Hide it under a bushel – NO!

Faith is defined as “a belief that is not based on proof”. So why does everyone want to argue about faith. In the end I suppose I could just say…well faith is about my belief and I don’t need to prove anything, but that just feels so…not fair. Not fair to me to win the argument in such a “less than dramatic” fashion and not fair to the person with whom I am disagreeing not to have the ability to engage me in a lively discussion.

Over the last two days I have heard some incredibly compelling stories on NPR. (Okay, really that is every single day – but that is for another post. I once did a keynote on “The Seven Things I learned on NPR this Week”). Yesterday there was a interview with a Republican journalist who posited that we simply don’t know or want to know how to have really disagreeable dialogue, and that without it, there is never really any forward movement (that might have been the single most watered down version of that interview…but it is my take away and my blog post). I was thinking about how we want to just “agree to disagree” or we say “It is your right to have your opinion”. We don’t want to engage in that conversation that might get messy.

This morning the topic was the National Day of Prayer. Did you know it was today? Well anyway there is only one atheist in Congress (at least only one brave enough to put on that label – Wikipedia says 28). Representative Pete Stark wants us to think about reason today, rather than prayer. There is a National Day of Reason today – complete with rallies, service and social gatherings. This while President Obama said…”I call upon individuals of all faiths to pray for guidance, grace, and protection for our great Nation as we address the challenges of our time.”.

Is there a point to this blog? When I first tweeted that I was going to write about my faith, I received many messages of support that encouraged me to do so. Now I am hesitant. Perhaps because of my first sentence…my faith is a belief not based on proof. My faith is mine, and what if I don’t want to share it (which of course would make my Sunday School teachers balk- remember “Hide it under a bushel – NO”)

But I often do…hide it under a bushel. I am afraid to be bold about my faith, afraid that someone will label me as being on the “right” – since doesn’t it seem like we only hear about evangelicals on the right, only hear that the preachers of the mega churches talk to their congregations about politics and voting, only hear that Christians everywhere support…”insert your favorite thing that you don’t support”. I seem to be afraid to say that I am a Christian because the Christians I hear about on TV or read about in the paper don’t seem to support the things I support (oh that was a very sweeping generalization…believe me I know)

My son has 4 tattoos. Angel wings on his back, the entire verse of 1 Peter 4:8 on his chest, and on his inner wrists “Faith” and” Psalm 56:3”. I love what all of these stand for as he tells me his reasoning for permanently marking his body, and yet I worry that in a job interview that some “left-leaning” (What the hell does that even mean really?) interviewer will see the wrists and wonder if he is a conservative right-wing fanatic. Yes I said that. And that is my confession. I worry that I will be lumped with people who do not share my faith beliefs simply by expressing that I am faithful. Lutherans are not really known for being the bold, out there sort of Christians.

My faith, what I believe is complicated and probably does not make sense to anyone but me. All people are innately good. My body is my own and I can make decisions about it. Prayer absolutely changes everything. You are free to love anyone you want to love – because you were born to love your way and I was born to love my way. God is a man and a woman and a child and a community. Jesus is God’s son and did die a horrible death so that I can be forgiven. Because I am forgiven I must forgive. I should not judge (oh this one is so very hard for me), and I should not hate. I am supposed to be open to lots of different opinions but honestly some are easier than others. I am supposed to bring others to faith – but I don’t know how to do that well considering the previous sentence. The death penalty has no place in my faith. Neither does restricting your right to marry, or your right to dance, play cards or engage in sexual activity before you are married (okay, I do have kids and that one gives me pause sometimes, because young people today seem to engage in sex as if they are going bowling…as if it is an activity and not an intimate sharing of your soul – again, perhaps another post for another day). My faith is manifested in singing loudly, gardening with my father, holding hands as we pray before meals, teaching confirmation class to young people, doing the work that I do with young adults. All this is my faith in action. I do believe in heaven…I just don’t know what or where it is. I don’t know who will be there and who won’t be there, but I have faith that all those I love will be waiting for me. I believe that all faithful should gather and pray and be joyful together. I do this on Sunday but that doesn’t mean you have to. I take communion regularly and believe the words “Do this in remembrance of me”. I worry that my daughter says she does not believe. The Bible was written a very long time ago and has deep relevance for us now, but I also believe that those who wrote it could not know the times now and so it is our obligation to be faithful in a new way.

I admit to having a hard time associating myself with Christians who believe radically differently than me. That alone makes me feel like a bad Christian. After all, didn’t Jesus hang with the people that none of us would hang with if someone was watching? So how do I reconcile this? That is my struggle, that is my daily prayer, that is my faithful journey.

I Miss My Dad

The past two weeks on NPR there have been multiple stories about caring for aging parents. This morning, while driving to the office a woman was talking about caring for her mom and making the difficult decision to use a long term care facility vs. trying to care for her mom at home. Here I was, driving down Armitage and the tears just began flowing. By now, if you read my very rare blog posts you know that I have no issues sharing the hard stuff of life…so of course I immediately tweeted that I miss my dad. Since then I have received some wonderful DMs on twitter and even a few emails of support. I am so appreciative of the community I have built on social media.

My Dad turned 79 last month. He is not old. I keep saying that. He is not old. His father lived to be 101. He will be here for many more years. What I forget to say is that in many ways he is already gone. My father has dementia, probably Alzheimers. My grandpa lived with dementia for so many years. I cannot remember when he knew my name – he called all his granddaughters girlie. MY father was a college professor, published author, great orator, wonderful debator, grand gardener, and a deep thinker. He could whistle better than anyone I know. His voice carried in church and I loved sitting next to him and harmonizing. People tell me I am much like my Dad. I talk with my hands, have his facial expressions, believe passionately about so many things, love to challenge and break the rules, and have a deep faith in God.

My father cries more now. He calls to tell me he is proud of me. Then he calls me again and says the same thing. He tells me I am a good mom. He tells me he loves me. He can’t remember where Nate goes to school. He doesn’t get why Maddie is adopted. He is unable to place all the grandchildren with the right parent. He makes judgements he would never make before. He doesn’t know how to use a microwave anymore. The garden is not planted yet, and now someone else mows the grass. If there are too many people in a room he won’t speak and if he does not know where my mother is he gets distraught and is certain she has been kidnapped. He is more frequently silly and calls Mom “Toots”. My father was not a silly man, he did not have pet names for people.

I try to spend two afternoons a week with my parents. Mostly it is for my Mom – so she can have some conversation that does not begin with “Who is that?” “Why do we do that?” “How do I do that?” She deeply misses her deep thinking husband. She deeply missed their debates and disagreements. She won’t ask for help. She believes it is her responsiblity to take on all the care for him. She is the strongest woman I know. I hope I am like her too.

I miss my Dad. I miss him challenging me, yelling at me, telling me to be better, do better, love better, believe better. I miss his whistling and his singing. My dad still has a deep faith that he shares in prayer at our Sunday family dinners. When Maddie was in the hospital, he called me every day to tell me that God was with Maddie and had a plan and I should not worry so much. Faith is deep for him and it is the only thing that gets me through. I miss my Dad.

It is the LOVE that is the Thing

When I became a new parent for the first time I remember the overwhelming feeling of inadequacy that overcame my husband and me when we arrived home from the hospital. First time parents, 6 pound baby boy, all our family hundreds of miles away. What the heck were we thinking? This small child was 100% dependent on our ability to be certain he thrived. What if we screwed up? What if he needed something and we couldn’t figure out what it was? What if he did not thrive?

6 years and 4 surgeries later we decided we were ready to be parents again. Because my body said no to another pregnancy we made the decision to adopt. We walked into LSSI in January, completed paperwork in February, were finger printed and background checked in March, became foster parents in April and in May we received a phone call that someone wanted to meet us. I feel like this is where I need to subtitle the blog “do not expect results like this at home”. Everyone knows the process of adoption takes years, and here we were, meeting our birth mom in 5 months. In early July we were in the delivery room observing the birth of our daughter. Gratitude was the overwhelming feeling this time, a sense of “what did we do to get so lucky?”

I have two incredible children. Both are sensitive and loyal, both are funny as heck, and very, very talented…and being a parent is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

I am leading up to the thing. The thing that I don’t want to have to talk about. The thing that I need to talk about. The thing that defined my December.

I hospitalized my 15 year old – a psychiatric hospitalization. She said she would rather be dead than live with me. There I said it.

I don’t want to tell you her story; it is her story and hers to tell. I need to tell you my story. I need to tell you that I worry every single day, that I pray multiple times a day, that I have tried everything I can think of to make sure that my daughter understands how very loved and how very loveable she is.

It was 4am on Monday, December 11th and my husband and I were driving away from the hospital crying more tears than either of us thought we had and both of saying, “Oh my God, what did we just do? We have to go back and get her; this can’t be the right answer. She is only 15”. We did not sleep that night, we cried, and we got out of bed and we cried some more.

We could only talk to her for 5 minutes a day; we could only see her for one hour twice a week. She is 15.

Day 1 – A flurry of activity, we had to stay busy. We called doctors and insurance plans, we made copies, we went to her high school, we cried, we lamented, we argued, we cried some more. Praying, praying, praying . Our first visit was filled with stories of the unit.

Day 2 – Nothing. No one called us. No one. She is 15. No one could tell me if she was okay, was she eating, was she sleeping, was she okay. No visit. She is 15. More tears, more pain. Imagine hers. Praying some more.

Day 3 – A family meeting. Highs and lows, love and hate, laughter and tears. What is the plan? Who can tell us? Why aren’t we getting more information? Is there a diagnosis? When can she come home?

Day 4 – What can I do to shake things up? Who do I have to call to get someone to tell me something? Setting up appointments with a psychiatrist for post hospitalization. I called 37 phone numbers. They can see her in March, they can see her in April, they can’t see her at all. So many tears. I cannot be the reason she can’t come home, I cannot. Someone has to help me. An email to church and a contact is made. Thank you God. Thank you church family.

Day 5….

The days are not important. The tears are not important. The pain is not important. The hurt and the anger are not important. The bureaucracy is not important . The words are not important. It’s the love that is the thing. The love I have for this 15 year old that cannot be described. There are moments when she is in pain that I want to just scoop her up and hold her as closely as I can and tell her she is loved and that it is going to be okay.

Watching your child hurt is the worst pain imaginable. And when the hurt is disguised as anger and some of it is directed at you… the pain multiplies. You can do all the right things (I am sure I didn’t). You can say all the right things (I am sure I didn’t). The pain is still there. What happens next? When will it all feel better? When will I feel like I am a good parent? What could I have done differently?

I am a good mom. I know this intellectually but my heart did not get the message in December. In January I am learning one day at a time. It is the LOVE that is the thing.

October 18, 1978

33 years ago, my family was changed in a moment of sexual violence that you only read about in the papers. We all know the statistics about rape. Somewhere in America, a women is raped every two minutes, according to the U.S. Department of Justice. One in four women are victims of rape or attempted rape, 84% of those women knew their attacker, 57% of the rapes have happened while on dates. About 42% of the victims told no one, 38 % of the women raped are between the ages of 14-17. 75% of men and 55% of the women involved in date rape had been drinking or taking drugs before the attack occurred.

My sister was 16 years old at the time. It was the last of a string of lovely fall days and instead of taking the ride offered to her, she opted to walk home from work. She was not in the 84%. Her rape took place at the hands of a stranger, in the forest preserve where he dragged her off the busy street with no one paying attention. He raped her multiple times and told her not to tell anyone because he knew where she lived. She walked home when he was done with her. Her rape was reported in the newspaper – the last reported rape of the “Jogging Rapist”.

Her rape was her first sexual experience. It was the first time that she experienced fear, and was the last time she ever prayed “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”. Her rape forever changed my family. She was the happy one, the only one who could ‘defy’ my father and have him laugh about it. She did not take life seriously, she was always happy and smiling. 33 years later I rarely hear her laugh, her smiles come for her children only.

I was 20 years old at the time and attending college at Loyola University. My parents called me very early the next morning, and while I have no memory of this my roommates tell me that I was destructive in the room. I only remember crying. My brother was in college at Northwestern at the time and we took the el home together not speaking.

What do you say when you walk into the house and see your little sister bruised physically and emotionally? How do you begin the conversation? How do you heal? I remember my father crying and I overheard him say to my mom, “I am afraid to hug her, to touch her. What will she think, what will she do?” As a parent, how do you feel when the child you were supposed to protect was alone when she needed you the most?

She had flashbacks for years. I witnessed several of them and learned to just be quiet and let her experience them. It took years before we talked about the details of the rape, before she was okay to tell us the memories she still has about this event. Her children do not know she was raped.

As an adult, the word rape is one that I want kept for the most heinous of crimes. Sexual assault does not sound harsh enough to me. When I hear people say that humans are “raping” the earth I want to shout NO…people get raped. When I see and hear and experience rape culture each and every day of my life I think of my sister. And it does happen each and every day. My sister used to speak about rape culture and she wrote several articles about rape culture – it was one way she tried to heal. She tells me that she will never be whole, never be healed but that you learn to live daily with the memories and the pain and the altered life.

Today I will call my sister and tell her that I love her and I am thinking of her. My husband finds this to be an odd tradition in my family but each of her siblings and my parents will call and tell her the same thing. She is a beautiful woman, a woman deserving of hope and of healing and she needs to hear that message as often as we can say it.

In my work I often think of the rapes that go unreported. Seeing my sister struggle to regain some sense of normalcy (which literally took 15 years) I wonder about the women I pass each day on campus. Who is holding them close when they relive their rape? Who is telling them they are deserving of hope and healing? Who calls them to say they are loved?

SISTER by Cris Williamson
Born of the earth, Child of God…just one among the family.
And you can count on me to share the load, and I will always help you
hold your burdens and I will be the one to help you ease your pain.
Lean on me I am your sister; believe on me, I am your friend.
Lean on me I am your sister; believe on me, I am your friend.
Lean on me I am your sister; believe on me, I am your friend.
I will fold you in my arms like a white wing dove…
Shine in your soul , your spirit is crying…spirit is crying.
Born of the earth, Child of God…just one among the family.
And you can count on me to share the load,
and I will always help you hold your burdens and I will be the one to help
you ease your pain.
Lean on me I am your sister; believe on me, I am your friend.
Lean on me I am your sister; believe on me, I am your friend.
Lean on me I am your sister; believe on me, I am your friend.

Are You Sure?

When was the last time you “defriended” someone on facebook? I haven’t thought about it in quite some time, but periodically I see a status update of someone who lets me know that I apparently made the cut since they have just spent the evening “defriending” people and I am still able to see the update. Most seem to have good intentions – Do I really know that person in real life? Do I like the messages they are posting? Have we spent more time disconnecting than we have connecting?

So because I haven’t ever defriended anyone I sort of had no clue exactly how to go about it (gosh that is an awkward sentence). I finally discovered the “edit friends” option in my account drop down list. Once there I scrolled until I found someone I figured I could defriend without issue. Once I checked “remove them from my friend list”, a box popped up on the screen asking me if I was sure I wanted to do this. After I checked the appropriate box the deed was done.

So the moral of the story is…it was pretty difficult to defriend someone. I really had to think about what I was doing, and once I made the decision, I even had to make sure that’s what I really wanted to do. Makes me think that perhaps facebook has the right idea.

Think about how often you “defriend” someone in real life. You dismiss them because they are dressed the wrong way, or they look different, or they work a job you think is beneath you, or they have simply made you angry. You only have to give a glance and the deed is done. A cross word, a smile unreturned. It is that easy. It can happen with people we have not yet met or with our partner, our children, our colleagues. No one is there to challenge you, no box pops up asking you to be certain that is the action you want to be taking.

This morning in church I was reminded that LOVE is the cornerstone of my faith, and my faith teaches me that to LOVE is to be in relationship with one another. I cannot be in relationship with you if I have defriended you. I cannot be in relationship with you if I have dismissed you. I cannot be in relationship with you if I have not forgiven you. I cannot be in relationship with you if I don’t give you a chance.

As I work my 5th and final move-in of the 2011-2012 year I can’t help but think about all the defriending that has already taken place on campus. Roommates, neighbors, classmates, the homeless, have all been dismissed because we think there is no good reason to be in relationship with them. We think we have it right. I wish we had a box that popped up asking us if we are sure.

Who will choose you?

Way back in 1998 I had the good fortune to meet my friend Will. He was a transfer student, coming from Harold Washington – one of the City Colleges in Chicago. He had decided that in order to really immerse himself in the college experience he needed to live on campus…and what better way to do it than by being an RA. So he called DePaul and asked about being an RA and was told that new transfer students who have not even been accepted to the University don’t really get hired to be RAs. Of course he wanted to know why not, and the DePaul employee on the other end of the phone (I promise it was not me!) told him it just had never been done. Those were the magic words and Will decided to apply. He made it past the first group interview, and made it past the RD/RD individual interview. It was now time for his 1-1 and he signed up for his interview with me. Now, here I feel the need to remind you that Will had not yet been accepted to DePaul. Somehow (let’s remember that Empathy is my #1 strength) I decided to hire him, contingent of course on his successful acceptance to DePaul. Yes he had never lived in a residence hall before, but I knew students would respond to him.

See you have to know Will. I don’t know his Gallup strengths but I am betting he has WOO in his top 5 for sure. Will became an RA in the fall of 1998– working in the apartments on campus. He was a great communicator, pretty good about getting his programs done, great colleague to his co-RAs, residents liked him a lot – he has this contagious smile. The academic part of school was perhaps not his favorite. Fast forward a couple of years…it became evident to me that Will was struggling a bit in classes and that being an RA was probably preventing him from the focus he needed to be placing on his academics. He had begun a “marketing and promotion” (read party) side gig and it was successful enough to have earned him a reputation on campus as someone to know. Will decided not to return as an RA, and in fact decided not to return to college – the work world was calling him and he was answering. I was disappointed and sad.

Will and I kept in touch on a very non-regular basis. Sometimes I would run into him on the street and we would hug and he would smile and tell me that things were going well. I heard he moved to the west coast – LA to be exact. He was starting a business there with one of his DePaul friends. He never graduated.

Last year Will sent me a facebook message (well duh, how else do the young entrepreneurs communicate?). He explained that he really needed to finish his degree in order to increase his credibility in the business world. His company 4.0emc was beginning to make a name for itself. The company focuses on responsible marketing – making a “profit out of progress”. His primary audience is colleges and universities and he did not have the “street cred” to stand up in front of room full of students and talk about being present in your education in a socially responsible way. Will asked if I had any ideas for scholarships for which he might qualify as he did not have the necessary funding to return to school. I called my contacts and told them Will might be getting in touch. I shared a bit of his story. To be honest (sorry Will!) I was not sure he would follow through.

He did. With the help of some wonderful DePaul colleagues he secured a scholarship. He is currently enrolled in DePaul’s School for New Learning and is scheduled to graduate by this time next year. He is already planning his next steps, actively seeking out MBA programs in social entrepreneurship. But that is not the message this blog wants to end with.

About 6 weeks ago Will contacted me from LA and said that he had been invited to the DePaul Scholarship Luncheon and could bring a guest. He said he could not think of a better person to invite. The luncheon was this week. I did not know this was an annual DePaul event; I have never been invited before. I met Will and we walked to the Harold Washington Library (it all comes full circle). We took the elevator to the 9th floor and entered a lovely atrium set up for a wonderful and well attended lunch. I saw our University President, all the VPs and Deans. I saw coaches, faculty, staff and a myriad of students I both knew and did not know. A senior theatre major spoke about the difference his scholarship had made for him. A University Trustee spoke about the same. We sat at tables sorted by scholarship and donor – what a wonderful opportunity for our donors to meet the students they actually support. Will was prepared, had done his homework and had good questions for the donor who made it possible for him to return to school and with whom we were sitting. Will worked the room! I came back to my office and promptly filled out my payroll deduction form for faculty/staff giving at DePaul. Students need scholarships and I can help. But that is not the message of this blog either.

The message is this. What we do does matter. Our relationships with students matter. We may not know it at the time; students may not tell us at the time, we may never hear it…but what we do matters. I was brought to tears (yeah I know I do that pretty regularly!) by the recognition that Will gave me. What I did mattered. He chose me.

How long does it take to forget?

It was the first time I remember seeing my mother cry. I was 9 years old. A spring day in the Midwest, in my memory it was a warm day. I came home from school and walked into the back door. The house was strangely quiet and I wondered where my mother was hiding. Typically, my mother had a snack waiting at the kitchen table, dinner well on the way to being done for our 5:30 on the dot sit down to eat routine. It was after all…1968. There was no snack, no smells of dinner cooking. Somehow I knew enough not to shout her name. I stopped and listened. I followed my ears down the basement stairs, where my mother sat at her chair next to the ironing board. She was still ironing shirts but the tears were streaming down her face as she stared at the TV.

“Mom.” It was all I could say. She kept repeating, over and over. “They killed him, they killed him”. I looked at the TV trying to comprehend what it was she was saying and about whom she was referencing. She looked at me, straight into my eyes and I remember the words so clearly. “Debbie, today a great man of faith was killed for believing in equality and freedom for all people.”

These words and this man, Martin Luther King Jr., have always been an important part of the way I try to live my life, the way my family raised me and the way I am trying to raise my children. As I write I realize it sounds cliché but for me it is true. My family lived in the suburbs of Chicago. My father taught theology at a local college, my mom stayed at home when I was young. We lived in a suburb that was diverse, BUT clearly diverse based upon the railroad tracks. No black families lived in the north part of town.

My father was actively working on his doctorate at the time and we spent most of my grade school summers in NYC, 509 W 121st Street – steps away from Harlem. We did the things that liberal parents in the 60”s would do with their kids…war protest, Central Park concerts, etc. We attended school with a diversity of children and thought ourselves to be open and inclusive. My parents said that if white families did not also walk the walk nothing would change and civil rights would take much longer to achieve. We participated in a home swap with a black family from NY. They spent a difficult summer in our home as the first and only black family in the neighborhood. Segregation, integration and civil rights were frequent topics of dinner conversation – somehow my parents managed to talk in a way that four children in grade school could understand.

Did those lessons sink in? Did the tears of my mother have an impact? Most days I think so. Yesterday, was the 43rd anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr . It came and went with barely a mention, barely a tweet, barely a facebook status update, barely a Nightly News tidbit. But for me, I spent my very busy day filled with memories of moments that in my head were only able to happen in my life as a result of the life and legacy and sacrifice of the man.
I remembered the day he was assassinated. I remember my mother and father talking to us in very grave voices at dinner that night. “We have to pray for his family, but we have to pray for those who hate him too”. I remember the day I walked down the street in Memphis, TN with my then boyfriend, now husband Chris. A black man from Memphis, whose grandfather was physically injured by the KKK had chosen me. I had chosen him back. I remember walking to the Lincoln Memorial on the 25th anniversary of “I Have Dream” speech. The emotion is as overwhelming today as it was then. I remember the first time I took my children to Atlanta. I remember standing in front of the reflecting pool where King is buried and just bawling like a baby because for me, I genuinely believe my family would not exist if not for his sacrifice. I have cried each subsequent time I am there as well. My most recent memory is the night of the 2008 election. My son turned 18 two days prior to the election. He and I voted together – we went to early voting. I cried like a baby when he came out wearing his “I voted” sticker (I will share a little secret – I am crying while writing this!). On election night we were all sitting and watching the returns together. When the announcement came on TV that President Obama was elected I of course cried and we all hugged. My son went to his room and when I walked in 10 minutes later he was just sitting on the edge of his bed crying. He told me he did not expect to get this emotional, that his entire life he looked for role models that looked like him. He told me that just maybe he got what I have been saying to him. He can do anything, be anything he wants. But his ability to do that has not been without great cost to others – in some cases the cost of life.

So how long does it take to forget? Yesterday it seemed like 43 years was the collective answer. For me, the answer is …there is no time that will go by that is too long to make me forget the sacrifice of lives, of relationships, of family, of legacy. What do you do every day to remember the legacy of a great man who died for believing that all of God’s children should be able to sit down at a table together.

One of my favorite MLK quotes is “Men often hate each other because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don’t know each other; they don’t know each other because they cannot communicate; they cannot communicate because they are separated.” In the work that I do, in the place that I do it, it is incumbent upon me to make sure that the separation is not there, I must make opportunities for communication and ensure that the communication takes place, that the fear goes away so that the hate cannot exist. And when the hate does not exist then maybe finally it is okay to forget.