Knocked down by a feather

Image result for faith Yesterday was tough. The traumatic effects of living in fear sprang to life and we could no longer pretend that everything is business as usual. A student saw an ICE agent in the hallways of our school. A man dressed in khakis and a dark green shirt. Everyone tried to remain calm, but everyone was panicked to their very core. We spoke with security and admin and were able to determine that this man was not in fact an ICE agent, but a park ranger working with one of the various programs that our school offers. Relief yes, but the trauma of the increased ICE activity in our community had been exposed. All of our hearts needed calming.

We try our best to continue providing routine and familiar structures. We do not let up on classroom rigor and expectations. Yesterday however, we needed to pause. We needed to breathe, as my mom reminded me later that evening during a tear-filled, frustrated phone call. My awesome colleagues and I combined our classes and held a restorative circle outside in the sunlight. We then walked around the campus and took group photos. Later we watched a movie, the first movie I’ve ever shown in my class. There were reiterations of love and support flowing between staff and students. We were already drastically down in numbers, due to many participating in the Day Without Immigrants protest.

I told God, as I was driving home yesterday, that I don’t know how to keep going like this. There’s not an end in sight to this fear. There is no way of knowing how any of this will play out. Not to mention how hard it is to digest that THIS is reality now. God keeps reminding me to pray, so I am resolved to do so. Yet, today I still woke up with a heavy heart. While dropping off my little human at school, I realized that I had forgotten her backpack at home. I walked her in and her kind teacher told me not to worry about running home and retrieving it. I thanked God for her grace. As I was parking in my own school parking lot, I reached to grab my purse, only to see her backpack sitting right behind it. Annoyance doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt in that moment, or how crazy.

I just finished reading Spillway, which is a beautiful memoir written by a mom whose son suffered a traumatic brain injury in a skiing accident. She wrote of God winks, or ways God reminded her that he was there and in control. This day did not start well, and my heart was overwhelmed, but the minute I stepped on campus, God started winking.

A Latina woman that works for the school cafeteria was standing in my classroom doorway, reading the many things that I have posted there, including a school newspaper article about undocumented students, and flyers with legal resource information for the rights of undocumented people. She stepped back when I came up, and explained she was just reading the information as she walked away. I called after her that she was welcome anytime. First wink.

I sat down at my desk and felt like I couldn’t do anything until I looked at a morning devotional on my phone. The words besieged and troubled jumped out at me, as I read how David, who grieving and strengthening himself in the Lord  sought his guidance at all times. Wink 2.

No sooner had I finished praying for guidance, than the woman from earlier was back, knocking quietly at my door. She asked where she could get some copies of the legal resources for her friends. Then we started talking. She shared the story of her family. It was a story of persevering in true faith, even when she felt abandoned by friends and family. We both had tears in our eyes. God nudged me. I was not the comforter here. SHE was the comforter. Wink 3. She poured love and renewed energy into me. Before leaving, she randomly and directly told me who I should pray for, and how I should pray for them. Wink 4.

I shared the hope I received from this conversation with another stressed out colleague. She looked at me with tears in her yes and summed it all up perfectly, “talk about knocking me down with a feather,” she laughed. Indeed.

First period began and I summoned up the energy it takes to embrace a class of freshmen on a Friday. Half-way through the class, one of my juniors knocked on my door. I had barely let her inside, when she shakily said, “Ms. I need a hug.” I smiled and calmly hugged her, but on the inside a wrecking ball was spinning out of control, bracing myself to hear the worst news. But when I pulled back, she was smiling. She was so excited that she could hardly get the words out. She had been accepted for the CNA internship program for next year, which opens many incredible doors for her future. We both started shrieking, so grateful for something so wonderful to celebrate. She said that she had prayed for this, and I told her, “Then, now it is time to say thank you”. Wink 5.

Thirty minutes later, another student dropped by my room on her way to lunch, chattering about how happy she is that her good friend had been accepted into this program. As she left, she called over her shoulder, “I told her that she needs to thank God.” Wink 6.

God reminded me today that it is not in fear that we live, but in hope. God is here. He sees all. We will continue in faith.

 

Within these four walls

Walking into a room full of teenagers is never easy. It’s fun, it’s exhilarating, it’s exhausting, and it’s maddening. It’s a heartbreaking, uplifting labyrinth of hormone fueled emotions. Teaching high school is a crazy job, but I love it. How to handle each individual without bias or presumption, to expand minds and open hearts, to build foundations that raise up each equally is a responsibility that I never stop thinking about.

This weight has been heavier in recent days. I have cried in my car driving to and from school and have been physically ill. Looking into eyes filled with fear, embracing broken hearts and listening to young adults question why they are hated has left me at a loss. I love my country. I love the American spirit that drives our democracy, which I unequivocally believe in. I love that we are a nation of immigrants built on values of liberty and justice for all. I am proud of my students, who in their pain have not uttered a single hateful word as they process their new reality.

They have too many questions that I cannot answer. Questions of safety and racism. Questions of whether or not they can pursue dreams of attending college. Questions of what happens if…

What if we don’t have a home to go back to?

What if there are no jobs where we are from?

What if our lives are in danger if we go back?

What if my family is separated?

The what ifs are dangerously endless. So we talk about systems of checks and balances. We talk about hope. We talk about doing good. We focus on what we are thankful for. Supportive adults provide safe spaces for hurt voices to be heard and valued. Outside resources are provided to support those who are overcome with fear. And I pray. Something that any Christian can do for those in pain, regardless of political beliefs.

Words have power. Even if we believe or hope that words will not turn into actions, words have still created a chasm between those who feel safe and those who do not. Even if we have different points of view, it is still important to see those who are hurting and to acknowledge their grief. The dust will settle and we will all carry on with the daily task of living. Within the four walls of my classroom, I am witnessing broken, tender hearts carry on with hopefulness and resilience. It is how we choose to carry on that makes a difference.

 

It’s never okay to vote for sexual assault

Let me start by saying that I believe that no matter who wins, in this presidential election, we’ve all lost. Decency, trust, and integrity are not part of this political landscape. Perhaps that’s why this election seems to be bringing out the worst in us. We feel hopeless and angry. Anger. There is definitely an abundance of anger, fed by desperate candidates and desperate constituents.

Accusations of corruption and lies are valid on both sides. Fears of losing  certain rights are valid on both sides. Our disgust for each candidate’s ethics means we choose the demagogue we hope we can stomach for the next four years. It requires a realignment of values and a reconciliation of what we’re willing to give up. In the end, many of us are left supporting a candidate that we dislike, but who we’ve convinced ourselves will protect at least something that’s important to us. That may be SCOTUS, the 2nd amendment, abortion, immigration, or some other polarizing issue.

I can at least appreciate the fact that people are trying to find a foothold with a candidate that they feel they can vote for and still sleep at night. Differing points of view is the beauty of  democracy.

I believe that many of us are weighing whether platform or character is more important when making the decision of whom to vote for. In my opinion, character is far more important, and while neither party has put forth a candidate that I would consider to have decent character, Trump’s disregard for human rights along gender and racial lines means I can never vote for him, even though I’m not blind to the reasons that others feel that he is their only option.

I understand that there are Christians who believe that Trump will protect the rights of unborn children. Abortion is trumpeted as a reason to vote for a man who, as he courts the evangelical vote, now claims to be pro-life. On my Facebook news feed, I see Clinton being radically demonized for being pro-choice, and as a Christian, I too believe that life begins at conception and that all life is sacred. However, I do not believe in criminalizing abortion. I think that no matter the law, women will have abortions, as they have always had. I think that in valuing ALL life, we need to create legislation that empowers women with information to fully understand their decisions and to support and protect them as well. We can’t champion the unborn, while leaving women in the dark with coat hangers. I believe that the battle for the understanding of the sanctity of life is won on our knees in prayer, not in legislation. Therefore, even if I believed that Trump was actually pro-life, that would not have been a reason for me to vote for him, but I get why some of my Christian brothers and sisters consider voting for him on those grounds.

What I fail to understand, where I draw the line at accepting differences in opinion, is the justification of Donald Trump’s sexual assault and harassment of women by my Christian brothers and sisters.

It’s always been clear that Trump sees women as objects, and objects only. He has dehumanized women time and time again. I am not surprised in the least that he openly brags about assaulting women. However, I am truly heartbroken by the comments I have seen on social media by fellow Christians that reduce Trump’s horrific acts to locker room banter. Locker. Room. Banter. This is how university athletes are simultaneously given a slap on the hand and a pat on the back for raping unconscious women. This is how victims of sexual or domestic abuse are shamed for telling the truth. This is how powerful men get away with drugging and raping countless women. This is how minor victims of sexual assault or harassment fall through the cracks of our school systems. This is rape culture at its finest. And it is being dismissed by those who know better.

We can’t be a church that teaches the values of marriage and family, but look the other way when our nation’s potential leader assaults women. Where will our congregations be, when its female members rights to safety, security, and equality are being surreptitiously eroded by the normalization of the abuse of women?

So my question for those of you who defend Trump despite his physical, emotional and verbal attacks on women, is how do you justify voting for him? Are our mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters the sacrifice necessary to ensure a Republican platform? Is the conservative vote more important than assault?

I’ve seen the argument that Clinton is corrupt and that her husband was just as awful towards women. I find this to be doubly insulting. This not only sends the message that a political scandal is graver than sexual assault, but it also victimizes a woman by judging her for her husband’s actions. No matter what crimes Hilary may or may not have committed, no matter what legislation she may or may not enact, NOTHING sanctifies the election of a man who categorically diminishes and strips away women’s dignity, liberty and safety. Voting for sexual assault is NEVER okay. The price for women is way too high.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, You Can Say the F-Word

Little humans. We teach them to be polite and compassionate. We teach them to use their words instead of their fists. We teach them to be active listeners and respectful of others. I watch my daughter learning how to be kind and thoughtful, and experience both relief and dread. Yes, I want my daughter to be sweet, but not too sweet. I don’t want her to become a doormat, because she’s afraid it’s rude to stick up for herself. I don’t want her to silence her voice, because someone else’s opinions are louder. I don’t want her to equate kindness with passiveness. I pray that she is both gentle and strong, wise and assertive, and both considerate and confident. I pray that in the moments she uses her voice, it is loud and clear.

We’re living in a world where predators are attempting to snatch children from their parents in grocery stores and public libraries. A world in which clowns now symbolize the evil parents fear. Stranger danger feels more real than ever, whether or not it actually is. How do we teach our little ones to be aware of these risks without scaring them? This is a question for which I understand I will never have a satisfying answer.

As clown hysteria built up in Austin this week, I realized I needed to say something to my daughter. I found myself worrying back and forth about the most politically correct, least frightening way to broach the subject, and then on our drive home from school she brought it up. In school, they had discussed what to do if they see a clown, which was obviously to not talk to it and to tell a teacher. I was grateful that her school had taken this initiative, but the momma bear in me, the one who would die for the green-eyed girl in the backseat, the one who would protect that precious life at all costs, took over the woman who worries about saying and doing the politically correct thing.

So then I told her that all clowns are now officially bad. She started giggling, but she was on board, asking me questions about friendly clowns she’d interacted with in the past.  We decided that the one who gave her candy last year was in fact good, but that he’s probably not a clown anymore, because now all clowns are bad. The nice ones quit their jobs.

Then she asked, “Momma, what if they talk to me?”

Good question. If you see a clown, you turn and run away. If a clown or any stranger tries to talk to you, you scream as loudly as you can, and run away. I was beyond thankful that she found this comical and serious at the same time.

I went on to tell her that if a clown or stranger tries to give her candy or touch her, that she should kick, hit, scratch and bite as hard as she could, and that she shouldn’t worry about being nice. It’s the one time she could be as mean as possible.

She loved this. “Momma. Can I say bad words? Can I say the f-word?”

Absolutely. You can absolutely say the f-word to any stranger or clown that tries to grab you. YES. At this point, she was in full-blown, hysterical laughter mode, pretending to be a little ninja warrior in the backseat.

When we quieted down, she asked, “But then you’re going to be there, right momma?” My heart wrenched with the dreadful knowledge that too many children are abused, trafficked, and murdered, despite loved ones desperately searching for them.

Yes, I promised. I assured her that she was not actually going to see a clown or stranger, and that we were just practicing so that we would know what to do, just in case.

She giggled again. “Yeah. But momma. You’ll get the clown and you’ll get him dead!”

Yes, momma will hunt him down. I suddenly had quite the little Rambo on my hands.

Then we got a little more serious and I reminded her that God is always with her, and that she has family and friends who love and pray for her every day. That our faith in God means we do not have to live in fear. That God is always with us, and that we are never alone. As we pulled into the garage, I silently prayed for Jesus to lay his protective arms over our children, our schools, and our communities, shielding us from those who seek to do harm. And as I followed my little human into the house, listening to her chat away about mermaids, baking pumpkin pies, and the sunflowers blooming in our backyard, I thanked God for her sweet heart and her feisty spirit, and that while the f-word will never be enough, HE most certainly is.

 

F-A-T

Fat. The grim reaper of women’s self-esteem has entered my five-year old’s vocabulary and I am livid. Not with her, but with our world. With myself. With you. I want to throw a tantrum. A hair pulling, limbs flailing tantrum at the unfairness of society’s persistent hypersexualized, dysmorphic, skewed glorification of beauty that NO ONE can achieve without starvation, photoshopping, surgery, and insane contouring.

I’m sick of billboards advertising a woman’s way to a cellulite free life.

I’m sick of hearing women praised for waist training. I can’t believe that is even a thing.

I’m sick of seeing magazine covers that “out” celebrities who were “caught” sans makeup and who are then picked apart for being, dare we believe it, human beings.

I’m sick of the accepted objectification of breasts, while breastfeeding mothers are publicly humiliated and shamed.

I’m sick of average size women being referred to as “plus” size, and I’m sick of dehydrated and hungry women being hailed as the ideal of beauty.

And while I believe that most agree that our beauty standards are unhealthy, I am sick and tired of the lack of collective voices demanding that enough is enough. A child shouldn’t worry about her physique and a woman having negative thoughts about her body image shouldn’t be the norm. Men and women, we are diminishing ourselves. We are collectively damaging the mental and physical health of those we love, and we should be outraged.

My first confrontation with the F-A-T word was in the third grade. It’s one of the few memories that I have of this age, and it’s crystal clear. We left our classroom and were walking down the hallway. I remember my little girlfriend casually whispering to me over her shoulder that all women get fat, and that when you become a woman, you have to start sucking in your tummy. This was brand new information to me. “We should start practicing now,” she said, and so we immediately sucked our bellies into our scrawny, nine-year old frames. I remember staring at my concave reflection in the glass trophy case as we filed by, disturbed by my new understanding of womanhood.

And now it’s my daughter’s turn. My beautiful, active, healthy five-year old was told by someone that if you eat too much food, your tummy will be fat. I learned this as we were getting ready for church on Sunday. She was getting out of the bathtub while I was putting on my make up, when she asked me, “Mommy, is my tummy too fat?” I whipped around.  The smile that usually dances in her eyes wasn’t there. The telltale giggle that usually erupts from her lips when she’s telling a “joke” was silent. My girl was serious. I dropped to my knees and we had the first of what I am sure will be endless conversations about being pretty enough, thin enough, good enough. Conversations that will be steered towards being strong enough, healthy enough, curious enough, kind enough, brave enough. I hugged my sweet girl, silently praying that her estimation of her self-worth will be grounded in her faith, rather than raked over the coals by the world’s ridiculously unnatural measures.

After that it seemed that the only sensible thing left to do before getting dressed for church was to stand side by side in front of my mirror, flex our arm muscles, and shout at our reflections, “I am beautiful! I am healthy! I am strong! God made me special!” The beautiful laughter and light that usually exudes from my girl returned, and we promised we would do that every day.

Later that Sunday we meal prepped for the week. By we, I mean I slaved away, while my little person tasted everything in between entertaining me with stories and dance performances. Meal prepping is no joke around here. There may be only two of us, but we eat for 10. We are active, we are hungry, and we are cranky when we’re without food for more than three hours. For dinner this week we prepared a spicy Thai mushroom curry, a cheesy pumpkin pasta, and some whole wheat berry muffins for fun snacks. I just pray that as we continue to build a home centered around nourishing our bodies, minds, and souls, that the destructive outside voices will be quieted enough for my girl to let her inner super woman flourish.

whole-wheat-berry-muffins

We Go, or We Die

We go, or we die. It’s a statement that will never leave me. Simple words, weighted in life experiences that I can’t fathom, spoken in broken English by an African teenage refugee. This beautiful girl with the brightest smile spoke these words in the same matter of fact way I tell my five-year old that if she eats candy, she’ll get holes in her teeth. And then this precious soul laughed. A bold, contagious laugh that left me no choice but to laugh with her, the truth of her words hanging between us as we hugged and she went on to her English class.

It’s been a little less than two months since I heard this phrase, and yet I think about it every day. Thankfully, these words are not true in my life in the literal way they are for too many, but I see the truth of her words everywhere. Those five words embody perseverance, they laugh in the face of sitting down and giving up. We are all persevering in one way or another. Not a single one of us will escape trials or crises in different ways at different times. When you live your life believing that if you don’t go, you’ll die, your life requires a degree of faith.

The size of whatever burden we are carrying in a particular moment is insignificant. There are days when I feel that if I have to prepare one more meal, clean one more toilet, or say “no, you may not have another snack” one more time that I will lose my mind . And as dramatic and silly as I know I sound, I can’t not do any of those things. I could, but the gross, hangry, chaos that would ensue would be equivalent to death, so I go until I find joy again in the marathon of parenting a little person. There are other days when I simply have no clue what God is doing in my life. Those days are particularly frustrating, those punched in the gut by life days, but I know that I have a choice to go in faith and trust that God’s got me or to die a spiritual death. I know that the way I go is being watched by two little eyes and one little heart, the sponges of the sweet soul who spends her days trying to emulate her momma. That burden is heavy, but I hope that she will learn to “be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, and faithful in prayer” (Romans12:12). The way we go is as important as the actual going. To go in love, to go in faith, to go in hope, this is what I pray to be able to do throughout my life.

I’m so thankful for the truth this student spoke into me at the beginning of this summer. Her trial that day was simply making it to summer school. She had to take TWO city buses just to reach the nearest school bus that would transport her to her classes. Her family had just moved, and she wasn’t sure of her address. Confused and unable to speak more than a few sentences of English, we thought she would have to be dropped from her course. We couldn’t risk her getting lost chasing buses in unknown parts of the city. When she showed up with only a couple of hours to spare before the attendance/drop deadline, we were astounded. We shook our heads in disbelief. I would never have made it. I would have heard three buses and said I’m out, and I’m a native English speaking Texan. It had taken her hours. She was hungry, she was tired, but she had made it. That’s when she spoke, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “Miss. In Africa we go, or we die. So today I said I go.”

I usually kick off my shoes when I first walk in the door, until I carry them upstairs later. Found my little person lining up her shoes with mine this afternoon.

 

Thank you is not enough, but thank you.

About a month ago, I finished reading Alice Hoffman’s The Dovekeepers. I was riveted by this tale of four indomitable women, who were bound together through loss during the Roman siege of Masada. Women, who under different circumstances would have ostracized one another, instead protected one another. For me, the beauty of this historical fiction was in the way each woman’s past drew them to stand side by side with those who were suddenly not so different from themselves in their suffering. They could not save each other from their grief or from their pain, but they could fortify each other with unconditional love born in empathy.

My pregnancy radically changed my life. I am not alone in this. The conception of a child is life affirming and life altering. For some it’s pure joy, for some traumatic, and for some a mixture of both. Nearly five years later, my life is filled with unspeakable amounts of joy and love. The traumas I endured are always present, but they are slowly becoming my friends. I no longer need to ignore them, to pretend they don’t exist. I still shake uncontrollably, my heart pounding in my chest when I talk about them, but I can look at them now. I can appreciate them now. I can be thankful for them now. Yes, I would not be who I am today without them, so I am grateful for the blessings that they have brought about in my life. God brings healing and good in all situations, and my life and the life of my daughter are a testament to that truth.

I get emotional when I think about those who stood with me in my most terrifying, earth shattering, gut wrenching moments. I have never truly thanked them. Sometimes there aren’t enough words, sometimes you’re drowning and can’t properly think to form words, sometimes you can’t say thank you without becoming too vulnerable when you’re summoning all the strength you have just to go on. The words thank you will never be enough to adequately express the soul deep gratitude I have for the men and women who stood with me, for those who stood for me in my weakest moments. I am beyond thankful for these people.

I thank God for the woman who became my neighbor when I was about six months pregnant. Our daughters were born just a few weeks apart. I thank God she came over every day, that she was my first mommy group and that she never asked any questions. She just loved us. Thank you, to this woman, who brought over warm meals to feed us before our much prayed for journey back to Texas finally began. Thank you for driving us to the airport, for dragging our four giant suitcases, stroller, and two carry-on bags up to the check-in counter. Thank you for telling the woman behind the counter something in Hebrew, which in my stress and exhaustion I couldn’t comprehend, but that prompted her to let us to bypass the lengthy security checkpoint, and allowed you to help us through the terminal. I remember following you in shock when you beckoned me. You, my first mommy friend, hauled my suitcases through the airport, handed me your American cash leftover from your last trip overseas, and hugged us good-bye. I sat safely at the gate, my daughter entertaining those around us, repeatedly thanking God for miraculously getting us quickly and calmly through the first hurdle of our journey. I thanked God then, and I thank him now, every single day, for you.

I thank God for the woman with whom I basically grew up with, so to speak, in Israel. I’m so thankful for your inner and outer strength. You rise to any challenge and your heart is as warm and loving as it is fierce. Thank you to this soul sister, who walked and talked all over Tel Aviv with me, who never judged, only listened. Thank you for being my strength when I had none. Thank you for helping me pack, weigh, and re-pack our bags. I will never forget your superhuman strength, when dismayed I thought we would never get all of our luggage to fit in our tiny European size car, you said yes we will, and you lifted and pushed those absurdly heavy bags until all doors closed and we had room to sit. You are my hero and I thank God for you.

I thank God for my family, the family who financially, emotionally, and spiritually supported us. I will never have enough words to express how deeply thankful I am for all that you endured on our behalf. Your acts of selflessness went above and beyond what any daughter/sister/granddaughter could expect. Thank you for the bible verses you poured into me that fortified my faith that God would protect us. Thank you for the frequent overseas trips you made, for considering to relocate to be close to us, for never letting me become guilt ridden, and for restoring normalcy and peace in our lives. Thank you for being our bubble, our tribe, and our truthsayers. You are our greatest blessings.

I thank God for my childhood friend, my sister, my daughter’s godmother.  A steadfast woman of quiet strength, you would come over at the sound of any tear or fear in my voice. Thank you for being our safe-haven, for opening your home to us whenever we needed a peaceful place to go. Thank you for taking days off work to spend countless hours sitting in courthouse waiting areas. Your calm bolstered me. Your patience soothed me. Thank you for the kitchen dance parties and for filling the little person up with love. I am so thankful for you.

Thank you to my church growth group. What was perhaps to you a small act of kindness on Mother’s Day a year ago, was so much more to me. Still to this day, I am overwhelmed. Thank you for quietly handing me flowers and a small balloon, since my little one was too young to say “Happy Mother’s Day.” It meant the world to me and I still tear up when I think about it. I am so thankful that God has brought each of you into our lives.

Thank you to the family, friends and strangers who have prayed us through this journey. Thank you for coming alongside me without judgment, for teaching me what it means to stand next to someone in their darkest moments and to love them. Thank you will never be enough. But thank you.