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.

Our baby is late. Apparently she/ze/he takes after me more than Luke. Maybe the kiddo is working on an art project in there and completely forgot it's March already. We'll see.

Caveat (because I know it's needed based on all the comments I get in response to almost anything I say these days): Yes. I know the baby is not late. I know babies come when they are supposed to. I know 40 weeks is arbitrary. I know this. Don't worry. 

Just as I got to experience pregnancy during Advent and have that nourishing meeting of metaphor and reality, I guess in Lent I get to experience the meeting of metaphor and reality waiting and wander (taking looong walks every day to help encourage kiddo to come). Waiting is hard. Waiting for something you can't see is hard. Waiting for the things you most want in the world but can just barely believe in is hard. Waiting and wondering if it's okay. Waiting and feeling like there is nothing you can do about the wait. Waiting and knowing there is little you can do for this yet-unborn thing other than take a prenatal and wander around the neighborhood...it's hard work this waiting thing.

We rehearse. We practice breathing. Put together a play list - or two playlists: One with the slower more mature music - soothing - I listen to now that I'm older. One with the loud angsty punk rock from when I was younger that I'm discovering I still kind of prefer but that might not be best for getting through labor. Watch videos about helping baby cope with new realities. Read books. Pack and re-pack bags. Write up a 6 page - I kid you not - 6 page small font birth plan that answers questions about our preferences in almost every situation. Buy more clothes for this kid even though we have enough. Luke has a sticky note on his desk with a todo list for early labor. We rehearse and we get ready. But ultimately, we just wait.

And unfortunately, everyone has advice for the wait. And a lot of people have judgement for the wait. Here's a sample of things I've heard or experienced in the three days since my due date:

• EVERYONE I see asking: Weren't you due Sunday? Why hasn't the baby come?
• If I respond with: I know! I'm ready to be done and meet this little one! I get: "Oh, let the little one stay in there as long as they need. You can't rush them. Be patient. I loved being pregnant! Don't induce. You're not thinking of inducing are you? DON'T INDUCE!"
• If I respond with: We'll see. The baby will come when the baby comes. I'm trying not to worry about it. I get: "Well, I mean, you'll have to do something at some point. Have you thought about inducing. You should induce. Ask your midwife about induction! Let me tell you the story of the horrible thing that happened to my cousin's cousin when the baby stayed in too long..."
• Somehow reaching the 40 weeks mark has lifted any pretenses that my body is mine and now it's open season to touch my stomach without asking. One woman I had never met even stepped closer when she touched my stomach and I stepped back.
• I've heard that I should eat spicy food, go for a long walk, get some exercise (note: I've exercised almost every day of this pregnancy. Ask the folks at the Y. They can't believe I'm still there every day). I've heard that I should have sex. Seriously, when else will acquaintances and neighbors tell a pastor she should go have sex?!
• I've heard: "Baby still hasn't dropped"
• And the next person: "Baby's definitely dropped. It will be soon."

And it goes on.

Mostly, I'm learning to laugh at all of this. But also, I'm learning to become an extraverted hermit and stay home. Still, even at home, I actually get a lot of emails asking if the baby has come yet and suggesting various means to coax the kiddo.

I'm digressing. I hope you can laugh along with that list. But it's a digression.

The point is: waiting is hard. And when you are waiting, you are in this vulnerable space. This liminal space. And some neighbors walk well with you in that space. And some neighbors are so excited for what is next for you that they can't hold back from dispensing advice and sometimes judgement. 

This is true for 40 weeks + 3 days pregnancy. But it's also true for a job search. For applying to schools. For changing careers. For looking for a long term home. For waiting to hear about that dream job. For waiting to know what is that next thing that God is calling you to. For...waiting....for...God.

Maybe God is silent in a season and you are waiting to know if you can keep following a deity you can neither see nor hear.
Maybe God is softly calling you to something new but you have no idea what on earth it might be.
Maybe God is just painfully slow in bringing that Kingdom of liberating love and justice that we're all doing our best to wait patiently for. But we've been waiting for millennia and if there was some way to induce, we'd be at the midwife right now asking for the strongest dose of pitocin ever!

And maybe when friends, family, church community, neighbors etc hear us say "God is silent" or "I just can't go to church right now." ...maybe they are similar to the never-ending panel of advice givers I encounter around every corner. Where someone asks me if I've tried spicy food, they might say: "Well, have you tried x church? It's actually a good one." Or where someone tells me under no circumstances to induce they might say: "Why would you go to church anyway? God's silent because God's not there." Or where someone insists I should induce: "Just go to church. Just read your Bible. You're not waiting for a God who is a no show - you're just not doing the right things."

Or, as we're waiting for the fullness of God's Kingdom of liberating love and justice for all people and all things - of course we actively wait! of course we work toward it! - but it can be tempting for us and for those around us to say that if we worked hard enough, we'd see it. 

Like this baby, we cannot coax God and God's Kingdom. We can prepare the best and easiest path and prepare to usher it more and more into existence. But like this baby, God decides when God and God's Kingdom comes and we will be utterly surprised when the long awaited birth finally comes.

So, we rehearse love and justice. We research it. We debate and give advice to others about what love and justice means in the Jesus story. We fight over what it is. We write up birth plans for love and justice. We do everything we can to coax it into it's fullest coming. We watch for every little sign that there might be a contraction and love and justice might just be ready to be born. We worry that is is not coming. That something went wrong an it is stillborn. We wonder if we did something wrong and harmed it an now it's lost to us amid a broken system marked more by hate, greed, and misdirected best intentions. Like a stranger with an expectant mother, we put our hand on this pregnant earth and even if she pulls away, we step in and press in further hoping against hope to feel a little kick and know that, even if it's late, this Kingdom of liberating love and justice we've been waiting for for 2000 years is coming!

Waiting is hard. 

At our church, Our Common Table, we're slowing down with some more simple liturgy and some lectio divina this season. In part because our pastors are supposed to have a kid...last Sunday! But in part because it's what we need in Lent. To slow down. Listen deeply. Sit in a small room together on some uncomfortable couches and just listen and be together. In the waiting room. As we twiddle our collective hopes about like anxious thumbs and support one another in the wait.

Love and justice are coming. Resurrection is coming. Alleluias are coming. This baby is coming. And the wait feels impossible. But there is beauty in the wait when we can wait and listen together.

We definitely bit off more than we can chew.

As a kid, I always got made fun of for eating too slow. At my cousin's house, she would chide me for being half way done long after everyone else was done. I have memories of crying at the dinner table because everyone else was gone and I was still eating. Aaaand I almost never finished what I put on my plate. Mom said she should send the food to kids in China who would be grateful enough to eat it all. Even as a kid, I knew that's not how it works...still, I did feel bad.
​But it all looked so good though! I wanted to try all of it! And I hadn't heard of tapas yet, so the portions I scooped up were just too big. More than I could chew.

And, I think that kid still lives inside me. I can usually finish my food in a timely manner now. But I like to bite off more than I can chew. Especially when it comes to seeking God's Kingdom of liberating love and justice for all people and all things. There are no tapas in that business. Full plates of so much goodness! More than I can chew.

And I could go off on a tangent about faith and why we should always bite off more Kingdom work than we can chew because it's God's work not ours. But, I'll save that rant for another day.

What I want to say right now is that Our Common Table has gloriously bit off more than we can chew. 

When Luke and I arrived in Everett a little over a year ago to begin this work, we had a goal to listen, listen and then listen some more. We wanted to get to know Everett. We wanted to hear the the Spirit at work in Everett calling like the seals and gulls out on the Sound. We wanted to listen deeply for that space where our passions, gifts, and hopes met with the needs and dreams of this wonderful neighborhood here in North Everett.

Over and over and over again we heard: there needs to be a safe space for neighbors experiencing houselessness to spend their days.

So, we took that step of faith and started Our Common Ground back in November - with it's central ministry being a hospitality space for neighbors experiencing poverty, addiction, and mental (un)health. The first few days, just a few folks wandered in. We began to wonder if we heard the need wrong. Then a few became 10 or so. Then, within a month it was more like 40. And now at 3 months, we're averaging between 50-60 and over the course of a week seeing a quarter of the folks experiencing houselessness in Snohomish County.

And it is wonderful! We are building relationships. We are listening to stories. We are seeing people reach out to try and get clean. We are facilitating job searches. There are ups and downs every day. But on the whole, amazing things happen in this space. (You can read Our Common Table's March newsletter for two beautiful stories)

And, we bit off more than we can chew.

We need your help. We are growing our volunteer base and that is exciting! The best part is hearing from volunteers how easy and rewarding it is to be in the space. 

But really, we need your help in building our financial capacity. Specifically, we are currently launching a pledge drive to cover our rent. It's a modest amount: $810/month. Considering all it gives, this is $810/month stretched deep and wide to bless and welcome neighbors who don't often receive welcome.

Would you consider pledging toward this monthly amount?

There are heaps of goodness on our plates at Our Common Table and Our Common Ground. And it's tempting to become that little girl again, crying at the table as I struggle to finish my meal after everyone else has left the table. But, instead, I want to invite you to sit at the table and join us in the work of devouring this huuuuge plate of goodness we've bit off for ourselves.

Bottom line: We know this is what we are called to do. And, we know we can't do it without your help. Such is the Kingdom. It takes all of us together...and not one little girl crying at her overstocked plate.

You can give online here (or here if you are not confident about giving to a church and want to give directly to Our Common Ground).
Or by check by including a note about your pledge and mailing them to:
Our Common Table
2110 Grand Ave #1
Everett, WA 98201

And before you go, I'd like to invite you to comment on this post...how are you biting off more than you can chew in the name of God's liberating love and justice and how can we love and support you in your overwhelming plate of goodness?

I am standing barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. Cooking. Cleaning. Making "lactation" cookies to freeze so I can better nourish our kiddo in the weeks to come. And meanwhile, Luke got up early and went to work where he is a pastor.
I am listening to old school pedro the lion which reminds me of the old days going to church shows.
...Which reminds me of the old days going to a complementarian church. (as opposed to egalitarian)
...Which reminds me of the old days of being told that who my mom was as a woman - because she worked outside of the home (teaching children for Christ's [literal] sake!) - and who I was as a woman (independent, intelligent, feeling called to ministry) was wrong. (I remember one day, when I was maybe six??, being told by a kid at church that my mom was one of those bad feminists - just because she had a job...as an elementary school teacher).
And what would be right for both of us as women might be standing barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. Cooking. Cleaning. Taking care of kids while my husband is out working - possibly as a pastor. (Surely I am not called to ministry, but maybe I've misinterpreted God's Spirit and I am called to marry a pastor. ...actual verbatim quote from the first time I told someone at church I felt called to ministry: "That's either a call from the devil or a call to marry a pastor.")

Standing here. Excited for the arrival of our first child. Preparing, resting up for the sleepless nights. ...On the one hand, I'm exactly where I want to be.
On the other hand, I am overwhelmed with the terrible feeling that my childhood pastor would be happy about this. And I am not happy about that.

I did the Christian sort-of-dating-sort-of-not-dating thing with one man while I was in school to become a pastor. He told me that I should be a stay at home mom of many children. When I told him I didn't want that for myself, he told me, again, verbatim: "That's just because you've been brain washed by the liberals." A different time when I told him that I enjoy cooking and sewing as creative outlets, he said: "See, you're not so bad." I wish that was a joke. If it was, he has the driest sense of humor of anyone I've known. And I spent two months in Ireland...

And again, in seminary, a man in the counseling program told me that he was probably borderline pathologically feminine as he pursued that degree. And that I was boderline pathologically masculine as I pursued a Master of Divinity and wore punk rock band t-shirts and dickies.

A question I've had to ask over and over and over again is: "What does it mean for me to follow this calling on my life and be a woman?" And just finally in this last decade - maybe more like eight years - I've found the space to say: "Oh, it means to be me. That's all."

As I've been a pastor, an outspoken seeker of justice, independent - and yet interdependent in a marriage I love - strong willed, and yet feminine, people have assumed, without ever asking, that I don't want kids. Not people who really know me. People who really know me know I love children. I want to be a mom. I've wanted to for a long time. I've dreamed of new and innovative ways of loving kids into the glory of God's kingdom of liberating love and justice for all people and all things...But people who don't really know me have assumed, without asking, that I must be one of those women who doesn't want kids. (Not that there's anything wrong with that...it's just not me. It's a stereotype that I apparently resembled and so all curiosity was lost to assumption.)

And now, here I am, happily barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. (One time in college Mark Driscoll told me this is where I belong...I don't like being where Driscoll thinks I belong.)

This whole becoming a mother thing has been so complicated for me...
Mainly, I am excited. I can't wait. I know this is going to be one of the biggest and best adventures of my life. I can't wait to raise up a kiddo in a broader and more welcoming incarnation of the Jesus way than I had. I can't wait to raise up a kiddo to love Jesus and neighbors. I can't wait to be a mom.
And then there's this other side of this adventure. Every time someone from those old days of old school pedro the lion, church shows, and shame for pursing my calling congratulates me, I feel my back go stiff. My walls go up. And I am overcome with a deep seeded refusal to be defined by this new role. 

That picture of what it means to be a woman didn't fit me as a child or adolescent. And it surely doesn't fit me now. Every time I get congratulations from someone from that world, I want to say: "I'm still a pastor. I still believe in the melding of social and spoken Gospels. I'm still leading an open and affirming congregation. I still spend my mornings with folks living on the margins blessing them by being a pastor who lets a cuss word fly here or there. If I was ever 'brainwashed by the liberals,' I'm still quite happily drinking that kool aid - only it's not kool aid, it's really good wine, the stuff I was told was wrong to drink even though one of the first things Jesus did was make some really good wine."
I want to tell them: "Yes, we can connect over parenthood. But no, I have not become who you wanted me to be. Instead, I've become who Yahweh is daily crafting me to be and it never has and never will fit the molds you hoped to stuff me into."

Finding what it means for me to a woman, a pastor, one who is passionate about justice, a wife...and now a mom, has been such a messy journey as all the old judgement and prescribed identity that never fit me surfaces.
And every day of my early maternity leave, when Luke gets up early, kisses me goodbye, and goes to work as a pastor... and I get to the work of caring and preparing for this kiddo, it all comes back and I spend my days in meditative ambivalence about this new journey I am so grateful for but that stirs up all my old church wounds. And sometimes, I'm just fucking furious that those wounds live here with me as I wait for this new life to begin!

And all I can do is pause and listen to the small voice that whispers to my barefoot, pregnant, angsty self: "Behold, I am making all things new."

PS, in addition to making lactation cookies today, I took some pink baby clothes (no that doesn't mean we're having a girl) and wrote feminist quotes on them. As bell hooks says: "Feminism is for everyone."