Love lives now

I originally shared these thoughts directly on Facebook. I have reposted them here without edit in case it is more helpful to anyone in this format. Here is the link that I refer to throughout: "Day 1 in Trump's America" it is also available at the bottom of this post.

This is a long post that is the result of a lot of thoughts and tears, I'd appreciate if you would read what I wrote and click on the link if you're able. 

***
The link at the bottom of this post and the post itself are full of triggers. If you are experiencing trauma in the aftermath of “Day 1” because you have already seen too much of this or experienced some of these things yourself or have family and friends that have (or really, whatever reason you might name) please know that I think you are strong and brave for setting boundaries by not clicking this link. Know that I am praying for you and our country as we seek justice and healing together. I would love to sit with you and hear from you if you would like for me to. 

***

As a straight, white, Christian woman who works from home and has not had to face any of these realities first hand (yet) I made myself read through all of the collection linked below because, right now, in this particular moment, this is how I can stand with people. 

I share this because these tweets and reports are examples of why I woke up sobbing at 6:00am Wednesday morning when I faced the official news that Donald Trump is our President Elect. 

It is not his actual presidency and whatever he may or may not be able to accomplish that are my highest concern as I begin to process and live this new reality. What overwhelms me with sadness and anger is this: our brothers and sisters who are made in the image of God and who live in this country are facing fear and hatred as they are in their homes, as they go to work, school, the doctor, the grocery store, and fill up their cars with gas. This is not a new fear or hatred that they are facing, but it is more violent, more prevalent, and (I assume) feels more inevitable. As a woman over the past months I have felt increasingly less safe in this country. But even with that said, I know that I am privileged and only barely understand the breadth of the fear and anger and overwhelming sadness that is gripping so many in America now. So that is why I read and listened to what is included in the link below and why I will keep carving out space to do so as more reports emerge, and as my friends feel safe to share with me. Because I need to hear them. I need to cry. I need to feel, as much as I can, what my neighbors are feeling. Because without that emotional connection, that empathy, I cannot be sure that my blood will boil enough to get me past my fears so that I can face attackers by walking up and standing with the woman in the hijab at the gas pump as they mock her and assault her. Without this empathy and righteous anger building within me, I cannot speak up without wavering when I hear someone say to a Mexican that they cannot wait for a wall to be built. I am afraid that I will be silent again as I have been too many times before. 

If you are a Christian, regardless of who you did or did not vote for, this is our task. This is our call - it has always been our call - as followers of Christ we, like Jesus, stand with the marginalized and attacked and oppressed. We say that our Father’s Kingdom is different and there is enough love flowing from it to touch and include even those who do not know Him personally. We love others because He first loved us. Followers of Christ, my prayer and hope and desperate longing is that we will be the church and welcome the hurting and the broken hearted. Put our arms around them in the gas station parking lot and absorb some of the insults and abuse. Let ourselves be present to this violent reality because only then can we begin to stand up to the injustice and hatred that is so prevalent. 

As I have prayed and processed over the past few days I have been comforted by our particular hope. It is this: 

Love has won. Love was betrayed by his friends. Love was nailed to the cross. Love was dead for three days. Love rose again and lives now. Love. Lives. Now. And Love reigns into an eternity where there is no more pain and suffering. But until that time is fully realized Love doesn’t shy away from standing in the way of stones, or touching those who the religious leaders deem unclean or unworthy. Love loves neighbors. 

The faces in the link below, they are our neighbors. Hear our neighbors' cries. See our neighbors’ wounds that need to be doctored. Offer our neighbors a safe place to rest so they can heal. Do not pass by on the other side of the road. 

Love has won. Not so that we can feel good, but so that we can extend our Love to others.

Friends, if you need to process and talk through what I have said or what you have seen in this link or whatever else may be going on in your heart and mind, send me a message or give me a call. I am praying for us all to experience the reconciliation, justice, and healing that only Christ can offer. 

And friends, if I have added to your pain through moments when I was silent, or didn't say enough, or was awkward, or I avoided an injustice that you face every day, know that I am sorry and I ask for your forgiveness. If you are ever ready or want to, I would be humbled if you would allow me to sit and hear from you. I am trying to love you better. 

There are many things we will face in the coming days, let's try to honestly and lovingly face them together. 

Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.

"Day 1 in Trump's America"

bridges

I will begin this post with a spoiler, a spoiler in the form of a quote from the last pages of the Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis. (I call it a spoiler because though The Chronicles of Narnia have been around for a LONG time I am just now reading them, and I haven’t quite finished the series yet so I’m sensitive to others who may be in the same boat.)

but anyways, here it is…the last moments Lucy and Edmund spend in Narnia.

“There is a way into my country from all the worlds,” said the Lamb; but as he spoke, his snowy white flushed into tawny gold and his size changed and he was Aslan himself, towering above them and scattering light from his mane.”

“Oh, Aslan,” said Lucy. “Will you tell us how to get into your country from our world?”

“I shall be telling you all the time,” said Aslan. “But I will not tell you how long or short the way will be; only that it lies across a river. But do not fear that, for I am the great Bridge Builder. And now come; I will open the door in the sky and send you to your own land.”

“Please, Aslan,” said Lucy. “Before we go, will you tell us when we can come back to Narnia again? Please. And oh, do, do, do make it soon.”

“Dearest,” said Aslan very gently, “you and your brother will never come back to Narnia.”

“Oh, Aslan!” said Edmund and Lucy both together in despairing voices.

“You are too old, children,” said Aslan, “and you must begin to come close to your own world now.”

“It isn’t Narnia, you know,” sobbed Lucy. “It’s you. We shan’t meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?”

“But you shall meet me, dear one,” said Aslan.

“Are – are you there too, Sir?” said Edmund.

“I am,” said Aslan. “But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.”

My time at Truett seminary came to a close last May. I grieved leaving its halls in Waco, Texas. I knew that when I returned it wouldn’t be the same. I wouldn’t belong like I once did. My time there is done. I can't really go back. That season is over. I cried when I read this exchange between Aslan and the Pevensie children because I can relate so deeply to their fear that they won’t see Aslan again. They think their journey with Aslan is over because they are leaving the land where they met him and where they understood themselves as truly loved and full of purpose for the first time. 

The Saturday after I graduated, after everyone who came to celebrate with me left town, I sobbed. Like Lucy I felt my story snap shut and I couldn’t see where there might be more pages.

It isn’t that I didn’t know that God would be present with me after seminary, it’s just that I didn’t understand how; I didn’t know where we would go next. In many ways I still don’t.

I never really knew for sure why I enrolled at Truett. I had some ambitions to be a missionary…and then a social worker…and then an Executive Director/founder of a non-profit…and then a lawyer…and then a pastor…and then…a writer? Each time my toes were on the edge of something new and I was ready to jump full force toward one of these professions I felt God gently (and sometimes rather abruptly) tug me back and say, “Just be present here. Here at Truett. Here at UBC. Here with these people. Here with me. Worry about the end goal later. Just trust, be present, wait, and see.”

It turns out that the only thing I know for sure about why I was at seminary in Waco is because God whispered to me something like what Aslan told Lucy and Edmund… “that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.”

And now I am “there”…sort of. I feel a little stuck in an in-between place. A space back in my parent’s house where most of my days are spent flying solo and trying to keep busy when I don’t really have much to do. A space of preparation for marriage and a move across country. A space where I am dreaming about digging deep into my community that I know is waiting in Charlottesville, Virginia but that I am afraid will take a long time to find and belong to.

I understood the rhythm of life with God and people in Waco, Texas. I don’t know that rhythm yet in Austin, and I certainly don’t know it in Charlottesville. It feels like there are many rivers to cross…not just one. A lot of practice and failure. A lot of humility. A lot of loneliness. A lot of purposelessness. A lot of searching for meaning and identity in my own efforts and coming up short. A lot of anxiety and taking out frustration on people I love. A lot of grace.

So many rivers and what they leave in their wake…and that feels daunting. But I don’t build the bridges. I can simply seek to walk with the Bridge Builder. And as I walk and move across rivers on these bridges my hope is that the ways that God met me during my time at seminary will spill out and help inform the rhythm of our life together today and all the tomorrows. My hope is that this will lead me to live in ways that are genuine and raw and are an offering of love for the world around me…

“You are too old, children,” said Aslan, “and you must begin to come close to your own world now.”

I have aged out of my last season, and in many ways it was a world apart from anything I’ve ever known and anything I will know again. And here I am in my “own world” and I’ll be honest I don’t really know what to do. I’m looking around and seeing the devastation of life in so many ways.  Through racism. Through sexism. Through fear. Through distrust. Through an inability to hold respect for those who believe differently. I see this devastation within myself as well. I am not innocent of this brokenness. I don’t exactly know what is mine to do. But there is a Bridge Builder. As I get to know my world, with the good and the broken and the blurry lines between, my hope is that the bridges and their Builder become increasingly known to me. May I learn to cross these bridges with a discernment and courage that can only come from their, and my, Builder.

I haven’t blogged in a long time. But the latest thing I have felt led to pursue is writing, so I’m going to practice that here. This post just sort of flowed out and I think it gives a good foundation for unpacking the season that I am in now. I’m excited to see what else spills out on the page. Join me if you’d like.

windsurfing

For a few years my parents and I made trips to different resort areas in Mexico. We spent a week at a time on the beach eating too much food, reading, drinking pina coladas and applying sunscreen. One summer my best friend Sophie got to go with us. That summer she and I learned to windsurf.

That was the only time I’ve windsurfed, but I’ve been reflecting on the experience this week.

Before you get in the water you have to spend some time on the beach. Windsurf boards are cumbersome. Their sails are heavy. Thankfully I was an athletic kid and had decent upper body strength from years of swinging a bat.

There I was standing on the beach. I stepped up onto my board. I leaned down and grabbed the rope between my feet and began lifting, hand over hand, until the sail was upright. Finally, I grabbed the handle parallel to the board.

Then I let go of the rope, the sail fell to the ground, and I started the process over again. And again.

Each time my feet moved from the sand to the fiberglass the instructor reminded me to find my balance - to aim for the center of the board and give myself a second to get planted before lifting.

Out into the surf.

I was waist deep in waves. The water was clear and I could see my toes. The board was in front of me. It was no longer just a step from the sand to a flat, stable surface. Now, I planted by hands like I would on the edge of a pool and pushed up. The board rocked from my momentum and the pressure of the waves. As smoothly as possible I threw my knees to the spot where I had practiced putting my feet when I was still on the shore. I missed. Waist deep in waves. Hands on the edge. Swift push, kneeling, then – drenched. Rinse and repeat. Eventually, I got it. Kneeling on the board I slowly got my feet under me. Crouched like a catcher I inched to a space of balance. Slowly, I stood. And waited. Every muscle in my body engaged trying to keep myself upright.

The trick is to not wait too long. The waves will take you down before you even touch the sail.

There’s all sorts of technique to lifting your sail when you’re out in the waves and wind. My two afternoons of windsurfing when I was thirteen leave me unqualified to advise you. All I can say for now is this: you don’t want your sail to catch the wind before you have the handle.

And also, it takes a lot of balance to stay on that board while pulling up a sail-full of water by a rope.

But.

If you can do it, and you catch the wind just right…it’s pretty cool.

You can’t control the waves, but you can learn their rhythm.

You can’t control the wind, but you can angle your sail to catch it.

Last Sunday at UBC Josh preached on the beauty of work as it was originally intended. This week I’ve been thinking about how we are invited, through our work, to co-create as we walk with Christ. Like my experience with windsurfing, I’ve only just skimmed the surface in my reflection and engagement with this way of life.

But I’ve had those moments when my knees and ankles knew just when to bend to absorb the shock of the wave and the wind caught the sail just right and I glided forward to spaces I couldn’t map or anticipate.

For me it can happen when writing a paper and the words come in ways I didn’t know they could. Or when I’m doing the dishes and a wave of unexpected understanding washes over me. Or when I jump in the car and arrive to be present in a moment of a friend’s pain with timing that is beyond me.

There is preparation and learning prior to these moments. There are deliberate choices. There are uncontrollable elements. We can totally miss all of it if we are wrapped up in the past or future – our thoughts swirling with worry.

But.

If we commit to seeking presence and we take note of the nudging of the wind and the rhythm of the waves,

there are moments that we sail. 

turkey day

Five weeks in India taught me presence. I’m thankful. Counseling taught me to breathe deeply. I’m thankful. My friends let me be myself. I’m thankful.

Seminary and multiple jobs can be an overload. You’ve read that here before, right? I Sabbath each week…but that’s a learning process and what I need in addition to Sabbath is a more frequent use of the words “no” and “I quit”. I’m thankful for the hours and hours and days and days of rest God granted me this summer in Waco. Rested is not something I have felt since then…at least not that I can remember.

What I have felt is present, thankful, and able to breathe.

Monday I went on a road trip. Brownwood, Texas. Home of Underwoods – hot rolls and cobbler. Also home of Howard Payne University which is where I actually spent the day. My good friend Katy and I drove, caught up on life deeply, recruited for Truett, sang songs, met new people, and just had an all around pleasant day.

I like west-ish Texas…it reminds me of family reunions and long car trips to and from Austin.

Monday night I attended a weekly ritual of homemade food and story sharing. We celebrated together over the story of the engagement between two of our friends and heard the highlights of a lifetime from another.

I’m thankful for Monday. I’m thankful for these relationships that deepen each day and week. I’m thankful for the opportunity to sit and hear how God is forming my friends and the ways they are forming others out of their love for God.

I need to say “no” more often.  But, sometimes I confuse what I should be saying no to.

I almost said no to Monday. No to the trip. No to dinner. No to story time. Papers and tests felt more pressing. More important. But they aren’t.

I’m thankful for these moments together with the friends I love because things are about to change. I suppose things are always about to change, but it feels more pressing right now.

God has overwhelmed me this week. I am overwhelmed with love and thankfulness that even if just for a season, this is my life. 

devil's snare

“God, I don’t trust you.”

That prayer banged around my head as I fell asleep Monday night. It bubbled up out of my heart. It was an honest confession I discovered through my attitude and actions over the preceding days.

It was a truth I didn’t want to hear. It was a truth that hurt to confess.

God asked me to wait for a couple of things. He promised it would be ok. It will work out. I just need to wait and be faithful to whatever he asks during this time.

But to be honest, my plans make more sense to me. My plans end with my pride intact. My plans come to fruition much quicker than God’s. My plans are under my control…and I like that. Control comforts me.

As Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone nears its climax Ron, Harry, and Hermione free fall into a black hole. Harry jumps first. The landing is soft. He calls the other two to follow. Ron jumps next. He and Harry banter about how lucky it is that someone provided a plant to break their fall. By the time Hermione lands next to them the tendrils of Devil’s Snare are securely wrapped around their legs. They don’t even notice until Hermione points their situation out as she herself struggles to safety. She racks her brain to remember anything she can about this plant. It likes the cold and the damp. Harry suggests fire to drive it away.

My anger was a soft place to land. It felt good to be mad at situations. It felt good to vent about things hurting me. It felt good to hear friends comfort me and validate my hurt.

I’m slowly learning to fight. I don’t have siblings, and my house growing up was pretty peaceful. I’ve never been a yeller. I feel deeply, but I struggle to name what I am feeling. Intense emotion scares me because I don’t really know what to do with it. It makes me feel out of control. For years I used the word “frustrated” to skirt around the fact that I was actually mad, or hurt, in a situation. I am learning to be more honest about how I feel. I am learning to do the hard work of discerning what I am feeling and why. I often find fear.

Part of this journey includes how I interact with God. Am I allowed to be mad at God? It seems like I should be grateful and respectful to God…not angry. What happens when I am angry with God? What happens when I am confused and hurting and God’s plan and timing are the reasons?

I think it’s ok to be honest with God about my feelings…even when they are negative.

I was upset with my roommate the other day. She hurt my feelings by scheduling something over part of some plans we made. I am generally annoyed when people don’t follow through on their commitments… if I had my way everyone would fall in line with my plans all the time… but that wasn’t the real issue. The real issue was that I was looking forward to these plans and our time together is short before she graduates. It took me a while to articulate to myself what the real issue was.

My brooding over this situation was a soft place to land. It felt good to be pissy and self-righteous. But I could feel God tugging at me. Asking me why I was really upset. Inviting me to light a fire and purge my pride.

She knew I was upset. Eventually we talked things out. I expressed how I was feeling…and why. She explained the choice she made and how she was feeling too. Nothing tangible changed after our talk. She kept her new plans and I respect that. Her choice was prayerful and I trust that it was the right one. 

I walked away from the conversation thankful that our friendship is such that we can be honest and understand one another just a little bit more in the process – I think she would say the same.

My anger with God, my pain in this time of waiting, is sometimes a soft place to land. It’s counterintuitive – I know that. But, at least being angry is active. It feels like I’m accomplishing something. That if I shout loud enough something will happen. I can sit and stew in this situation because it is a complaint I know well. It is one I cry out again and again. Somewhere along the way it became comfortable.

Like a two year old in the grocery store gripping a sugary cereal there comes a point when all I’m really doing is making a scene. I’m drawing attention away from the goodness of my Father who knows what is best and is present as I wait.

At some point I have to name the issue… “I don’t trust you”…and seek peace, even though it’s hard. I need to be honest with God. I need time to cry and process. But, I must also remember that soft place to land will eventually become toxic. I need that fire to shine light on the reality of the situation.

“I don’t trust you” wasn’t the last phrase on my mind before I fell asleep that night.

My final prayer was one of surrender…

God, I confess that I don’t trust you… my actions and anger show that. I want to trust you though. Please help me, I cannot make this happen on my own.

I was still pretty pissy on Tuesday. Just because I said those words the night before doesn’t mean that I was ready to really change anything. I hit snooze multiple times. I debated not going to school at all. I didn’t prepare for class and I was fairly annoyed with anyone who interacted with me.

By 2:20pm I was convicted. Somewhere amidst sermon illustrations and a prayer of thanksgiving for our very breath I realized that the way I was choosing to act is sin. God offered me the fire I needed – in a way only He can. God was present with me. But I was choosing to ignore the way out and sit on the plant that I knew would eventually strangle me.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had a lot left to accomplish after they escaped the Devil’s Snare. None of it was easy, it took sacrifice and community and they had to learn many lessons over and over before they were done.

None of those things could happen until they named their soft landing for what it was and moved forward out of its clutches. 

depleted and filled

I wrote this last Monday...and didn't hit post...excuse the dated language. 

I reached this weekend depleted and scattered. The week was much less stressful than the previous two, but my focus was in a million places. I forgot to bring many moments and worries before God.

I watched a lot of movies and shows this weekend. There is beauty in art. I believe that God is over all the earth and that truth can be present anywhere – though it is not present everywhere. I find a lot of truth in Mumford and Sons lyrics. When I went to their show last summer my friend commented that I looked like I was at a worship service. In a way I was. Not worshiping them, of course, but reflecting on the way their words gave voice to my pain and hope as I sang along.

The two movies I watched this weekend – “A River Runs Through It”, and “One Day” – were beautifully made and convey themes of redemption, hope, and love. They tell stories of the human experience. They made me sad.

This past week I was privileged to attend some of the sessions of the Hunger Summit put on by Texas Hunger Initiative on Baylor’s campus. The last session I attended was a discussion on payday and title loans. This industry makes me mad. It preys on those in poverty and offers opportunity for cycles of debt that are crushing. It is a huge problem. There are people around the state and nation confronting this issue creatively and with great passion. They are empowering others to do the same.

Yesterday after church I went to a Q&A session with the founder of Jesus Said Love. I am so encouraged by the genuine love and faithfulness this team exudes as they show the love of Christ - with no strings attached - to women who dance in clubs around Texas. The sex industry is a visible expression of oppression and I learned yesterday that these women are touched by every metric of poverty. It is systemic. It is pervasive.

The world can be overwhelming and full of suffering. But God is present. It’s a weird tension. It raises all sorts of questions about evil and brokenness and love and hope. I know that God is good. I know that God is love. I know that one day this will all be made right and there won’t be any more suffering. Even now, the redemptive work of Christ’s life, death and resurrection is evident through the work of the folks at Jesus Said Love, those working to eradicate predatory lending, and so many more.  I am thankful for these glimpses of tangible hope and God’s work in the world.

I am the type that likes to do things. I like to meet issues head on and solve them. These systemic, cyclical issues are not something I can solve. It isn’t my job. I can’t do everything. But I can do something.

As my Sabbath wrapped up yesterday afternoon I made a commitment to pray this week. Last week showed me how quickly I forget to come before God when life travels at a normal pace. I had the urge to pray, knew I should be, but I couldn’t find the focus or the words. I asked God to guide me.

Throughout each day this week I am praying for my family, for my friends, for issues surrounding hunger/poverty, for the world, and for discernment about my role in each of these spheres. I am also reading Psalm 119.

We took communion at church yesterday. As I walked to front, ripped off a chunk of bread, dipped it in the juice and ate it, I asked God to fill me. I asked that my life be filled with the death and resurrection of Christ as I went forward into this week. I am not worthy, but I am asking God to teach me to live and to love according to my identity and membership in the Body of Christ. 

An update a week in the making: 

I feel that I did a poor job actually praying for all of the things I wanted to last week. The message at church two days ago was about prayer and abiding. I am thankful for grace as I stumble around and learn what it means to be in conversation with God as I learn to abide. 

no canning

I will never be able to cook what my mom cooks.

I can scour the pantry and fridge and find nothing. She can follow behind me five minutes later and produce a full meal from what she finds. It is always delicious. I am always impressed.

There is a running joke in the Andrasi House: mom isn't allowed to can.

The process of canning requires precise measurement and strict rule following on temperatures, ingredients and timing.

My mom rarely follows a recipe. Her instinct drives the decisions she makes in the kitchen. She is impeccable when it comes to timing all parts of a meal to finish cooking at the right moment. Even when she first  tries a recipe she makes substitutions and adjustments based on what is in the house.

When I call her to ask how to prepare something, her instructions are off the top of her head and usually a ballpark estimate.

Years of experience allow her to move with ease and roll her eyes when I ask if she is sure the meat is cooked enough. Has she ever given me food poisoning? No.

I may never be able to cook exactly what my mom cooks...but I am learning to cook how my mom cooks.

I like that better.

Last night I made salmon, cous cous and broccoli. My favorite meal. I have watched my mom cook it a thousand times. I've helped her cook it a thousand more. I have yet to get it right on my own. Usually I call her right before dinner and run through the process one more time. Last night I skipped the phone call and jumped right in.

The cous cous and broccoli worked out great. I had instruction for those:

http://www.amazon.com/Whats-Cook-Illustrated-Essential-Techniques/dp/1579653189

[I swear by this book. It is the best. You can buy it used for 1 cent. Just do it. I wish someone would pay me to say that] 

There is probably an entry in that book about how to cook salmon. If so, I didn't use it. I threw some seasoning on that I found in my cabinet. If I were at home in Austin there would be plenty of lemon pepper on hand - I'm still perfecting the art of keeping staples in supply.

I poured olive oil in a pan. Too much olive oil. I heated it. Too hot.

I laid the fish scale side down and it immediately began to crisp. I watched the raw pink fade to opaque. The bottom was burning before the top had a chance to cook. I removed it from the fire and covered it with a lid. That actually worked.

In the end the fish was cooked and it was pretty good - though not exactly like my mom's.

I like stepping away from a recipe, away from direct step by step instructions. It gives me a chance to explore and discover new ways to do things. I know some basic guardrails: if the fish is raw you can see through it, if it smells like burning you should get it off the heat, a lid transforms your skillet into a sort of oven.

I like having an end goal in mind and playing with different ways to get there. It's a little more fun, and I feel a little more accomplished when dinnertime finally rolls around. My timing and process get better with each practice round and perfection isn't reality.

No, I may never be able to cook what my mom cooks. But she gave me skills to get dinner on the table and play on the way there - and I'll take that over a box full of recipes any day.