Is Imago Dei Enough?

I think I finally realized something...

Over the past several months, I've been pondering and complaining about the fact that I'm reaching my limits.  I feel like I'm being stretched, and broken down, and utterly swallowed by all of the shit flying my way.

For the longest time, it was mostly just my legs that were perpetually plagued by unsufferable bouts of nerve pain.  And I knew that God was stretching and testing my long-standing fear of paralysis.  He was definitely also testing my endurance and my overall faith, but a large part of it has just been Him asking me if I'm truly willing to give up my physical mobility for Him.  And, as painful on so many levels as it has been, I have kept saying to Him, "Here I am. Send me."  That and telling Him that I'm "All in."

As scary as all of that has been, I'm currently dealing with something that terrifies me far more than the loss of my functioning legs.  I am writer.  It's how I process the world around me and everything that I'm struggling with (hence, this blog).  Furthermore, I'm an academic.  I'm just finishing my last week of classes for my first semester of law school, and I start finals in a week and a half.  I have three 4+ hour long type-written exams.  Because I've missed so much school due to medical issues, I have a ton of reading, notes, and outlining to do to get ready for these finals.

And it's all I can do to type a half-hour worth of notes during a review session.  Taking notes on or highlighting my reading is out of the question.  I can only work on my outlines, on paper or my laptop, for maybe a half hour at a time.

I've been working on this one goddamn blog post off an on for days now.  Not because of writer's block or anything like that, but simply because typing for any length of time is excruciatingly painful.

Every flinch of every joint and muscle throughout both of my hands aches and screams in pain.  Just touching an elevator button shoots daggers up my arm.  Driving, my only real escape other than writing, is painful, and I'm getting to the point where I'm questioning the safety of me being behind the wheel when it kills to grip the steering wheel.

My entire fucking life is resting on my successful completion of this semester.  It's not like I can just delay my exams.  The day after my final exam, I go into the hospital to start the month long process to take care of these ridiculous medical issues relatively permanently (in theory).

So I just have to get through.  If I don't, how can I pursue my passion, chase my calling, and fulfill my life's mission to help bring justice and compassion to survivors of sex crimes?

Without the simple use of my hands, it could all fall apart.

And as much as I'm trying to trust and have faith and believe that it will all work out, that somehow God will pull me through this, my mind still races through the possibilities...the what ifs.

So I've been asking myself, who am I without my passion and goals?  Why would I want to remain here, on this horribly painful earth, if I literally and physically can't fight back.  If I can't stay in this fight, if I can't pursue my passion for justice, for compassion, what then?  What use am I to this world?  And, far more painful a question, who am I without this fight?

I know that, no matter what, I am imago Dei.  I am made in the very image of God, and there is no doubt intrinsic value in that fact.  But my imago Dei, the way Christ lives out through me, is in this fight!  My raison d'etre, my reason for being, my very identity rests entirely in my passion, in my life's goals, in the fight that has already consumed my heart and mind and will consume my very life.

Or is it?  Is there more to me, my identity, my imago Dei than this fight?

Is the simple intrinsic value of me, as a human, enough of a reason to keep me from giving in to the desires inside of me, perpetually bubbling just under the surface, to end my life?

In the very first post on this blog, one of the questions that served as a catalyst for these musings of mine was the idea from my philosophy class that it is morally justifiable for a person with no capacity to act in furtherance of their own life and desires to take that life (the context here was a person in a vegetative coma, or a situation similar to Million Dollar Baby).  I mused at the time that, because my value comes not from myself but from my desire to live for Christ, I would never want anyone to pull the plug on me.  I am still imago Dei and my God can and does perform miracles.

I still logically believe that same thing.  But it's a very different question when facing the possibility of total loss of functionality in all of your limbs.  When your life's work and desires, your mission from God himself rests on a certain degree of manual mobility.  Then that question of the value of life and when it is understandable to end it becomes so much more complex and painful.

On a small scale, I've realized that, even without the mobility needed to pursue all of these things, I am still loyal and compassionate.  And people need me.  And I need them.  And, for now at least, that's keeping me going.  That and the tiny scrap of faith and idea of hope that I'm still desperately clinging to.

I long to get back the conviction, drive, and utter courage in these words: "I'm standing on the mouth of hell and it's gonna swallow me whole.  And it'll choke on me."

Thank you

I can’t fully express what it means to me to reconnect with long lost friends.  But not just to reconnect.  To realize that, despite the fact that our lives have diverged and moved on and changed so much, we can still count ourselves sisters at heart, connected in more ways than can adequately be described.

It’s been a long time since someone has told me that it is, in fact, important that I keep fighting.  That simple sentiment, that notion that what I’m doing, what I’m fighting for still matters, has fanned the flame in me and driven me forward.  I no longer just want to get through this year for the sake of passing my first semester of law school.  I want to do well, I want to succeed because what I do, what I want to do matters.  Simple as that.  And it’s been far too long since I’ve been reminded of that simple fact.

But beyond the much needed encouragement and validation, I can’t quite express what it means to be able to be fully honest with someone again.  Even if I can’t say everything out loud quite yet, either due to lack of clarity and self-reflection or simply due to fear, knowing that I once again have someone that I know I can and will be able to share these things with is beyond freeing.

It gave me the courage to post what I’m feeling on this blog, even if I’m not in any way ready to explain everything I’m talking about to anyone who might ask.  The simple knowledge that I have someone by my side, willing to stand with me and back me and continually confirm that no matter what I might say or feel, I am still a powerful woman ready and willing to do important and amazing things has given me the strength that I need to take even just this small step forward.

The words “thank you” are beyond insufficient, but they are all that I have.  So that is what I will give.

Walking the Tight Rope

I’m plagued by these thoughts.  I always have been, for as long as I can remember. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve repressed every last one of them.  These thoughts will invade my dreams, both waking and sleeping, and I’ll push them aside, telling myself over and over that that person cannot be me.  That I can’t feel that way.

I justify in my mind that it’s ok for other people to feel and act on these feelings, but I judge and repress and flog and punish when it comes to me.  I complain about being forced to live up to those lofty expectations set by the organized church or by my family or even by my friends, all the while forcing myself to live out my own double standard.

I walk this fine line, tight-roping my way through questions of politics and morality, telling myself, and making some damn convincing arguments, that the two can somehow be separated.  That I can believe in the freedom of others to say and do one thing while condemning those very thoughts inside myself.

I cling to the comfort of the religious explanations and condemnations that I’ve always known, despite condemning their tone and even their proclamation.  I want one thing in my private life and another in the public sphere.  This is my desire, because such a separation makes my own twisted thoughts and longings so much easier to rationalize, to push aside, and to wipe away.

I long for a clean slate, a simpler state of being, where I don’t have to search out my own answers.  I shouldn’t have to spend longsuffering hours searching for some form of balm for the truth that I’ve always known in my heart.  I read through exposition after exposition, knowing that they more fully explain these oft quoted words of hate and pain than anything else I’ve ever heard or read, and still I tell myself that they’re not enough.  That I need something more.  Some grand gesture, some neon-light-in-the-sky revelation.

But that revelation has been and always will be a simple, small, quiet voice in my heart, telling me over and over again that love, and not condemnation is the answer.  Telling me that the one true and perfect Yahweh made me, and, at my core, who I am is a reflection of His very truth and perfection.  That nothing can taint my Imago Dei.  I have been wiped clean by the blood of the Lamb, so who I am, what I’ve always known, that is truth.  That is my revelation.  I don’t need these expositions, these arguments, this constant need for justification and validation.

But how do I finally learn to trust this truth that I’ve always known in my heart?  And, better yet, how do I actually admit to the world that I’m embracing this truth inside of me, their so-called “truths” cloaked in condemnation, hate, and lies be damned?

I’ve already ripped the veil off once before, declaring once and forevermore that I am not perfect, that I don’t have it all together.  But I still clung to those basic beliefs, no matter what my heart or even my logic and exposition said.  I wanted that comfort.  I wanted to belong.  So I claimed to agree with every tenant of the faith, even those that grated against my very soul.

I’m not ready to throw off that cloak just yet.  It’s not as much a need for that comfort anymore as it is a fear of being rejected.  I now know, and rest perfectly at ease in the knowledge and truth of the love of my family and friends.  But what of their acceptance?  They claim to give it on a synonymous basis with their love, but love and acceptance are far from equals.

So for now I remain hidden, choosing to bide my time in hopes of building my courage.  But this grating against my soul can only be suffered for so long before it must be pushed out.  And then where will I stand?

"No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be true." ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne

Reaching My Limit

I'm beginning to ask myself, "Where is my limit?"

Over the past year and half, I have been dealing with a major neurological disorder that causes excruciating pain throughout my extremities.  I used to deal with this same type of pain when I was a kid, but it only lasted for a total of three months before we found an answer and a solution.  It was a grave and painful solution (brain surgery at the age of 11 usually is), but it was over.  Or so I thought.

When this all started up again last March, I declared the following:

"But I will say this much:  I'm all in.  There are no questions about that. If this is where God wants me, what He wants me to go through, I'm here.  Yes, I never thought I'd have to go through this again.  Yes, it's thrown me for a gigantic loop.  But, no, I'm not angry or upset.  I'm just here.  All in."

I said this before I knew what was really going on.  And I'm now coming to realize that I truly had no idea what I was getting myself into.  Since that first trip to the Johns Hopkins emergency room, I have been to emergency rooms across the country several times, been to dozens upon dozens of doctors appointments, and taken literally thousands of pills to try and moderate my symptoms.  After ruling out the initial theory (that my condition from when I was 11 was wreaking havoc again and so they would need to redo the original surgery), I was eventually diagnosed with elevated cerebrospinal fluid pressure  This elevated pressure is pressing against my spine, causing the aforementioned extremity pain.  The longer this goes untreated, the more the pressure on my spine increases and spreads, causing ever more excruciating pain from the tips of my fingers to my shoulders, from my hips down to my littlest toe, and, recently, into my torso and neck.

There simply aren't words to adequately describe what it's like to live in a state of near constant physical pain for 19 months and counting.  Sure, I get periodic relief from lumbar punctures, diuretics  nerve relaxants, and narcotics, but it doesn't completely go away.  At least not for long.  I don't even think I remember what it's like to walk without some degree of pain, to write an in-class exam without my hand feeling like it was dying from pain by the end, or to ride in some form of mass transportation without the alternately steady and jerking motions making my nerves go haywire.  I can't fully explain the physical, emotional, and mental toll it takes on me to have to bear this pain.

I'm surrounded by family members, friends, and even acquaintances telling me how sorry they are that I'm going through this and how much they wish they could take it all away.  Recently, it takes everything in me not to just scream at them, "Well you can't take it away, so why don't you shove your useless sympathy where the sun don't shine!!!!"

I know these people mean only to express love and solidarity through their platitudes.  I get it.  I've done the same thing when I'm in their shoes, witnessing someone forced to go through some horribly painful experience alone.

And that's just the thing: I am alone in this.  There's not a single person in the world that can actually lift the burden of this pain off of my shoulders.  No one else has to suffer under the crushing weight of having no guaranteed end in sight.  No one else knows what it's like to regret pursuing their own passion and calling in life because the burden they are carrying will almost certainly cause them to falter and fail.

Back before I declared myself "All in," I did attempt to contemplate the ramifications of that commitment.  I ended that blog post with this:

 "How much is required? He [God] answers: 'Everything, because I gave even more.'"


With everything that is happening to me, I've been contemplating human limits, and I've been wondering about my breaking point.  You see, what I'm afraid to admit to anyone is that I feel like I'm cracking.  Like after all of these many months, I'm finally breaking apart; I fear that I'm reaching my limit.

But here's the thing: Jesus came here as a man.  And the night before He was to be arrested, tried, and summarily and brutally executed, He was weak.  In the garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prayed to His own Father to take this burden off of His shoulders.  Jesus thought that He was at His breaking point.  So He asked to get out.

God denied His Son's request.

So Jesus went forward.  And in those final moments, after enduring all of that brutality, after taking every ounce of physical, emotional, and mental pain the world (and God) could throw at Him, Jesus breathed His last.  And I can't help but ask, how did Jesus, instead of whispering, "Into Your hands I commit my Spirit," not scream, "Fuck you, God, you bastard!!"

But, no, Jesus did not scream obscenities at God.  Despite thinking that He was at His limit in Gethsemane, Jesus never reached His limit on Calvary.  He made it through, and thus saved us all.

And yet Jesus, despite being the Son of God, was completely human.  And every human has his or her limits.  So where was Jesus' limit, if not on Calvary?  Do limits only come through sin, because that doesn't make a whole lot of sense.  But I digress...

Everyone has his or her limits.  I know that I have them.  I may not be completely self-aware as to where they lie, but I know that there are points past which I cannot be pushed without breaking, without cracking wide open and losing the wholeness of who I am.

Through all of this, I'm not doubting God's sovereignty, his love, or any of His other amazing qualities that I've grown ever more in love with over the years.  But I do doubt myself.  I doubt that I can last much longer, and I doubt that I'll be able to find any point in any of this if it ever does come to an end.

And I think what I hate most of all is that I am doubting that God will stop all of this before I truly have reached my limit.  I'm worried that, in the end, I'll be cursing the name of the very God that I love so much, having reached my limit, broken apart, and lost whole segments of who I am, including my faith.

Pleadings for Tolerance

I don’t care if people don’t agree with anything that I say or believe, if they hate all of my interpretations and every single one of my beliefs.  It really doesn’t matter to me.  Some of my closest friends and most trusted confidantes disagree with me on a huge number of my beliefs, especially many of those that I tend to post about on this blog.  So what I do care about is people having enough respect for the fact I am a (relatively) rational adult with the free will, freedom, and intelligence to make my own decisions, to form my own thoughts, and to have my own interpretations.

In today’s culture (and perhaps in the past as well), “tolerance” is a dirty, four-letter word among many Christians.  For some reason, they view it as a requirement to give up every one of their beliefs, to concede to total universalism, and to never even be used in expanding the Church.

I understand that fear, and while I find it ludicrous (and have probably addressed it elsewhere), that’s not what I’m talking about right here.  What I’m so incredibly twisted around about currently is the idea that, even among fellow Christian believers, there cannot be dissention, disagreements, or alternative interpretations.

I’ve said it before, in fact I said it incredibly recently on this very blog, but I will reiterate: for Christians, beyond the “essentials of Christianity” (usually defined as a handful of doctrines including man’s sinful nature, God’s holiness, Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, and the creation of the Church), there is much room for interpretations.  In fact, a Jewish rabbi once said that with every passage of Scripture there are thousands of ways to understand what it means.  Furthermore, even in Biblical times, there was valid and acceptable dissention in the early church.  Peter and Paul had sincere doctrinal disagreements.  Paul once said “Everything is permissible, but not everything is beneficial.”  And while, according to my own arguments, this statement can be interpreted any number of ways, what I understand it to mean, in light of the context of the passage, is that different Christians can and will have sincere disagreements over doctrines, over how to act, over moral choices.  What matters is not coming to some universal agreement on every minutia, but instead to believe what we believe, act the way we have come to understand is correct, while keeping a watchful eye for situations in which some spiritual or other leadership role would cause our beliefs and actions to become “stumbling blocks” to others.

Additionally, the thought that it is every Christian’s job to “judge” their fellow believers is so beyond my comprehension, it’s laughable.  Jesus said, “Take the beam out of your own eye before trying to take the speck out of your brother’s eye.”  I’m not saying there is no place for encouraging and challenging your fellow believers to re-evaluate their actions or beliefs in light of Scriptures.  There is.  But I simply can’t wrap my head around the thought that, as a Christian, I have the right to walk up to any fellow believer, no matter my relationship with them, and, in judgment, try and force them to accede to my own beliefs and interpretations.

As I said, there is a role for constructive criticism, for accountability.  But, from what I’ve come to understand, this role should be (and is) fulfilled in my life by certain individuals who truly know me, have the opportunities and abilities to see the way that I both speak and live, and in whom there is a relationship of mutual respect.

If among believers as a whole there is no room for differing opinions, for alternate interpretations, for “agreeing to disagree,” for tolerance, the church, and ultimately the world, would be in a constant state of war.  Every believer would perpetually be trying to force their beliefs down every presumed Christian’s throat, and I don’t see any way other than it getting bloody at some point.  In my opinion, this thought that tolerance is unacceptable is simply dangerous. 

And while I, by nature of my own thoughts on the subject, will tolerate my fellow believers’ opposing views on tolerance, I must set up boundaries between myself and them if they choose to try and shove their beliefs down my throat.  I cannot have rational conversations with people who won’t even respect me enough to allow me to have differing opinions, who won’t tolerate my opposing views.

Ending Fat Shaming - Even If I Can't Write It Myself

I've been trying for a couple years now to reject society's notion that I should be utterly ashamed of the way that I look.  I can honestly say that I'm getting much better about it, but I'm not yet in a place where I can boldly proclaim, in my own words, my pride and my love for my appearance, for my curviness, and yes, for my fatness.  I can barely even write that last word.  But I need to claim it publicly if I'm ever going to, for any extended period of time, successfully stop hating this part of myself.  So I'm claiming the words of someone else who has written boldly and unashamedly about this subject for years.  Maybe one day I can do the same.

[This post was originally written by Melissa McEwan and posted on her blog.  I've edited some parts out of it and inserted a few personalizing touches.]

Fat Stereotype #9: Fat people don't know how they look.

As preface, I want to acknowledge that there are people with body dysmorphic disorders who are genuinely unaware of how their bodies actually look to other people, and many of us, to one degree or another, have some dissonance about some aspect our appearance when we, for example, see a picture of ourselves. This post is not about that. This post is about the concept of thin people (and sometimes other fat people) reflexively concluding a fat person is unaware of how she looks if she does not present herself in a way that conforms to cultural expectations about fat people's performance.

Not only are most fat people aware of "how we look," and the precise ways in which "how we look" deviates from the kyriarchal norm and fails to conform to what is considered acceptable for people of our size, we are also keenly aware of the negative commentary being delivered on "how we look" via the unsubtle judgmental gazes of body policers.

Internal judgment and external judgment conspire to ensure that we generally have a heightened awareness of both "how we look" and "how we are perceived"—which are often two different things.

But both of them are about deviating from the expectation that fat people should be seen as making some sort of demonstrable effort to be ashamed of their fat and hide it from view, which is second best to not existing at all.

In the comments of the last entry in the series, I observed: "One of the key things to understand about systemic fat hatred is that fat people are asked to be invisible. Once you understand that we are asked to keep ourselves from view, to take up less space, to be less noticeable, all the rest of it makes perfect sense. We are not even meant to visible, no less flashy about it."

We are meant to abide The Rules that prescribe not calling attention to ourselves, folding ourselves up to take up as little room as possible, and, crucially, seeking maximum coverage of our fat bodies by loose garments that mask our shapes.

In practical terms, this means that we are not supposed to wear anything that clings to and thus outlines fat; we are supposed to cover as much of our flesh as possible; we are supposed to strap our fat bodies into "shaping" garments that prevent unseemly jiggling; we are not supposed to wear anything that flatters our figure or suggests that we might be attractive and/or sexy; we are supposed to avoid anything that calls attention to ourselves at all.

The perfect outfit for a fat person is something black and shapeless. The justification is that it's "slimming." The reality is because it helps blend us into the background. Just another shapeless shadow.

(Fashion designers are happy to oblige in the shame department, routinely designing clothes for fat people—if they have plus-size lines at all—with the evident expectation that we are ashamed of our bodies.)

Thus, when a fat person—especially a fat woman, who has no purpose in life since she is axiomatically deemed unfuckable and hence worthless as a woman/sex object—refuses to be unseen, and instead demands to be seen, and/or refuses to live a life of discomfort, and instead wears what makes her feel good, when she lets her fat body hang out of her clothes, when she wears sleeveless shirts or short shorts, when her belly meets the breeze, when she dons bold colors and patterns and (gasp!) horizontal stripes, when she shows off fat flesh bedecked with brilliant tattoos, when she wears short hair (or long hair, depending on The Rules according to fat policers around her), when she insists on being a visible participant in life, she is thought to have no concept of what she looks like.

How could she go out of the house all openly fat like that? Doesn't she know people can see her body?! Doesn't she know people are judging her?! If she had any idea what people are thinking, she would cover herself up and have the decency to be ashamed of herself.

Because it is incomprehensible that anyone could be fat and content (or even happy!), it is inconceivable that a fat person who is unabashedly fat in public, who isn't remorsefully covering herself in eight yards of unflattering fabric to conceal herself in deference to the delicate gazes of body policers offended by her very existence, knows what she looks like and made the deliberate choice to look that way.

It is a radical notion that some of us are visibly fat ON PURPOSE.

Fat people who aren't conforming to The Rules on how we must exhibit remorse for failing to be invisible are not unaware of our transgressive appearance. We've made the conscious choice to reject the obligation to take up less space, physical and psychological, than we need.

We know "how we look" to you. We don't care. (At least not insomuch as we're going to let your opinion dictate how we present ourselves to the world.) What is important, the only thing that should matter, is how we look to ourselves.

Disagreement with that notion comes in many forms, the most frequent of which is the ubiquitous criticism that is some variation on, "She shouldn't be wearing that." Shouldn't be. As if it's a moral act.

The implication is that she should be, instead, wearing something more appropriate for a fat person; that is, something that better communicates she acknowledges her body is hideous and ought to be hidden. Something that renders her invisible.

That's straight-up eliminationism, and yet we give it a pass because of the profound cruelty of asking fat people to do it to themselves.

Fewer things more pointedly than that underscore that fat hatred is not about "health," but about aesthetics.

Which is why I'm slowly but determinedly giving up every last trace of any urge to hide myself for other people's pleasure and comfort. My once almost exclusively black-and-grey wardrobe is now filled with color. And the clothes are in the right size—not a size bigger to conceal my shape....I have worn sleeveless shirts all summer—Flabby Arms Meet World! I now have five tattoos that I unabashedly show off.

There are and will be people who wonder, sometimes loud enough that I can hear, if I don't know what I look like. I do. I look like someone who refuses to agree with the idea that I shouldn't exist.

All credits go to Melissa McEwan on Skakesville.  Original found at: http://www.shakesville.com/2012/07/fatsronauts-101.html

The Third Commandment and Politics

Why would someone post a political belief (of any kind or nature) on FB and then explicitly outlaw commenting or questions regarding the belief?  If you're going to post any opinion, political or otherwise, in a public forum, you should always be able and willing to back up your opinion.  Now this is especially true if you're going to be invoking the "will of God" as some form of justification for your personal opinion.

Now, I obviously am not one who tends to shy away from broadcasting my personal political beliefs in public forums (hence half of this blog's content).  But I don't believe that I've ever tried to silence dissension or discussion, and I've never backed away from defending my own beliefs.

Any time a person states an opinion, really of any kind, and then outlaws any further discussion of the matter, they come across as one of two things: an ignorant jerk decrying discussion because they literally have no response, or an arrogant asshole who believes that they can just broadcast their opinions as some form of gospel truth too lofty for debate.

Now beyond all of this, it really frustrates me when individuals of either political party use the name or will of God to prove their own personal political opinions.  It's all well and good to base your political opinions on your own religious or moral beliefs.  But to try and proclaim that the interpretations and conclusions you have  come to should be imposed upon the rest of the nation because you are somehow assured that it is the "will of God" is positively ludicrous.

It's just like any other interpretation of Scriptures or religion: there can be dozens or even hundreds of equally valid interpretations.  To claim that having one or the other interpretation of some mundane (and I use that word purposefully glibly) passage of the Bible is going against God's will is truthfully quite prideful.  We can all make our best, most well-educated guesses and conjectures regarding what the truth is and what God's true path is, but we just can't know for sure.  While, as Christians, we can be certain of some things (i.e. the essentials: God's holiness; man's sin; Jesus' birth, death and resurrection, etc.), there are many other things left up to human interpretation.  And on these things we may never know what God's will truly is until we meet Him face-to-face in the afterlife.

So I really can't understand how this basic concept of certain Scriptures being open for interpretation doesn't seem to be able to translate over into the American political arena.  Individual people or entire political parties seem to perpetually be claiming the right to "God's will."  And as I saw a commentor on MaddowBlog remark the other day, the Third Commandment says not to take the Lord's name in vain, so how dare we try and use God's name as a stamp of approval on every political opinion that we spew at the mouth?

So stop trying to bolster your own opinions and make yourselves feel more justified by strapping God's name to something.  God is far bigger, far wiser, and far more complex than our American political system could ever grasp.  Furthermore, as I've said before, God stopped trying to establish a true theocracy when the Biblical kingdom of Israel asked for its first king, so why on earth would we be so presumptuous as to believe that He suddenly wants us to set up one now?  Because only under a true theocracy can an agent of the government claim that they are acting out the will of God (especially if it comes to foreign policy matters).

Well, after all of that rambling, I guess I'll get off my soapbox with one final plea, bearing the risk of being obnoxiously repetitive: stop breaking the Third Commandment by invoking God's name to justify your own political beliefs.  Have your opinions.  Explain them freely and fully.  But don't claim moral and religious superiority over someone regarding a national political issue.  It's obnoxious, uncalled-for, and frankly, disrespectful of God's true name and will.

It's All About History

I've often wondered why I’m so uncomfortable with the thought of claiming to be a victim of racism (or reverse racism as it is sometimes worded).  I’ve also always bristled at the thought of arguing that African Americans are no longer oppressed, that racism is over, and that we should all just move on.  I think I've touched on why these ideas bother me so much in my own private musings or  academic writings at one point or another, but it wasn't until I heard U.S. Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps say "It's all about history" (talking about his drive to take so many Olympic and World records) at the same time as I was reading SimpleJustice by Richard Kluger (an in-depth history of African-American's struggle for equality culminating in Brown v. Board of Education, the monumental Supreme Court case mandating school integration) that I was able to fully articulate my discomfort and (at times) outrage at such hypocritical claims of "racism" by people who look like me.

You see, racism isn't some simplistic notion of just reducing an individual to the colour of their skin and nothing more.  Racism involves the systematic and long-term oppression of an entire race by those in power.  The most obvious and clear example of this is the institution of slavery that dominated the political and economic landscape of this country, finally coming to a dramatic and oh-so-bloody clash at the Civil War.

Now, everyone (at least I hope) knows this part.  The part about black people in the South being reduced to chattel from before the very beginning of the Union up until the end of the Civil War.  But I've heard people argue, in one way or another, implicitly or explicitly, that, because the Civil War ended nearly one and a half centuries ago, black people should, essentially, "get over it" and "stop being so sensitive."

But I’ve never been able to wrap my mind around that logic or make that claim myself.  I think that I resisted making such arguments out of the simplistic mentality of not wanting to tell someone else how to feel, especially regarding a sensitive topic like racism, because I have never and will never be able to know what it’s like to be an African-American growing up, living, and working in America.

I don’t know what it’s like to live with the knowledge that the highest court in this land has said that people of my race are “beings of an inferior order, and altogether unfit to associate with the [dominant] race, either in social or political relations; and so far inferior that they had no rights that the [dominant race] man was bound to respect.” (Dred Scott v.Sanford, 1857).  It was blacks that were deemed property, and nothing more, by the United States Supreme Court.  It was blacks that the United States Constitution declared to be only three-fifths of a person, and that compromise was only made, blacks were only given even that much humanity, because Southern states wanted to be able to have more Representatives in the United States Congress.

I don’t know what it’s like to know that the same Court that declared African Americans less than human, even after the U.S. Constitution was amended by Congress and the States, reduced those some amendments and protections to something between blank verse and utter rubbish.  And the ex-Confederate States, though harshly scolded during Radical Reconstruction, were allowed to reshape the olive branch handed them by Congress and the Union into a whip to de facto re-enslave the black populace.

I could keep going.  I could go on and on (and on and on…) about all of the ways that the dominant white race in this country has chosen to keep African-Americans in a perpetual undercaste, both socially and politically.  But here is the crux of it: while the Civil War may have ended and thus killed the institution which we openly called slavery, black people could not even claim a prima facie case of political equality until the Civil Rights Movement came to a close less than 50 years ago.  And since then America has been devising and implementing a new racial undercaste scheme: the American mass imprisonment system. Few people recognize the criminal justice system as a tool or racism, and those who point it out are often ridiculed, especially by those on the political right.  But the statistics do not lie (and you can read my senior capstone if you want all of the evidence I have amassed): African Americans, while no more or less likely to commit a crime, are exponentially more likely to both end up in prison and stay in the grasp of the criminal justice system for the rest of their lives.

I cannot claim this history about my race.  I can try to shift the blame and claim that it was never my ancestors holding the whip, that my family members weren’t even in this country till my generation and they weren’t even on this continent until a couple generations ago, but it is still me and the members of my race who share in the privileges of being the perpetual dominant race in this country (since the hostile take-over of the continent by Europeans, that is).

I once did an exercise in a class where I listed both the privileges and struggles I face due to my demographic position in life.  While it was initially uncomfortable to begin verbally listing the number of privileges I benefit from as a white individual, I found the experience unbelievably eye-opening.  Here are just a few on a very long list:

1.     I can hail a cab or get on a bus at any time, day or night, without wondering whether or not the driver will slow down and stop for me.
2.     I can shop in nearly any variety of stores without being eyed by store associates wondering if I’m going to shoplift or steal items.
3.     I can drive my car nearly anywhere, any time without being worried that I will be suspected of doing illicit drugs.
4.     If I wanted to, I could even partake in illicit drugs with little fear of criminal sanctions, as, even in the extremely unlikely scenario that I were caught, I would simply get a slap on the wrist instead of a felony record and 5+ years behind bars.
5.     Despite growing up with an American work visa, then a green card, and, recently, a naturalization certificate, I never have to worry about carrying any of these papers with me, no matter which of the 50 states I travel to.
6.     I can attend prestigious universities or get good jobs without people making the untrue assumption that I was accepted or hired to fulfill some quota or otherwise “politically correct” agenda.
7.     I am positive that I will never be asked to speak on behalf of my entire race nor will any of my successes make me some “star” to represent my race.
8.     I can walk into nearly any store that sells magazines, dolls, posters, or books and find the aforementioned items featuring people of my own skin colour.
9.     I know that the way I dress and talk will never be seen as a testament to the overall poverty, illiteracy, or immorality of white people in this country.
10. When I learned about the history of this nation, I was told stories nearly entirely filled with filled with and championed by people of my own race.

Now I am incredibly used to and comfortable with writing blogs railing against the injustices I face as a women or otherwise decrying oppression of some form that I have faced in my own experience.  It’s a much different, more humbling, and challenging experience to try and write a blog post about a form of oppression that I have never experienced first-hand and that I really only have an academic understanding of. 

So I have a few things I want to clarify: first, I’m not writing this as some form of not-so-subtle jibe at my white peers.  It was just something I needed to get out there.  Second, I’m not writing this to appear as or in any way try and be some “courageous” and outspoken “champion” for black people.  That’s not my role in life.  Just as I wouldn’t want some man, no matter how well-intentioned, to try and put on the mantle of “champion” for all oppressed females, I don’t want to assume that unnecessary role for African-Americans.  One of the greatest forms of oppression is silencing the voices of the oppressed, and such outside “championship” can often have a silencing effect, intentionally or otherwise.  I will, however, always be an ally, just as I invite any and every well-intentioned and (preferably) duly-informed man to be an ally for women in their continual struggle for full equality.  Third, I think the biggest thing that I am continually learning on the topic of racism isn’t about history.  It’s about the present, and it’s about me. 

No matter how much I hate the notion that I have even the tiniest racist bone, cell, or even atom in my body, I live in a country where the unconscious privileges of white people are so omnipresent that it is something that I must continually fight.  I have to suppress the unconscious and deeply loathed instinct to get nervous when I see a group of young African-Americans rowdily walking towards me in a big city.  I have to consciously stop myself from suspecting that every tattooed African-American who walks in wearing street clothes to the Cook County Sheriff’s Office where I intern is either a convict or the family member of one.
Now, it’d be easy for me to try and justify some form of logic behind either one of the aforementioned statements, but the truth is that my logical reasoning applies no more greatly to those of the African-American race than to those of my own race.  My assumptions about those individuals have everything to do with their circumstances and nothing to do with the colour of their skin.  Again, circular reasoning could be used to somehow argue that those circumstances correlate to their skin colour, so there’s nothing wrong with making such assumptions because the assumptions correlate to their circumstances and the circumstances to the skin colour…and on and on…  But as I already stated: it’s circular reasoning.  And the fact of the matter remains that socio-economic standings contribute nearly entirely to these circumstances.

No one deserves to be judged by the colour of their skin alone, but whites do not live with the history and knowledge of longstanding and perpetual subjugation to those of other races.  I will not presume to be able to change the way that my entire race will react to this fact, but I can consciously choose to change the way I react.    And I will merely ask that the rest of us will contemplate these same thoughts, will search out the truth of history and of the present, and will never stop fighting to change the injustices that we live with every day.  It’s not easy and it is rarely readily apparent, but the world can continue to evolve and become a more equality- and justice-filled place.

And there is always hope.  This world will never be perfect and there will always be oppression, injustice and subjugation to contend with, but there is this: I am confident that there will come a day when injustice is eradicated, when personal appearances and circumstances play no part in the way we treat one another.  The day will come when we will be surrounded by the true and full majesty of the Shekinah glory, and on that day, nothing else will matter but our utter awe for Yahweh Himself and our complete and total love for Him and for everyone around us, all of us made in the image of Him whom we worship.  Each of us will be siblings, no matter our appearances, and we will forever stand together as such through Christ’s holy sacrifice. 

Oh, how I long for that day.

Clarifying Imperfection

I've always wanted this blog to be a place where I can speak entirely candidly, brutally honestly, and completely in the stream of the moment.  And that is what I have done.  But I think I'm starting to wonder if maybe at times I've spoken too plainly, been too blunt, and failed to explain things with enough clarity.

I'm a deeply scarred and broken person.  I don't have it all together (AND THAT'S OK!!!).  That very notion, the first time I heard it, out of the mouth of the amazing and dearly missed Carol Riebock, began me down a course that I remain on today.  This journey has involved switching so many painfully-held notions that made me believe that I had to act a certain way, constantly scrutinize my every thought and action in light of what everyone else thought.  I constantly had to worry, not just about how people viewed me, but often far more painfully, how they viewed my family in light of my actions.  Since I finally embraced the concept that it's ok to not be perfect, to make mistakes, and to not have it all together, I've held onto it with a brutally hard grip, constantly afraid that the moment I turn my attention back towards how I'm viewed by others, I will once again lose control and begin to spiral downward into the dark, into the blackness, into the nothingness and hopelessness that existed for me when I faked everything about myself in order to please those around me.

Will letting go of this fierce grip mean taking a step backward?  Will it mean losing parts of myself?  Will curbing my bluntness, repressing some of my honesty, and worrying about clarifying more fully mean putting a mask back over who I am, who I've become?

I don't know the answers to these questions.  I simply don't.  For more than four years now, I've defined a huge part of myself by the mantra, "It's o.k. to not have it all together."  I've broadcast my imperfections, and been perhaps far too willing to shine an imperfect light on the imperfections of others.  That's never been my intention.  But I don't know how to change back, and perhaps far more importantly, I don't think I want to.  I'm stuck at this impasse where I know that I can't keep hurting others by being overly blunt, too curt, and failing to fully explain myself, but at the same time, I know that I can't go back to living a life as someone other than myself.  I can't pretend to be perfect, and I most definitely don't want anyone else to think that I am.  And, to once again be blunt, I don't really want people to think that my family is perfect either.  But I don't want my vented frustrations about the inner-workings of my family life to cause undue concerns and problems.

All I know how to do at this point is to clarify, at least in person.  I'm not sure how much clarification is owed to this blog.  It was designed as a place where my most brutally honest, imperfect, and flawed thoughts could be processed and shared.  I never made any promises about the utter clarity or perfection of these thoughts.  Quite the opposite in fact.

I don't know what is owed in this forum.  What I do know is that my most recent blog post caused people that I love dearly to question and feel concern for my family.  That wasn't necessarily my intention.  So please, if you have questions, or want me to explain something, whether about this most recent post, one further in the past, or any of my future musings, please never hesitate to ask, whether in a comment in this forum or through FB,, email or my cell.

I'm not perfect.  I've never claimed to be.  Sometimes I get into a place where the only non-self-destructive method I know how to vent my frustrations is to put my faltering, imperfect, and incomplete thoughts on this blog.  But please never take my posts as a picture-perfect representation of my life, or even of my thoughts on my life, my family, or anything else.  This is a stream of conscious production, and when I'm in a place where I am frustrated, upset, and, frankly, not very stable, this forum may in fact reflect a quite distorted image of the truth.

I won't apologize for posting this inarticulate and perhaps innaccurate representation, because this was never supposed to be a novel or a news report.  Instead I will simply ask you to inquire for more clarification, and, above all, to take what I say, especially if it sounds frustrated, upset, and even angry, with a significant grain of salt.

I'm not perfect.  I will never claim to be.  So all I can do is attempt to clarify my imperfection.

Longing for More than Glimpses

I hate that the only way my family knows how to spend time together is by using gimmicks to keep us occupied. The very prospect of just sitting there and talking to each other is utterly unfathomable to them. We have to be playing a game or watching a movie or eating food (and then the moment the food is gone we all disperse). Mostly, we focus on playing games, but if there aren't enough people or we can't all agree on which card or board game to play or one of us simply doesnt want to play, we can't hang out. And because most of us are more or less competitive people, these card games inevitably lead to bickering, whining or arguments. In other words, not really the ideal way to hang out and talk. That's the reason why every once and a while I get utterly sick of playing games and refuse to participate. I always say that I utterly adore hanging out with my family. But what I really mean is that I like the idea of it. I long to hang out with my family beyond the confines of these gimmicks. I want to get to know them. I want them to get to know me. I've changed so much since before I left for college, which was the last time all of us were under the same roof, and I know that my brothers and parents have changed too. I long for more than the glimpses into these changes that these gimmicks offer. I wish we could just sit in the family room, no tv, no games, no obnoxiously planned-out conversations or confrontational discussions. Just talking. Like I spent the past three and a half years doing with my friends. Back in D.C. I can count on one hand the number of times my friends and I played games. And there were never any planned out discussions (outside the confines of bible studies and the like). Yes, there was food, but there was no rush to get up, no hurry to put the dishes away, wipe the table and then rush off in our separate directions. Instead, we simply enjoyed one another's company, asking questions, telling stories and jokes, and getting to genuinely know each other. Why is that very concept so foreign to my family? I cannot fathom why anyone would scoff at the idea of just sitting around and talking to the very people in your life to whom you claim to be closest. I just long for more than glimpses. I don't want any more gimmicks. I'm sick of them. It seems so simple: the desire to just hang out with one's family. But the truth is, the absence of any such desire or longing in my family has made me feel more depressed and long to self-injure more than anything else in this past year. So give me more than glimpses.

Questioning in the Shadow

As I sat in my room doing one last read-through of my senior capstone, my final paper in my undergraduate career, there was a young man across town, a 17 year old boy whose life should have just been starting, walking into his basement, picking up his father's hunting rifle and contemplating ending it all.

Austin Hills was a boy who I wouldn't have even recognized if he passed me on the street, and yet I know him. Not just just because his mom was my A.W.A.N.A. Olympic Games coach, his dad helped re-roof my house, and I shared countless picnics with him and dozens of other church members in his backyard.  I know him because four years ago, this same time of year, I wrestled with those very same thoughts, I struggled with that very same choice.

My weapon of choice was a bottle of pills and a razor blade.  And I struggled with it day in and day out the majority of my senior year of high school.  I took that blade to my wrist more times than I can count (although God healed all but three of my scars).  I stared at that bottle of narcotics hidden in my mother's nightstand (leftover from her ankle surgery), or that bottle of tylenol in plain view on the kitchen table, trying desperately to see a way out of the black hole beyond that knife and those bottles.

I remember it like it was yesterday.  That moment, sitting in sixth period, Concert Choir practice.  We were rehearsing a Latin song praising God for his magnificent mysteriousness.  That was the moment that I gave up on God.  I didn't believe that he could see me in this hole.  Or perhaps more accurately, I believed he saw, but just didn't care.  I knew and believed that he was all-knowing and all-powerful, so I couldn't for the life (or death) of me figure out why he wasn't doing anything to show me that he cared.

It was that same night, over at a friend's house, that I wrote a letter for my parents telling them about my struggle, and above all, insisting that I needed help.  Not help in the form of a hug and a prayer, thinking that that will make everything better, but professional help.

I didn't write that letter on my own.  In fact, I had no desire or intention to write that letter. It was by far the hardest thing that I have ever written in my life (and this coming from someone who just finished a 40 page Honors Capstone), and I wrote it practically kicking and screaming (though far more accurately, moaning and sobbing).  The single reason why I penned that letter was because my best friend sat me down, told me that I needed help, that she couldn't give it to me, and that I had to tell my parents so that they could get it for me.

Minutes after I heard the news about Austin Hills suicide, I texted my best friend, thanking her for forcing me to do the hardest thing in my life, insisting that I could not leave, I could not do a single thing else until I wrote that letter.

The entire reason I am writing all of this is because at 12 noon CST today, I will be attending the funeral of Austin Hills, and I know that one of the hardest things that I will be struggling with is asking God why He didn't put someone in Austin's life who would do that one specific thing (whatever it might have been) that would have kept Austin alive.

I know for a fact that the only reason that I am alive today is because of my best friend forcing me to write that letter.  A year and a half earlier, a barely would have said "hello" to her in the halls.  Yet God practically forced us to become friends, two people who couldn't be more dissimilar, somehow finding ourselves to be kindred spirits in some of the most desperate times in both of our lives.  A time in our lives when neither of us had any one else to turn to.  So God forced us together, and I am alive today because of it.

I am alive; I will officially be a college graduate one week from today; I will be graduating in 2015 from the Chicago-Kent College of Law with my Juris Doctor; and while I still struggle with undulating bouts of depression, because of God forcing my best friend into my life, I can now be entirely confident in the knowledge of every family member and friend who loves and cares for me and will continually fight to make sure I'm aware of everything I have to live for.  Furthermore, they will make sure that if (and when) I get to that incredibly low place of contemplating specific suicidal plans again, they will (once again) force me to get help.

So why, four years from now, won't Austin Hills be able to say all of those same things from the preceding paragraph about his life (with obvious variations in lifestyle and college/career choices)?  That same question that I wrestled with four years ago in that choir room still nags me today: Why, when God is so almighty and so omniscient, didn't he do something?!?

Now I'm not close enough to Austin or the Hills family to know the specifics of what was happening in his life, so all I can do tomorrow is love and pray for and show my support for Austin's family and friends.  I can't answer any of the inevitable questions that the aforementioned individuals will have.  I simply can't know.  Not just because I don't know those specifics.  But because some of those answer just can't be known (this side of the after-life, at least).  But that won't stop me or anyone else from asking them, so I can only beg of God, once again, to show Himself powerful, to show Himself wise.  To do something.

Five months ago, I got a new tattoo on my left thigh depicting the verse that inspires the title of this blog:

Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.  He will cover you with his feathers and under his wings you will find refuge.

The tattoo depicts a young woman (representing me) being sheltered from the world by a large, angelic figure (representing God) with magnificent and powerful wings.

This tattoo is private, just for me.  It serves as a constant reminder that no matter what this world or anything else can throw at me, I am always protected by God's powerful wingspan.  Even if I can't always see it or feel it, He is always there.

I share this personal information, about a tattoo that I don't really want to publicize, because in times of tragedy and grief, I'm not the only one that needs that reminder.  I needed to be told that in that choir room, and Austin needed to be told that in that basement.  Neither of us were, and though the outcomes turned out differently, I do know that everyone else touched by this tragedy (or any other) needs to be told that same promise.

God is ever-present, all-knowing, and all-powerful.  And while you may not always be able to feel it, he will always protect you and give your refuge from the storm.

How do they parents do this?

How do people bring children into such a hurt and broken world? We live in a world where between 1 in 3 and 1 in 4 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. And perhaps more shockingly, 1 in 6 men will be molested or sexually assaulted at some point in their lives. So often, young kids are not safe in their own homes. Even if the kids themselves are not getting abused, they witness oh so much. 90 percent of kids living in domestic violence situations know about the violence between their parents. The kids see mom and dad fighting. They catch the bruises and the angry looks and the shame. They feel the tension and internalize the pain.
Even if the household isn't physically or emotionally abusive, every home, every parent, every family member gives off signs and signals of their personal problems and troubles and hurts and pains. Parents can try their hardest, be incredibly patient and loving and attentive, yet every child still grows up with his/her own issues. They can have physical pains and ailments and emotional problems. They can misinterpret their parents' loving admonishions as demands for perfection (as in my case). Or even the youngest child, like my 3 year old nephew, can take a weeklong absence from a parent to mean an oncoming abandonment. My brother and sister-in-law are incredibly loving parents, yet their son is nearly constantly asking his daddy if he'll be here tomorrow. My heart broke for this little boy when I saw him feel compelled to climb into his parents' bed the first night they were home and fell asleep there just to be sure they they were staying.
We live in a world where violence is literally everywhere. Boys are taught that having the biggest "guns" (meaning both muscles and firearms) somehow makes them more manly.
Depression and sickness and disease are rampant. A congresswoman can no longer feel safe greeting constituents at a local grocery store for fear of being gunned down (like Gabby Giffords). Kids, no matter how young or old, cannot go to school without at least a cursory fear of gun violence as a result of schoolyard bullying or problems at home.
Even the most loving and seemingly non-violent families often use corporal punishment (i.e. physical violence), albeit well-intentioned (hopefully) as a form of "love.". This concept baffles me. How could physical violence and inflicting physical pain ever be loving? No matter how much the parent says, "Oh, it hurts me more than it hurts you" or "I'm only doing this because I love you so much," all the kid feels and knows is an association between physical violence and pain with "love."
If you truly love someone, how could you knowingly inflict pain on him/her? And with this in mind, I come back to the original question: "How could people choose to bring children into this world?".
This world, without fail, offers so much pain. If I ever had a child, I know that I would love him/her so much it brings me to tears. I cry because even the thought of these future children breaks my heart because I know that, at one point or another, their hearts (and bodies and minds) will be shattered and broken and bruised.
I could never do this to them.
And I have no clue how anyone else could either.