Dusting Off My Canvas
I once told someone my two pallets of choice are words and food. My canvas, then, takes the shape of a blank page of paper and a mixing bowl or copper pot. My studio a table in the corner of my living room, the swing on my front porch, or my cozy nook of a kitchen. My mediums either the clatter of keys on a keyboard or strokes of ink on the page, then again its flour on a countertop or the sizzle of butter and garlic in a pan. Perhaps here my two pallets collide as I attempt a multisensory stunt. Combining the sight and sound of words on a page with the scents and tastes of ingredients in a bowl, I desire to convey what being present has looked like for me in this season.
Led to Confess
I kneel to confess. Not because I have to, or because of some religious tradition forced on me as a child. I kneel because I need the pew to hide my face as I wrestle with God.
Every week, it is the same battle. On my knees, I try to defend, justify, and argue myself out of confessing. Every week, I am afraid to confess. As I go before God, I realize that my desire to be defensive and lash out at truth-tellers is because I'm deathly afraid to admit my sin.
I Don’t Want to Celebrate Easter
I don’t want to celebrate Easter. I want to go look for Easter Eggs, spend time with family and wear a pretty dress. But I don’t want to celebrate Easter because I doubt the goodness of Good Friday.
Too Angry to Trust
As an avid consumer of news, I was aware of the coronavirus in early January, but overnight, the news of the virus went from a prayer request to a crisis that upended our lives. I wasn’t prepared.
Like most of America, overnight, I went into action to try to figure out what normal would look like when we were all forced to stay home.
I changed plans, created new rhythms trying to figure out how to work with two kids at home. As a family, we started giving to the food bank signed up to help get handmade masks and even organized neighborhood and church activities that we could do while practicing social distancing. Despite staying busy, I couldn’t hide my anger.
Thankful For Those Who’ve Gone Before Me
This morning, I got the opportunity to sit at the feet of a woman who has fought for my right to be in ministry.
She was told that even though she had a seminary degree, her gender prevented her from getting an internship.
She shared how being a mom kept her from being paid for her ministry work.
For decades she has fought to follow Jesus into ministry. And in the process smashed barriers so that other women - like myself - could follow.
Hurting With
My husband and I are helpers. You know the helpers - the social workers who forego larger salaries to meet neighbors’ pressing needs day in and day out, the foster parents, the college kids taking sandwiches to people under the bridge, the folks who give rides to neighbors who haven’t showered in some days, the folks who care for kids so DFACS doesn’t have to get involved, the folks who help friends who’ve been evicted move on short notice, the folks who sit and chat a while with panhandlers downtown, the organizers who spur the community to action when oppressive laws are hurting the most vulnerable. Like the other helpers, we’ve found that our life and our faith make more sense when we are in the service of people on the margins.
Moving Forward By Looking Back
On a beautiful summer day this year, while I watched my daughter play at the playground, I started talking with a few other mothers around, as we often do. One of the moms, another white woman said, “I love that our children play together and that they don’t notice color. Why do we have to keep talking about race? We’ve moved past this.” The only black mom in the group shifted uncomfortably and became even more clear that we were strangers, connected only by the fact that our children happened to play together.
I asked, “If race is not an issue, why is that on this perfect summer day, it is almost exclusively white children playing at this free park? Our city is diverse. If race wasn't a factor, wouldn’t that be reflected here?”
The Gift of Circumstances
I was coasting. I knew I was coasting. I felt depressed, less than, and I was blaming my stage of life. This new stage of life that I had prayed for, I had begged for, this gift of being a Mom, which God had graciously given me, was making me feel less.
I felt less because I could no longer devote 40 plus hours a week to staff, which made me feel like I was failing. I had enough energy, barely to say hello to my husband, and I felt distant. And I always felt like I didn’t have enough time for my daughter. I can’t even mention the time I devoted to Jesus, because my time for Jesus, was whatever I had at the bottom of the barrel. In every area of my life, I felt like I had less capacity. And I felt like I was unable to change that, I felt stuck, like I was coasting.
So, I coasted into Church on the third week of Advent, unprepared for what God had in store.
Discipled Through Books
Should reading fiction play a significant role in a Christian's life? If you asked me this question as a child, my answer wholeheartedly would have been, yes. I loved stories. My family bonded over books, and we have many sweet memories of reading aloud together. From an early age, I had watched my mom sitting on our couch with a warm mug of tea and a book in her hand. I’m from a large family, and our house was always noisy and full- a little chaotic at times. Mom would read as we played, patiently stopping to let us peer over her shoulder at the book she was reading. I believe watching mom read, with all the noise and chaos of so many children around her, made a significant impression on me as a child. It showed me the value and gift of stories. From the way that mom made time for reading, and the way that she shared it with us, I knew that it was important. And I believe that God used books to form and shape my character, to speak to me about truth and beauty, and to draw me closer to Him at this time.
Becoming a Disciple Through Scripture
I sat in front of a sorority woman, determined to inspire her to lead a bible study in her chapter. I pulled out the story of the paralytic man. We read the story, observed it, and began to interpret what it would have meant to the original hearers.
Teary-eyed, she said, “I need to stop sleeping with my boyfriend.”
I scanned the passage. I reread it. I had prepared multiple questions about the text that would help us to see that Jesus chose to heal the paralytic man because of the four men’s faith and that he had the authority to heal the body to forgive sins. My questions were carefully crafted to lead us into the application that our faith could heal our friends and we could use a bible study to bring people to Jesus' feet.