Remain in me, and I will remain in you. A branch can’t produce fruit by itself, but must remain in the vine. Likewise, you can’t produce fruit unless you remain in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, then you will produce much fruit. Without me, you can’t do anything. […] “As the Father loved me, I too have loved you. Remain in my love. —John 15:4-5, 9 CEB
Simple small voices call us to stay.
When my daughter goes down for her nap, she generally has this moment when she seems asleep and yet she isn’t quite under enough to keep her from wanting me not to leave. I’ll back up, disengaging her latch, and she will whimper and root back onto my breast, not yet ready to give up this form of comfort.
She’s still growing, still used to resting in my arms, and she is definitely ready to let me know if I have backed away too soon.
She remains in my love, even when she finally sinks deep enough into sleep for me to slip away as she hugs Peter Jiwe, her bear that I kept for myself for similar comfort over ten years ago.
I’ve been married long enough to have an argument or seven, and last night I was in a funk and so everything my husband did was wrong. He just couldn’t get it right. We argued over the closets… It was not one of my finest moments. I realized, after a while, that I was hearing with the wrong ears, and he needed a little more grace. I apologized, though I did let him know that he shouldn’t try to discuss anything else with me, mostly because I was not ready to listen.
I think I was tired, or exhausted, or touched out, or weary, or all of it.
(But this is not one of those mommy blogger moments in which the evangelical christian holy woman tells you to be a submissive proverbs 31 wife. No. I just realized I had angry ears on. He’s been wrong before and deserved it. In love.)
I know I disagree with you over something. We’ve got heads. We’ve got to have something that we don’t fully agree about. But I need to be in relationship with you. I need you to stick around and love me when I’m hard to love. I’m willing to do the same.
I want to bear the fruit of a beloved community with you, wherever you are. We can do this, no matter what comes next week, next month, or next year. Or the next four years. Or the next ten. I’m committed to sticking it out, loving through it, staying even though it is difficult.
Simple small voices call us to stay.
Today we begin Black History Month, the time when white people spend a month attempting to show how much they have learned since slavery. Or how much more enlightened we are.
As we begin Black History month now with our first Black president in the history books, I wonder what we need to focus on. What do we need to remember, now and this whole year?
And it’s the shortest, coldest month of the year. Black History month should be July, so that we are constantly reminded that our liberation is caught up and dependent on the liberation of everyone who lives in our nation.
Leslie Jones did a bit on SNL Weekend Update a couple weeks ago that geared us up for beginning our journey through this month. There is so much we do not know. We still have so much to learn. We’ve got to look with better eyes than the ones we’re using now.
As a white woman, I need to listen more than speak. And I need to expand the group that I listen to. I’m working on it. I’m working on breaking the chains I have been living between, where I stand in the middle of an echo chamber, where everyone is angry about all the same things I am angry about.
I’m trying to understand what other people are angry about and why.
I find it too easy to go get angry about something that sounds good, and then not do a thing about it. And then I am also finding it too easy to get so angry about so many things that I am stunned into nothingness. It’s a common theme since the beginning of the year.
What chains need breaking today? What can I do to break a link in this moment?
I want them all smashed, but for now, I’ll work on this link right in front of me, and move on to the next and the next when I can.
Realizing that I am caught up in the anger of the moment, I am determined to share love instead. Who needs a note? I’m saying: “Keep up the good, hard work. We are glad you are here.”
As we work towards justice, we would do well to be reminded of the work that those who were enslaved enacted on their journey towards liberation. Maybe the timing is perfect. When the night is darkest, the smallest glimmer of light can be seen for miles.
I’ve found myself wondering if this is how families felt right before the beginning of our national civil war. Division seems to be inescapable.
I’m waiting for our nation to be the subject of mass sanctions that cut off our supply of cheap clothing (made under unjust systems) and so the government tries to sell us all on thrift shopping, even to the point of stealing the use of Macklemore’s Thrift Shop as propaganda to encourage us to go.
We have gotten to the point that when I wear a pink hat with cat ears, I feel rebellious, and just a little unsafe. Will someone run me and my daughter off the road if I wear it on my walk? How can it be that I feel like I am challenging a community with a pink hat?
For the last three months I’ve woken up wondering what bad news will meet me in the morning, and over the past week, it seems as if our greatest fears have been confirmed.
But see. That’s the crux of it. We are in this current situation because of the mass proliferation of fear. As a nation, we were told we should be afraid, and so using the structure of the current electoral system, this nation elected someone who told us we should be afraid and that he had the answer for our fears.
I’ll give him one thing: he tapped into something and was very persuasive about it.
Because the world does look different. Power is shifting. Freedom is spreading.
But let us not think that freedom is spreading thin. Freedom is not a limited resource. At least, it doesn’t have to be. It is not as if we are spreading freedom thinner and thinner as butter on a piece of bread.
Freedom is the bread itself, rising with the yeast inside it, growing and doubling and tripling in size.
I’ve not talked with enough people in person who do not agree with me. I’ve seen the angry fights on social media, where we are too easily drawn into conclusions without lending dignity to the other.
I want to scream and shout, but shouting is not how to understand someone else.
More people who have done more work with freedom have written better things about liberation than I can. But I wonder if they are hard to hear. I wonder if my words will have a difference when we have been told that the truth and facts are up for debate.
You know, I suppose even I voted based on my fears. I don’t really think I’d considered it before. I knew why the election went the way it did, and I knew that I had a pit in my stomach that only has grown since November 9th, but I never really thought I was voting based on fear.
I woke up that morning with the realization that the nation was not the nation I thought it was. I wonder how many had woken up in the years leading up to November 8th thinking the same thing.
I grieve that we were unable to communicate that freedom does not have to be limited. That freedom is not a resource to be used up, rather it is something that becomes more powerful the more that it expands.
Freedom doesn’t get used up.
We’ve been lied to. Diversity strengthens freedom.
If you are afraid, whether it is because your memories of your childhood are different than what you see today, or because you know that this administration will work to limit your freedom, then know that I am praying for you. I truly am.
And yeah, I don’t want to Jesus Juke this post, but for me, a lot of this is about prayer, and where I need to be praying and marching and standing as we see changes come. I’ve written here about freedom in this nation, but my sole allegiance is to Christ. In the coming months, we are going to see many different people use their faith to say a host of different things that will undoubtedly conflict. We do an incredible job at making our Savior agree exactly with us. That’s called sin. Our goal should be the opposite.
I’m looking for ways that God challenges me and convicts me and creates new spaces in my heart. It can be too easy to pick my favorite bible passage and just use it for the next four years. God’s freedom calls me to something better than that.
God’s freedom invites me to extend welcome and hospitality to people who don’t agree with me, don’t look like me, don’t talk like me, and don’t have the same privilege as me. As a Christian who lives in the United States of America, I’m called to work to extend this radical kind of freedom to everyone, regardless of whether they were born here or believe in the same God as I do.
I have hope that we can be better together. I’m holding on to that hope.
On Saturday, my family participated in the largest protest in United States history. Joining with over half a million people, (some estimates put us at a million) we flooded the metro system of Washington DC and the world, with at least three million, possibly five million people protesting globally to protect the rights and concerns of women and all who are vulnerable under our current administration.
I took my daughter, who at a year and a half has participated in five different protests, because it is her future that we are creating right now. We streamed into the metro system, and were on the train so long that I needed to feed my daughter. At one moment I had her bottom balanced on the grip of the stroller, as the train stopped and started, while she was latched onto my breast and her legs were looped over my arm as I held onto the handle bar for stability. Generously, one of the women who was sitting close to me offered us her seat so that I didn’t have to balance while breastfeeding.
After spending four hours in the metro system we finally made it onto the street and by chance ran into the friends we had hoped to meet up with. A mom had made us all pussyhats, even one for our daughter, and we wore them proudly. We tried to hear the speakers, but the crush of people was too dense, so the people around us chanted on our own, crying out: “This is what Democracy looks like!” My favorite exchange was all the women shouting “My body, my choice!” followed with the men shouting “Her body, her choice!”
Word eventually got to our part of the crowd that the march could not move because the march route was full of people. We spontaneously filled up the National Mall and marched in front of the White House in an effort to call attention to the fact that women’s rights are human rights.
Gathering together across all seven continents, in over six hundred cities around the world including Iraq, Qatar, Lebanon, and Saudi Arabia, we joined together to call for Health, Economic Security, Representation, and Safety (HERS).
It was not perfect. There were many more white women who presented in gender conforming ways than anyone else that I saw, though I do admit that I was pushing year and a half year old in a stroller through at least half a million people. I did see at least four generations. I saw black and white and hispanic standing together. I saw women wearing the hijab. I saw many signs saying “The Future is Female.”
I didn’t hear any of the speakers, but I did see a young person holding a sign that they had made, “be nice” and “be respectful.”
I marched for my daughter who will be learning right and wrong in a world where
lies are called “alternative facts.”
I marched for Raquel who was my roommate in college after her first roommate called her “the girl with the green card.”
I marched for my friends Kate and Kathryn that their marriage may still be legal.
I marched for Maureen who I befriended while I was serving as a volunteer through the United States Peace Corps in Kenya, who is a nurse now raising her daughter alone.
I marched for Maureen’s daughter, that she will not be a victim of Female Genital Mutilation, because even though the Masaai women started “only drawing blood, not cutting entirely” the practice is still horrendous.
I marched for Amanda, who has been working at Wal-Mart for fifteen years and still makes less than fifteen dollars an hour.
I marched for the men who are told that they cannot show emotion or will be called less than whole.
I marched for women who only make seventy percent of what men make.
I marched for black bodies who are killed and feared for existing.
I marched for Syrian refugees who have no home to return to.
I marched for people who will die because they will lose health insurance.
I marched because bridges are better than walls.
I marched for you, even if you don’t think you need it.
I marched because my privilege allowed me to do so, and I want to bend the world towards justice, one step at a time.
Photo Credit: Chuck Geary
My daughter has developed a game in which she flings her body back away from whomever is holding her, trusting that she will be continue to held when upside-down. She does this without warning and then repetitively. We hold her, and then flip her back up, she flips herself back down, and the process repeats until one of us gets tired. She trusts us to hold her up without fail. She trusts us to keep hold of her and support her and protect her from falling. Even when entirely off balance.
She trusts us.
We have earned her trust.
Since she was born, we have provided what she needs and responded to her as quickly as possible so that she could build her trust in us.
Children are fast learners. They know far more than we usually give them credit for. At only a year and a half old, my daughter can let us know what she does and doesn’t want for her body and for her comfort. She may not be able to use full sentences like we hope to teach her as she grows, but she can make her desires known, plainly and specifically. One of the ways that she continues to trust us is that we continue to respect her agency and keep her safe.
Sometimes she asks for things that are not good for her. She doesn’t get them. We don’t give into her every whim. Being consistent is harder than it seems from the outside. I know consistency will pay off in the long run, through the tantrums. It still makes it hard.
Being a good parent is critical to building trust. Sometimes my husband and I don’t get to do what we want to do because we need to be firm and consistent with our bourgeoning toddler.
I hope to look back on these years as a time of formation of a trust that is seated deep between us. Building trust now is laying a foundation for our mutual respect later. It is how we show love, beyond the kisses, hugs, and cuddles.
Our love is built on a foundation of trust that began with our love for our daughter. The two reinforce each other. Through a strong loving trust, we grow a strong trusting love where we fling ourselves into each others arms knowing that we will be supported and kept safe each and every time.