"No economic system has ever enjoyed the blessing of the Gospel."
Walter Brueggemann said this at a Justice Conference some years ago. I'd add that no governmental system has ever enjoyed the blessing of the Gospel.

This country we live in has never - not for a day - resembled the Jesus story. No government has. It's not the role of government. Government's goal is not benevolence. Government always ends up being ran by the brand of men (with few exceptions I do mean men in the exclusive of women sense) who love power and accolades. At very least, they love having consequence. And so they also draw to them the false prophets. They draw the folks who know how to find the pieces of religion that support empire and tell leaders what they want to hear. When you have someone telling you that the Almighty God of the Universe agrees with what you're doing...and maybe many who are saying, "No, actually God's not on your side here..." It takes a mountainous amount of spiritual discipline and maturity to listen to the latter. And, most likely, if you've spent your life pursuing higher offices in politics, you probably haven't had the time and space to develop robust spiritual practices or maturity. If you've made it to the final round of the governmental popularity contest, most likely you've had to transgress your ethics at some point to get there. Not always, I'm sure. But very often, I am also sure.

So, I'm not here going to dive in to how broken this government has been from day one. It;s a long story. At this point, either you know it well and are convinced, or your heart is closed to it and I won't be successful in convincing you. I don't currently have the time to invest in that. If you somehow have missed your opportunity to understand that, there are many resources. A People's History of the United States of America by Howard Zinn is a possible starting point. Google could probably help out too.

But the simple truth is that we've never been a country that resembles the Kin-dom of God. Sometimes we are closer than other times. But we've never been that and I'd hazard a guess, without feeling even a little cynical, that we will never look exactly like the Kin-dom of God.

Jesus sort of ignored the Roman government. "Give them their money," he said, and then essentially "the rest is God's." Contrary to what seems to be a rising belief, he wasn't a good law abiding citizen. He followed Spirit wherever she led. And eventually, She led him to being murdered by both the government and his religious leaders. He didn't follow their rules all the time because Spirit is a wild woman - maybe a nasty woman, but far too big to fit in any pant suit or even a nation of them. 

Paul was a Roman citizen. If you watch him closely, he used that when it served him and ignored it when it didn't. This is what our citizenship in earthly kingdoms (and I use the G there where I omit it with God's Kin-dom because, earthly kingdoms are certainly about kings even if we call them politicians) should look like. Use it to guide any given kingdom to look more like the Kin-dom. And ignore it when we can't. 

Voting for Obama caused us to get healthcare for most. I believe investing in the health of our neighbors is a part of the kin-dom. I believed he'd lead us to more peace than the other options. I believed he'd lead us to more equality. More care for one another. More kindness. An end to state sanctioned torture. So I voted, caucused, cheered, prayed...And I knew he would not be Jesus himself leading the country. He was deeply harmful for immigrant families and for all the countries we dropped drones on. I supported him as the best option given for this kingdom; but never for a moment thought he represented the Kin-dom.

Voting for Hilary was my hope for us not to follow an overtly racist, sexist, ableist, xenophobic self-absorbed man...and keep that healthcare. Alas. Here we are. This kingdom is veering from the Kin-dom. 

But I cannot expect this kingdom to be the Kin-dom. I cannot despair and give up when it does not. I cannot hang my only hope in that maybe our government will change.

Like Paul, I will use my US citizenship to hold these leaders' feet to the fire. I will protest. I will write letters and make phone calls. I will vote. I will hold a whole voting party at my house.

But I can't let this gigantic step back into shadows to cloud my vision of God's kin-dom. There is enough to share. Our hearts are wise enough to share. We can care for one another. We can stand up for one another. We can put our bodies in the way of the government harming others. We can seek environmental wellness. 

A government leaning into the Kin-dom sure as heck would help! There are many things my imagination is too small to see being repaired without the aid of government. Our healthcare system is such a mess that local fundraisers can't pull people back from medical bankruptcy. It's hard to imagine that Seattle landlords are going to start saying: "Hey, I know I could charge you more, but then you can't live. So, let's just let these rental prices cool their heels." I don't see how these things turn around without the government.

But that doesn't change the fact that my primary citizenship is in God's liberating kin-dom of liberating love and justice for all people and all of the non-human world as well. No government will ever lead us there. All I can do use my citizenship to the best of my ability to participate in building a community of liberating love and justice, radical welcome, and mutual care.

Rev Dr Martin Luther King tells us "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." Attorney General Eric Holder reminds us: it only does so "because people pull it towards justice. It doesn’t happen on its own.”

Like Paul, I'll use my citizenship to pull on that arc. But the arc belongs to God. Love and justice never have found their life and breathe in the state of American politics but in the working of Spirit in diverse hearts in every corner of the world and especially in the margins.

Siblings, let's not get lost in the constant tossing sea of what outrage happened today and what we have to stop - like a cartoon ship crew plugging holes with all their fingers trying to keep a sinking ship afloat. Let's step back and remember we're not called to resist as much as to persist in doing good. We don't need the boat. Our brother Jesus, founder of the Kin-dom of liberating love and justice walks on water and calls us to do the same. 

This will be a deeply flawed post. I invite your grace. I don't know how to say this perfectly. I have so much learning to do. A truly embarrassing amount. But have decided I am not allowed to let pride keep me from sharing this.

1 John 1:5-9
This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light and in him there is no darkness at all. If we say that we have fellowship with him while we are walking in darkness, we lie and do not do what is true; but if we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin. If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness. 

Oh, dear siblings so I have some confessing to do. I live in white privilege. I benefit from white supremacy. And with at least as much (probably more) of myself as I hate it and fight it, I also cling to it in those scared, hidden parts of my soul. This is my trying to be in fellowship with Jesus, confess, and be cleansed from this despicable unrighteousness.

A Story and a Confession:
A few weeks ago, I was driving down an old narrow street in Seattle. There was a large police SUV parked on one side with a sizeable side view mirror. I was tired and fretting about finding parking before I walked into a funeral I was late for...and I scuffed the police mirror with mine. 

The officer was talking with residents that must have called him and I couldn't find a place to safely stop, so I circled around and came back. 

When I got back, the officer was sitting in his car and looked to be working on paper work. He didn't see me.

I was a tired woman with discheveled hair wearing all black with very full pockets (I have a toddler...but this officer doesn't know it's toddler paraphernalia in my pockets and not drug or gun paraphernalia). One of my hands was in a pocket. Hey, it was cold. 

With confidence - if embarrassment - I walked up to the armed man who did not see me coming. "I hit your mirror," I confessed with that sideways pained look of someone who made an annoying mistake but knows everything is going to be fine - if inconvenient.

He jumped the slightest bit when he saw me. Why on earth I didn't make sure I wasn't sneaking up on him, just out of kindness, I don't know. Then he settled and asked if there was a mark. "Yep. Looks like it," I said, "I'm sorry."

He was incredibly kind and apologized that he had to call his sergeant. "If it was up to me, I'd just go on with my day, but there are strict rules about any time something happens to city property. Hang on."

That hang on turned into 30 minutes of all parties being bummed out by how much work goes into a mirror scuff. His sergeant came. Another police officer came. They filmed me while they asked me if I was ok. They measured and photographed the scuff on both cars. They gave me an incident report number and almost apologized for it. "Will I have like a record or something now?" I asked.

"No. This is a different kind of incident report. It won't even effect your driving record. It's like a step below that. We just have to file something every time there's an incident with a police car."

I apologized again and said I'd be more careful. The officer shrugged almost as if to say: "Really, don't worry about it." 

And I drove off to park. Blocks away. On a street with no other cars. Feeling mortified, tired, and entirely unimpressed with myself.

And then I wept.

There was no point in this interaction where I was concerned about my safety. I never doubted I'd be believed or trusted. I never wondered if the police officer would be afraid of me and lash out at me. I counted on my complete and utter safety every step of the way.

And my friends of color - especially the wonderful black family I was about to go grieve with - can't count on that. 

Now, mind you, it's people who look like me that killed 17 folks at a high school a few weeks ago. It's people who look like me who shot up a church a few months ago and killed nine people of color at Bible study a couple years ago. It's people who look like me that sent bombs to kill prominent people of color.

Going back further, it's people who look like me that sailed across the planet to steal people and pretend they were property. It's people who look like me that committed genocide in North America. It's people who look like me that put our Japanese neighbors in America into internment camps. 

My family has been in America since the Mayflower. You know what that means? Everything my family owns is essentially stolen or bought with money from stolen things. 

People who look like me ought to scare people. If any color of skin could raise suspicion, people who look like me ought to raise suspicion.

I have this weird privilege of being a white woman. A white woman pastor who often wears her baby (ok, she's a toddler now but, can time just slow down for a minute please?). I'm always safe because people don't see me as a threat. 

But let's be real, people who look like me have consistently been a threat. But because we're pale, because we belong to white men, we have the privilege of wearing all black with bulging pockets and our hands in them as we surprise a police officer and knowing - KNOWING - this event will end with us being entirely safe - save that scuff on the mirror and that dent in my pride.

And then I went and fellowshipped with this grieving family of color. They were some of the most amazing people I've met in my life. It was a humbling honor to spend time with them as they processed the loss of one hard working, lively, loving woman who anchored so many lives with a tenacious love.

Maybe - hopefully - each and everyone of them would have been as safe as I was that day. But I don't think they could count on it. 

After the funeral reception, I took the long drive home to Everett. And. I. Wept. And. Wept. And. Wept.

My white privilege is an ill-gotten gain. And yet, as I thought about my daughter, I had to come to terms with my reality that I desperately want that privilege for her.

Really, I want no one to need that privilege. I want police officers to be peace officers. I want police shootings of unarmed people to end. Period. I want police shootings of any people to end. That's what I really want.

But if I can't get that, I'll take the privilege for my daughter.

And that reality hurts. And it is sin. 

Friends who look like me: will you join me in a moment of grief. Can we mourn together that we are addicted to our privilege, that we don't fight hard enough for our siblings of color because, at the end of the day, we're pretty safe and there's always tomorrow... There is a lot of work to do. But it seems like maybe some of that work begins in honesty, pain, grief, and calling a sin a sin.

White supremacy is a sin. Maybe it's not something you're into. But maybe you benefit from that. And maybe you - even just in the deep recesses of your soul - rejoice in that benefit. When we're honest about that shadow that lives deep within us, we can invite light in. 

As the good book says: "If we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and Jesus his Son (that brown man killed by the state) cleanses us from all sin."

And we know that light will lead us into the streets. Maybe onto I5. And certainly away from white supremacy.

Do you feel heard?
Do you feel valued? 
Do you feel respected?
Do you feel like maybe you see God differently, but you're both seeking after God's best for all people? For the world?

I had a conversation with a good friend last week about when to leave. The friend has stayed and stayed in hard places of theological disagreements that they see negatively impacting people they love. My response was that it's hard to know when to leave. 

Many people have this really intense break up with propositional evangelical theology. But some of us had a gradual one. Little gentle conversation, by probing questions, by reframing of scriptures that had been bereft of context...Little by little, or as my friends in Rwanda say "Slowly by slowly," we changed. We changed because a hand full of people were willing to stay and have conversations with us. So when do you leave?

My friend recounted that it was one such stay-er who planted the seeds that lead them down the road of transformed theology. Without that stay-er, who knows where my friend would be?

It's hard to know when to leave.

But here's the thing: the people who are rich soil for theological shift, I know us intimately. We listen to the hard questions. We might protest. We might proof text poorly. But we listen. We respect people who gently poke holes in a tapestry that could stand re-weaving.

I asked my friend: How do you think that stayer who sowed seeds for you left their conversations with you? Did they leave tired and exasperated? Or did they leave feeling heard if disappointed that you still disagreed? Did they leave knowing you heard them?


In the end, my response was: Consider being a stay-er so long as those you disagree with leave you feeling heard. Valued. Respected. Like maybe you see God differently, but you're both seeking after God's best for all people. For the world.

When you feel like you are constantly in game of dodgeball with opponents hurling the heretic word at you...consider not being a stayer. Creator crafted you for more. 

And with all of this, hear the word: consider. You and God's Spirits are the very best at discerning what is good for you. My friend Paul Schroeder might say: "You're the expert on you." And! Get this, you can't make a wrong decision about staying or going. God and God's story are big enough and adventurous enough to bend with your choices. In high school there was a friend who I was basically dating but not dating as us evangelicals liked to do. He said the strangest thing to me about why we weren't dating: "I don't want to get caught outside God's will." That, my dear friends, is impossible. Stay or don't stay; God's will will accompany you wherever you find yourself.

For my part, I grew so very tired of fighting for a place of love and acceptance, a place of intellectual freedom and even play, a place where I could stop explaining how seeking justice was a Christian commitment and not some "liberal issue." I got bone tired of it all. 

And I looked up from my bone tired tunnel vision, I saw a wide open field. Green pastures calling to come and play along toward liberating love and justice. For me, at that point, I couldn't say no. And leaving the home of my childhood for this new space to play and work has been more like coming home than evangelical church ever was. I want that for so many of us locked in the struggle. I want to fight you to bring you there with me. - I apologize if I have fought you to try to bring you over to play here. -  You are the expert on you. And God's Spirit is a better guide than I am. 

But I do invite all wondering when to stay and leave to let these questions be consistent conversation partners:
Do you feel heard?
Do you feel valued? 
Do you feel respected?
Do you feel like maybe you see God differently, but you're both seeking after God's best for all people? For the world?


If you feel like it's time to give up being a stayer and you'd like a conversation partner or wonder what wide open pastures there are for playing and working at liberating love and justice, hit me up. I'd love to chat!

​On Good Friday, I offered up the opportunity for our church community members and neighbors to join me for some meandering through the neighborhood while reflecting on the story of Jesus' death and wondering how it is echoed in our neighborhood today. 


As I printed out the worksheets that would lead us into revisiting the stations of the cross in North Everett, I saw one word written all over it: heroin. Jesus falls: Heroin. Jesus meets his mother: Moms who have lost children to heroin. Jesus greets the criminals dying alongside him: Heroin. Jesus dies: Heroin. Jesus is buried: Heroin. 

And resurrection. Sometimes for a moment. Sometimes for a lifetime. Sometimes for just long enough to have one last great memory with their children. We've seen our neighbors in Everett break free from heroin. And when they do, it is just as miraculous and breathtaking as Jesus' resurrection. Even if our friends and neighbors only walk away from heroin for a moment: it's stunning. And when they walk away from it for a lifetime: it's a miracle.

But the point is: if you are going to walk the Jesus way in Everett with open eyes and a compassionate heart, there is one thing you can't escape: heroin.

Heroin. Heroin. Heroin.

Don't get me wrong. I love Everett. It is an excellent place to live. (I started the hashtag #youshouldmovetoeverettwa. And I mean it. You should move to Everett, WA.) If you're just passing through or if you make it your bedroom community, you might never know about heroin in Everett. But if you get to know your neighbors, and especially if you work with neighbors experiencing poverty and poverty related trauma, well... Heroin. Heroin. Heroin.

I saw it coming. To sit with Jesus' story, to wonder about people on the margins experiencing echoes of this story, to wonder about life altering trauma. These things were going to call me to contemplate and grieve a heroin epidemic and the friends and neighbors I've lost or nearly lost to it.

So, with a heavy heart but also a pastor's heart, I drove to the place I said we'd meet up. 

No one joined me. This happens. This is church planting. You offer good things and sometimes no one is interested or no one has time or it's intimidating to wonder who else will be there or, or, or. So, no one came. And I'm okay with that.

I strapped my daughter on and tried to keep her entertained as we waited at least 15 minutes to make sure someone wasn't just a little late. I smiled at everyone who passed through the park. They engaged my daughter because she's just pretty darn engaging. 

I noticed one gentleman holding a crumpled paper bag circle through the park over and over and over. At least five times he walked in and then left after making eye contact and smiling. 

I noticed another gentleman with a backpack beaten up in the way that tells me maybe he keeps his whole life in that backpack and maybe he sleeps outside. Maybe. His head was hung. He sat in one place. He never made eye contact. He never even engaged that engaging baby.

After 15 minutes, I decided the kiddo and I would head home. The circling gentleman passed through the park. I smiled at him and walked to the car. I noticed him watching me walk to the car and get in. It takes time to get in the car with a baby.

After I was in the car, I looked over and he had walked up to the man sitting on the steps. The man pulled something out of his backpack. He exchanged it for the crumpled paper bag. And the two parted ways as I drove off.

It could very well not have been heroin. But it was something. It wouldn't be a gamble to say that something exchanged between them was the kind of thing you exchange when you are out of ways to metabolize your trauma. When the harm done to your body is outweighed by the pain you feel from how life has bloodied your soul and your story.

And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe my eyes were a little too colored by the stories I've seen here in my neighborhood. Maybe it was just something completely innocent that happened to look odd. But, even if my interpretation of this interaction is off, I know things like what I thought I saw were happening in my neighborhood. At that moment. Just maybe not at that place.

Heroin.

Good Friday.

Good Lord.

Good Lord it is Friday in Everett. Let Sunday come. And let me join in its coming.

This is a story. It's not a real story. It's a collection of bits of real stories. It's inspired by how I've seen things play out or not play out in the lives of neighbors. It's not a real story. But it probably is pretty close to a real story from a person I just haven't met yet. It's what poverty and addiction can look like in our country.

Josh felt like he had it all. His job was hard on him. There wasn't much job security. It didn't pay enough to cover the bills. The hours were unreliable. But, he had a brand new son that made the hard work, low pay, and too-tiny apartment worth it. WIC helped with food. So, while things were tight, his son got the nutrition he needed and that was good enough.

His relationship with his son's mom was getting a little rocky, like most do in the first year of becoming parents. Working so hard for not quite enough, living in a small space, trying to co-parent when you're just learning to parent. It's not easy. But everything was still manageable. Hard, but manageable. And in that way, Josh still felt like he had it all.

In one possible reality, Josh would sometimes join me at the public library for story time with his baby. Our kids would play together. Fight a little. Mainly learn together. As Liv does, she would probably try to kiss him. She like to kiss strangers right now... 
I would be able to tell he and I lived very different lives. But he'd be my neighbor who didn't get the work he needed that day and so took his kid to the library in hopes he might have a different future or at least that he'd have a special morning with Daddy. Our kids would grow up together. They'd go to school together. I'd talk to Josh at talent shows and science fairs. We might have very little in common, but he'd be someone I value as he seeks the best for one of Liv's little friends.

But in another possible reality, the unthinkable - but too common - happens: one night, his son just stops breathing. Maybe Josh swaddled him wrong. Maybe he left a stuffed animal in the bedside co-sleeper when he himself was just too tired to stay on top of it all. Maybe nothing odd happened. Sometimes babies just stop breathing. It's rare enough that most of us don't have to deal with it, but common enough every parent dreads it. And it happens to Josh.

The crushing depression is too much for him. Josh begins to drink a little more. His sons mother can't deal with seeing their son's face in his. His family can't deal with him being so tied up in his own grief that he can't engage theirs. They are all suffering and are out of energy to deal with his drinking. As is all too common, his family is torn apart in the wake of the loss of that sweet little boy.

By now, he'd lose his job. He can't function after losing his son, and his hourly low wage job isn't exactly the kind of work environment that fights for people when they slip into the dark night.

No job. No home. Rejected by family. Lost his child. Trauma upon trauma. Josh just needs somewhere to take the grief.

He can't afford counseling. He doesn't have a TV to turn on and zone out. He can't go buy a pulled pork sandwich to numb the pain. He doesn't have a gym membership to try to literally lift it away for a moment. He can't even afford to go to the bar with old friends and drink the pain away in comfort. Instead, he huddles behind a convenience store with cheap booze. And soon that isn't enough. The trauma is snowballing and the drinking can't contain it.

In addition to his grief, he feels shame. In addition to his grief and shame, he feels pain. His feet hurt from walking in old shoes and wet socks everywhere. He develops these blisters that just swallow his whole foot. His back hurts from carrying everything he has on his back. His bones hurt from sleep deprivation because he can't find a safe quiet place to sleep without business owners or police waking him up and telling him to move on. Again, trauma upon trauma upon trauma.

And there is heroin. Right there. He has no one to stay clean for. He has no way to stop the hurt. His neighbors gave him dirty looks making it clear that his mere existence was unacceptable. So, when someone offers him a break from the pain, he says yes. Yes is the only syllable that makes sense. In the face of such a collection of trauma, heroin makes sense. He says yes. And he feels the first moment of relief since his son left him.

And then he needed more. And he still needs more. And his neighbors hate him for it. 

And in the one reality, he and I cross paths because of our kids. I admire the doting dad.
 
In the other reality, I try to hide it when I walk past him with Liv, but I cringe a little, hoping he's not volatile, hoping Liv doesn't ask questions about why he's there and why he's staring so blankly. I try to hide it. I want him to feel welcome. But my subconscious is louder than my conscience.  His existence - at best - makes me uncomfortable with my own privilege and luck. What might have happened to me and my husband if we had tried to live through the loss of a child and just not made it?

In one reality, I see him as a neighbor. In the other, a nuisance. But in both realities, he is my neighbor. And if my Christianity is worth the breath I proclaim it with, I ought to treat him like a sibling.

These neighbors of ours, they all have stories of how they end up sitting on the street and/or on heroin. For a lot of them, it is a series of mishaps. For some it's a series of bad choices. And for some, it's one really tragic event that unravels the entire thing. The one thing they all have in common is trauma. Trauma big enough - and resources to metabolize it small enough - that saying yes to heroin makes total sense.

Often, there's not a lot we can do to keep them from getting there. There may not even be much we can do once they are there. But we can choose whether we will be a part of the story of their trauma or the story of their health. 

Will we sit with them and listen? Will we smile and greet them as neighbors? Will we teach our children to greet them as neighbors? Or will we avoid eye contact? Will we know their names or call them names? Will we compare them to animals and to trash? Or will we compare them to the God in whose image they were fashioned? Will we chastise those who reach out to them and offer hospitality or will we share our resources with those seeking to love them well? Will we get angry that they pee outside or will we ask where they can safely pee?

Will we vote for measures that lean into their sobriety? Will we vote for housing and aid? Will we vote for WIC and health care that might help keep their kiddos alive and well?

Are we a part of health or harm?
We might not get to choose which reality plays out for Josh.
But we do get to choose, every day and every moment, what kind of neighbor we are to him - no matter what happens in his life.

I had to write out everything I believe in 20 pages or less (it was not less and was barely not more) in order to get ordained.
A few folks have asked to read it.
A few folks who have read it have said I should get it published and all the folks should read it.
I'm not going to get it published, but I'll share it here.

If a 20 page theology paper sounds painful, I'll just add that the feedback I've gotten is that is a quick, fun read and approachable for folks who aren't into theology.

Basically, I talk about what it means to be a person living in the Jesus story in 2016.

Check it out!

​In the beginning of all things planet earth, whenever that was. (Some think it was relatively recently. Others believe it was nearly forever ago. I don’t think it matters a ton for how we live in our daily lives when it happened but that it happened.) In the beginning of all things planet earth, whenever that was, the God who is love decided to make stuff. And God made a lot of stuff. God made all the stuff. And at each step along that journey of making stuff, God sat back. Surveyed the scene. Allowed a smile to creep across their face. Bounced a little with a gentle chuckle. And, like Bob Ross with a happy little tree, enjoyed what they made. They said: “This. This is good.” But the Hebrew word there is more than just good. It is delight. God sat back and said: “This stuff I made, it is delightful!”

And after a while, God decided it was time for the great crescendo of this building song of creation. God said: “Let’s make something in our image. And then, let’s ask them to join in the work of making more delightful stuff.” So God made us. And this time, good was too small a word. Delightful was too weak a thought. God said, “All of this I’ve made, now it is very good. All the stuff is good. It is not just delightful, it is jam packed with delight.” God theirself was overwhelmed with the embarrassing I-can’t-help-but-laugh kind of delight. God looked at us like Ron Swanson at Lil’ Sebastian and giggled with glee.

It’s not so much that God did something to bless this creation - it’s that God made it blessed. And God invited us into that work of making and blessing.

And...gosh...we just made it all so complicated.
And as much as we spread delight, we also spread harm. And so often the harm and delight are tied together light a rat king - seemingly inextricable from each other. So maybe we retreat to the wilderness: Let’s get to a place we complicated people haven’t touched to reconnect to delight. And that’s perfectly fine.

But! there is delight in our streets.
There is sacredness in our homes.
There is that of the divine in each of our neighbors even as there is potentially harm in each of our neighbors.
Here, in the mess we make of things, there is still delight.
We are still, at our created core, very delightful.
And the things we make, there is something of God’s delight hidden in there like Waldo: Once we find it, we can’t unsee it.

Recently, I found my old Waldo books. They are grimy, as people tend to make things. The pages are broken, as people tend to make things. But there’s still Waldo hiding in there. The crappy thing, though, is that someone (probably my know-it-all nine-year-old self) went and circled all the Waldo’s with a bright red crayon so now there’s no searching for Waldo. He’s just there. Obviously there. Unmistakably there.

At Our Common Table this summer, we want to be that jerk (my know-it-all nine-year-old self) who took your Waldo book and circled all the Waldo’s with a bright red crayon. We want to call out delight in our neighborhood and in our neighbors. And we believe that once we name this delight, this goodness, this blessedness, you’ll not be able to unsee it. We believe that when we see our sidewalks as holy, it will change the way we walk about town. We believe that when we see our children as little miracles, it will change the way we interact with them. We believe that when we name that our tools and our jobs are blessed it will alter the way we use them to weave goodness and co-author this story of delight alongside God!

This summer, we are going to bless all the stuff!
And this is not to say we will take things that are somehow not blessed or in need of blessing and make them blessed. This is to say we are going to proclaim the blessedness - the delight - that already lives here. We are going to celebrate it. And we are going to invite ourselves and our neighbors to live with all the stuff and to use all the stuff and to be part of all the stuff in a way that says: Yes. Every corner of this life is holy. My bike is holy. This broken piece of sidewalk is holy. My backpack that carries my tools for working in this world is holy. My art supplies or instruments are holy. It’s all holy. All blessed. All delightful!

And our literally God-given task is to live in this delight and to playfully create more delight.

Just imagine what a neighborhood could look like when all her inhabitants see their shoes and streets and computers and iphones and toys and children as brimful of delight. As blessed. As holy things meant to bless others in a cascade of playful blessing being poured out on us. Imagine if we really believe all the stuff was blessed. Imagine if we looked at all we’ve been given as God does: like Ron Swanson looking at Lil’ Sebastian.

We hope you’ll join us this summer in North Everett as we bless all the stuff.

It will be a playful season. It will be a joyful, dreaming season. It will be a blessed season. And, no matter who you are or what you believe about God, the world, our neighborhood….no matter any of that, we’d love to have you along for the journey of declaring this place and these people we live in and with as blessed!

Here's the schedule. Join us if and when you can! All are welcome!
june 19: blessing the sidewalks
june 26: blessing electronics
july 3: blessing our need for each other: an interdependence day party
july 10: blessing children
july 17: blessing bayside: a neighborhood prayer labyrinth
july 24: blessing port gardner: a neighborhood prayer labyrinth
july 31: blessing books and toys.
august 7: blessing the things we do with our lives.
august 14: blessing bikes.
august 21: blessing backpacks.
august 28: blessing our tools (tools, art supplies, instruments, gardening implements etc.)

Shame is a thief, lurking in the darkness around every corner. Casing your soul like two burglars in a 1990's Macaulay Culkin flick. Shame keeps a constant watch for signs that the riches of your soul and your joy are ripe for the plundering. 
And if shame is a burglar casing the joint, the days after childbirth is Christmas season. Homes stocked with gifts and light - all the while being vulnerable to shame's stealthy penetration.

And I want to share that there was a Christmas season robbery as little Liv finally arrived and joined us in the world.

I am not producing much breastmilk.

I have been planning on breaskmilk exclusively throughout the first year and continuing as a time of bonding and source of nigh magical nutrition for this little girl throughout her first years. I've been planning on that since before I knew she was coming. 

And, my body just isn't making it happen.

I am making so little that she is meeting most of her nutritional needs through formula.

Let's stop here to say: If you are about to comment and give me advice on increasing my supply, let me say: Thank you so much for caring! ...and let me also say: I've already heard it. Three lactation consultants. Research. Research. Research. Friends. Websites. Wives tales. I'm drinking stout (I don't even like beer). Oatmeal for breakfast religiously. Lactation cookies so filled with lactation goodies that they taste terrible. So many herbs I can't remember them all. Mother's Milk tea. Pumping. Water. Everything except de-stressing and getting rest - which, after all that other stuff, I'd have no idea how to do...So, thanks for wanting to share your wisdom on how to potentially fix the problem, but I'm on it...and it's just not making much of a difference.

Ok, back to the story:

After spending my pregnancy avoiding GMO's and non-organic foods and chemicals used in washing them or producing them or keeping little pests off of them, after spending my pregnancy eating as healthy as I could and avoiding corn and sugar. After working so hard to feed this kiddo only the good stuff while she was inside, I was thrown when I suddenly lost control of what she's eating. 

We bought an organic non GMO formula. But it turns out there are little loop holes and the organic non GMO stuff you can buy at your average grocery store is filled with neurotoxins and sneaks in GMO's through some unregulated ingredients.

So, I began to research what is the best thing I can do for this kiddo since my body doesn't want to do what is best for this kiddo. And I found some answers as I researched. But mainly what I found was shame.

Every website began with something to the tune of: "Any mother that is feeding her infant formula is doing her baby a great disservice. But if you insist, here's what we think is best." Ultimately, we ended up going with an organic non GMO hydrolized formula that is really expensive. We're having to reimagine our budget to keep this 9lb person fed. I'm looking for extra work to afford this stuff. But it's the best I can do while feeding her formula.

And get this: even this pricey formula shames moms who use it. It has a note on the back of the package explaining that this is toddler formula. It is not for infants. Nutritionally, it is fine for infants. Excellent even. But it is for toddlers. Why? Because the company believes infants should only have breastmilk. Even if you are feeding your infant this pricey formula, the mere act of feeding your child formula is a moral failure that will cost your child greatly.

She is more likely to die of SIDS. She is more likely to develop diabetes or heart disease. She is less likely to excel academically. She may have behavior problems. Essentially, my malfunctioning body has entirely screwed this little innocent person. And website after website reminds me of that. And if I just want to know what the best possible plan B is, no one wants to tell me that without telling me how terrible any plan B is for my baby - how much harm Liv is receiving because plan B is our only option.

I managed to navigate the hormonal readjustment of the postpartum period just fine. No crying spells. No depression. But the formula shaming got me. I often wept over what my body is costing my child. It is not fair to her. I have failed her. Already I am a terrible mom and I've barely done anything in relationship to her.

To help her get as much breastmilk as possible I'm using this difficult system of supplementing at the breast. It means I have little plastic bags and syringes and tubes that I have to use to fool her into sucking both my breast and formula at once. And there is this complicated multi-step process to prep and then to wash these pieces. And we add in probiotics because formulas are still experimenting with how to add probiotics and we still care about her gut health even if the options haven't been developed yet.

It is messy. Time consuming. It means I have to be awake and cleaning implements at each of her overnight feedings. It means I lose an extra hour of possible sleep time at each of her feedings. It means that my feminist soul has to chose between: A) Not going out in public around a feeding time (aka every 2-3 hours aka not go in public at all),  B) Covering up when feeding her and feeding into the system that shames moms who don't cover up, or C) Feed her that way in public and deal with strangers gawking or inquiring at why I'm shoving a tube into my daughter's mouth while feeding her. Then, if I do feed her in public, I have to find a place to clean and prepare and re-clean all these pieces of the exhausting and complicated puzzle.

I am tired. I am always working to get her every drop of breastmilk that I can. And I am exhausted.

...And I am ashamed as I do all of this. Ashamed of my body. Ashamed of being a mom who is already letting my kid down.

And I hope as you've journeyed to this point of the story with me, you are reaching the conclusion I finally came to last weekend: I am the last person that should be ashamed about feeding my kid. I should be proud. I am a warrior for her. I am fighting and giving all I have to provide the very best for her. I do more work to get her the best possible nutrition than any mom I know right now. And I've been ashamed of it? No. No more. If shame is a burglar and I am vulnerably at home alone, shame is getting an iron in the face!

And yet, I spent her first five weeks racked with shame that I am letting her down. I slinked away from time I could have spent staring into her beautiful eyes to weep in the bedroom curled up not with my fresh baby but with the staleness of shame cuddled up like an old blanket that needs to be tossed out as the rubbish it is.

As I've found courage to share this story with others, what I've found is that almost no one has a story of easy breastfeeding. Almost everyone has a story of frustration compounded by shame around the act of doing our best to feed our kids. 

And I have this sneaking feeling that this paralyzing shame while doing the best I can is just the beginning in this world of parenting. And it's just got to stop. More than any formula, introducing my baby to this cycle of shame will do her mountains of harm.

So I share this for a few reasons:
1) If you are a mom and your breastfeeding (or not) journey is difficult and shame inducing. Pause. Get some perspective. Realize that you are fighting for the best for your baby and you should be proud of it. Expel shame with all the creativity and tenacity of a young Macaulay Culkin!

2) If you know a parent of a young one, for Christ's literal sake, support them. Encourage them. And don't create spaces for shame. "Why aren't you breastfeeding?" is never a helpful question. "You know what I would do..." is almost never a helpful phrase. "Have you tried..." when someone hasn't asked for advice is usually pretty harmful. Instead, let's try on: "Knowing you, I bet you are doing the best possible thing and you should be proud of yourself."

3) Even if you aren't a mom and you somehow don't know any parents, shame is still lurking around your neighborhood. And it does nothing good. We need to stand up to it together and steal back those moments where we hide in corners clutching our shame when life and lightness and relationship is calling us out to play.

Whatever places we find that despicable thief - in ourselves, in our families, neighborhoods, churches, schools - we need to booby trap and give shame an iron in the face and burned off hair and all the torture of a Home Alone franchise film until it runs away and frees us to come out and play in all that light and connection that God created us for.