Race and Blood and Poetry

I haven’t been able to focus well the past couple days. I wanted to Instagram you a picture of painting mini pumpkins together and our puddle walks in the rain. But I couldn’t show the good we were having as a family while my head and heart were simultaneously ruminating on the pain bursting through the surface of our country.

There’s no time to catch a breath. Before we have made sense of the most recent incident a newest one is thrust upon us. The confusion and the pain packed and compounded instead of processed. Wanting a straight story from the media we are left unsatisfied – there won’t be one. We look for the truth to justify a side. Therein is the problem. We’re still trying to divide up sides. We’re still trying to judge if it was deserved or unjust. It’s too simple to villainize the police always. The only side, the only straight story we get to know is we are all pulling the trigger and we are all a people bleeding.

I have never been more afraid as a parent than when we were fostering a young black boy who was tall for his age but emotionally charged from trauma. It is only a matter of time, I thought, before someone hurts him. A stranger on the street this time.

My friends of color who are raising their sons and daughters to be extra respectful, extra graceful, extra smiley, extra concise and precise as perception shifting survival tactics live with this fear daily. It is a stone in stomach debilitation of fear and feelings I will never fully know the weightyness of.

The mannerisms of my grandparents’ generation were subtle. A slide of a purse from chair to lap. A step closer to the sidewalk’s edge. But I noticed and I’m willing to bet the black man walking past did too.

On a recent visit, my dad began reminiscing about how he and a few classmates transferred to the all black high school in the ’60’s when Oklahoma City was desegregating slowly and the surprising few people who gave him and his girlfriend of color scuffle as they went to diners on the fringe of racially divided neighborhoods.

We’re moving closer, I thought, with each generation. We are learning. We are moving closer to facing our bias, embracing our histories, listening to what it is like to be a person of color.  But God help me, I find myself at times adjusting my purse or locking the car door or walking slightly more around in the name of safety as a man of color approaches, just like two generations before. It is in all of us no matter how tenderized by this topic. So I continue to question and sit in hard conversations and read stories and poetry from people of color; black women in particular.

The violence keeps happening too fast to settle into the comfort that we are healing our racially brutalized past as a nation and forming a new way into the future.

I changed our elementary schools a couple years ago after more than one adult working there gave me the color blind speech. Color blindness is a refusal to acknowledge the very real existing pain.

Which makes me wonder if for a while we all tried to move on too quickly in our generation. We tried to say “not me” and “not a problem anymore” and refused to look at the bloody now. There are faces and bodies in our newsfeed that leave us saddened and confused. There are organized protests that leave us wanting to make judgements on the effectiveness or non-peacefulness of the frustrated responses of rage, while the peaceful ones are often not shown across media.

It is time to look at the blood. To point out the blood to others. It is time to say we’re all dehumanizing eachother, but our friends of color are hurting most and in ways we cannot fathom.

When the world doesn’t make sense to me, words often do. I came back to this poem today as meditation, as prayer, as a way to listen to the pain and to stare at the blood and not look away. Will you read it with me?


Sons and Daughters by Maya Angelou

If my luck is bad

And his aim is straight

I will leave my life

On the killing field

You can see me die

On the nightly news

As you settle down

To your evening meal. 


But you’ll turn your back

As you often do

Yet I am your sons

And your daughters too. 

In the city streets

Where the neon lights

Turn my skin from black

To electric blue

My hope soaks red

On the gray pavement

And my dreams die hard

For my life is through. 


But you’ll turn your back

As you often do

Yet I am your sons

And your daughters too. 


In the little towns

Of this mighty land

Where you close your eyes

To my crying need

I strike out wild

And my brother falls

Turn on your news

You can watch us bleed. 


In morgues I’m known

By a numbered tag

In clinics and jails

And junkyards too

You deny my kin

Though I bear your name

For i am a part

Of mankind too. 


But you’ll turn your back

As you often do

Yet I am your sons

And your daughters too. 


Turn your face to me


Let you eyes seek my eyes

Lay your hand upon my arm

Touch me. I am real as flesh

And solid as bone. 


I am no metaphor

I am no symbol

I am not a nightmare

To vanish with the dawn

I am lasting as hunger

And certain as midnight. 


I claim that no council 

Can contain me

Nor fashion me to its whim. 

You, come here, hunch with me in this dingy doorway, 

Face with me the twisted mouth threat

Of one more desperate

And better armed than I. 


Join me again at today’s dime store counter

Where the word to me 

Is still no. 

Let us go, your shoulder, 

Against my shoulder, 

To the new picket line

Where my color is still a signal

For brutes to spew their bile

Like spit in my eye. 


You, only you, who have made me 

Who share this tender taunting history with me

My fathers and mothers

Only you can save me

Only you can order the tides, 

That rush my heart, to cease

Stop expanding my veins

Into red riverlets. 


Come, you my relative

Walk the forest floor with me

Where rampaging animals lurk, 

Lusting for my future

Only if your side is by my side

Only if your side is by my side

Will I survive. 


But you’ll probably turn your back

As you often do

Yet I am your sons

And your daughters too. 



My On-Again-Off-Again Relationship

I’ve been in an on-again-off-again relationship with various denominations over the span of my adult life. They have all helped me. The have all let me down. I am relieved to learn faith is not a denomination.


Our communion bread was baked by local Carmelites. It was dense but soft and tasted like a thousand prayers sung before dawn.

When the priest set it on our palm, a moment of honeyed-lightness cleared the air before we were again submerged into the heady-safety-scent of incense. Years later I found myself in a parish youth group. We sang Beatles and Rent and post Vatican 2 hymns from the Spirit and Songbook. We played a lot of gotcha rounds in the gym and dated and undated each other and collected socks and soap for the poor with the Harley riding, habit wearing nun in charge of us.

Afterward, we’d drive to Denny’s with the windows down no matter the weather. Most would smoke, all would order milkshakes and quote movies until midnight. We were vagabonds and sloppy and I had a special tenderness toward this crew because I felt like they weren’t pretending and that was a faith I could get on board with.

But I saw the way our parents prostrated through mass in a familiar pew but were unchanged through the week and didn’t want any part of it. I was suspicious of the paternal wall constructed by the church. As a teen, I stared at the dried glue strands pulled between torn seem and sole on the bottom of the priest’s shoe while I confessed the sins of my body and mind to this man. Leaving the confessional in a splotchy purple of shame, I decided these are not my people after all and I broke up with Catholicism and it’s mystical traditions without experiential encounters of mystery.


In college while I was busy pulling all nighters talking and kissing with my one-day husband, then pulling all nighters writing passable papers for courses that I should have written better in the time I was using to talk and kiss, I also fell in love with new ways of understanding God.

A campus fellowship taught me how to analyze passages of scripture finding historical context, Greek meaning in words, repetitive urgency in syntax, and Old Testament allusions. Defining the Greek felt like a good and grown up way to quantify God. Nothing feels more official than the heft of a lexicon.

“Non-denominational service” felt a whole lot like Protestant to me where the room was dark and the band was loud and our very bones conducted additional reverb for the amp. It felt wild. It felt good.

For a few summers I worked as a camp counselor for a high profile Christian sports camp in the south. We looped chapstick on our shoelaces with hairties and spontaneously and collectively burst into chant at nearly every phrase possible. We did ridiculous stunts for each other and the kids and Jesus. Kids leading kids.

Faith came in containers of goofy skits, tactile object lessons, poignant heroes of faith stories, and prayer of salvation folding puzzle cubes. It was wonderful but also a cult unto itself and no matter how many cheers I did, I never quite grafted into this cool-kid club.

(Side story:this is also the time period when the audaciously full-frontal platonic bearhug from a guy friend in the parking lot of a Shakey’s on our night off tipped me into tears because I realized it was the first time I had been touched caringly by someone beyond the needy grabs of my cabin kids in weeks. Thanks purity culture for dehumanizing us by demonizing our need for physicality. Glad we’re starting to deconstruct that one.Un-side story.)

My concerns about cleaning the lake slide with unmeasured amounts of bleach were listened to but unchanged. My suggestion we begin recycling was met with a logistic defense of why we don’t, and when I wondered aloud if perhaps the generic chief headdress and warpaint worn by Christian white boys crossed into offensive cultural appropriation, I was labelled “that liberal girl”.

Again, I decided these were not my people and I broke up with Protestantism and the being pushed and pulled by emotions. I didn’t want to be around people smiling and focusing so intensely in worship with their hands up and eyes closed they were left little peripheral reach to see or care for the people and environment around them.


We walked down the diploma stage and directly to the marriage aisle before moving to another continent. My classroom was filled with collaborative projects, early literacy writings, big books, and equatorial heat. Our home was full of wall hangings and bugs and exhaustion and this felt right as I put on the title of missionary.

I followed the special rules given to us. On bad days, I became part of the problem of Western/African disconnect. On good days, even in the best of heart, it still felt that by simply being there we were perpetuating the harmful mentalities and practices of post-colonialism.

I slowly watched my husband of harmony harden and crumble while a power couple picked a fight with his character. Suddenly I understood the distrust others have for Christians based in the real pain of disappointing interactions with people in spiritual authority.

This didn’t feel like God, so I broke up with missionaries but kept the inspiration of faith from those I met from all over the globe during our time there as we came home to heal spiritual wounds and ideological rifts (and drink together while doing so).


There is more to the story of returning to church, and working for church, then recovering from working for church and the need and motivation behind those seasons and what continues now. And there is so much more to each part of these spiritual timelines.

For now I want to apologize for being that girl during each of these spiritual seasons. I was learning. I was trying to be the best at each one. They gave me guidelines to understand myself and the world and what I could cling to of God. I know I was annoying sometimes.

And for now I want to honor myself for being that girl during each of these spiritual seasons. I was allowing Spirit to breathe through soul and teach me truths in spite of all the brokenness in these spiritual sectors.

The cost might be a spiritual homelessness and a continual longing for both the bread and the incense, the perky cheers and feeling the bass drum in our chest, but the gain is no longer needing defined outlines.

The gain is being assured that knowing less for sure about God at thirty than at twenty is growth in a humbly truthful direction.

The gain is recognizing that when my faith needs space, I create a wider boundary for spirituality to take root in all areas.

I don’t have to continue breaking up with denominations anymore. It turns out they never were the keepers of my faith anyway.



Since sending this post into the world many of you have messaged or texted your concerns and questions. So why stay? We stay at our church because of the people. Although they are imperfect, I’ve seen their hearts, particularly the hearts of those in leadership. They are for others. They are tiptoeing toward riskier conversations and allow difference of opinion, journey, and unanswered questions stand. 






Prettier With Age

My first date fell in winter when the plains states become little more than an icy wind tunnel connecting Canada to the Gulf. I wore thick white tube socks inside chunky-heeled brown on brown saddle shoes. And khakis. Lord help me, khakis. That’s an uncomfortable amount of severe tan tones off balance with the delicate rosettes outlining my collarbone in the cardigan on top.

There wasn’t a second date. It very well could have been the outfit since that sort of thing is hard to recover from as a teenager. Mostly, I think it was because we spent an excruciatingly boring evening together and a silent dinner where I realized I had just wasted a year’s worth of emotional energy pining for a guy I didn’t actually real-life want. On his end it might have been the tube socks or the speed at which I ran to my door from his mom’s borrowed minivan at the end of the night.

Now you know the alpha and omega of my high school dating career. There was also the time I went Christmas shopping with a friend who began holding my hand and I let him for a few days because I was curious if it is possible to turn the good feelings of being wanted into a reciprocated wanting. It wasn’t. Then there was the time I went to senior prom with my girlfriend under whispers of “lesbian” because I had rejected the boys who had asked that I didn’t want to spend that time with and the ones I had wanted to ask didn’t – aka the common plight of most non-Disney teenage girls.

While adjectives like “unique” or “interesting” or “nice” or (my personal searingly favorite) “the kinda girl who gets prettier with age” sound like insults at seventeen, they feel more like prophesy now in mid-thirties.

I had a birthday this week and I’m here to say beauty does get better with age because time is the great sieve of knowing ourself, knowing what matters, and knowing how to align ourself with what matters. I believe that it is in the knowing of ourself that we are able to see the watermark of the God who created us. In the intimate knowing of myself I am free to know others.

I think often we hold back in our interactions with others because we don’t want to be misinterpreted as meddling or perceived as needy. At least, that’s been me.

The older I get, the more confident  I am in the strengths I have been given, the more aware I am of God’s artistry in the every day of life, and the more desiring I am to see that energy and honesty and beauty of character be drawn forward in others.

Especially now when it feels the world’s gone dark. I think most people still want to be light and give light. I believe we need to say the things. Say all the things. Without hesitating because we’ve been labelled dominant or needy.

It’s scary to say the things. Say all the things of encouragement and kindness and affirmation to others without being weird.

Back in those highschool hallways teaming with Chuck Taylors and Rocket Dogs, I walked the linoleum tiles shyly in my vintage thrifted saddle shoes anticipating big things ahead. Big things indeed happened and, for the record, I wish I still had those shoes today.

That’s the other gift of your thirties. You get to own your style and it not only doesn’t matter it’s unlike everyone else’s, it’s awesome and it’s needed.

Could possibly the biggest thing that’s happened yet since high school be growing confidently into my own beauty so others like my children and friends and social media strangers are allowed to stand in theirs?



Our Kids Don’t Care We’re Late & Neither Should We

Thanks to the magic of music camp for the bigs this week, my youngest and I found ourselves in the Nordstrom Rack shoe department where we fell into a time vortex as she tried on every.single.pair that sparkled, shimmered, lit up, had a face on it, or were in any other way irresistible to her preschooler heart. The scent of mall retail easily tips me into an anxiety attack, not to mention mentally prepping myself for the scene assuredly to ensue when said preschooler is carried out without new pink jellies that smell of strawberries.

We roamed around a lot of our city this week and as I listened to yet another public parenting meltdown, it has become increasingly clear that we are a time-harried group hassling our preschool aged children to hurry-the-eff-up with little to no success.

I would like to inject here that I understand the frustration since the daily activity of loading my children in the car would give the saintliest of saints heart palpitations. As my three year old so transparently revealed to our pediatrician recently, I “did a bad job not being shouty at us at bedtime”. No, I am not above parental sh*t losing and my children tattle on me to our family pediatrician to keep me humble in what I can only imagine to be a subtly smug proverbial flip of the finger.

But when it’s ten AM on a Tuesday and we’re losing it in front of other families we’ve got some issues to deal with that are usually about our own hearts and not our kids’ lack of respect for the clock.

No doubt we are all living through a critically stressful time both domestically and globally that has left no one untouched. No matter how separated or directly linked we imagine ourselves to be, we are storing the stress within the cells of our bodies with our children first in line for the fall-out.

I’m going to suggest a few parenting tactics here that I think will help us all ratchet back a bit. Yes, I hear how audacious and annoying it sounds to get parenting advice from someone struggling through just like everyone else that is, not to forget, LATE. TO. ALMOST. EVERYTHING. EVERYWHERE! (I would like to defend I’m only a few minutes late, only sometimes these days. Progress in positive direction.)

Build in Time to Waste

We already know this parenting gig is wildly inconvenient. We already know they are going to stop for every roly poly on the sidewalk. We already know. It is part of their natural child development to explore, to put order to their world, to imagine. What I miss when I don’t block enough time for my kids to enter their world as children instead of expecting them to be overly rushed mini-adults is the opportunities they create for connection with me. Mama, look! Mama, come! Mama (come be with me)!

HOW We Arrive Is More Important Than WHEN We Arrive

This is pretty self-explanatory. When I rush my kids they shut down. Their feelings get hurt and their heels dig deeper while I get crazier grasping for ways to prove I am the Actual Boss around here. We all end up miserable before slinking back (much later) for apologies. I’m trying to build in more buffer time so we are not compressed into stress, but when it just doesn’t work out I will most likely be late. At the end of the day (or two decades the kids are in our home) my priority is the atmosphere of our family. Every time. The End. Not the clock. I promise to try to text you if I’m late.

Drill-Sergeanting Orders vs Asking Kids What’s Next

Even if I am not falling off the ledge of control, it’s easy to get into a habit of barking directions at our kids. Put on your shoes! Get your hat! Wash your hands! Come, NOW! Instead, we’re trying to ask our kids what comes next and for them to come up with the answers, basically stealing all the best parts of Positive Parenting.

It sounds a lot like

“Lunch is ready. What do we need to do?”

“Wash hands!”

or “I can think of three things that are your ticket to the car. What are they?”

“Hat, shoes, and water bottle!”

Yes, it takes more energy and intention to do this the majority of the time, but it’s worth maintaining an element of fun in the day. Not to mention raising kids who are thinkers. It does, however, presuppose a certain amount of routine and clearly-communicated behavior expectations already foundational in the dynamic (& the hope no child is going through a smartass phase).

I am happy to report I didn’t have to football my child out of Nordstroms while she sabotaged racks of Ray-Bans along the way. Time to try allllllll the shoes on with my attention, not annoyance filled her little cup.

Parents of littles and how-can-they-be-this-big-already kids, I see you out there with your crew teetering between Intention and The-Brink. I know this place and I know we can do better. Not by trying harder, but by trading our benchmarks for what success looks like.

I love our city and I want to explore it with my kids without shouting at them about time and who’s in control and without listening to you do that either. I believe in you. I believe in me. I believe in the intelligence and kindness of our kids. Whether you loved or hated this parenting post, just wait ’til you hear what I have to say about the ineffectiveness of time-outs and making your kids apologize!


Creative Energy in the Confines of A Little Life

There is  life-force that stirs wild in the heart of the creative Christian. It is an energy that ambles and percolates and froths. But when the wildest part of the day whips peanut butter and honey instead of peanut butter and jelly, where does it go?

If ignored, this creative energy does not lie fallow. If suppressed, it twists and spins into bickering with my spouse simply for the satisfaction of having something to do, simply to prove I have not become part of the historic feminine cumulative where minds are left to rot in the boredom of domesticity. If neglected, this energy whispers ugly doubts disguised as truths to keep me disengaged.

If tended to, creative energy is a tether to the world that whirs into big ideas and intuitive empathy. The only way it fits into such a small life is to continually be made into something real and given away.

I take the olders to school. I take the youngest to the zoo, museum, ocean, the park. I drive the long way home so the jacarandas can toss confetti on our one car parade. I make dinner. I resweep the floor. This is a small life.

I plead God, is this enough for you?

I am reminded love is not parceled out in relation to the amount of effort, hustle, or works produced. Bigger love cannot be earned with bolder life choices. I have always been one for the bigger choice. It is easier for me to fly spontaneous into the face of challenge outside these walls. At 33 I’m learning the big love found in a little life.

Unrestricted love is here in the perceived smallness of sidewalk chalk art and songs goodnight. In the driving to school miles logged and driving me crazy moments.

On paper my life doesn’t look as overtly faith-infused as it did ten years ago. But I know the faithfulness required to live a quiet life has drawn me closer to God than other ostentatious choices before.

I make beds. I make lunches. I make moments for my children to remember and some I pray they will forget. I make words and walks and paintings. This little life of routines and I-love-yous and I’m-sorrys and crust-cut sandwiches is wide enough to experience the fullness of the resurrection.


Realities and Loneliness in Marriage

Loneliness in the single life is often palpable, but is it somehow more palatable when social expectation allows space for the sadness in unmet longing during singlehood? But what happens when Loneliness picks out a placemat and sets a seat at the family table after  you’ve already said your I Do’s Forever?

Reality is, eleven years later, I am not who he married.

Reality is, he is not the one I married.

Reality is, we forget to just kiss.

Some anniversaries you celebrate the marriage. Some anniversaries you celebrate the boot dragged, mud-flung, belly under barbed wire, jaw set, hard earned finish line of having made it through another year of parenting young kids without divorce. This is one of those years.

Reality is, we have to decide if we can flirt again, fall in love again, this year, eleven more years, every more after that.

Reality is, remembering the goodness of a partner in marriage in the midst of having and raising small children, our careers, and our own interests takes determination and faith and time; a list of all things already squeezed to the point of dry.

Reality is, we’ve wasted time over the years playing the Who’s Day Was Harder game when  we both needed more affirmation and less competition.

Reality is, we are functioning business partners but have to work to make space for the play when we get to be friends and lovers again.

Reality is, we don’t make sense together until you’re sharing our campfire, our beer, so we have to confidently rely on our relaxed intimacy instead of nods of approval from others.

Reality is, we are a Dreamer and a Pragmatist learning how to make a life together.

Reality is, there are some problems that perpetuate and we keep having to bring them before the Highest Judge with a repentant heart before bringing them (again) to each other, and before bed after exhaustion is never the time to do this.

Reality is, when Loneliness comes we name it. We look it in the eye. We serve it a piece of cake. We ask why it has come and what need it is representing or longing to be filled. We pray it or think it or write it or take it on runs with us and when we are able to convey these needs out loud to one another without sting or blame or judgement we do so.

In the meantime we make the beds, the lunches, the life.

We remember to say thank you. We remember that we each are trying. We remember to laugh. We invite Loneliness to be listened to but don’t let it have the last say. This is the movement of marriage.






Losing Balance and Gaining Grace

Hey friend,

Surprise! You’re pregnant again!

I wish I could whisper the secret code from us mamas of three in your ear to make it easier for you. But there is no secret.

The truest truth I know is this: There is no balance. Don’t let the books or mommy groups tell you otherwise. The strive for balance is a cultural catch-phrase winding families into a panicked frenzy. Don’t believe it. Chasing balance only offers you a chalice of shame.

I know it feels beyond your human capacity right now to have another baby. Caring for another soul.

Especially while your oldest is still a pint-sized person with a full grown bucket of personality and emotions.

Especially while your toddler demands being held – always – in arms and eye contact. Dimpled baby fists occasionally thumping your chest for the breastmilk run dry.

Especially while you pursue a career that whispers yes into your bones.

Especially while you’re still fighting for space to eat, rest, solo potty, simply remember who you are and how you like your eggs. Not to mention that little thing called marriage.

I know you know it’s going to be okay. But I want to repeat. I have faith in you. You can do this.

I would tell you if I can do it, anyone can. But you were there. You saw the hard and maybe that’s what’s so scary about this after all.

You knew a few months into parenting my first I went to bed crying. Nightly.  Knowing I was outside of my mind tired but the hard part was just beginning as babes and I would be awake together up to ten more times before dawn.

When our second was several months old I picked up mono with a bonus coupling of hepatitis that wiped me out physically and emotionally. One illness stole the independence and non-neediness I had so adamantly co-joined to my adulthood. You sat next to me while I was a shell of tired, blank of personality and guessed at ways you could help because I was too deep in the sick and the sad to assess the need.

Then our third came and there was no time to cave up. No hibernation period. It was sprinting with vaginal stitches. You witnessed it all.

There is no secret. Life balance a farce we’ve spun too much energy into already. Alternatively, there is trusting the goodness of the Creator who has already given you an intuitive understanding of the rhythms of life.

Instead, there is embracing seasons.

Instead, there is determining what is important and hacking the rest with comically oversized scissors.

Instead, there is focusing on a goal with full-throttle, head down, shoulder thrust into the now. Breathing. Turning. Locking eyes on the next up and going again.

Instead, (and this may be the most important one) there is lowering self-expectation and raising chaos tolerance.

It is not easy but it is good. I can’t wait to watch you experience that self-offering of grace even as your third curls close, heartbeat to heartbeat, the main things become the main things, and everything else shakes away.

It will be an undoing of sorts, but it is not to be feared.

You’re going to be amazing!


From this mama of three to you, new mama, of three!