recently decided to give it up to God and make do with my least favorite car ever, trying to simply be content that I had a car at all. And not only did I start to feel more grateful and less resentful, but God surprised me with a totally un-looked-for blessing in a new-old car. God's so good to me, and so patient with my pettiness. 

My new car once belonged to a friend from church, so I have it straight from a person I trust that he's a reliable mode of transport. Not only that, but they decided to sell him the week after I filed our tax return--perfect timing. Since Han is 21 years old, he looks like a watered-down version of a Jeep Wrangler, my childhood dream--but he's a CR-V, which I consider the ultimate ride of a cool mom. 

The turn signal clicks satisfyingly in the way that the ones in new cars don't. Looking out the windshield is like standing next to a giant aquarium. He's the car that makes me almost wish I had to drive to work every day. 

Han came along suddenly and unexpectedly, but at exactly the right time, with that trademark sense of it's-all-coming-together-ness that accompanies anything God has a hand in. It may seem a little sentimental, but when you believe there are no such things as coincidences, it's hard to be anything but. 

Is spring a fancy or a feeling?

It's that time of year again. Springtime, or at least technically near-springtime. 

People keep saying that in Nebraska we always have a "false spring" where the weather gets warm for a week or two, before returning to frigid icy Narnia-ness. In a way, I suppose they're right. The weather here does tend to be unpredictable. 

But also, doesn't the fact that we expect that make it just a little bit predictable? Calling it a "false spring" when this is what happens in the spring every year just kind of means it's spring, but not the way you want it. If spring is sometimes cold and sometimes warm, it doesn't stop being spring just because you don't want to have to wear a jacket, any more than a Chinese buffet stops being a Chinese buffet because they aren't serving crab legs. 

"False" or no, right now it's spring to me. I can tell because I've once again begun to feel the wistfulness stir in my soul. 

That spring thing

Spring is a long stretch. 

It's waking up and hitting the snooze once 

or twice.

It's a breath of change, of hope, of forward-ness. 

It's looking out the library window when you should be writing. 

It's running to your car in the rain, 

forgetting your umbrella. 

It's discomfort and daydreams and 

don't-

give-

ups.  

It's warmth on your face,

and a chill breeze to wake your heart.

It's mud, pine needles, bike tracks through a puddle. 

It's the world 

crying with you.

It's a bone-popping metamorphosis. 

Spring is all-enduring love, the essence of Easter. 

Evil is unnecessary

 

"If you had never tasted a bad apple, you wouldn’t know how to appreciate a good apple.”

The one-second-every-day app sent me this little inspirational nonsense as a notification and I have to say, I think it is actual bull crap.

I haven’t always thought that. I used to be more tragic-romantic in my assessment of the world. But I have experienced many things both good and bad in my life, and at this point it seems like a fallacy that we need bad things in order to appreciate good things.

Certainly, those of us who have experienced near-starvation might appreciate a hefty sandwich in a different way than a person who’s been well-fed their whole life. But let’s not leave all the deep enjoyment of that excellent sandwich to the person who’s suffered more (I think that would technically amount to discrimination and we don’t want anyone here getting canceled). It doesn’t take suffering to appreciate good things.

Of course, if by “appreciate” you mean “existentially contemplate and reflexively dread-grasp good things so tightly it actually prevents you from enjoying them,” then sure, we probably wouldn’t be able to do that without experiencing some bad things. But that is an unhealthy response, and actually a pretty sneaky way of evil still making us suffer, even while not suffering. If all I can do while I’m eating a good, crisp, sunshiny apple is think about that one time when I bit into a putrid one, I am not properly and fully enjoying the experience like I should.

To appreciate the good in my life, I only need to recognize where it came from. I’ve never eaten a bad apple. I have enjoyed many a good one. And when I enjoy a good apple it is a pure enjoyment. My mind doesn’t have to do backflips in order to convince me that the apple is good. It’s just what it is: a good and pleasant and simple thing. On a deeper level I believe that apple, like all wonderful things in all their pure goodness, is a blessing from God.

I won’t go so far as to say that suffering can’t be redeemed in this world. We can learn plenty about life, love, God, and cooking by making mistakes or going through hardship. It can give us perspective and empathy for others. But the suffering itself is not the agent of good–rather, it’s the work of good to counteract suffering that produces beauty from a bad situation.

I can say all this with confidence because I am prone to overthinking and mulling and brooding (and apparently, over-synonymizing). I am prone, when I look at my cats or my sleeping infant, to think of them getting hurt or dying. And it does my brain no good to contemplate evil while something good is right in front of me. So this reminder is for me as much as anyone else:

Le’ts not elevate suffering and evil to this heroic level, like good couldn’t exist without it. Good can ONLY exist in the absence or defeat of evil. Can evil exist without good to corrupt? No. Evil is good’s boring and greedy brother-in-law. It has no originality. All it can do is steal. Good, by contrast, creates from scratch–from before scratch. Don’t give evil the credit for being the next Tchaikovsky when really it’s just a mean-spirited John Cage knocking brooms over in the corner.*

I can only know bad by measuring it against good. Good defines itself, and thereby it is the standard by which we can recognize evil. Not the other way around. If we get that confused, we’re bound to live life focusing on all the wrong things.

*John Cage, for those who aren’t aware, was a 20th century composer (using that term loosely) who once got mad that he was terrible at being a music student, so he left college and made a name for himself by doing things like sitting on stage for four minutes silently or filling a piano with rubber erasers and calling it music.